Alessandra Torre - Masked Innocence

“Mrs. Windthorp, why—”

“Call me Lisa.” A cultured voice, probably from a pageant-queen childhood.

“Fine. Lisa, why do you want a divorce?”

“I’m unhappy.” She folded her arms, enhancing her perfect cleavage in the process. Brad looked away, back at the file.

“We’re going to need more than your unhappiness to go to the judge with. Tell me about Brett.”

“What about him?” She sounded almost petulant in her response.

“Just give me a synopsis.”

She delicately sighed, her breasts heaving. “He’s boring. All he does is work, and expects me to entertain myself all day. When he’s not working, he’s either playing golf or spending time with his friends, who he wants me to entertain, as well. It’s just not what I expected marriage to be.”

Brad met her gaze, her response verifying all of the reasons why he never wanted to remarry. “Okay, so irreconcilable differences. And what do you want from the settlement?”

She seemed surprised by the statement. “Why, everything, of course. I thought that was what you did.”

Brad flexed his hands under the desk, hating his job at this moment. Being good at it made it even more difficult at times. He leaned forward. “You are not going to get everything. You’ll be lucky to get half. You have no children and have been married less than seven years. You need to take a realistic look at this marriage and reassess your expectations.”

The beautiful blonde uncrossed her legs, flashing Brad an eyeful of red lace, and stood, moving forward and leaning on the desk. She tossed her long hair over a shoulder and stared at him, smiling slightly. “Mr. De Luca, I typically get exactly what I want.”

I bet you do. Brad reclined in his chair and lifted his hands, shrugging. “I’m not the judge, Lisa.”

She sniffed and straightened. Patting her hair into place, she lifted her chin at him. “Then make sure you are friends with the one we get.” She turned, grabbed her purse and walked out. Brad watched her tight ass as it moved out his door, then shook his head. Women.

Reaching forward, he picked up his phone and called Julia’s extension.

“Julia Campbell.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.” There was a muffled sound, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me shut my door.”

Brad said nothing, watching through the glass wall of his office as Mrs. Windthorp—Lisa—conversed with Diana, one of his secretaries. Then Julia was back.

“I met Burge.”

“And?”

“I think he’s going to keep me on. He seems fine. Not as nice as Broward, but not an asshole, at least not yet.”

“Good. What are your plans for the evening?”

There was silence for a spell, and then she spoke. “I don’t know. I had assumed that I’d be working.”

“Your slave driver is gone.”

“A fact I feel guilty profiting from.”

“So feel guilty. There’s a concert downtown tonight that Rebecca got us tickets to. Come with me.”

“Well, that would depend on who’s playing.”

“Dave Matthews Band. If that is hip enough for you.”

She giggled, a sound that made his cock hard. “You are unhip just from use of the word hip. Please, please stop, before you age yourself further.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Yes. What time’s the concert?”

“Nine.”

“I’ll be ready by eight.”

“I’ll get a driver and see you then.” He hung up the phone, shaking his head and fighting back a grin.

The concert was insane. Held at a small, hole-in-the wall bar, it was intimate, fifty of us and him—straddling a stool and holding his guitar as if it were an extension of his arm. We dined on finger-size portions of bar food while Dave Matthews told stories, joked around and crooned songs I had committed to memory. In the dim light of the bar, with Brad’s grin and Dave’s lyrics, it was like being in a dream. I reached over, trailing a hand over Brad’s arm, his mouth pressing gently against my neck, strands of sexual harmony floating through the air, a hand sliding up my bare leg.

Dave took a half-hour break and we escaped the smoky air, stumbling into the dark alley behind the bar, inhaling the cool breeze, my cheeks red from too many drinks, Brad’s eyes dark embers lit by night streetlamps. We were laughing over some stupid thing, my body folding into his, his strength encasing me, when he gripped me, picking me easily up and setting me on the hood of a parked car, his hands separating my legs, his body sliding perfectly between them.

