Dmitry gradually righted Mary Grace from the dip, his sturdy forearm anchored into the arch of her back.  Her head followed gracefully, slowly with the movement, stopping with her lips mere inches from his.  He smelled of a musky cologne and man-sweat, the crescents of his strong glistening pecs swelling out of the V-neck of his t-shirt.  He spun her away and then instantly brought her back like a yo-yo, and she caught her breath as her chest collided with his.  She placed her hand on the hard muscle and he pulled away, unaffected, crossing the room to silence the iPod.p
.        “Thursday we’ll run through it three more times, and next week I’ll have someone film us and you can use it to practice at home.  Maybe get Carlson to watch it a few times and he can help you out.”
.        Mary Grace raised her eyebrows pointedly, and Dmitry laughed.
.        “If Carlson could dance like that from simply watching our rehearsal a few times then there wouldn’t be any need for you, would there?”
.        “Always need for me,” he said, flashing her a winning smile, his dialectal Russian resurfacing just long enough to omit “a”.  He rubbed his face and neck with a towel and offered her a bottle of SmartWater.
.        “Thank you,” she said, unscrewing the cap and taking a few generous gulps.  He drank from his own bottle, then brought it down from his mouth, wiping the excess from his lips with the back of his hand.  He regarded her with pride, still smiling.
.        “We’re going to win, you know.”
.        She smiled back at him, his confidence as enticing as his countenance.  With a thick crop of wavy dark brown hair, strong jaw and nose, and a smile that could sell London hipsters on the importance of cosmetic orthodontia, Dmitry Lenov was one beautiful, not to mention incredibly sexy man.  And unlike Shakira, his hips lied shamelessly.
.        Come and get it, you can have this, just come with me, follow me, they whispered and moaned, but only for a dance.  Dmitry had a girlfriend he’d brought from Russia, a girl he’d known since boyhood and had sworn to marry at eleven.  Mary Grace had Carlson.  For Dmitry those bonds formed an impenetrable barrier.  Had he known the Hammonds’ real intentions upon hiring him, he never would have accepted.  If Mary Grace made a move to make them known now, he’d be horrified.  So they danced, and she fantasized, and tried to think of a better suited candidate.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Mary Grace met Carlson the night she found out Wyatt was leaving her for The Assistant.  Maggy knew she had a name, had known it specifically at one time, but from the day she found out the tramp was pregnant with Wyatt’s bastard, the homewrecking whore was deemed The Assistant.
.        In a grand display of well-who-needs-you-anyway, Mary Grace had prepared herself for a solo night on the town while Wyatt packed his things.  In a pathetic attempt at one-upmanship she’d stood in front of him and slid into a slinky black cocktail dress, making sure he noticed it was an outfit that included neither bra nor panties.  He paused long enough in his packing to smirk at her, then resumed zipping ten of his Hugo Boss suits in a garment bag.
.        “Better take them all,” she advised.  “When I come home tonight I’m going Angela Bassett on every last shred of clothing you leave behind.”
.        “You plan on returning tonight?” he practically sneered.  “Lost our touch, have we?  Or just our guts?”
.        Downstairs, she briefly eyed the set of knives displayed in the butcher block holder on the island on her way past the kitchen,  and transferred a few items from her purse into one of the black Prada clutches she kept in a cabinet in Wyatt’s office.  She peeled her red Mercedes out of the driveway and tore down the winding path that led to the service road with no thought to where she was going.  Wherever it was, she was determined to arrive without black streaks running down her face, so she bit back the tears and tried to focus.
.        She found herself at the Marriott at Philadelphia International.  She’d stayed there many times with Wyatt the evening preceding an early morning flight and if she’d taken notice of one thing it was the number of single men, i.e. men not accompanied by a woman, sitting at the bar in the downstairs lounge.  On this night especially she could give a steaming shit log if any of them were married.  Some woman clearly hadn’t taken mind to the ring on Wyatt’s finger.  Mary Grace certainly wasn’t looking to break up someone’s happy home, or even unhappy one.  Who wanted a discontented man, anyway?  A desperate woman, that’s who.  And Mary Grace may have been shattered.  Angry.  Maybe even a little devastated.  But not desperate.  Never desperate.
