Chapter 11: The Gala

Ivy found the dress at a consignment shop on Newbury Street, and it cost four hundred dollars I did not have.

Gregory paid anyway, by phone, from a conference room, while I stood in the fitting room arguing with the screen.

It was red silk, cut low in the back, with a skirt that moved when I breathed.

At seven on Saturday I stood in the mirror of a suite at the Seaport Hotel and did not recognize the woman looking back.

She had a straight back and a lipstick that meant it.

The door opened behind me.

Gregory came in wearing a black dinner jacket, and stopped.

He didn't say anything for four full seconds.

"That bad?" I said.

"No." His voice was rough. "That is not what I was going to say."

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing I can say in a corridor."

He closed the door.

I looked at him in the glass, tall and dark behind my shoulder, and felt my pulse in the base of my throat.

"We have twenty minutes," I said.

"We have eighteen."

"Then sit down."

"Pamela..."

"Sit."

He sat in the velvet armchair by the window, and I crossed the room and put one knee on either side of his hips.

"The dress cost four hundred dollars," he said, low.

"So don't tear it."

I kissed him until his hands came up under the silk, hot against my thighs, and found nothing underneath.

He swore.

I opened his trousers and took him in my hand.

Then I sank down onto him, slowly, one inch at a time, with my fingers locked behind his neck.

He groaned and let his head fall back.

I rode him in a slow, deep roll, the skirt spilling over both of us, his hands guiding my hips.

"Look at me," I said, and it was my turn to give the order.

He looked.

I watched his face change as I moved, the control cracking, the grey eyes dark and glazed.

I leaned down and bit his lower lip.

"Mine," I said.

"Yours," he said, ragged.

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