James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“What?”

“We don’t need Rogers, Middleton and Roberts,” Rick said. “We’ll start our own firm.

I’m sure we can take a ton of clients with us.”

Anne looked at her husband. The stress of the last few years had taken a toll. He’d been drinking too much, eating too much and his once lean body had twenty extra pounds. Worse, his once almost arrogant self-confidence was so badly shaken he practically reeked of anxiety and desperation.

She wasn’t in love with him anymore. She wasn’t sure she was ever in love with him. She hated to admit it, but she had really been in love with his money, his power. And as he had squandered both in the last few years, the lie of their marriage became crystal clear.

She’d had a few affairs over the years, one-night stands when she’d been away on business. The sex had been fine, but the illicit adventure appealed to her even more. Sitting in a bar, alone, knowing all the men were checking you out. Scoping each of them out, imagining what they might be like in bed. Then the magical moment, she would choose one, meet his eyes and smile. It was such a turn on to watch them stand up and walk over to her. The power a beautiful woman has in a bar is truly amazing. And, if they were smart enough or charming enough or funny enough, she’d sleep with them.

But for Anne, it wasn’t about the sex; it was the power. It was nice to know she still had it. And she also realized that sex appeal had an expiration date. She’d been in bars and seen older women sitting alone, attractive women in their fifties and sixties available written all over them; but the men’s hungry eyes invariably landed on the younger, sexier Anne.

One day, Anne knew, she would be in her fifties and sixties, and she’d be the ignored one. When you’ve lost the power, there is only one thing left; money.

Money had been the driving force of her life; she’d been determined to flee her trailer trash roots. Growing up, Anne hated her life. She watched the glamorous life of other teens on TV shows like Dawson’s Creek and Felicity on a crappy 20-inch Phillips from the dreary living room of her double-wide. She promised herself then she would do whatever it takes to make money. She studied hard and earned a scholarship to UCLA and had her heart set on law school.

When Anne met Ryan, she found a man who embodied all her teenage daydreams. He was tall with craggy good looks and those adorable dimples.

Then she found out Ryan’s dad was a rich Beverly Hills attorney, and she knew Ryan was definitely the man for her. Once they started dating junior year of college, Anne wanted to close the deal, get married right away. But Ryan wanted to wait. Anne suspected Ryan was skittish because of his dad’s profligate ways; he was just divorcing wife number four at that point. So Anne decided to speed up the process. She told him she was pregnant. A lie, but it worked; she read Ryan’s integrity perfectly and they got married.

When she lost the baby a few weeks later, Anne was worried that Ryan would be suspicious, but of course, he wasn’t. He loved her too much to suspect treachery.

They might have stayed married if his stupid father hadn’t lost all his money. But suddenly Anne found herself living like a pauper, having to count every frickin’ penny.

That’s why she was so vulnerable when she first met Rick the summer she interned at Rogers, Middleton and Roberts. He pursued her relentlessly, giving her flowers, jewelry, and clothes. Then one night he invited her to dinner and she accepted.

Rick picked her up in his two-hundred-thousand-dollar Lamborghini, took her to Granita, Wolfgang Puck’s swanky Malibu restaurant. After two twelve-dollar martinis, two thirty-dollar appetizers, two fifty-six-dollar steaks, one three-hundred-dollar bottle of Cabernet, one eighteen-dollar dessert and two ten-dollar lattes, he drove them to his Malibu beach house for after-dinner drinks. The house was almost three thousand square feet of luxury with a huge redwood deck facing the moonlit Pacific.

For someone as admittedly materialistic as Anne, all this wealth was like a junkie’s first jolt of heroin. This was so far from her mother’s crappy trailer, so far from Anne and Ryan’s cramped studio apartment. This was the life she wanted. The life she deserved. When Rick leaned in to kiss her, she eagerly met his lips.

Anne never went back to the apartment.

Money. It always came back to money. Money is why she married Ryan. Money is why she left Ryan for Rick. And now Rick had lost all his money.

There was no way she was going to stay with a penniless Rick if he left the firm. But she wasn’t ready to drop that bomb quite yet. So she said, “Starting our own practice sounds great, honey. And you’re right, plenty of clients will follow us.” Not a chance, she thought. Dear old dad would make sure every client knew the embarrassing truth behind their exit.

“Okay, good. Great,” Rick said, relieved at her loyalty, and then he headed back to his office.

Anne should have been panicked by Rick’s catastrophic news. But Fate seemed to be coming to her rescue. Why else would she have been driving not four blocks from the LAPD Hollywood Division when she heard a Hollywood Homicide detective named Ryan Magee had hit the lottery? Why else would he have been in the bullpen when she dropped by? Why else would she have seen the desire in Ryan’s eyes when they talked?

Ryan wasn’t married. He told her he didn’t even have a girlfriend. So all she had to do was win Ryan’s heart back. And how hard could that be; she always could wrap him around her little finger.

The Windows Lounge at the Bel Air Regent Hotel lists eighteen vodka martinis on its menu. Vodka mixed with Triple Sec, vodka mixed with cranberry juice, orange liqueur, watermelon pucker, blue Curacao, absinthe, crème de fucking menthe, for Christ’s sake, thought Adam Devlin as he perused the menu, all these inventive ways to ruin a martini. A martini should be served very dry, in a chilled martini glass with a twist. Simple elegance. And that’s what Adam ordered when the pretty waitress stopped by, a Chopin martini, very dry with a twist. Then he sat back in his booth and smiled.

Adam was in a great mood. His meeting with the BMW reps had been successful; he put two golfers and a tennis player under contract for three years, total value six million dollars and he took home ten percent. Not bad for an hour of his time. What a business.

And now for a little fun. He glanced at his Rolex Cosmograph Daytona; five twenty-five. The very sexy Susie should be here any minute. He’d been fantasizing about the blonde most of the day. If things went as planned, he could get a room here at the hotel, or take her to the company’s apartment in Century City. Either way, this was going to be fun.

“I love martinis,” a voice said over his shoulder. “Mind if I join you?”

Adam turned to find Susie standing there. She’d changed out of the shorts and halter-top and replaced them with a more appropriate, but equally sexy, red skirt and blouse. Her hair was down, a devil danced in her green eyes and a smile played on her lips. He stood, ever the gentlemen. “Please,” he said, “sit.” She did. “What would you like to drink?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she said, sliding close to him. “In fact,” she said picking up his drink. “I can’t wait.” Alice sipped from Adam’s drink leaving a lipstick imprint on the rim of the glass. She shivered as the vodka hit bottom. “God, that’s good.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Adam said, laughing. Then he carefully fit his lips around her lipstick imprint and sipped. “It’s almost like a kiss,” he said.