Chapter 8: The Salon Table

"Let them meet," Dario had said in the dark of the car.

"They're plotting against you."

"They're showing me who they are. Men who gather behind my back save me the trouble of asking."

Luca had gone to watch the house at dawn.

Dario had stayed home, and he hadn't said another word about it.

At nine in the morning I came down the main stairs in one of his white shirts.

The salon was full of sun.

It was a long room with a pale carpet and a wall of glass facing the lawn and the Sound.

In the middle stood a low table between two grey sofas.

Its top was a single slab of thick glass.

Dario sat on the nearer sofa in shirtsleeves with a coffee, watching me come.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bertolini."

"Good morning."

"Come here."

I crossed the carpet and stood in front of him.

He set the cup down.

He looked at me for a long while, at my bare legs and the mess of my hair.

"Take it off."

"The window is right there."

"The nearest gardener is a quarter mile away." He sat back. "Take off the shirt, Elise."

I undid the buttons slowly.

The shirt slid off my shoulders and I let it drop.

The sun lay warm over my skin.

I stood there naked in the biggest room in the house while he looked.

"Up on the table."

I climbed onto the glass on my hands and knees.

It was cold under my palms.

"On your back."

I lay down.

The glass was cold all along my spine, and I shivered.

The shiver turned into something else when he stood.

He took a small black object from the pocket of his trousers.

It was smooth and oval and no bigger than an egg.

"Spread your legs for me."

I opened my knees.

He sat on the edge of the table by my hip and set the object against my clit.

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