The War of the Roses: The Children by Warren Adler Read Free Book Online Page A

everything in this house.”
    He felt his stomach tighten and a backwash of liquor singed the back of his throat. He could barely nod his agreement.
    â€œEverything,” he managed to croak.
    â€œAny doubt might destroy his trust in us.”
    She stroked her chin and squeezed her eyes shut.
    â€œWe must never do that.”
    â€œI will not confront him again. No more. Nor will I allow the Crespos to intimidate us. No way. Their child is obviously a border hysteric. They raised the question of expulsion, which infuriated me. Never will I let that happen. Never.”
    She was obviously deeply troubled by the event at the school.
    â€œI wish I had been there with you,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone.”
    Later, lying beside her in bed, tears seeped out of his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He could not carry the burden of Angela any longer.
    Angela was one of the most talented designers on his staff. Even in her initial job interview he could see by her samples that she had a flair for design. She had showed him some of her paintings as well, and he was astonished by her skill and imagination. He hired her on the spot. At the time, his only consideration was her work. Her gender was immaterial. He had hired both men and women, and nothing beyond their work had ever entered his mind. With regard to the women, sexual stirrings were as far away as Mars. Then why?
    Angela was married, the mother of two young girls. She lived in a row house in Brooklyn with her husband Dominic, who was the manager of a men’s clothing store in Queens. The Boccis were one of those very close-knit middle-class Italian families. While she worked, her mother cared for the kids. Nothing in her background could provide a clue to her subsequent behavior.
    She was only marginally pretty in the conventional sense, with black curly hair cut short, a high arched Roman nose, cupid lips, and a thin earnest face. Her body was, despite birthing two children, hard and tight. Yet, no one would take her for possessing such an aggressive and explosive sexuality.
    â€œTo the whole world, I’m a nice Italian girl. I’m a good mother. I’m a model spouse. I go to church. I go to confession. On the outside I’m a very traditional breeder wife with a typical macho Italian husband whose brains are in his dick and who treats me like an entitlement. He is totally ignorant of my talent and my inner world. I play my part. Who would suspect?”
    She had said this wiping her mouth with a tissue as he hiked up his pants in his office, feeling like he had just stuck a knife in Victoria’s heart. The fact that she had been the aggressor was hardly a reason to absolve himself of all blame. He had been an ardent participant.
    They had been looking over her concept for a hosiery ad, sitting together on his office couch and she had reached out and rubbed his thigh.
    â€œThis is not smart,” he had told her, removing her hand.
    â€œWhat has smart got to do with it?” she had said, looking at him with large Mediterranean eyes. “I want this.” Again she put her hand on his thigh.
    â€œI’m not looking for trouble.”
    â€œDo you think I’m looking for trouble?” She giggled. “Here’s what I’m looking for.” She began to stroke him.
    â€œDon’t, Angela,” he said, but he did not remove her hand.
    â€œYou see. We’ve got his attention.”
    â€œWe’re putting ourselves in jeopardy,” he whispered. But by then he was already yielding, feeling the pleasure take hold.
    â€œFrom the moment I saw you,” she said. “This is what I wanted.”
    â€œI can’t do this,” he had protested.
    â€œSo I see.”
    She lifted her skirt, pulled down her panty hose, moved to her knees and inserted him, putting her knuckles in her mouth to squelch any sound. She came before him, then came again. Her body