Worse, Reva thought now as traffic whizzed by her car, that she of all people had been so easily duped. She was a goddamn security expert. She’d spent five years in the Secret Service and had guarded a president before going into the private sector. Where were her instincts, her eyes, her ears?

How could Blair have been coming home to her, night after night, fresh from another woman and she not know?

Because she’d loved him, Reva admitted. Because she’d been happy, deliriously happy to believe a man like Blair-with his sophistication and amazing looks-had loved and wanted her.

He was so handsome, so talented, so smart. The elegant bohemian with his dark silky hair and emerald-green eyes. She’d been sunk, she thought now, the minute he’d turned those eyes on her, the instant he’d sent her that killer smile. And six months later, they’d been married and living in the big, secluded house in Queens.

Two years, she thought, two years she’d given him everything she had, shared every piece of herself with him, and had loved him with every cell of her body. And all the while he’d been playing her for a fool.

Well, now he’d pay. She dashed the tears from her cheeks, dug deep again for her anger. Now, Blair Bissel was going to find out just what she was made of.

She pulled back into traffic, and drove at a rapid clip to Manhattan ’s Upper East Side.

The husband-stealing bitch, as Reva now thought of her former friend, Felicity Kade, lived in a lovely converted brownstone near the north corner of Central Park. Instead of reminding herself of all the time she’d spent inside, at parties, casual evenings, at Felicity’s famed Sunday brunches, Reva concentrated on the security.