Tease Page 2

  Which is why it’s a surprise to see Todd Westlake, Vaughn Clark, and Andrew Palmer strolling down the hall, already with coffee in their hands. The three of them are practically clones of each other, made from the same prototype you’d find in frat houses or country clubs across the country.

  The only difference between the three is hair color. I’ve always thought of it in terms of printer toner, with Andrew having hair almost as dark as mine, Vaughn’s being basic brown, and Todd grasping the last bit of color in a dirty blond.

  I also can’t help but compare the fading color to loss of brain cells.

  Which I’ve discovered is more than apt.

  “Giuseppe Castiglione,” Todd announces, when he sees me, bouncing on the balls of his feet as usual. Andrew once confided in me that it’s because, at six-foot-two, I have several inches on Todd, something that irks him to no end.

  It amuses me more than it should.

  Ever since Todd discovered my full legal name, he’s gotten a kick out of greeting me with it each day. It’s always accompanied by that perpetually smug sneer on his face.

  My parents had the brilliant idea to name me after my great-grandfather, the first Castiglione born in America.

  Jesse was a condensed version that I used to make it from elementary through high school in one piece.

  It ended up sticking with me all the way to law school.

  During on-campus interviews for summer legal internships, it just seemed more “convenient” to call myself Jesse rather than Giuseppe.

  Most firms probably wouldn’t have given a damn, especially with my grades. Still, I felt I needed a leg up against all the Todds, Vaughns, and Andrews of the world.

  That idea was pretty much reinforced by Doug Hancock, one of the senior partners at ABC suggesting I stick with Jesse when dealing with clients.

  I didn’t need a magnifying glass to read between those lines.

  ABC doesn’t actively discriminate, not in this day and age. An (almost) equal number of men and women work as attorneys, though not necessarily as partners. They’ve also hired more than enough brown and black faces to pass the muster of any quota.

  I suppose “unfortunate” names are one of the last acceptable forms of subtle discrimination left.

  Whatever I have to do to get ahead.

  That doesn’t mean I have to put up with my given name being not-so-subtly smeared by Todd of all people.

  “Congratulations you can pronounce words with more than one syllable,” I deadpan.

  That turns that pretentious smirk of his down a few degrees.

  “You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here so early on a Monday,” he says, quickly recovering.

  “It’s been eating me up since I arrived.” Neither my disinterested look nor my dry delivery deter him.

  “David assigned me to work with him on the Abernathy Trust case. My Dad’s an old friend of the CFO. I picked Vaughn and Andrew to work with me.”

  Does it eat me up inside?

  Of course it does.

  And hell if Todd doesn’t know it.

  David Winters is a senior partner, one with serious influence over who gets offered a partnership.

  “You have to learn to work smarter, not harder, Giuseppe. Those weekends you spend chained to your office are worthless if you can’t pull in the big clients.”

  With that, my daily quota of wisdom from Todd Westlake has officially been met.

  “We can’t all spend weekends brown-nosing the keepers of the family trusts.” I tap the end of my nose. “By the way, you missed a spot.”

  Todd inadvertently twitches his nose, then goes red at the realization.

  Vaughn and Andrew snort out soft laughs, which probably won’t help their cause in working on any future projects with David & Todd Inc.

  “Happy Monday,” I say in a brusquely monotone voice as I continue on to my office.

  It was a hollow win, and not just because Todd is such low hanging fruit.

  Frankly, this kind of shit will do nothing to advance my career, and may even harm it.

  There’s just something about that smarmy face of his that gives me satisfaction whenever I’m able to slap the smirk off it, even if only verbally.

  I put him out of my mind to go through my email, which always piles up in the morning. My job requires about fifty different legal alerts, which are only compounded by notices from the firm.

  I skim past the less important mail, including the RSVP notice for the ABC charity gala held in a few weeks. It’s mostly a way for the attorneys to dress up and hobnob with clients, who are wined and dined into some hopeful long-term contracts.

  It seems I’ll once again be going solo, which probably doesn’t create the best impression. ABC likes for its partners to be married, or at least have been once upon a time.

  I suppose if I “worked smarter, not harder” I’d have more of a social life. Now that I’m twenty-nine it’s becoming more and more concerning, especially if you ask my mother.

  Dismissing that thought with a frown, I rush my way through the rest of the noise from my inbox.

  I almost auto-delete one that fortunately catches my eye before I can: New Firm Hires. Usually, the list is comprised of non-attorney positions that have a higher turnover rate. Outside of the fall hires straight from law school, we rarely get new attorneys.

  It seems today is an exception.

  The subject specifically reads, “Welcome Our New Associates.”

  “Great, more competition for partner,” I mutter to myself as I open the message to see just how many there are and for which department.

  There are only two names listed, both in Administrative Law. That isn’t even remotely my area of expertise, so I have nothing to worry about as far as competition.

  All the same, my emotions go for a quick little rollercoaster ride as I read on.

  One of the names listed is Greta Davidson.

  The other is Emily Becksworth.

  It’s the latter one that catches my eye.

