Lies of Men Page 3

  My phone buzzed. The doorman announcing Michael. I propped open the door, then returned to the kitchen to open wine. Walter eyed the open door suspiciously. The vestibule was a private space, but he knew the open access meant either contractors and their noisy equipment or a guest. Neither were particularly welcome. Walter’s hiss and sprint underneath the coffee table told me Michael had arrived. I’d hoped that over time, the two of them would warm up to each other, but it didn’t seem promising.

  “In the kitchen,” I called out.

  A moment later, a paper bag appeared on the quartz counter beside me and an arm circled my waist.

  “You smell good,” Michael said, kissing my cheek.

  I turned for a proper mouth to mouth. “I think you’re confused by whatever is in that bag.”

  “Bag? What bag?” He nuzzled my neck.

  “Are we eating or playing?”

  “Do I have to choose?”

  “Only what comes first…” I laughed, gave him a quick kiss, and reached for the food.

  As I carried dishes and containers of Chinese takeout to the dining table, we began the chitchat of sharing our day. It felt comfortable. At times, too comfortable. Inevitably something would creep into my mind like a sharp stick in the eye and tell me to hold back. Warning me not to relax, not to make assumptions that I was safe. One failed marriage under your belt did that. Particularly when trust had been thrown in the wood chipper.

  Would I ever again believe with certainty that I wouldn’t be hurt again? Was that even possible? I knew it wasn’t fair to Michael. He wasn’t the lying, cheating bastard. Guilty simply because he possessed the appropriate appendage wasn’t the recipe for a solid relationship, but I couldn’t seem to let down my defenses fully—and Michael was showing signs of impatience.

  But that was his issue, not mine. My care-taking days were behind me. As was any sense of wide-eyed innocence. At least that was something I could hold on to.

  We settled into our meals and playful banter while I teased Michael over his struggle to use chopsticks. After several aborted attempts, he stabbed a shrimp shumai rather than picking it up and popped it in his mouth. Letting the ease of the conversation and good food take over, I shoved my insecurities back into the recesses of my mind, content to enjoy the moment.

  “This is really nice,” Michael said, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. “We should do it more often. Maybe all the time.”

  Caught off guard, I forced down the stir-fried veggies I had just chewed, then sat, silent, struggling to interpret his message.

  “No comment?”

  I reached for my wine before responding. “What do you mean?” It was the least innocuous thing I could think of to say. But inside, my head was on fire, and my heart was racing toward an exit.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, waiting for the kicker.

  “Well, I was thinking how great it would be to have dinner together every night, to wake up next to you every morning. I was thinking that maybe we should live together.”

  Michael looked at me, his expression a mixture of nervousness and excitement, as I fought back hyperventilation. I looked at him, seeing the raw anxiety and emotion on his face and feeling like a schmuck for not being able to respond the way he deserved. He was an amazing guy, but my mind whirled in fear. Fear that had nothing to do with him. My throat clamped down, and words wouldn’t come.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” I said, my voice a whisper. It was the only thing I could squeak out.

  Rejection hardened his eyes. He looked away, then opened his mouth to say something more, but the trill of my phone broke the moment. I jumped up and grabbed it off the console table, the unknown caller suddenly my top priority. In reality, I didn’t want to face Michael. Confusion and my flight reaction were all I could focus on.

  “Ms. Kellner, this is Nathan Sikora. Isaac Sikora’s son. You know, from the trial?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sikora, I know who you are. What can I do for you?” I could feel Michael’s eyes on the back of my head.

  “Can we meet?” Sikora said. “I think there is information that isn’t being presented well in court. Maybe you could do a story? Get our side out? My dad is being portrayed as a senile old kook, and that’s not the man I knew. This guy Wright is an actor and a manipulator. That needs to be talked about.”

  “Of course I’m willing to listen to anything you have to say. I can’t make promises on a story or what the content would be if I moved forward. If that’s agreeable, I’m happy to talk.”