.        So she perched herself on a bar stool, ordered a glass of white wine, surveyed the men and weighed her options.  None was very promising.  With a beer gut here and a toupee there, here a gut, there a rug, everywhere a gut-rug, she was beginning to reconcile with the sad possibility that her night would end with her jack rabbit and a Chris Hemsworth movie.  Then, as if she had conjured up an American version of the Aussie actor himself, in walked the most beautiful man Mary Grace had seen not wearing ice skates or a cup.  Standing over six-foot-four with shoulders as broad as a football player’s in pads, Carlson Hammond was the perfect rebound fuck.
.        “Get out of here,” Mary Grace barked at the guy occupying the stool to her left.  When he served her with an indignant look rather than obey, she practically shouted, “I said, get your hands off me!”
.        Before the poor sap could assimilate what was happening, he bartender was telling him to take a walk.
.        “Bitch,” he mumbled under his breath.  Mary Grace simply smirked at him, wiggling her fingers in a sarcastic good-bye.
.        “Toodle-oo.”
.        Carlson noticed the empty chair, and before sliding into it asked her, “Is there a secret password to avoid banishment?”
.        “You’ve already cracked it, sweetheart,” she replied saucily, discreetly hiking her dress up a little further along her thigh and tossing her hair back.   She was wearing a fabulous new scent from Escada and hoped the hair flip had blown a generous whiff in his direction.  He ordered a scotch and soda for himself and another white wine for her and the two of them fell into an easy conversational rhythm.
.        Along with his name, Mary Grace discovered he had an early morning flight to Los Angeles for a monthly business meeting.  Apparently the insurance company he represented–a family business–was sending him to check on the recent shenanigans of a troubled actress, her exploits about Hollywood having made her daily fodder for TMZ.
.         “Hmmm.  So not only does the best looking guy in the room sit next to me, but he’s traveling to hobnob with movie stars.”  She lifted his left hand.  “And nary a ring in sight.”
.        The smile he bestowed upon her was so genuine, so void of conceit or arrogance, Mary Grace would recall it as the moment she fell in love.  Still at that point she was a married woman and no matter how much of an ass hat Wyatt may have been, they were still contractually bound.  She needed to keep up appearances as the jilted wife for when it came time for settlement of assets.  There was no room in her immediate future for a blossoming romance.  But unless he’d followed her with a camera crew, Wyatt would have a difficult time in proving she’d ridden Carlson at the airport Marriott for a few hours.
.        Still, as liberated a woman she considered herself, Mary Grace was not loose, or even casual about sex.  She may not always have given her body over to a man out of love, but there had always been a solid reason.  She’d never done it solely for the pleasure of the moment, and never out of spite or to hurt someone.  There had always been something in it for her, something to affect her future.  Sex for her was never exclusively about the here and now.  If she was going to deviate from a lifetime credo, she was going to need alcoholic fortification, and not a small amount of it.  She switched from white wine to martinis, and after three of them was practically sitting in his lap.
.        “Can I tell you something?” she whispered into his ear, fingering the collar of his polo shirt.  It was Alexander McQueen, white, paired with the same designer’s gray cargo trousers.  Not only was Carlson gorgeous, articulate and intelligent, but apparently wealthy with impeccable taste.  She placed his age somewhere in the decade below hers.  Even just reading about him would have made her twat tingle.  Now, with him in the flesh just inches away from her, she feared her pantiless pussy would be suction-cupped to the bar stool.
.        “I find you incredibly sexy.”
.        He regarded her with amusement, but not derision.  She may be unfamiliar with her role in this scenario, but he seemed quite adept at handling his part.
.        “You do?  I’m flattered.”
.        “I don’t usually do this,” she said, her lips practically touching his ear, “but I’ve recently lost a few pounds of man and gained a few ounces in liquor so the possibilities are endless.”