  Most notably because she’s my ex-girlfriend.

  Chapter Three

  Honey

  This is it. The day. The day.

  Why else would Francis have brought me to Le Coucou for lunch, knowing how much I love all things French? The name of the place has always tickled me, which he obviously remembered.

  On top of that, it’s only two weeks before Valentine’s Day.

  I’ve worn my favorite pink tulle skirt paired with a white cashmere sweater and white boots (oh, how apt!).

  My nails are done in my signature Chanel 167 Ballerina.

  And why not?

  After all, Francis is the one to treat me to standing spa mani-pedis.

  He also pays for the rent on my apartment at Norton Place.

  Also, most of the clothes I own were purchased by him, at least the ones with labels that grace the stores along 5th Avenue.

  Is it fortuitous that Francis Hickenbatter is easily worth a low nine figures, or he will be once he inherits his portion of the Hickenbatter Corporation?

  Of course it is.

  But there’s nothing wrong with a woman considering her future husband’s net worth.

  Francis and I have been together for two years now. No other man has made me feel as special as he does when we’re together.

  The important thing is I absolutely do love him.

  I have the best of all worlds.

  And it isn’t as though I haven’t been the perfect girlfriend for Francis in return.

  I always dress up, but for him, I go the extra mile. I’m attentive to the point of coddling, all because I know that’s what his ego requires. He even loves the way I flirt with other men, always with the firm understanding that he’s my one and only.

  As for image, that’s where I excel.

  Long before I met Francis, I transformed myself into the current vision of pink perfection sitting right across from him this very moment. I’ve always been a voracious r
eader so I can run circles around almost anyone intellectually and verbally, should I choose to. I even dropped most of my Georgia accent, except on occasions where it oh so sweetly works in my favor.

  And hell if I’m not damn good in bed!

  What’s not to love?

  I’ll make the perfect wife.

  I’ve ordered a glass of champagne which sits on the table in front of me, ready to be lifted for a toast as soon as I say yes to his proposal.

  Except…

  “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head as though loosening the filters blocking my ears. The filters that somehow relayed the message to my brain that Francis was…

  “Are you breaking up with me?!”

  Francis winces at my tone.

  “I’m not breaking up with you, Honey,” he assures me, already fingering the side of his old fashioned, ready to hide behind it if I create too much of a scene.

  In retrospect, I should have figured something was amiss when he didn’t join me in a glass of champagne.

  “But you’re going to start dating someone else,” I confirm.

  “Just for appearance’s sake. Think of it as nothing more than a business arrangement.”

  “A business arrangement with another woman,” I say in a testy voice.

  “Yes, all for the Hickenbatter corporation. Muffy’s family is the third-largest producer of rice in the world.”

  As though that should mean something to me. What the hell does rice have to do with anything?

  But I’m momentarily caught up on another part of what he’s said. “I’m sorry, did you say…Muffy?”

  I’m the last person on earth who should be critiquing someone else’s name, but really? At least mine presents a more palatable mental image.

  “Maude. Maude Sinclair Aston. Her close friends call her Muffy.”

  “And I suppose she includes you among this close circle of friends,” I say, arching one challenging eyebrow.

  “Well, we didn’t exactly grow up together, she’s five years younger than I am,” he confesses. That would make her thirty to his thirty-five and my twenty-five. “But our families have known each other for ages. In fact, it’s been a bit of a rivalry within the food industry.”

  He chuckles as though this is all oh so amusing.

  “And now this rivalry is coming to an end.”

  Francis completely misses the sarcasm in my voice. “Well, yes, that’s the part of the arrangement. If news gets out that Muffy and I are an item—of sorts,” he adds quickly. “Then share price would go up for Hickenbatter, not to mention the publicity it would mean for both our companies. It’s all a bit complicated with shareholders and stocks and dividends and such.”

  “I know how securities work, Francis,” I say in an irritated voice. I’m annoyed by the look of surprised admiration on his face. “I just don’t understand why your companies can’t simply sign a contract like most businesses do.”

  Francis’ expression turns more somber.

  “Well, there’s the matter of her grandfather. He’s nearly on death’s door, maybe a few weeks left. He’d like to see Muffy settled down with the right sort of man, or at least on the way there. If he’s happy, he leaves everything to her. Once he’s gone, we’ll be able to drop this ruse.”

  “Why does it have to be you? I’m sure there are plenty of other ‘right sorts of men’ she could settle down with. Men that she wouldn’t have to participate in a ruse with. Men who aren’t already taken,” I add in an even testier voice.

  He fiddles with the glass of old fashioned again, even more agitated.

  I feel my heart begin to beat a bit faster, knowing something heavy is about to drop. If there’s one thing Francis hates, it’s confrontation. We hardly ever fight because he’d rather let me have my way, distracting me with some expensive bauble instead of an argument. I now realize what an unfortunate trait that is in a man.

  “There’s also the matter of my mother,” he finally confesses.

  “Your mother? Does she not approve of me?” I ask, truly astonished. I’ve met Francis’ mother and, in her very own words, she found me “so charming.”