  “That’s fair. And that’s exactly why I called you instead of one of the other leeches in the media. You seem to understand balanced reporting. I remember that casino piece you did last year. You could have let your husband off the hook, but you didn’t. That’s what I need.”

  We discussed the details and ended the call. When I turned, Michael had cleared the table and was putting on his jacket.

  “Forget I said anything.” He walked out.

  5

  I walked into the Link-Media conference room with a foggy head and an unsettled heart. I’d phoned Michael after he’d left last night, hoping for an opportunity to explain myself and to try to smooth over his ruffled feathers, but he apparently wasn’t in the mood to hear me and hadn’t picked up. Throughout the evening I’d run back over the conversation in my mind. Had I been too abrupt? Too insensitive? Or was he just pissed because I’d allowed a phone call to change the subject? I wasn’t sure of anything other than being a damn girl and feeling like I needed to be the one to apologize. Would he have taken a call from a suspect just as I wanted to have a sensitive talk? Yes. And he would expect me to understand, so why was I the one feeling like I’d slapped him in the face?

  His question hadn’t just surprised me, it had bumped my panic button. While I felt a great deal of affection for Michael, neither one of us had said the three magic words. Was I deeply “in like” with the man? Yes. In love? I couldn’t even conceive of the emotion yet. But that wasn’t about Michael. It was about me being damaged goods. I thought I had been transparent about my fragile emotions. Either I hadn’t been as clear as I thought, he was choosing not to hear me, or he assumed he could change my point of view by sheer force of will. Regardless, the two of us had some serious talking to do.

  The first to arrive, I placed my mug of Earl Grey on the table and settled into a chair. The judge in the Wright trial had apparently come down with some minor stomach bug, so I was in the office instead of the courtroom. Borkowski had sent out a note at 7:30 this morning asking for an impromptu meeting of the senior team, I assumed to break the news on the consultant who’d be interrupting our work days with requests for the next few weeks. The other members of our small crew started filtering in and inquiring about the reason for the morning powwow, but I just shrugged. Borkowski needed to handle this one.

  Ten minutes later my hands were wrapped around the cup I’d lifted to my lips when Borkowski strolled in. By then the conversation in the room had moved to comparing notes on stories in process. Deep in discourse, the small group of journalists didn’t give his entrance any additional import. Nor did they immediately notice his companion.

  I, on the other hand, nearly spit out my tea.

  Ryan Molina. Just as gorgeous as the last time I’d seen him. He strode to the head of the table alongside Borkowski. Catching my eyes, he gave me an innocuous smile before turning back to hang on to whatever words of bullshit Borkowski was spewing. I kept my cup at my mouth and sipped slowly, needing a moment to recover. And to find my poker face. My stomach, unfortunately, was sinking into the floor. What was he doing here?

  RPM Consultants was the group that Borkowski had told me he’d hired, but he’d never mentioned the specific person assigned to work with us. Nor did I have any historic reference to a company by that name. Back in the early days of Link-Media, Erik had worked with Ryan, bringing him in to set up his overall strategy for the company. They’
d kept in touch, and periodically Erik would bring Ryan in when he felt the need for a reset or an objective pair of ears. But he had worked for a larger firm at the time. I searched back through my memory, trying to recall whether I’d heard that he’d gone out on his own, but as recently as two years ago, Ryan had very clearly been employed elsewhere.

  I knew this because after I’d discovered Erik had been cheating on me, I’d slept with him.

  How in the hell was this going to work? No one knew, not even Cai. She knew I’d indulged in a bit of payback in a moment of anger, but I’d never told her who it was. At the time, it hadn’t felt that “the who” had mattered. It wasn’t an affair—it was revenge. Now here I was, panicked, facing weeks or maybe even months working with the guy.

  What had he told Borkowski?

  “All right, you guys, let’s stop the gossip. The quicker you shut up, the quicker we can all get back to working. You remember that, don’t you?” Borkowski said, silencing the chatter. I looked longingly at the door.