.        “Lost a few pounds of man?  You?  That sounds quite impossible.”
.        And before she knew it she’d downed two more martinis and unloaded her entire history with Wyatt onto Carlson’s shoulders.  She ended up accompanying him to his room, or rather, being half-carried, where he removed her shoes and promptly tucked her under the covers.  She awoke the next morning shortly after nine, exactly as he’d placed her, only now with stiff muscles, splitting headache, roiling stomach and a mouth that felt stuffed with rotted peaches.  She didn’t feel worthy of such tender consideration, but she supposed his treatment of her had more to do with the kind of man he was rather than the kind of constitution she possessed as a woman.
.        She ordered room service and over a solitary breakfast of burnt bacon and scrambled egg whites with chilled avocado slivers and sliced cucumbers, contemplated the next phase of her life.  She refused to think of herself as a divorcee.  She was newly re-singled, and if a man like Carlson Hammond found within her even a modicum of respectability, then maybe she should conduct herself as deserving of such esteem.  Which meant no more getting hammered in bars and attempting to pick up strange men.  She’d hit the jackpot on her first pull of the arm so there was no need to further push her luck.
.        He’d taped his business card to the bathroom mirror, with a note on the back for her to call him.  She did, a week later, apologetic and appreciative, yet alluringly aloof.  He asked to meet for coffee and after two hours of cappuccino and conversation was enchanted with her enough to request that she be his escort at a company banquet.  For the occasion, where she was sure to meet not only the most wealthy and powerful of his business clients and employees, but his family as well, she wore a tasteful yet tight-fitting, floor length ruby red gown, her hair done in pin curls.
.        “You look absolutely beautiful,” Carlson said at first sight of her, looking her over from head to toe with complete admiration if not adoration.  “Stunning.  Like Jean Harlow.”
.        That he even knew the likes of Jean Harlow was a testament to the type of man he was.  Mary Grace hadn’t even known about the original blonde bombshell; her knowledge of old Hollywood glamour went back no further than Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor.  As cultured and sophisticated as she’d always believed herself to be, Mary Grace advanced to an even higher level of worldliness under Carlson’s influence.  Their courtship was of the whirlwind kind, and extremely romantic, filled with flowers and gifts and weekend getaways and candlelit dinners.  The one thing it was missing, however, was sex.
.         “You haven’t fucked him yet?”  Trixie asked bluntly during a conversation in which Mary Grace was singing the praises of her dashing new boyfriend and their fulfilling yet abstinent affair.
.        “I can hardly believe it myself,” Mary Grace admitted.  “By six weeks I’ve usually had a guy’s dick in every orifice, let alone six months.  But Carlson is unlike any guy I’ve ever been with before.  He’s so classy, Beatrice.  A true gentleman.  Old school.  It’s so refreshing, being involved with a man who’s not reaching up your dress every five minutes.  And the anticipation of what it’ll be like when we finally do it; I’m practically having multiple orgasms just thinking about it.”
.        For the most part, what Mary Grace told her sister was true.  Carlson was an excellent kisser, tender and caressing and slow.  She would press against him now and again as they canoodled on a sofa, toss her leg over his lap and massage purposefully, hoping to elicit an erection.  But Carlson remained cool, breaking the contact before things went too far.
.        “You’ve probably noticed I like to take my time with things,” he said.  “I like to savor, to be completely present in every moment before moving on to the next.  I’m a particular man, Mary Grace.  I like to be sure of something before I act.”
.        She certainly could understand that.  So she burned out the batteries in her vibrators waiting for him to be sure.
.        After nine months together, Carlson booked them a trip to Hawaii.  He said he had something very important to discuss with her, something he needed to ask her, something that could change both of their lives forever.
.        Oh God, this is it!  she thought.  He was going to propose, she just knew it.  Of course she’d say yes, then they’d spend the rest of their vacation screwing up a tropical storm christened in both their names.
.        She had half the scenario right; Carlson did indeed tell her of his intentions to make her his wife, but screwing was not to be part of the deal.
.        Carlson Hammond, as it turned out, was gay.