The Widow’s List

The rain had turned the penthouse windows into black mirrors, each pane reflecting the long dining table and the woman seated alone at its head. Victoria Vale lifted a silver pen and drew a line beneath the last name on the cream card before her.

“Again,” she said.

Across from her, Martin Hales glanced at the clock. It was nearly ten. “I’m not sure what you want me to repeat.”

“Your schedule.”

“I’ve already given you my schedule.”

“You gave me the version you give your assistant.” Victoria set the pen down beside her wineglass. “I’m asking for the version you live.”

Martin smiled, but the smile arrived late. He was handsome in the expensive, carefully maintained way of men who had spent their lives being photographed from the correct angle. His dark hair was threaded with gray at the temples. His watch cost more than most cars, and he touched it whenever he was uncomfortable.

“I live very simply,” he said.

“No one with three homes lives simply.”

“Two homes.”

“You sold the one in Miami.”

“Last month.”

“And the apartment in London?”

His fingers stopped on the watch.

Victoria watched the pause settle between them. The dining room was warm, lit by low brass lamps and the soft fire burning in the marble hearth. Rain ticked against the glass. Somewhere beyond the closed doors, the penthouse’s silent machinery shifted with a muted hum.

“London is a business address,” Martin said.

“Of course.”

“You’re making me sound complicated.”

“I’m deciding whether you are.”

He laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You invited me here to interrogate me?”

“I invited you here to dinner.”

“And this is dinner?”

Victoria reached for her wine. The ruby surface trembled slightly as she lifted the glass. “The dinner was excellent. You ate most of it.”

Martin looked toward the empty plates, as if they might defend him. “You’re very direct.”

“At my age, I’ve earned the right.”

“Sixty-five isn’t old.”

“No. It’s merely old enough to recognize when a man is lying.”

The compliment he had prepared died behind his teeth. Victoria could almost see him searching for another. Men like Martin disliked silence because silence gave a woman time to think.

He had approached her six weeks earlier at a gallery opening in Mayfair, where he had mistaken her silver hair for softness and her widow’s black dress for invitation. Since then he had sent flowers, arranged lunches, and let slip just enough about his investment firm to suggest power without admitting the debt beneath it. He was successful. He was charming. He was also frightened of a woman named Elise, who had once been his partner and still possessed copies of certain financial records.

Victoria had confirmed that much before inviting him upstairs.

What she had not yet confirmed was whether Martin had harmed Elise or merely ruined her. The distinction mattered. Victoria did not put men on the List for every sin. If she did, the pages would have filled years ago.

Martin leaned forward. “I like you, Victoria.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Why?”

“Because liking me makes you careless.”

His expression hardened. There it was: the man beneath the polish, impatient and accustomed to being obeyed. He reached across the table and covered her hand.

His palm was warm. His grip was firm enough to be possessive.

Victoria looked down at their hands.

“Take it away,” she said.

For a moment, he did not.

Then he released her. “You enjoy this.”

“I enjoy accuracy.”

“Whatever happened to romance?”

“It became too expensive.”

He stared at her, uncertain whether she was joking. Victoria gave him the small, magnetic smile that had made men mistake danger for invitation.

Martin’s phone vibrated on the table.

He glanced at the screen and turned it facedown.

Victoria noticed the name before he moved it.

Elise.

“Answer it,” she said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m here with you.”

“That has never stopped anyone before.”

His jaw tightened. The phone vibrated again, skittering against the polished wood. Martin snatched it up and stood.

“I need to take this.”

“You said it was a business address.”

“It’s personal.”

“Then it can wait.”

He looked at her. “You don’t get to control every minute of my evening.”

Victoria rested her fingers against the cream card. “No. I only get to decide what I do with mine.”

He walked toward the windows, phone in hand. His reflection moved over the rain-dark glass, a tall, elegant man trapped inside the room with her. He answered in a low voice.

Victoria did not listen to the words. She watched his shoulders.

The first time Elise called, they had risen. The second time, they had drawn inward. Now they sloped beneath the weight of whatever she was saying.

Martin turned away from the glass. “I told you, I’m handling it.”

A pause.

“No, don’t go there.”

Another pause, longer this time.

His face changed.

Victoria picked up her wineglass but did not drink.

“Who told you that?” Martin asked.

The fire shifted behind him....