knew immediately what kind of man Hugh was. A flat come-on would not have worked. He needed to think it was his idea.
A little flattery: I’m learning so much from you! A little vulnerability; she’d let him catch her crying over a breakup. (Except there wasn’t a breakup. And she’d never actually cry. Especially not over a man.) Standing a little too close in the elevator. One or two accidental brushes of her hand against his. It was so subtle. She was subtle. Maybe too subtle. After a while, she thought maybe she had him wrong. That he was a faithful husband, in love with his wife.
Then the hand on her knee. Right there, her plan to go straight went right out the window.
See what I’m saying, kitten? A tiger can’t change her stripes.
What did Hugh want? He wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be young again. He wanted to have something, anything, that didn’t belong to Kate. There was a thrill in knowing that, in giving that—and in taking it away.
Anne and Hugh lay entangled on the king bed, their hotel room looking out over Central Park. She luxuriated in the exquisite sheets, watched the bubbles in her champagne glass.
She’d let him text her for days.
I’m so sorry, Anne. Forgive me.
I can’t leave her. She needs me. She’s—not well.
I can’t stop thinking about you. Oh, god. Please meet me.
Anne.
I’m desperate.
She rather enjoyed it. In fact, she kind of liked Hugh, which was not always the case. He was an acrobatic lover, in great shape, generous, gentle. He could be funny. Anne could see why Kate held on tight; most men were monsters deep down. Not Hugh. Deep down he was a little boy.
He moved a strand of hair from her eyes, touched her cheek.
“I was drowning without this. Without you.”
“This is the last time, Hugh,” she said, trying to look bravely hurt. “I’m not a mistress. I thought we’d be together someday. Really together.”
“I know.” He sighed, kissed her deeply. “I know. It’s not fair to you.”
The game. It was so sweet.
It was Pop who taught her that her beauty was a weapon. Her lean, strong body—not too thin. Her flawless olive skin. Her long, (currently) blue-black hair that hung blade-straight down to the middle of her back. She groomed—waxed, plucked, exfoliated, manicured, moisturized, exercised religiously. She took care of herself. Her beauty was a commodity, a thing that people wanted. It could be used to manipulate men and women. Men wanted to possess it, control it. Women wanted to believe that it was a thing within their reach, a weapon that they too could wield. Who does your hair? What’s your secret?
She turned her head away from him, exposing the delicate flesh of her neck, where he promptly placed his lips. She shivered—he thought from pleasure.
What’s the game now? Pop wanted to know. You’ve gotten all you can from his wife.
Had she, though?
For Pop it was all about the money. Run the game, get away clean. Anne always wanted a little bit more. She reveled in her role as puppeteer.
And that’s where you get into trouble. You don’t need to turn the knife every time.
“I have to leave the city,” she said softly.
“What? Why?”
“My sister,” she said. “She’s really sick. There isn’t much time.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. His hazel eyes glittered with concern. He was earnest, she’d give him that. He really did care about her, as much as someone like Hugh could care about anyone but himself. “What can I do?”
Didn’t he know that she was playing him?
The funny thing was that they almost never, ever did. And even after they figured it out, they doubted themselves. Wanted to believe they were wrong. Even when there was no denying that they’d been had, you could almost always go back for a second helping. Like the sweetheart scam. That was her favorite. So many very lonely people in the world. So many of them with money. They trawled online for love, knowing of course how easy it was to be scammed. But there they were, desperate enough to try. And try again.
There was a look. A kind of sweetness around the eyes. A sort of slouch to the aura. Something else. Hope. Without it, things were harder, if not impossible. Hugh was a different category: all ego, easy to flatter.
“I have to give up my place here,” she said. “I don’t know when I can come back. All the money I have—it’ll have to go for