The charity gala was the kind of event Robert usually avoided—too much money pretending to care about causes, too many conversations about portfolio performance and vacation homes. But his brother was being honored, and family obligation trumped personal preference.
He stood near the dessert table, nursing a champagne he didn’t want, watching the crowd with the detached observation of a man who had learned to be comfortable in his own solitude. At sixty, he had long ago stopped trying to impress people.
She found him there, examining the chocolate fountain with an intensity that suggested she was actually considering diving into it.
“You’re Robert,” she said, not a question. “Thomas’s brother. The one who actually made his own money instead of inheriting it.”
“And you are?”
“Someone who’s bored and noticed that you look equally bored.” She was probably fifty-eight, with red hair that was probably dyed but looked natural, and a dress that was green and draped in a way that suggested money and taste. “I’m Claire. I’m on the board. Which means I’m required to be here, but not required to enjoy it.”
They talked. Robert found himself surprised by how easy it was—Claire asked questions that cut beneath the surface, listened with a focus that made him feel interesting for the first time in months. She was divorced, she mentioned, twice. “First time for love, second time for money. Third time’s going to be for me, if there is a third time.”
By the time the dancing started, Robert didn’t want to leave. Claire didn’t either. They moved to the hotel bar, then to the hotel restaurant, then—somehow—to the elevator that led to Claire’s suite.
“I should tell you something,” she said as she unlocked the door. “I have rules. Not many, but they’re non-negotiable.”
“I’m listening.”
“I keep my heels on. Always.” She stepped into the suite, kicking off her flats by the door and reaching into her bag for a pair of stilettos—black, four inches, the kind of shoes that changed the angle of everything. “The real reason isn’t what you think. It’s not about looking sexy, though that’s a side benefit. It’s about power.”
She stepped into the heels, and suddenly she was taller, her posture shifted, her presence commanding in a way it hadn’t been before.
“When I was married,” she continued, “my second husband liked me small. Liked me barefoot and manageable. Heels made me taller than him, and he hated that. So I stopped wearing them. And I stopped feeling like myself.” She walked toward him, the heels clicking against the hardwood floor with a rhythm that sounded like authority. “Now I wear them when I want to feel powerful. When I want to remember that I’m not small, not manageable, not anyone’s to control.”
Robert understood. Understood that the heels weren’t about him, weren’t for his pleasure, were about Claire reclaiming something she’d lost.
“And tonight,” she said, stopping in front of him, close enough that the heels put her eye-level with him, “I want to feel powerful. I want to feel like the woman I was before I let anyone make me smaller.”
She kissed him then, and there was nothing tentative about it. The heels gave her leverage, angle, control. She directed him to the bedroom, directed the pace, directed everything—and Robert let her, grateful for the guidance, aroused by her certainty.
Later, lying in the dark, Claire’s heels still on, still clicking softly against the bedframe when she moved, Robert traced the line of her leg from ankle to thigh, feeling the muscle, the strength, the power she’d reclaimed.
“You kept them on,” he said, unnecessary, but wanting to acknowledge what he’d witnessed.
“I always do.” She shifted, pressing closer. “Some things aren’t for you. Some things are just for me. The heels are mine. The power is mine. You just get to benefit from it.”
Robert smiled in the dark. “I’m grateful for the benefit.”
And learned that sometimes the sexiest thing a woman wears isn’t for your pleasure—it’s for hers. And that makes it even better.
