Derailed
Authors: Eve Rabi
Derailed
To win back her husband, the rejected wife must emulate the other woman. Become her if possible.
(The Sequel to The Other Woman)
“A man reserves his true and deepest love not for the species of woman in whose company he finds himself electrified and enkindled, but for that one in whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy.”
― George Jean Nathan
by
Eve Rabi
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2015
Eve Rabi
. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and media used in this book are fictitious and are the product of the author's imagination. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication use of this trademark is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Derailed
To win back her husband, the rejected wife must emulate the other woman. Become her if possible.
(The Sequel to The Other Woman)
“A man reserves his true and deepest love not for the species of woman in whose company he finds himself electrified and enkindled, but for that one in whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy.”
― George Jean Nathan
by
Eve Rabi
Smashwords Edition
Table of Contents
Romantic Crime Thrillers by Eve Rabi
Chapter One
Random Seduction Tip:
No one can spot a seducer faster than a siren or seductress. He’s the attentive scoundrel in Armani, habitually working his magic on some middle-aged, wealthy or influential socialite who can undoubtedly benefit him in more ways than one. If she isn’t affluent or prominent, chances are, he won’t waste his valuable time on her.
He will give her his undivided attention, and with one strategic move of his carefully cultivated form, he will cordon them both off from the others in the room.
He presents well, flaunts an expensive aftershave, is up to date with current affairs, and most importantly, he listens to her. How can she possibly mind? In fact, she will be delighted to have captured his attention. There are so many women in the room, many of them younger and thinner than her, yet the seducer chooses her.
When she speaks, he looks directly into her eyes, and to her delight, appears greatly intrigued by whatever she has to say. Charismatic and glib, just about every woman in the room craves the seducer’s attention. Even a cursory glance from him, a nod in her direction, a mere crumb of his treasured attention, will suffice.
The seducer, like the siren, is fluent in the ways of seduction, having honed his craft over the years. To a skillful siren, he can prove to be a worthy opponent. A battle of wits with someone like him, her equal, will promise a most pleasurable game.
The question is: how do you acquire his attention with so many women in the room vying for it? By ignoring him, essentially. Treat him like any other man in the room and you will capture his attention. Your apparent inability to be impressed with him and your ostensible disinterest in him will pique his curiosity.
However…you cannot succeed unless you have his attention in the first place. Allow me to clarify. It is imperative that you are the sexiest, most alluring woman in the room. When everyone is wearing black, you wear red, because you are different from other women. That’s what sets you apart – your refusal to conform. You are daring and exhibit a slightly rebellious streak.
Even though your mark is “working” (because every single social function is work), you can be sure he is surreptitiously scouting the terrain for future prospects. Casually, his ardent eye will scan the room, and you have a split second to catch it. Therefore you have to ensure you cannot be missed. The quickest way to draw a man’s eye to you? You know the answer already – flash some flesh and tease his imagination. Breast or thigh man? When in doubt, exhibit both. Then, when you are certain you have secured his attention, appear unimpressed with him.
A word of caution: most seducers aren’t wealthy or resourceful. Since sirens aren’t interested in a man who passes the lunch check to them, no matter how dashing the scoundrel, most sirens will, after capturing his attention, choose to pass on him.
SCARLETT
“You have to attend with me, Bradley,” I nag for the fifth time.
Bradley snarls, “I don’t want to see your family, okay? Them or
anyone
for that matter, okay? Now leave me alone for fuck’s sake.”
“But it’s my parents’ anniver –”
“I don’t give a shit, Annie.”
“– versary, Bradley.”
“I don’t give a shit, Annie.”
“STOP CALLING ME THAT!”
“Annie, Annie, ANNIE!” With a smug grin, he continues taunting me.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…fuck it!
“Listen, you arsehole, my daddy has done a lot for us. Look how he expedited your career using his connections and his firm’s –”
Bradley throws out his arms. “I didn’t ask him to. Did I ask for his help? Huh? Did I?”
“You ought to be
grateful
, Bradley.”
“Grateful? Grateful, my arse!” he says, stabbing the air with his index finger. “He can go fuck himself. He wants me to become prime minister so he can boast to all his wanker friends. Show off.
