Sins of the Mother by Victoria Christopher Murray Page A

be impressed that he’d probably Googled her. “So you’ve been doing more than
just
working. You’ve been making it happen, Ms. Ward.” And then, under the table, she could feel him pressing his knee just a bit harder against hers.
    Without turning her head too much, Alexis peeked at the couples around them, heads close, conversation hushed. Smiles on the women’s faces, lust in the men’s eyes.
    Then she glanced at Cabot and had to take another sip of wine.
    “That’s one of the things I love about you,” he said. “You’re successful.” As he sliced away another piece of duck, she noticed the shine of his fingertips, his manicure far better than hers. He chewed for a moment, then chuckled as if he suddenly had a thought. “You’re the kind of woman who would make a wonderful wife.”
    Another sip.
    Then he frowned and looked down at her plate. “You’re not hungry?”
    She nodded, but held up her glass. “Yes, but the wine is so good.”
    “Ah, yes.” He lifted his own glass and clicked it against hers. “There’s nothing like the French!” Then, lowering his glass and his voice, he whispered, “So, Ms. Ward, would you be a wonderful wife?”
    She leaned away, trying to get back her personal space. “I wasn’t good at it the first time,” she said, shaking her head.
    “You just had the wrong husband. See, if you had been with me . . .” He stopped, as if she was supposed to know what he had been going to say.
    Alexis couldn’t remember how many times she’d gone out with Cabot. It was more than five, fewer than ten. But every single time he brought up marriage. At least the man was consistent—he never stopped talking about himself, and he made it clear that he wanted a wife.
    But what woman would be able to stand him? Even at the altar, he probably wouldn’t stop talking long enough for his wife to say “I do.”
    “I want to walk in the destiny God has for me,” he’d told her about fifteen minutes after they’d first met. Standing at the edge of the bar in Commotions, surrounded by the beautiful people, he’d added, “I’m supposed to be married.”
    He’d gone on to say that his first marriage, straight out of college, had ended before their first wedding anniversary.
    “She wasn’t ready for me,” he had told Alexis, even though she hadn’t asked. It wasn’t like she was trying to get into this man’s business—she certainly didn’t want him in hers.
    But he had kept on anyway, “The end of my marriage was not my fault. I was moving up; she wasn’t.” He had gazed straight into her eyes when he’d said, “I need a woman who’s winning her own game.”
    On that first date, Alexis had just stared back at him, saying nothing—just like she was doing now.
    Not that Cabot wasn’t a great catch—from the entertainment agency he’d built to his home in Bel Air, from his debonair aura to the fact that he attended Sunday services at West Angeles, one of the largest churches in the city.
    Women should have been falling at his feet.
    As if reading her mind, Cabot said, “I know that I’m the perfect man, and the woman I choose has to be bringing it, too.”
    Alexis had that thought again: no matter who he was or how much money he made, who could stand him?
    He paused, as if she was supposed to say something—maybe he expected her to agree. But when all she did was sip more wine, he put his fork down and took her hand. “I brought you here because I want us to really get to know each other. So,” he gently squeezed her hand, “I wanna know what
you’ve
been doing since the last time I saw you.”
    His gray eyes were suddenly filled with a sincerity that she hadn’t seen before. Now she put down her glass. “Well, I have been kind of busy . . .”
    She paused to see if he was going to start talking. But he only smiled, like he was eager to hear.
    For the first time, she smiled back. “I worked quite a bit on the Obama campaign.”
    “Really?”
    His eyes