Max took a sip of wine, licked her lips, then stepped into the hole Angela had obviously dug for her. “I’d like to know why.”
Angela toyed with her drink, turning the glass on the table, the napkin twisting beneath it. “I like sex. A lot. And I like the good life. Seemed like the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone. I also like helping people. Some of these guys need a little confidence boost.”
Max caught herself before she laughed outright. The sound ended up a snort.
Angela raised a perfectly plucked brow. “What? You think a working girl can’t care about her clients? I think it’s a bit like being a psychiatrist.”
“Is that a justification?”
Instead of anger, Max’s comment aroused only mirth. With a half smile, Angela went back to the gentle twisting of her glass. “Some guys are so downtrodden. Their wives pick on them. Their bosses don’t even know they’re alive, except when they fuck up. They’re never good enough for anybody. I imbue them with self-confidence. Pick them up when they’re beaten down.” She shrugged. “Maybe it justifies my love of sex for sex’s sake.”
Who was Max to criticize? She’d seen the Blondies’ beaming faces, seen the way Angela’s rapt attention focused on them had made them straighten their shoulders, walk tall. She felt it herself in a curious way. Angela’s glance never strayed to another table. When she talked, her eyes didn’t wander to what was going on behind your back. She didn’t make you compete for her concentration. Yeah, Max could see how that would make a guy puff out his chest. Maybe Angela got off on that, too.
Angela stopped her perusal of the pale wine and looked straight at Max. “You like sex?”
Tit for tat. You get something, you have to give something back. “I like a good orgasm. I like a lot of them.” Truth. “I find nothing wrong with a little recreational sex.” Lie. Her feelings on sex bounced from desire to need to shame. The word recreational had never applied. Nor had the term making love. Not even with Cameron. In his life, she’d hidden it well from him, or so she thought. With his death, she couldn’t conceal a damn thing.
Angela leaned closer, her fingertips centimeters away from Max’s. “What about power?”
“Power?” Nodding and staring into her glass as the other woman had done, Max answered, “I like power and control.” Truth. That wasn’t so hard to admit. “I like to be on top.” More truth. It was, in fact, the way she felt most comfortable.
“Most men want the woman on top. When she’s not on her knees. Either way, you’ve got power. It’s in the perception.”
Max was suddenly aware of a gaze on her. Close, hostile. Witt. He’d moved inside, taken a table at the edge of the dance floor, seated himself facing her. His hand gripped a beer bottle, fingers white, the only sign of tension. His hair turned dark in the murky lighting, his navy suit transformed to black.
He wasn’t close enough to overhear.
Max didn’t have a logical reason for telling Angela anything, not even the excuse that if she wanted answers, she’d have to feed the other woman’s curiosity, too. Though true, there was more. It was something about Angela herself. As if she waited on the edge of her seat, hands fisted below the table or clutching her chair. As if she absorbed the reasons from others to justify, to commiserate, to understand, to share. Something in Max needed to answer.
Eyeing Witt, Max leaned in to Angela. “It’s not only the money,” she whispered. “And it’s not the sex. It’s wanting them down on their knees, wanting them to beg.” Truth. Terrifying truth.
Angela matched her whisper for whisper. “It’s all about money.” She wet her lips, lipstick shining. “It’s them being willing to pay. For you. It’s us winning at their sex game.”
Max flicked a glance at Witt, his expression unchanged. She took a breath. It shuddered on the way out. “It’s about making sure you’re never on the bottom again. Ever.”
Angela smiled, a slight conspiratorial lifting of her lips. “You’re a sister, Max Starr.” Her gaze flicked down to the wedding ring Max had never even thought to remove. “Your husband doesn’t give you that kind of power, does he?”
“Not anymore.” Half truth. That kind of power died with Cameron.
“I don’t think husbands ever can, do you?”
“It’s not in their job description.” Truth. But power plays should never have been part of her marriage in the first place.
Angela leaned back, drew in a breath, her breasts rising beneath the short jacket. Every male eye in the room—except Witt’s—was on her. The woman knew the meaning of sexual power. How Lance ever thought he’d bring her to heel was beyond Max. Angela already had him wearing a dog collar, and he hadn’t even known it.
“You want power, Max.” She crossed her legs and her arms. “I don’t believe anything else you’ve said, but I believe that. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”
Chapter Eleven