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After he left, she pulled out her phone and took a selfie—a very erotic selfie. She waited an hour, knowing he’d be in the middle of dinner, then texted it to him. That ought to have him calling for the check.
Thirty-Three
Amber delighted in soaking in Daphne’s bathtub, more often than not with Jackson. She luxuriated in the soft-as-silk sheets as she lay next to Daphne’s husband and drove him mad with lust. And how liberating it was to know that no matter how many towels she used, no matter how mussed the sheets became, no matter how many glasses of wine or dishes of food she consumed, she could walk out the door in the morning and know the maid would have everything spick-and-span when she and Jackson returned in the evening. The doorman nodded politely to her on arrival and departure, a model of discretion, just like the new maid. Matilda, the old one, had been fired. Apparently she’d stolen some of Daphne’s jewelry. The same jewelry that Amber had hocked for a little extra cash.
The night before, they’d gone to an art opening at a small gallery on Twenty-Fifth Street. The artist, Eric Fury, was one Jackson had discovered a few years ago and had introduced to his collector friends. The moment they’d entered the gallery, they had been surrounded. It’d been clear not only that Jackson was well known but also that people wanted to be in the orbit of his power and charm. Amber had been careful not to put her arm in his or appear too intimate.
As soon as Eric Fury saw Jackson, he’d rushed over to shake his hand.
“Jackson. Wonderful to see you.” He swept his arm around to indicate the crowded room. “Isn’t it great?”
“It is, Eric, and you deserve every bit of it,” Jackson said.
“It’s all thanks to you. I can never tell you how grateful I am.”
“Nonsense. I just made the introductions. Your art speaks for itself. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have the talent.”
Fury turned to Amber. “You must be Daphne.”
“Actually, this is my assistant, Amber Patterson. Unfortunately, my wife was unable to be here, but she loves your work as much as I do.”
Amber extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Fury. I read recently that you’re moving away from canvas and instead painting on wood you collect from old buildings.”
Jackson had looked at her in surprise, and Fury said, “You are absolutely right, Miss Patterson. It’s a statement about what we lose when we let historical edifices be torn down.”
Suddenly a man appeared with a camera. “Hey, Mr. Fury. How about a photo for tomorrow’s edition?”
Eric smiled and stood next to Jackson as Amber quickly moved away from the twosome. The last thing she needed was another picture of her in the newspaper.
“Okay, kid. Get back to your fans and sell some art,” Jackson said when the photographer finished. When the artist walked away, Jackson walked over to where Amber stood admiring one of the works.
“I didn’t realize you knew anything about Eric Fury,” he said.
“I don’t really. But when you asked if I wanted to go to the exhibit, I read up on him. I always like to know something beforehand. It makes the experience much more rewarding.”
He nodded his head in approval. “Impressive.”
Amber smiled.
“That was discreet of you. Moving out of the picture. I hope you didn’t feel uncomfortable,” he said.
That was funny. He thought she was protecting him. “Not at all. You know I’ll always have your back.” She smiled and moved a little closer to him. “And your front too,” she whispered.
“I think it’s time to split,” he said.
“You’re the boss.”
As they circled the room, bidding everyone good night, Amber experienced just what it would feel like to be Jackson’s wife, to be at the center of the universe with him—and it felt sublime. She only needed to bide her time.
They grabbed a taxi back to the apartment and were practically tearing each other’s clothes off as the private elevator ascended. They never got to the bedroom, but made furious love on the living room floor. That was one of the things Amber especially loved—she made sure that they’d had sex in every room, even both of the girls’ bedrooms. That one had been a challenge, but she wanted her scent everywhere, like an alley cat.
***
She heard the shower going and turned lazily to look at the clock on the night stand. Seven thirty! Jackson came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, his chest still shiny with dampness. He sat on the edge of the bed and ruffled her hair. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“I didn’t even hear the alarm. I’ll get up.”
“You put on quite a show last night. No wonder you’re exhausted.” He leaned down and gave her a long, sensuous kiss.