I laughed at the cold metal against my bare skin, the thin fabric of my dress now bunched around my waist. He growled against my throat, his mouth kissing and suckling it, making its way up to my mouth as his hands explored my body. My laughter faded as need overtook it, and my hands traveled also, stealing underneath his shirt, feeling the cut of muscles and abs, feeling the shudder of heart underneath my palm. I withdrew my hands, capturing his face in them and planting soft kisses on his cheeks and forehead. There was a strum of music behind us and I heard a voice over the microphone.

“Time to go back,” I whispered.

He protested, pulling me tight to him, his need obvious, even through jeans.

“Later,” I promised, wrapping my arms tight around his neck, and he lifted and spun me, my legs releasing him and finding ground. Then we ducked back into the bar, the crowd, smoke and music engulfing and drawing us in.

BRAD HAD PURCHASED a CD, and the strands of music danced through the dark limo. I was officially drunk, having polished off five beers along with about two thousand calories of nachos, wings and potato skins. Brad grinned down at me, somehow completely sober despite doubling my alcohol consumption. His image blurred, and I closed my eyes briefly, hoping that a wave of nausea wasn’t next.

“You okay?”

“I’m good,” I mumbled. “Did I mention I love Dave Matthews?”

He chuckled. “Several times, in fact.”

I opened my eyes, his image focused before me. “You did good, De Luca. Even without the cheat sheet.”

I felt his fingers, tracing the outline of my lips, rough skin against soft. The limo slowed, turning a corner, and my mind focused. “You’re taking me home, right?”

His fingers froze. “I thought you would stay with me tonight.”

“I didn’t pack a bag, and don’t want to go all the way home just to get stuff. Why don’t you just stay with me tonight?”

He snorted, the sound causing my eyes to pop open and my vision to sharpen, focusing on a look on his face that could only be described as offensive. “I don’t think so.”

I sat up, propping my arm against his crotch with more force than was necessary, and glared at him. He winced, shifting in the seat, trying to move my arm. “What, the big fancy lawyer can’t stay in my crappy common dwelling?”

He tilted his head to the side and then nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” His cool dismissal infuriated me, spawning a sudden surge of anger heightened by my drunken state. Regardless of how much sense staying at his house made, I wanted the upper hand in the relationship, and him giving in to my unreasonable demands was part of that hand.

“I stay at your place all the time!”

“It’s hardly a comparison. I live in a nice house, with air-conditioning and running water and—”

I shoved on his crotch, aiming for balls, but must have missed the mark, since his expression didn’t change. I gritted my teeth, my chin rising defiantly. “You are such an ass. Now I’m staying at home purely out of principle.”

He laughed, grabbing my arms and trying to pull me closer. I fought him, my drunken arms sluggish, and finally untangled from his grasp, moving to the front, to the window that opened to the chauffeur.

“Sir?” I poked my head through the window, scaring the man and causing him to swerve slightly on the road. He shot me the most dignified irritated look I had ever seen, and I giggled at the expression. “Sorry. Really, I’m sorry. Can you drop me off at the same place where you picked me up?”

He gave an almost imperceptible sigh, nodded stiffly and put his turn signal on, preparing to turn off on my exit. I was pulling back through the window when he spoke. “Madam?”

I stuck my head back through the opening, causing him to wince again. “Yeees?”

“There is an intercom button back there for your use. So you don’t have to crawl through the window.”

“Gotcha.” I smiled brightly at him in response, no doubt enforcing his perception of me as the village idiot.

By the time I navigated the slippery leather seats back to Brad, his huge arms were crossed and he had fixed me with a stern look. “Why are you being difficult?”

I blew out a breath, trying to organize my woozy thoughts into a coherent response. “You are the one being difficult. It would do you good to sleep one night in a real, imperfect house, without someone making you breakfast or fluffing your pillow.”

“Are cockroaches and mildew part of the humbling experience?”

I blew out an irritated breath and rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You’re going to regret it when you are sleeping alone tonight.” The limo turned down my street, squeezing its way past cars until it was in front of my house. I leaned over, kissed Brad briefly on the lips and pushed open the door, spilling out of the car, my bare feet hitting the pavement, my shoes and my purse clutched tight in my hand. He followed me out of the car, the night air ruffling his hair, his white shirt gaping at the neck.