Two weeks, she reminded herself. That was how long Geoffrey had told her she had to wait. Only two more weeks. In sixteen days, everything would be revealed, everything would come to light, and Della would be free of all of them. Of Geoffrey, of Egan Collingwood, of her boss Mr. Nathanson and everyone else at Whitworth and Stone. And even if that freedom meant losing everything she had now and starting all over somewhere else, even if it meant becoming an entirely new person, at least she would be done with all of it. She would be safe. She would be free. She would be done. She just had to hold on for two more weeks.
She opened her mouth to tell Marcus that Geoffrey was none of his business and then change the subject, but instead she hedged, “Well. So much for forgetting about the episode in the stairwell. And you promised.”
“I’ve made a lot of promises since meeting you,” he reminded her. “And I haven’t kept many of them. You should probably know that about me. I’m great at making promises. Terrible at keeping them.”
She nodded. “Good to know.”
“Doesn’t make me a terrible person,” he told her. “It just makes me more human.”
It also made him an excellent reminder, Della thought. His assertion that he couldn’t keep promises illustrated more clearly why she couldn’t tell him anything more about herself. She might very well become the topic of his next cocktail party anecdote or an inadvertently shared story with a colleague who had some connection to the very life she was trying to escape. Not because he was a bad person, as he had said. But because he was human. And humanity was something Della had learned not to trust. “So who is he, Della?”
She hesitated, trying to remind herself again of all the reasons why she couldn’t tell Marcus the truth—or anything else. Then, very softly, she heard herself say, “Geoffrey is a man who … who kind of …” She sighed again. “He kind of takes care of me.”
Marcus said nothing for a moment, then nodded slowly. His expression cleared some, and he looked as if he completely understood. That was impossible, because there was still a lot of it that even Della didn’t understand.
“You’re his mistress, you mean,” Marcus said in a remarkably matter-of-fact way. “It’s all right, Della. I’m a big boy. You can spell it out for me.”
It took a moment for what he was saying to sink in. And not only because the word mistress was so old-fashioned, either. Marcus thought she and Geoffrey had a sexual relationship. That he was a wealthy benefactor who was giving her money and gifts in exchange for sexual favors. That she, Della Hannan, the only girl in her neighborhood who had 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