been determined to claw her way out of the slum not using sex as the means to get there, was now making her way in the world by renting herself out sexually to the highest bidder.
She should have been insulted. Instead, she wanted to laugh. Because compared to the reality of her situation, his assumption, as tawdry as it sounded, was just so … so … So adorably innocent.
Wow. If she were Geoffrey’s mistress, that would make her life a million times easier. But number one, the guy was married. Number two, he was old enough to be her father. Number three, he looked like a sixty-something version of Dwight Schrute. And number four, there was no way he could afford a mistress when he had two kids in college and a daughter getting married in six months. After all, federal marshals weren’t exactly the highest paid people on the government payroll.
Marcus must have mistaken her lack of response as being offended instead of off guard, because he hastily continued, “Look, Della, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m the last person who should, or would, judge the way another person lives their life. I don’t consider your situation to be appalling or bad or cheap or dirty or embarrassing or—” He seemed to realize how badly he was belaboring his objections—and he’d barely made a dent if he was going to be all alphabetical about it—something that made them sound even less convincing than they already did. He gave his head a single shake, as if he were trying to clear it. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t, ah, kept a woman myself in the past.”
Della wasn’t sure, but he almost sounded as if he were about to offer her such a job now.
He tried again, holding out one hand as if he were literally groping for the right words. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think any less of you for it. Sometimes, in order to survive in this world, people have to resort to unconventional methods. It doesn’t make them any less a human being than anyone else. In a lot of ways, it makes them better than the people who don’t have to struggle to make their way. Because they’re … they’re survivors, Della. That’s what they do. They … they survive. That’s what you are, too. You’re a survivor. You’re unconventional and you’re … you’re making your way in the world, and you’re … You’re surviving. You’re—”
“No man’s mistress,” she finished for him, interrupting him before he broke into song. Or broke a blood vessel in his brain trying to cope. Whatever. “That’s not how Geoffrey takes care of me, Marcus. We don’t have a sexual relationship at all. I mean, Geoffrey is his last name. I don’t even call him by his first name.” It was Winston, and probably why he asked everyone to call him by his last name.
Marcus’s relief was almost palpable. So much for not thinking less of anyone who survived in the world through unconventional methods. She might have laughed if he hadn’t been right about one thing: She was surviving. And she did depend on Geoffrey’s presence in her life to accomplish that.
Della couldn’t give Marcus any details about what had happened in New York or the fact that she was a material witness in a federal case that involved her former Wall Street employer, Whitworth and Stone, and her former boss, Donald Nathanson. Especially knowing as she did now that Marcus worked for the equally illustrious Fallon Brothers. It wasn’t unlikely that he knew people at Whitworth and Stone and moved in the same circles. Not that she feared he would report her to anyone, since no one there even knew—yet—about the case the feds were building. As far as anyone at Whitworth and Stone was concerned, the reason Della had stopped showing up for work without giving notice was because of personal reasons that would make performing her job intolerable. After all, Egan had been one of Whitworth and Stone’s up-and-coming executives.
She had no way of knowing how Marcus would react to the revelation that Della had, in her position as executive assistant to one of the company’s vice presidents, discovered a trail of illegal money laundering for unsavory overseas groups and the gross misuse of government bailout funds. She couldn’t tell him about how she’d smuggled out files over a period of two weeks, or about going to the FBI with what she’d uncovered, or about how they’d immediately put her into protective custody with the U.S. Marshals and moved her out of New York to keep her under wraps until she could appear before the grand jury. She couldn’t tell him how she’d been in hiding for the past eleven months while the feds built their case.
And she for sure couldn’t tell him about how, once the trial was over—and Geoffrey had just told her the grand jury was convening in two weeks—she was probably going to be placed in the Witness Security Program, for safe measure. Even though her life hadn’t been threatened, and even though none of the crimes committed had been violent ones, being a whistle-blower wasn’t exactly the most celebrated gig in the world. There was no way she’d ever find work in the financial world again.
And, well, even though it was unlikely, there was no guarantee there wouldn’t be some other kind of retaliation against her. Some of the groups to which Whitworth and Stone had diverted funds had done some pretty terrible things in other parts of the world. It would be best for her to start over somewhere as a new person, with a new identity and a new life. A place where nobody knew her real name and where there was no chance she would ever be discovered.
A place completely removed from the spotlight Marcus so joyfully embraced in his own life. The last thing Della could afford was to have someone see her with him and recognize her from her former position. It would be even worse for her to be recognized after she’d given her testimony and put a lot of powerful people behind bars. At best, she would be a social pariah. At worst … Well, she didn’t want to think about things like that.
Bottom line, there was no way this thing with Marcus could last beyond a weekend. He would never give up the big, showy lifestyle he loved. And she was a woman who had to avoid a big, showy life at all costs.
“Well, if Geoffrey isn’t your … benefactor,” Marcus said now, “then who is he? A relative?”
Stalling, she asked, “Why do you want to know? What difference does it make? Once the snow lets up, you and I are never going to—”
“I just want to know, Della.”
“But why?”
“Maybe because you burst into tears after talking to the guy?”
Oh, right. That. That had kind of startled Della, too. But for some reason, during this morning’s talk with Geoffrey, she had begun to feel keenly how truly alone she was. Geoffrey had been her only tie to the outside world for eleven months—at least until she met Marcus—and the conversations she had with him never lasted any longer than it took for her to check in every day and let him know she was okay. She always wanted to talk longer, since she never got to talk to anyone. Just to hear a human voice that wasn’t coming from an electronic device. Every time, Geoffrey cut short the conversation because there was no reason to prolong it. Especially on weekends, he wanted to be with his family. Geoffrey always had things to do, places to go, people to see after he hung up. And Della always had to go back to the vast nothingness of waiting, all alone.
But this morning, after hanging up, she’d realized she didn’t have to go back to being alone. This morning, she’d known Marcus was waiting for her. Someone who would talk to her. Someone who would share breakfast with her. Someone who would care for her. Be with her. Touch her. If only for a little while. And the thought that she would have such intimacy—even if it was only temporary and superficial—only made it worse to think about leaving it, leaving him, behind. Something about that was so intolerable. So bleak. So heartbreaking. Della simply hadn’t been able to stop the tears from coming.
She felt the sting of tears threatening again and shoved the thought to the furthest, darkest corner of her brain. “He’s not a relative,
