A Dangerous Marriage

The private upstairs room at 21 Club in New York City exuded a plush variety of elegance with its heavy burgundy damask curtains, brocade wall covering and busy, oriental carpets. As Julia Davenport and her escort for the evening entered, she saw groups of well-groomed men, most of them probably in their forties and fifties, dressed in somber colors except for the occasional flash of a yellow or red necktie, drinks in hand, engaged in serious discussion. The men were joined by a few women in smart business outfits, professionals who had not had time to change after work. Then there were wives or other female companions. They seemed to be on display, like exotic, plumed birds, posturing as they hung on the outskirts of the men’s conversations or chatted among themselves. Tall and slim, with short, dark hair, Julia wore the only garment she owned that was suitable for evening: a black cocktail dress, a designer label that she found marked down twice at an upscale second-hand clothing store in Philadelphia. She had come with a man whom she had dated for a while during her last year of college. His call and invitation came as a complete surprise, but when he asked her to accompany him to a large dinner party in New York City, even though she couldn’t afford to stay there overnight, she accepted with alacrity. She realized that this could be the opportunity she needed to emerge from the relative seclusion she had been drawn into after college. It developed that her friend, an attorney, needed to make an appearance earlier in the evening at a business reception that was to be a celebration by a large corporation congratulating itself on acquiring a smaller company. Soon after their arrival, her escort was drawn into an earnest discussion from which she was gradually expelled by virtue of the enthusiasm of the others, men, who edged themselves toward the center to hear or be heard. Julia took the opportunity to look with mild curiosity around the room. In a few moments her gaze came to rest on a man she had noticed earlier in passing. He was confident, she could tell, even cocky, as he held forth to the circle of men that had formed around him. His hair was jet black and combed smoothly, straight back. His skin was deeply tanned. His imposing nose reminded her of a hawk’s beak, ready to strike, and his prominent brow and well-defined, slightly pointed chin all contributed to a predatory image that was enhanced by a certain feline smoothness to his movements. What had caught her attention from the beginning, she decided later, was his aura of animal vitality. When her escort reemerged, Julia asked him about the man she had studied with an interest that she found had grown in intensity more than she chose to express. She learned that along with the top people of the two companies, he was something of a celebrity here. In fact, he had brought the companies together, making the acquisition possible. Later, her friend ambled off to get another gin and tonic. Julia was still working on her first glass of white wine, which had warmed to an almost cloying sweetness in the ample bowl of its glass. He left her on the edge of a small group of lawyers from his firm. Their discussion, with lowered voices, did not include her. So as not to appear abandoned and alone, with mounting embarrassment, she feigned interest. “Hello.” She was startled to recognize, close at hand, the voice of the man who had intrigued her so much from afar. She turned. He was smiling broadly, looking directly at her. His eyes were dark brown, like well-polished mahogany. “We haven’t been introduced.” He held out his hand. “I’m Peter Medea.” His grip was firm. It took her a second to recover. Then she smiled back. “Hello.” “And you’re Julia Davenport.” He held her eyes with his. “How did you…?” “No, I’m not psychic,” he said. “You were on the guest list. I always try to find out who it might be worthwhile to get to know. I hope that doesn’t sound too calculating. Anyway, I found you by matching you with your escort.” “Well, what makes me so ‘worthwhile,’ as you put it?” “My secret. For the moment, anyway. But now that I’ve seen you, that we’ve met, I’m beginning to feel as though I’d like to get to know you with or without a reason. What do you say?” “Sure.” Julia hoped she did not betray her surprise. “Well, we won’t have much time now.” Peter glanced in the direction of the bar, where Julia’s escort was waiting for his refill. He pulled a slender, black leather appointment book and a Mont Blanc pencil from his inside coat pocket. “When can we get together?” “I don’t know.” Julia hesitated. She was having a hard time catching up to the pace at which this man moved. “How about dinner tomorrow evening?” Peter offered. “That’s Thursday,” he added, as if she might not know without her own appointment calendar in front of her. “Here?” Julia knew she could not stay in New York. “Here if you like,” Peter smiled as he looked around the room in which they were standing, “although the atmosphere is a little more intimate downstairs.” “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t,” Julia said. “I’m going back to Philadelphia tonight, and back to work tomorrow. Today was a school holiday.” “You’re in school?” Peter raised his heavy black eyebrows. “I teach. I’m a high school English teacher. In the inner city. Philadelphia. I thought you looked me up?” “I did, but not for that.” He smiled, then looked back to the appointment book. “In Philadelphia, then?” Astonished, she tried to remember what she was supposed to be doing the next evening. Wouldn’t she be correcting test papers to hand back on Friday? “Yes,” she said after a moment, “that would be lovely.” “Will you be free by, say, seven?” Peter’s writing instrument was poised. His lips were full and sensual. He curled them in as he concentrated. “Yes.” “How can I reach you?” They exchanged telephone numbers and email addresses. Just then they were joined by a tall man, probably in his late fifties, immaculately groomed, dark-skinned, and heavy-set, filling out his well-tailored, double-breasted navy-blue business suit with an effect of solidity rather than the softness usually associated with such girth. He took Peter’s elbow, as if to usher him off without further ceremony, but stopped, glancing in Julia’s direction for a moment. Then he gave her an up-and-down, unhurried look, a leisurely but thorough appraisal, which brought a flush to her cheeks. Embarrassed by her instinctive dislike of this intruder, she looked back to Peter, who seemed frozen in place for an instant, his expression oddly neutral, his lips formed in a tight line. Finally he spoke. “Julia Davenport, this is Marco DiNiro, chairman of Grendel Holdings, our host for the evening, and my valued client.” He turned toward Julia. “Marco…” The large man interrupted him. “Call me Denny, my dear. And if you ever get tired of Peter’s company, please remember to get in touch.” He gave her a brief smile and an elaborate wink. He loosened his grip on Peter’s arm. “Now, though, I’m afraid I need your friend here for a moment.” He gave Peter a meaningful look before he walked away from them to a small cluster of men that seemed to be awaiting his arrival. “Well,” Peter shrugged, “I guess business must come before pleasure. Isn’t that the way it usually turns out?” He offered her his hand. “Until tomorrow evening then?” “Yes,” she said. “Tomorrow.” At that moment, Julia’s escort returned, but her gaze followed Peter Medea. She knew she was already strongly drawn to this man, so compelling and yet so seemingly manipulative. She watched him walk quickly toward the small group that had collected around Marco “Denny” DiNiro, his important client whom she had found strangely threatening. She marveled that Medea had singled her out for his attention. She wondered, should she have been more cautious in her response to...Peter Medea’s advances?