“Trying to buy sausages, obviously. And failing.”
“No, I mean in Mount Washington.”
“Oh, I have a client who lives in a huge spread not far from here. Claims the house belonged to Napoleon.”
“If you mean the house on Lake Avenue, it was Jér?me Bonaparte, and even his connection is tenuous at best. Isn’t it owned by some tech billionaire?”
“God, I hope he’s a billionaire or I have really wasted my afternoon. You’re married to one, too, right?”
“A billionaire? I don’t think so.”
“But a big tech guy. Gabriel—Schwartz?”
“Swartz. I still go by Brant.”
He snapped his fingers. “Right. He gets a lot of ink. You sure he’s not a billionaire?”
“Pretty sure.” She laughed, but it was to cover her embarrassment at her husband’s wealth. He was worth only $20 million. Only. “Look, here’s one that has less than one gram and it has pineapple, so that’s probably why it has any sugar at all. Will that do?”
“I don’t dare improvise. My wife gives very explicit instructions and expects them to be followed. I better call herr kommandant.”
“I think you mean frau,” Lu said icily.
She loathed men who portrayed their wives as nags and terrors. Eight months later, she was in bed with one. Although Lu and Bash don’t talk much—there is so much else to do—Bash’s wife often features in the conversations they do manage to have. Her special diets, her exacting workouts. She is Bash’s second wife, younger than Lu by at least five years. His first wife lives in Columbia with their two children, although in the western part, in the most desirable school district. That once provided cover for Bash to take the occasional room at the Columbia Inn, but it’s no longer possible for Lu to come and go there, convenient as it may be. It was risky enough when she was an assistant state’s attorney. So they use this corporate apartment he maintains in Bethesda, where he does absolutely no business, not that Lucinda—the non-Lu, the never-Lu, the not-you-Lu Bash calls her—has ever thought to wonder about this. Bash lives larger than Gabe ever dared, and Lu senses it’s more of a strain than he lets on. But that’s his problem. One of the great charms of Bash is that his problems are his. She’s not expected to solve them. She barely even listens to them.
Lu tells herself that she would never have started with Bash if he had children with Lucinda. She also tells herself that every time is the last time. And that their discretion means no one is harmed by what they do, the occasional bruise aside. She even congratulates herself on the concept of an affair as sensible time management for the busy widow with two children. Bash requires so much less attention than a husband or a boyfriend would. Three hours a month. Six, if she’s lucky.
“Come back here,” he calls. Demands. “I’m not finished.”
Ja, Herr Kommandant.
This time, it’s almost disappointingly normal at first, Bash on top of her, although his weight alone is enough to create a sensation of discomfort in this position. Then, toward the end, he grips her shoulders, hard.
“No marks,” she breathes. “Don’t leave marks that someone could see.”
He doesn’t listen, just continues to press on her shoulders. They don’t use safe words. Again, that would mean labeling what they do, when part of the thrill is not organizing it under any banner, belonging to a club with only two members. “Trust me,” he says, but his voice is guttural, harsh, not at all conducive to trust. But that’s the fun part, says the little piece of her mind that stands back.
Later, as they dress, he produces a distinctive orange box. There is an Hermès scarf inside, a pattern of leaves in muted browns and golds. Perfect for her, Lu thinks, and not at all flattering to Lucinda, who has Snow White coloring. So it can’t be a castoff. He really bought this for her.
“This will cover that one place where I gnawed on you a little,” he says sheepishly, his manner that of a little boy offering something to a girl he likes.
“So you planned—”