“I need to go home. I have to be at the office early.”

Rafe got out of the bed but made no move to find his clothes. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about work.”

“What about it?” He’d been lying on her bra. She grabbed it.

“Have you thought about putting some of your clients into my fund?”

“Now?” she said. She looked at him. Not muscular but no flab. Trim stomach. Like Majid. But not like Majid. More relaxed. More abandoned. He was semi-erect. It wouldn’t take much.

“I’ll make you a deal. Toss me a client and I promise not to have sex with you. Unless you want me to.”

“Rafe . . .”

“I think what I’ve got would be well suited for some of your clients.”

“Can we talk about this another time?”

“Stanley Pleski for example.”

She stopped halfway through fastening her bra and stared at him.

“How do you know who my clients are?”

He shrugged. “Word around town.”

“Word around town?”

He took a step toward her. “But we can talk about it later.” He reached around her and put his hand on her ass. He leaned over and kissed her left breast. He pulled her toward him.

“I have to go,” she said, wavering.

“We can talk about that later.” He ran his tongue over her nipple and slid his right hand down, between her legs. She sighed and closed her eyes and let him pull her in.

“Fuck,” she said.

Before

BEFORE

People really did talk about “units.” Meaning a hundred million dollars. As in, “Rafe, you’re doing a great job here. By the time you’re thirty-five you should have a unit at least.”

How much money did a person need? Some of his colleagues at Klamath Capital already owned vineyards. Rafe liked wine but he didn’t think he needed a vineyard. He and his older brother had grown up middle-class comfortable in Westchester. Their father was sales manager for a drapery manufacturer. Mother was a school nurse. They had everything they needed.