You’ve Been Warned

“Hello, Turnbull residence.”

“Is the boss in the room?”

It’s Michael.

I lower my voice. “No. You just missed the mistress.”

“Were you late?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a bitch to you?”

“You have to ask?”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” he says. “So, how are you, anyway?”

“Michael…”

“What?”

“What did I tell you about calling me here?”

“Who says I called for you?”

“Yeah, right, like you actually want to speak with Penley.”

“What, a guy can’t talk to his wife?”

“You know what I mean; it’s risky.”

“I keep telling you, Penley doesn’t believe in answering the phone. That’s what she has you for.”

Right then, I hear a voice behind me. Her voice. “Who is that, Kristin?” asks Penley.

I nearly swallow my stomach.

“Oh, gosh, you startled me,” I say, breathless.

She couldn’t care less. “I asked who you were talking to.”

“No one,” I answer.

“It’s obviously someone. ” She gives me a disapproving glare. “That’s not a personal call, is it? Because you know how I feel about those when you’re supposed to be working.”

“No, it’s not a personal call,” I assure her. Unless, of course, you count your husband.

“Then who is it?”

I think fast. “It’s some guy from Lincoln Center. He wants to know if you’d be interested in attending an opera series they’re doing.”

Penley cocks her head and shoots me a suspicious look.

So I gamble.

“Here,” I say, offering her the phone. “You can talk to him if you want.”

Penley – a devout macrobiotic dieter – looks at the phone as if it’s a Twinkie. No, worse – a fried Twinkie. She wants nothing to do with any “salesman type,” even one from Lincoln Center.

She sniffs. “I thought we were on that do-not-call list.”

“You know, you’re right,” I say, relishing the thought of repeating this to Michael. He’s undoubtedly been listening the entire time. “We are on that do-not-call list,” I say into the phone.

Sure enough, as I hang up I can hear him laughing hysterically.

Michael Turnbull, my almost perfect man, loves to live on the edge. And he loves it even more when I join him there.

Chapter 8

I LOVE DAKOTA AND SEAN. Who wouldn’t? That’s the message lettered on T-shirts I gave the Turnbull kids last Christmas. It also happens to be absolutely true. I feel sorry for the kids because their stepmother is such an uncaring bitch toward them.

As we ride the elevator down to the lobby, Sean stares up at me with his big blue curious eyes. At age five, everything – and I mean everything – is a question for this darling little boy.

“Miss Kristin, how old are you?” he asks.

His sister, Dakota, seven going on seventeen, immediately chimes in. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is, dummy!”

“That’s okay, sweetheart. Sean can ask me anything.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’m twenty-six.”

He blinks his baby blues a few times as if mulling it over. “That’s really old, isn’t it?”

Dakota slaps her forehead. “Oh, brother! And I mean brother. ”

I laugh – something I do a lot when it’s just the three of us, especially during our daily trek to Preston Academy, or as New York magazine prefers, “The ‘it’ school for tykes on the Upper East Side that’s harder to get into than Fort Knox.”

“Miss Kristin, why do kids have to go to school?” asks Sean without missing a beat.

“That’s easy. So they can learn lots of neat things and grow up to be really smart like their parents,” I explain. “Isn’t that right, Dakota?”

“I guess,” she says with a shrug.

Sean blinks again. “Are you smart, Miss Kristin?”

“I like to think I am,” I say.

Yet it’s moments like this that make me wonder, and question myself. I care about these two kids so damn much and would never do anything to hurt them. So why am I having an affair with their father?

I know why.

I can’t help myself.

Michael is wonderful, and he loves me, and I love him as much as we both do Dakota and Sean.

As for stepmom Penley, she treats the kids like fashion accessories, to be seen adoringly at her side like an Hermès or a Chanel bag. She doesn’t make time for them as much as she allots it, scheduling the two children into her life the same way she does luncheons and museum committee meetings.

I hate the termhome wrecker, and if for one moment I thought I was actually wrecking something wonderful, I’d be out of their lives in an instant. But I spend a lot of time in that penthouse apartment, and I see what’s going on.

Yes, maybe my head knows better. In my heart, however, I’m convinced that the four of us – Dakota, Sean, Michael, and me – are destined to be together.

It’s going to happen.

Soon.

Chapter 9

WE BOUND OFF the elevator and right into the playful smile of Louis. “Well, if it isn’t the Three Musketeers!” he exclaims.

Louis reaches to the side of his doorman’s coat and brandishes an imaginary sword. On cue, Sean goes for his. Their daily make-believe duel lasts all the way across the lobby.

It’s always fun to watch, especially today. After the morning I’ve had, this ritual – this return to normalcy – is exactly what I need.

I laugh and cheer Sean on as Louis pretends to be fatally wounded. With all the gusto of a B movie actor, he drops to his knees and dies a slow, painful death.

Maybe that’s what does it.

Or maybe it’s simply being outside again.

Either way, no sooner do I set foot on the sidewalk than my thoughts return to the Fálcon Hotel and my dream – that horrible, horrible dream – coming to life.

Instantly, I’m awash in all the disturbing images again. They’re vivid in my mind and at the same time confusing. New Yorkers, more than anyone, don’t like things they can’t rationally explain. That goes for non-native New Yorkers as well. Like me.

“Miss Kristin, is everything okay?”

It’s not Sean asking the question this time, it’s Dakota. Not only is she mature for her age, I think she’s also a mind reader.

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re squeezing extra tight this morning.”

I look down and, sure enough, I can see the white of my knuckles wrapped around her tiny hand. Same for the one around Sean’s.

“I’m sorry,” I say, loosening my grip. “I guess I like holding on to you both so much, I never want to let go.”

“Fine with me,” says Sean blithely.

We continue walking, and I struggle to clear my mind of all the bad images from earlier. It’s near impossible. A howling ambulance passes us on the street, and it’s as if I’m seeing it all yet again. The body bags, the zipper…

The woman’s hand covered with blood.

“Miss Kristin, you’re doing it again,” says Dakota, trying to wiggle her fingers free.

“Yeah,” says Sean. “You’re like my G.I. Joe with kung fu grip!”

A few minutes later we arrive at Madison and 74th, and the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Preston Academy. I kneel to kiss Sean and Dakota good-bye.

“Have a great day, my angels.”

“You too, Miss Kristin,” chirps Sean. “Have a great day.”

Dakota peers into my eyes. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“I’m sure,” I answer.

But of course I’m not.

Then I wink at the kids, and they wink back. They have killer winks too.

I stand there and watch the kids dash off, joining their classmates marching up the steps to the school. They look so happy, so carefree.

So i