  “My mother adores you, Honey. You know this. But she also understands business and we all want the Hickenbatter corporation to continue on for generations. By giving our shareholders the idea that the future head of the company is involved with a woman who is more…”

  I wait, getting more and more indignant as he lets that sentence drop without closure. “A woman who is more what? Appropriate? Sophisticated? Wealthy? Serious? Worthy?”

  “A woman who is a future head of business herself,” he corrects, planting an ingratiating smile on his face. I just find it irritating. “But again, Honey, this is all for appearances. Even my mother understands this.”

  “She does? So she knows you and this Muffy are just pretending to date?” I give him a hard look to read him for the truth.

  “Of course. She knows you’re mine, Honey,” he says with such sincerity that I honestly believe it.

  That doesn’t mean I’m not a little devastated.

  My eyes fall to the glass of champagne. I pick it up and take a long sip. No sense in it going to waste.

  “Couldn’t you have at least waited until after Valentine’s Day?” I ask after swallowing.

  Although, now that I think about it, that might have been worse.

  “We need to jump on this as soon as possible. As I stated, her grandfather doesn’t have much time, and we want to get as much going before the end of the fiscal quarter. A bump in both share price and dividend payout would work wonders for the company.”

  It all sounds a bit mercenary if you ask me. Taking advantage of a dying grandfather and focusing solely on share price and dividends.

  Especially at the expense of a relationship.

  One I thought was about to become permanent.

  “Is something wrong with your family business?” That would certainly explain the urgency and, frankly, craziness of this whole thing. I’d feel a bit better knowing that this was some kind of Hail Mary rather than…the alternative.

  “Everything is fine, Honey,” he says, now taking a long sip of his drink. “The point is, I’d like to keep it that way.”

  A broad, confident smile comes to his face, no doubt meant to reassure me. Little does he know, it only makes my heart sink.

  “So, why the need for this…ruse?”

  “Honey,” he says, reaching out for my hand. “You are the one for me. Muffy means nothing. I doubt we’ll so much as hold hands in public. She understands where my affections are. Come Valentine’s Day, you’re the one who going to…be mine.” His smile widens in hopes that the little joke isn’t lost on me.

  I force a smile to my face, even though I’m perfectly cognizant of the fact that he hasn’t directly answered my question.

  “I just won’t be able to celebrate it with you. In public.”

  My smile disappears.

  I snatch my hand from out of his and place it in my lap.

  “What’s the problem?” he asks with an impatient frown.

  “I’m allowed to not like this, Francis. I suppose I just feel like…now, I’m your dirty little secret.”

  “Honey, you are most certainly not my dirty little secret,” he says in such an insistent tone, I feel a little buoyed by it. “Aren’t we here in public having lunch?”

  “So you could, for all intents and purposes, break up with me.”

  “This is not a break-up, it’s…a temporary break. Only in public,” he assures me. “Privately, you’re the only woman for me. With Muffy, I swear it will be nothing more than the occasional photo op, attendance at some boring gala or charity event, giving the press what they want.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it either. Trust me, I’d rather have you by my side, someone I actually want to kiss and hold. Remember the UNICEF Masquerade Ball?”

  A reluctant smile comes to my face. It was
one of the most exciting events I’d ever been to, and yes, Francis absolutely doted on me all night.

  “I know it’s a blow, Honey, but this is just a hiccup for us. Before long, we’ll be able to do all those things once again.”

  “Before how long?” I ask.

  He blinks and works his jaw. “Three months, tops.”

  “Three months!” I repeat in shock.

  “Well, we want it to last well into the second quarter.”

  I suppose I should be glad he’s thinking of this ruse in purely fiscal terms. It at least shows he doesn’t think of Muffy in that way.

  Yet.

  I take another long sip of champagne.

  “You’ll see, by this summer, we’ll be back together. I’ll take you to Saint-Tropez. There’s a nude beach there where we can both lie in the sun and drink champagne all day.”

  A laugh escapes my mouth despite my disappointment.

  Who knows? Maybe that will be when he finally pops the question. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.

  So why does my heart feel like it’s already been dragged through the mud?

  I hate this. I know that the ultra-rich operate differently from what I’m used to, but this is a bit much. Going from on the brink of a proposal to being dismissed for the sake of share price?

  I have a bit more self-worth than that, thank you very much.

  I stand and reach out to take my glass. I finish the rest of my champagne in one fell swoop and set it down on the table, hard enough to elicit a small clang.

  Francis noticeably flinches at the sound.

  “If you want a break, then we’re on a break,” I say in a perfectly amicable tone. “But I won’t stand by as your plaything in private while you have your public dalliance with this Muffy, fake or not. I consider myself a tolerant person, Francis, but even I have my limits. If someone is with me, I expect them to be with me entirely, that means publicly as well as privately. So until you’re ready to accept me full-time…au re·voir, mon cher.”

  Chapter Four

  Giuseppe

  I really should be working.

  Instead, I’ve been pointlessly wandering down memory lane, or rather Emily Becksworth Avenue.