  The handful of us in the room shuffled in our seats and tried to pretend that we weren’t being spoken to like ten-year-olds. Borkowski had an old newsroom style. I knew he wasn’t consciously sexist, but he came from an era of gruff talk and real men, whatever that meant back in the day. The realities of today’s workforce weren’t about to change his delivery style, despite the number of times I’d had to calm down a female coworker with a bruised ego. He was just one of those guys who was a grizzly bear on the outside even if there was a gooey middle deep at his core. He meant nothing with his harsh tone; he simply had standards and, at this point, wasn’t going to adapt. So the rest of us had to.

  “I want to introduce you all to Ryan Molina. I’ve brought him in to help us take an objective look at the business. You’ve been hearing me say it for quite a while now: competition out there is tough. We need to be lean and mean if we expect to hold our own in the marketplace. I haven’t been shy about telling you our readership numbers have taken a hit, and we can’t survive long-term with that decline. So I want you all to give Ryan your full cooperation.”

  Suddenly all eyes in the room seemed to turn in my direction. Everyone was wondering the same things—did I know about this, and what wasn’t Borkowski saying? I caught glances of fear and expectation, as if I were the one who was supposed to jump in and assure everyone that their jobs were safe. Unfortunately, that wasn’t something I could do. I didn’t even know if my own job was safe, and I owned the damn company.

  It was a struggle, but I did what I could to keep the thoughts that were bouncing around in my head from showing on my face. The next question was, had Ryan said anything to Borkowski about how we knew each other? And if not, could I keep it that way?

  “I’m happy to be here,” Ryan said, his voice confident and welcoming. “I look forward to getting to know everyone. I’ve followed Link-Media for a number of years. Even did a little work for the company at its inception. It’s an impressive organization, and I am honored to be part of the effort to make it even better. I promise I’ll make this as painless as possible.” He laughed and looked around the room, trying to make light of his presence. There were small chuckles of agreement. Trying to warm up his audience was the better way to think of it.

  “To start, I’ll be meeting with you all individually, just to understand who’s part of this great team. Then we’ll dig into process. I want to hear any ideas you have on how Link-Media could be improved, obstacles that are standing in your way. But for now, I just wanted to say hello, and we’ll speak again soon.”

  “That’s a wrap, guys. You have deadlines,” Borkowski said.

  I hung back, processing my thoughts as the crew vacated the room. I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse about knowing the consultant Borkowski had hired and that he had a history with the company. I guessed it would depend on what happened from here on out. When the room cleared, I stood and walked around the table. Ryan reached out a hand.

  Borkowski jumped in to make an introduction.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Ryan said. His hand held mine firmly, lingering a little too long. Noticing the confused look on Borkowski’s face, he added, “Andrea and I met, briefly, several years ago when Erik first founded the business. I didn’t think it relevant to mention. She probably doesn’t even remember,” he said casually, his eyes on Borkowski.

  When he turned back to me, I could see by the new intensity in his eyes that he remembered every second of our encounter. I felt the heat of that look at my core, then mumbled something bland and welcoming and got the hell out of the room.

  6

  Ryan Molina. Of all the people who could have come back into my life, did it have to be him? Memories flashed into my brain, sultry and sweaty, and I escorted them right back out. Damn! Why him? Why now? And how in the hell was I going to make this work?

  I wasn’t normally prone to conspiracy theories, but the thought that Ramelli had somehow learned of our history and was intending to use it to shake my footing popped into my head. All the more reason to stay as far away from Ryan as I could. This was business and only business. Then why could I still feel the heat of his touch?

  I sat in the back of a cab, thoughts tumbling. Victor Kirkland and Elyse Wright were waiting for me in Victor’s office, and my head wasn’t focused. I jumped out of the car at Monroe and Clark, and the wind tunnel off the lake nearly knocked me off balance. I rubbed the palm of my hand on my wool pants, shaking off Ryan’s touch and went upstairs.

