Page 46

Coralie

About one day after Coralie accepted her pregnancy as a thing that’s really happening, her breasts tripled in size.

At least it felt that way.

Consequently, she did some bra shopping last night after work, and what’s the point of a new bra if it’s not a little sexy? And what’s the point of sexy if nobody notices? She’s paired the new, lacy bra with a pink blouse that’s slightly see-through. And as she dressed this morning, she’d wondered how long it would take her boss to notice.

About two seconds, apparently. When he enters the office midmorning, his eyes go immediately to her bustline.

“Hello, Mr. Wincott,” she says silkily. “How was your breakfast meeting?”

“Long,” he says gruffly, his eyes lingering another moment on her chest, before he turns his gaze to the IT guy leaning over the tangle of cords in the corner.

Mr. Wincott makes a face, and Coralie smiles sweetly.

“Coffee ready?” he asks.

“Almost.” It isn’t even a lie.

“Bring me one in ten?”

“Of course.”

She waits until the techie leaves and then fixes Mr. Wincott a cup of coffee. After carrying it into his office, she shuts the door behind herself.

He looks up. Smiles hotly.

The weird thing is that she sometimes enjoys moments like this, with his gaze focused like a laser on her body. She moves languidly toward him, hips swaying.

He’s so much older than she is. She’s not attracted to him in the traditional sense. Still. That hungry look in his eye makes her feel special. It’s like a drug sometimes.

There must be something seriously wrong with her.

“Is he gone?” The boss waves in the general direction of the outer office.

“Gone,” she says, and he smiles. “He was here to fix your broken fax machine.”

“I think he was here to admire your tits.”

“They are spectacular.” She sets the Wedgwood cup and saucer on the desk. Then she circles the desk and slides into his lap.

“ Hello ,” he says, reaching around to cup her breasts. They’re tender, but she doesn’t complain. “This blouse is sheer, you realize.”

“Is it?”

He chuckles, sliding his hand to her belly and holding it there.

She stops breathing. Her pregnancy seems very real when he does this. There are three of them in this chair right now.

“Well? Have you chosen a name? It better be a good Christian name.”

She frowns, because he can’t see her face. “You mean like Mary?”

“That’s only one of many. See that book? With the gold spine?” He points across the room at one of the built-in bookshelves. “Go fetch it. I want to show you something.”

She obeys, giving him a look at her backside on her way to fetch the book. When she returns, he tucks her into his lap and opens the cover. It creaks with age.

There’s a bookplate on the inside flap. From the library of Marcus Wincott , it reads.

“This is a hagiography,” he says. “A book of saints. Borrow it, and you’ll find all the names. There’s Catherine. Clare. Even Rose is a saint’s name.”

“Okay.” She flips the book open to a random page, and the first thing she sees is a dark woodcut image. The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew . A man is shown in the midst of being flayed alive. He’s bound to a frame, his skin being peeled off by his executioners, who wear grim expressions of determination. But St. Bartholomew's face is turned upward, his eyes reflecting a mixture of pain and transcendent focus.

Such a dark place to search for baby names. And when she’d told Mr. Wincott they were more alike than different, it was really true.

He’s already forgotten about the book, though. His fingers are stroking her tummy. She’s noticed that he’s stopped referring to her as his little sinner. His touch is still sexual, but it’s more possessive, with a side of tenderness that surprises her.

Those fingers dip under her skirt.

“Stand up. Put your hands on the desk,” he says quietly.

She hurries to comply.

“Good girl,” he says. “Good girl.”