Sins of the Mother by Victoria Christopher Murray

still couldn’t believe that he’d spent this much money on a machine that didn’t fly. But this had been his consolation prize on the day the divorce papers had arrived. He hadn’t planned to buy a new car, but as he had sat behind his desk and stared at the papers that severed his marriage, he’d needed something to put his heart back together.
    He’d driven aimlessly home that night, not paying any attention to the passing streets, until he was on Wilshire. And he passed all those Beverly Hills dealerships. Before he could think about it, he was signing on a dotted line for the shiny red car.
    Though he enjoyed the car and it certainly was a chick magnet, it had never served its purpose. It did nothing to mend his heart.
    He glanced one last time at Dr. Taylor Perkins’s gray stucco home. The Hancock Park house was such a small structure, so nondescript that the first time he’d driven right by.
    Today, Brian saluted as he eased his car from the curb. He would take control of his addiction from here. Now that he knew what he was up against, he had no doubt that he would never fall again.
    By the time he rounded the corner, he’d left thoughts of his sex therapist behind. All that was on his mind was his ex-wife and how he could finally push her over the edge and right back into his arms.

Twenty-one
    T HERE WAS NO CHANCE THAT Brian was going to come up in any conversation, no chance at all, since Alexis had barely had a chance to say more than two words after hello.
    They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in Chantilly’s, the chic French restaurant that was so exclusive, reservations had to be made three weeks in advance. Unless you were Cabot Adams, who had scored a spot at one of the twelve white-clothed tables for tonight. With its brick walls, dim lighting, and fresh-cut lilies, Chantilly’s was as elegant as it was intimate. Romantic, really, which was why Alexis wondered why she hadn’t suggested another place when Cabot had called her this morning.
    Sitting so close that she could feel the gentle press of his knee against hers, Alexis marveled at the way Cabot’s lips never stopped moving. Wearing a blue suit (that was, no doubt, designer) and a white tailored shirt (that was so starch stiff it could have stood on its own), and with a face that was made for the movies, Cabot looked like a man who had a role in every woman’s dreams.
    Except he never stopped talking.
    Cabot’s head tilted back and he laughed, but Alexis wasn’t sure what he was laughing about. He’d said so much, it was hard to keep up. So instead of laughing with him, she took a final sip of her wine. Before she could place the wineglass down on the table, the waiter was right there, refilling it.
    Vive la France!
    Cabot picked up his knife and sliced away a small piece of his duck à l’orange. “So enough about me . . . tell me what’s been going on in your life, Alexis.”
    It startled her, at first. He actually expected a response. Taking a moment, she glanced down at the braised lamb that sat practically untouched on her plate. “Not much has been happening,” she said. She inhaled, and the fragrance of the lilies took her away for a moment—to her living room. There had been lilies in the last bouquet from Brian, and that memory made her smile.
    But then she cleared her throat and expunged that thought. Turned back to Cabot, and said, “I’m just working hard, keeping my agency afloat.”
    With the tip of his napkin, he wiped the corner of his lips and leaned in closer, though the way the chairs were situated at each table—side by side—he couldn’t get too much closer without sitting in her lap.
    “Oh, come on,” he whispered. His eyes were intense, as if he was truly interested. “You’re doing more than that; I’ve been reading up on you. Read that Ward and Associates acquired the Addicts Anonymous and then the Hunter Transportation accounts. That’s big-league stuff.” He paused as if he wanted her to