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Two weeks later, Desdemona knocked on the front door of the four-story Upper East Side townhouse as she held a pile of dresses in bags across her arm. As she awaited an answer, she took in the home’s street-level garage, ensuring easy access by vehicle without having to give up privacy. She shook her head at the cleverness of a scoundrel.
The door opened.
Desdemona turned and eyed the beautiful redhead standing there completely surprised. “Well, hello there, Red,” she said.
“Hi, Mademoiselle,” she said, casting a nervous look over her shoulder.
“Tell Mr. Garrett I’d like to speak with him, please,” she said as she pressed the dresses to the woman’s chest and stepped past her inside the house.
Red struggled to keep them from sliding down her body to the polished hardwood floor. “Mademoiselle—”
“I don’t have all day, Red,” she said gently, walking over to take a seat on one of the sofas that helped to make up the French country design. She set her tote on the floor beside her feet.
“Please don’t do this,” Red pleaded, draping the dresses over the back of the opposite sofa.
“Do what?” Desdemona asked. “You don’t even know why I’m here. In your new home. And new life.”
“Who was at the door?”
Both women turned to the entryway as Hunter Garrett, ultra-conservative Republican pundit and new host of his own show on cable, entered the room. He was shorter than Red by nearly a foot and desperately in need of a toupee or a full-on haircut to finish what nature started. He was almost as red as her hair as he eyed her sitting there.
“Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?” Hunter asked, buttoning the monogrammed sleeve of his shirt as he continued into the living room.
“Your phone seems to have stopped working, Hunter,” she said. “And we need to settle up some business. Alone.”
Desdemona and Hunter shared a hard stare. Red looked from one to the other.
“Red, I would love some bagels for breakfast,” he said, not breaking their stare.
Another look between the adversaries was cast before Red picked up her purse and keys from the sofa table and left the townhouse.
Desdemona waved a hand to the sofa across from where she sat.
He chuckled and shook his head at her taking the lead in his home as he came to claim the seat.
“Respect is given where respect is earned,” Desdemona began, crossing her legs in the black-and-white-striped Valentino dress she wore, with its flared short skirt’s stripes in a different direction from the top.
His eyes dipped to her exposed legs as if invited by the move.
He was mistaken.
“And you find it respectful to come uninvited to the home of—”
“Yourconcubine,” Desdemona inserted smoothly, tilting her head to the side as she crossed her hands and set them atop her knee. “Myformer courtesan.”
Hunter crossed his legs as well. “Her choice.”
“By your invitation... and that’s fine, but that leaves a debt to be paid,” she said. “Because neither of you handled this appropriately. There was no respect for me, my business, my time, or my financial stability because you two want to play house in your silly little townhouse that your even sillier wife knows nothing about . . .yet.”
He stiffened in his seat. “Are you threatening to blackmail me?” he asked, his voice hard.
Desdemona offered him a smile. “Definitely not who I am. It has always been my job to protect my clients, and that doesn’t end because a wolf like you stole one of the chickens from the coop. I’m here to prove to you that you are not slick or being smart or protected by this move. I found you. Others can. She may. That’s all.”
Hunter nodded as he adjusted his tie. “What do you want, Mademoiselle?”
“What I’m owed for the miles you are about to put on Red’s pussy for free.”
