Free The Cheating Curve by Paula T Renfroe Page B

earlier. I know it’s the weekend, and weekends are suppose to be off-limits for us, but I figured since you broke that rule last Sunday that I could do the same today.” She paused. “Anyway, I look forward to seeing you this week. Um, enjoy—” His voice mail interrupted with an abrupt, robotic “good-bye” before she could even finish her lengthy message.
    Lang stood on the corner trying to hail a cab back to Brooklyn. It was times like these that she regretted letting Sean convince her that they needed only one car. He thought their BMW 745Ci was indulgent enough already. He reasoned that between her company’s car-service account and all the yellow taxis at her disposal, each of which was either tax deductible or work-expense-able, there really was no need to incur yet another liability. Not to mention that the good, old-fashioned subway was often the quickest way between Brooklyn and Manhattan, particularly during rush hour.
    For Sean, every single purchase broke down to either an asset or a liability. The Rogers family were by no means hurting for money, and Sean wanted to keep it that way. Plus, the upkeep of their hundred-year-old brownstone was expensive and ongoing, even after all the renovations they’d already had done.
    Sean had always lived beneath his means but ultimately had given up on trying to get Lang to do the same. He’d settle for her living within her means. But with Lang’s salary alone of $325,000 a year, what that exactly meant still wasn’t quite clear to her. At least she’d stopped hiding receipts from her husband. That had to count for something.
    After waiting on the corner for more than ten minutes, she finally called for car service. Her cell phone vibrated as she climbed into the backseat of the black Lincoln Navigator.
    “Yes?” she answered abruptly. “Take the Manhattan Bridge,” she told the driver.
    “You with your husband?” Dante asked.
    “No, are you with Lisa?” she replied with two parts cynicism and one part curiosity.
    Dante laughed. “No, she left over an hour ago.”
    Lang said nothing.
    “Hello? Lang, you still there?”
    “Yeah. I’m here,” she replied dryly.
    “Come see me,” he said, more commanding than pleading.
    “Oh, so now you wanna see me?” Lang asked sarcastically. “Well, I can’t. My husband’s waiting for me.”
    “Just for a minute,” Dante said, more pleading than commanding. “Stop by real quick.”
    Lang saw no sense in frontin’. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Dante since she’d spied on him earlier.
    “Change of plans,” Lang informed the driver. “Take the Brooklyn Bridge instead.”
    Lang met up with Dante at his loft in DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). Though she’d been to Dante’s place several times since they’d met, it was still risky. While none of her people, nor Sean’s for that matter, frequented that area too often, it was still Brooklyn. And Brooklyn was always in the house—and on the streets.
    “Listen, I can’t stay long,” Lang said, removing her gold-heeled jeweled thongs as she walked out of the private elevator that opened directly into his loft. Dionne Farris’s “Hopeless” off the Love Jones soundtrack was playing.
    “What was that earlier?” he said, giving her a full-bodied hug, letting his hand linger on her rear end.
    “I think that was a little thing called jealousy,” Lang said, resting her head on his chest and inhaling the Versace Black Jeans cologne he usually wore. It was one of the sexiest scents she’d ever smelled on a man. She loved it so much she’d bought herself a bottle and sprayed it on her panties from time to time.
    “You have a lot of nerve, you know that, right?” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
    “Yeah, I know,” she said, breaking away from his embrace and walking toward the floor-to-ceiling window, momentarily captivated by the spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline. “Because I’m married I have no right to feel