Exploit
my position. Gain from it. Think I don’t know that? Huh? Think I don’t know he’s using me, Annie? Nothing you father does is out of the
goodness
of his heart. He’s a calculating, shrewd prick, so he and your family, all of them, they can go fuck them –”
“Well, just remember we need money right now. Guess who’s going to have to loan us –”
“I don’t give a fuck, Annie,” he says, walking backwards. “Go without me.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he walks over to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a whisky. (Once again, my husband doesn’t offer me a drink.)
I shake with fury. How dare he do this to me? I have been attending so many social functions on my own, it’s a wonder people are not talking. Or are they? I doubt it. But still, how dare Bradley behave this way? It’s irresponsible and spells, no
screams,
marital discord. Doesn’t he realize how high the stakes are? How much we have to lose?
I storm up to my bedroom and slam the door shut. I dread the thought of attending this party without him. Especially since the party is being hosted by Cassie and Bevan in their new house. (New house, my arse! Bet this hovel has a
second
hole in the ground they’ve cordoned off and now call a second bathroom. Or a third
bedroom,
even. After all, my brother-in-law is a mere accountant. It’s not like he’s an attorney with political aspirations or something.)
As the minutes tick by, I search my brain for creative excuses I can use to worm out of tonight’s shindig.
Holly’s got a rash. Might be measles – we’re not sure. But we wouldn’t want to spread it if it is.
(Used that one already. Damn!)
Bradley’s got an urgent meeting that he simply can’t get out of.
And yes, it’s on a Saturday night. You know the saying: “Ask not what your country can do for you…”
(Used that one already. Fuck!)
Bradley’s looney ex, she’s on the warpath again. We’re really afraid she might show up at the house when we leave and wreak havoc. She’s done it before, remember?
(Used that one
twice
already. Fuuuuck!)
I have been throwing up all day. Not sure if I’m coming down with something.
(I have not used that one already, and I don’t want to. Here’s why: I expect them to speculate about a pregnancy, and that’s all good and well. However, when they find out I am not pregnant, they may think I have fertility issues. Eliciting that kind of sympathy from people is not acceptable to me.)
Bradley’s ex, that crazy bitch, has taken the kids and run off again. We don’t want to bring in cops, not just yet at least, so we’re waiting for her to show up.
(Used that one twice already. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!)
As creative as I am, I know I can’t escape tonight’s dinner. Because of Bradley’s intolerable behavior, I’ve used all my get-out-of-jail cards.
Besides, it’s my parents’ anniversary. My dad won’t forgive me for not turning up.
With my bottom lip dragging, I slip on a white Roberto Cavalli long-sleeve gown. It costs as much as a small car, sure, but the fit is incredible, and the best part is the fur trimming. Real fur, I might add. (If you’re one of those
I’d rather go naked than wear fur
tree-huggers, and you plan to give me a hard time about wearing fur, here’s my response: just two simple words, fuck off!)
I add a pair of white Givenchy ankle boots and a white and gold crocodile-skin purse. A gold serpent choker snakes down my cleavage and lends the perfect finishing touch. When I look in the mirror, I see perfection personified. My mood elevates and my fizz returns.
The serpent choker will no doubt be a conversation piece at tonight’s dinner. God knows with my simpleton sisters, we’re going to need all the conversation pieces we can possibly find.
I climb into my Porsche, punch the address of Cassie and Bevan’s new house into my GPS, and drive to their pokey little dump. Their pokey little
new
dump.
After driving for about thirty-five minutes, the annoying voice of my GPS says, “Destination in fifty meters.”
I slow to a cruise and peer at the row of houses. Something is very wrong. The address yields a modern, split-level, near-mansion home with a triple garage and a landscaped garden with large, wrought-iron gates.
My GPS may have led me to the wrong street after all. With a sigh of exasperation, I open up Google Maps. As I look at the screen of my iPhone, a surge of fear shoots through me. Not only does it appear to be the correct house, but God forbid…Bevan and Cassie’s house is as splendid as…mine. What. The. Fuck?
I’m either being punked, or Cassie’s trying to compete with me. Since there are no cameras around, I conclude that my sister is in fact, trying to outshine me. How dare she? Nobody competes with me. I am a trendsetter – everyone
copies
me. I get that (even though I’m not altogether happy with it, but in the spirit of imitation being the sincerest form of…yadda! yadda! yadda! I accept it), but competing with
me
? They’ve got to be delusional to think they can. Totally. Obviously Cassie’s ignored the countless memos regarding that.
Irritated, I nudge my Porsche up to their gates. To my utter surprise, the wrought iron gates swing open! Video cameras? God, I hate show-offs.