Free Mrs. Robinson (Mrs. Robinson #1) by Seth King Page A

block looking for gossip to offer up to all the women at the golf club, but still: why tonight ?
    I stood taller and straightened my dress, deciding to fight her lemony smile with something even more tart. “I’m sorry, Cynthia, but I don’t have any. I threw out the last of my fruit during a deep cleaning this morning. Can’t keep that stuff too long, or the flies start to come – that’s what I always say.”
    Her grin brightened as she reached up and patted at her strawberry blonde bouffant. She was still wearing her evening clothes and obviously hadn’t stepped anywhere near her kitchen all night – not that she ever cooked anything, anyway, as her latest divorce settlement from her latest cheating husband had afforded her a small army of staff that did everything from trim her bushes to curl her eyelashes.
    “Ah, such a shame,” she grinned. “And you’re right – we don’t want the flies coming and poking around in our business, do we?”
    I swallowed hard.
    “Anyway,” she said, “I’m disappointed, because I was really looking forward to sharing a slice of tart with you, and maybe sharing some gossip, too. Unless – ” she looked behind me again, her eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re busy? Is Richard home, by chance?”
    I shifted in the doorway to block her view. “I think I’ve had enough tart for one night, thanks. I’m hitting Netflix and bed – that new Shonda Rhimes show has been calling my name for weeks. See you at the charity event tomorrow?”
    The way I’d phrased the last question told her it was time to go. Her smile faltered for a moment, and then she rearranged her shoulders and winked at me. “Yes, of course. Wouldn’t miss it. We’ll talk then. And Grace?”
    Her cornflower blue eyes gleamed like blood diamonds, and I knew exactly what she was thinking: who is this neighbor of mine, really? What’s really going on here? What has Richard done to her? And what has she done to herself?
    “Yes?” I asked. Her eyes flitted down to my breasts, her smile as sour as the lemons she had asked for.
    “I just wanted to tell you I liked your dress. That’s all.”
    I swallowed and swung the door closed. What the hell was that? I thought as my knees buckled and I slumped against the wall. Was she simply trying to rub it in that I was a lonely abandoned shut-in, like usual, or had she seen more? And what was I even doing ? This wasn’t some cheesy romantic novel – this was real, this was my life , and I was playing with fire. Actually, Cynthia Villa was worse than fire – she was ice, capable of freezing out everyone around her. Letting myself fall victim to Ben’s sexiness had been a momentary mistake, and now I needed to think this through and get real. I had a painting worth three hundred thousand dollars in my living room, thanks to Richard getting drunk at Sotheby’s and getting into a pissing contest with a rival – what on Earth was I thinking leaving a male escort alone in my house? And speaking of Ben – where the hell was he, anyway?
    I turned to glance into the living room, and that’s when I looked down and noticed it: my bra was undone, and a purple hickey was already forming on my clavicle.
    Oh , no .
    Just as my vision started to flicker and distort with panic, a door closing somewhere deep within my house brought me back to my senses. I simply had to find Ben. He could be doing anything, and standing here freaking out wasn’t going to help anything. I took one last breath and padded down the hall, suddenly afraid for some reason.
    “Hello?” I asked into the darkness. “Ben? Or whatever your name is? Where are you?”
    I turned into the living room and felt my stomach shrivel into nothing: he was gone. Where on Earth could he be? And why had he left? As my heart thundered in my chest like the clouds on a July afternoon I searched the kitchen, the powder room, even the pantry – he was nowhere. He’d disappeared, and now I had a total stranger wandering