Page 28 of Wife After Wife

He reached over and took the glass from Merry’s hand, putting it down on the bedside table. Then he tucked a blond tendril of hair behind her ear and leaned over to nibble her earlobe. “Again, again,” he whispered.

“Mm,” she said, squirming. “Harry, how is it that you can do this to me?” Her hand moved southward as his lips traveled to her neck, where he stopped to kiss her, softly at first and then biting and sucking gently as his hand stroked her breast. He slid on top of her, kissing her deeply,and her legs wrapped around him. Soon they were moving together, and Harry was lost in her soft curves, her musky perfume.

“Darling, that was delicious,” Merry said later as their pulses returned to normal. “So can I ask my favor now?”

“Strike while I’m incapable of refusing you anything,” murmured Harry, his eyes still closed.

Merry giggled. “Have you met my sister, Ana?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“She’s a friend of your sister’s. Megan, I mean. You’ve got two, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Megan and Margot; confuses the hell out of people. I haven’t seen Megan since she went abroad. You’d like her. Margot probably not so much.”

“Is that Margot James? Married to the Scottish laird with the castle and all the moors? I think Will knows them.”

“That’s the one. She’s gone the full Scot—she’s even more dour than her husband, and she wears kilts and headscarves, like the Queen. She disapproves of me. Actually, she disapproves of everyone.”

Harry missed his little sister, if not the older one. Five years his junior, Megan was pretty and sweet and full of fun, and hero-worshipped him. A young teen when their father had died, she’d gone a little wild at school, narrowly avoiding being expelled for smuggling in vodka and sneaking out to meet boys. She’d only got away with it because of the whole orphan situation.

College had been one long party for Megan, after which she’d gone to Val d’Isère as a chalet girl, working her way through the best-looking ski instructors, or so Harry had heard on the grapevine.

Margot despaired of Megan’s “flightiness” and had been nagging her to come home and get a proper job. The last time Harry had spoken to Megan, she’d told him she was indeed ready to grow up and would be returning home after the season.

“Ana met Megan at Val d’Isère,” said Merry. “They’re both chaletgirls and they’ve become good friends. Ana’s very arty, she’s been studying design in Paris.”

“And?” said Harry.

“When she comes back she’s going to need a job, and apparently they’ve been plotting to ask if you’d take Ana on in the art department of one of your magazines. Ana told me this over the phone, having no idea about me and you. I didn’t enlighten her. I’m just, shall we say, paving the way for when your little sister pops the question. I reckon Ana would be great. She’s incredibly stylish, sharp as a whip. Quite the Parisian.”

“Does she look like you? That would help her case.”

Merry batted his arm. “Not a bit. She’s tall and dark, much thinner than me. Fiercely intelligent, frightens the life out of most men.”

“Interesting. OK, I’ll think about it,” said Harry. “We’re looking for people for our newest mag. I’ll have a word with the art director.”

“Darling, you’re a star.”

“I’m not promising anything. The final decision won’t be up to me.”

“I understand. But a carefully chosen word in the right ear, if you think she’s got the talent?”

“As good as done.”

CHAPTER 12

Ana

April 1992

As Ana cut through the backstreets of Covent Garden, Tears for Fears’ “Woman in Chains” floated out of the open windows of the Pineapple Dance Studios above her. She sang along under her breath. Shelovedthis band. She was still catching up on the British music scene after her years in France.

She reached the Lamb and Flag and made her way up the narrow staircase, ordering a spritzer at the bar. She’d come straight from her interview at Rose Corp. and was early enough to grab a table by the window. Percy was meeting her here at six, and although she didn’t want to jinx her chances, she was fairly sure this was something of a celebration. The interview had gone swimmingly.

Nate Romano, art director of theRack, launching later in the year, was one seriously gifted guy, and Ana had been hugely impressed with the design work he showed her. Every last detail of the magazine was being styled to within an inch of its life, and only the best-quality paper stock would serve as its canvas. It was glossy, weighty, beautiful, and even smelled divine. The cover was a work of art in itself.

Nate had seemed impressed with her CV and portfolio, and duringthe course of the interview Ana’s take on this opportunity had gone from a fill-in job swung by a friend to a position she wanted more than anything.