  I didn’t know what to make of Elyse Wright. Was she an innocent victim caught on the edges of her husband’s deceit and trying to defend her reputation? Or as some were suggesting, happily pretending to have known nothing about her ex’s shenanigans but now optimizing the moment for her own gain? Although the investigation had exonerated her of any involvement, the rumors still swirled. I did know that she was working the moment for a positive spin. After all, she was an advertising executive. Perception mattered.

  But it also made her suspect. Not necessarily in the criminal sense, but how far would she go to create her own reality and protect her reputation?

  I entered the reception area at Kirkland and McCullough, informed the receptionist of my appointment with Victor, then was led back to the large conference room. Elyse had already arrived. She wore a dove-gray architectural jacket and skirt, a white blouse, and fire-engine red lipstick. Arrogant ex-husbands weren’t the only thing we shared. Boy, would I have fun pawing through her closet.

  She and Victor sat nearly elbow to elbow huddled over a legal pad. Victor stood when I entered, puffing up to his full five foot seven. His dress shirt strained over his belly, a new development since the last time I’d seen him. He smiled and came around the table to clasp my hand.

  “Andrea, let me introduce you to Elyse Wright.”

  She flashed me a brief smile and extended a hand. “Obviously, we know of each other, and it’s nice to meet you formally. Although I have to say I wish we were here to talk about something else. Lord knows I’m tired of all this embezzlement mess.”

  “We should probably be meeting for drinks,” I said. She chuckled and adjusted the gold bracelet on her left wrist. It held a charm of some kind, and the gesture seemed nothing more than a nervous tic.

  “Please, ladies, have a seat. Andrea, I know you don’t drink coffee, but I can have tea brought in.”

  “No, nothing for me,” I said. “Thank you for meeting with me, Elyse. I know this is a crazy time.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” I brushed it aside, taking the response as a signal to be direct and opened my notebook.

  “Courtroom testimony seems to be clear in exonerating you from any knowledge of or involvement in your husband’s alleged crimes, yet suspicion seems to be under the surface in the public’s perception. Why do you think that is?” I said.

  “Finally, someone willing to ask a direct question.” She nodded her approval and smiled. “I th
ink you know exactly where that suspicion comes from. Flat-out sexism. Decades of people assuming ‘wifey’ is either some Stepford robot or a conniving bitch. Clearly we are not yet at a place in society where the majority can understand a woman whose career is as demanding, or even more so, than her partner’s.”

  She shot a look at Victor, presumably to see if she was overstepping. I didn’t sense she cared about the decorum of her strong voice in most situations, but I was certain she had been advised repeatedly by her legal team to tone it down in public.

  “Since I didn’t hover over how he spent money,” she continued, “and didn’t devote myself to house and home, the only stereotype left is that of a money-grubbing taker. People don’t seem to understand where to place a successful, childless woman. I don’t fill the slot, so in the absence of something better, I’m labeled to fit something they think they understand. Right or wrong, it seems irrelevant to most. Hard for me to say as an ad executive who takes part in the dumbing down of American women, but here we are.”

  Her voice was filled with irritation, as if disappointed in society or maybe in herself. “How are you countering the suspicions?” I asked.

  “The same way you did.” She paused, and our eyes locked. She seemed to be daring me to challenge her or commiserate as if we had some sisterly bond over our ex-husbands’ bad behavior. I couldn’t sort out the message behind her eyes. Was I reading into her comment or just feeling paranoid?

  When I didn’t acknowledge her statement, she looked away, tugging again on the charm.

  “I’m doing what strong women do everywhere,” she said after a moment. “I’m telling my truth and reminding myself every day that I’d rather have the steel backbone of a woman than the spinelessness of three-quarters of the male population. Not all of us define marriage as two people joined at the hip. Gavin is an actor. Greedy, self-serving, hiding behind a facade. That doesn’t make me guilty just because we shared a bed. What am I, his babysitter?” Her voice went up an octave.