Stone Cold Fox, page 1
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2023 by Rachel Koller Croft
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Koller Croft, Rachel, author.
Title: Stone cold fox / Rachel Koller Croft.
Description: New York: Berkley, [2023]
Identifiers: LCCN 2022026270 (print) | LCCN 2022026271 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593547502 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593547526 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction). | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3611.O58263 S76 2023 (print) | LCC PS3611.O58263 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220708
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026270
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022026271
Cover design by Vi-An Nguyen
Cover photograph by Sophia Beck / Gallery Stock
Title page art: Marble background © Michael Benjamin / Shutterstock
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_142459014_c0_r0
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Richard
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Mother
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Dean
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Mike
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Francis
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Daughter
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
for my favorite foxes,
Henny, Ratty & Smithy
CHAPTER
1
I DECIDED THAT I would marry Collin Case after the fifth time we fucked. His performance had been consistently adequate, both in the bedroom and while we were out socially. We had been on seven dates, each more lavish than the one before it, raising the stakes suitably during our early courtship. Collin always selected an upscale bar or restaurant in a desirable neighborhood where people made no mistake about who he was, and therefore we were treated appropriately. He didn’t tip like a Rockefeller, but I’d wager Rockefeller didn’t even tip like a Rockefeller. Old money is old money for a reason and it’s not to brighten some downtrodden server’s day. So I didn’t really care about Collin’s standard 20 percent, since it was neither overtly cheap nor blatantly embarrassing. There was nothing blatantly embarrassing about Collin. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing terribly exciting about him either, but I knew that taking up with a man like Collin Case wouldn’t exactly lead me down a path of intrigue and excitement and hot sex, which was precisely the point.
I didn’t come this far only to get swept away by some narcissistic playboy in a McLaren who made his fortune via white-collar crime, an indictment forever looming, assets ultimately seized in the night, leaving me with nothing. Absolutely not. There would be room for only one criminal in my partnerships, ahem, and I was sincerely looking for the right man so I could finally leave that life behind for good.
That was probably not the intended takeaway from her lesson plan, but a good teacher inspires the student to discover their own meaning from any given lecture or text. And she was admittedly one of my best teachers, especially at her worst.
Despite the low to medium levels of charisma he exuded, Collin Case obviously had plenty going for him or I wouldn’t have even considered our first date. He was attractive in a standard sort of way, admittedly more so when his mouth was closed due to his aggressively white and enormous teeth that would probably look wonderful if his head were slightly larger to accommodate their immense size. Alas, his head was on the narrow side and his short, albeit very expensive, haircuts didn’t help matters. I wasn’t worried about it in the long term, as he did nearly everything I asked him to do, so surely he would agree to grow out those chestnut locks at my behest, particularly since it would be to his physical benefit. As for the unfortunate dental situation, I always suspected veneers, since they were a luxury item, but my goodness, the dentist very much overshot it. Perhaps we could get those amended as well in due time.
Collin performed well enough in his career and had quickly risen through the ranks to Chief Marketing Officer at a huge consumer packaged goods company. Sure, it was the Case Company and his family had owned it for a hundred years or so, but I found it moderately impressive, since he was only in his early thirties and didn’t really have to work. He was a homeowner. Bequeathed, but still. His town house in Chelsea was clean and upmarket. Real estate’s always a turn-on. Neutral tones with tasteful splashes of color, modern lines, plush pillows and inoffensive yet thought-provoking art on the walls. The designer he hired possessed forward-thinking taste and made him look cooler than he actually was. A testament to Collin’s talent at outsourcing whatever he happened to lack, which wasn’t much, at least materially. Collin Case came from supreme wealth, which was the initial attraction for me. Priority number one. Sorry not sorry.
Truthfully, I thought I would ultimately snag myself a divorced and upwardly mobile hedge fund manager with a well-done hair transplant, about ten to fifteen years my senior, in want of a younger trophy wife who could actually hold a conversation and acquiesce to anal on anniversaries, but that whole plan turned out to be much more of a slog for me than I imagined.
By the time I happened upon Collin Case, I had already dated more than my fair share of New York “somebodies” with middling personalities and big-enough bank accounts. They were relatively easy to find when you looked like me. I spent hundreds of my hard-earned dollars on fresh highlights every four to six weeks. I mastered an authentic feminine titter for jokes that weren’t remotely amusing as I grazed nearly nonexistent biceps with my perfectly manicured hands, an almond shape on each nail. And I choked down liquid meals with organic ingredients on the regular to stave off a bloated belly and thighs that touch. I did everything I had observed as a child because ultimately it works. I watched her do it for years. But what I learned rather quickly is that dating men in that particular orbit is no picnic at all.
They truly believe the entire universe revolves around them and their underwhelming penises and that everything they do all the time is just so fucking great. It’s exhausting having to exalt those types of men, day in and day out, just to secure a Harry Winston diamond; a generous allowance for fillers, Botox and other miscellaneous body maintenance; and most importantly, a life of true leisure without a care in the world. The ultimate safety net. Impenetrable. Though many of my attempts were ill-fated, I stayed the course because I believed wholeheartedly that it would be well worth it, due to a past I never wanted to relive, and I had to make my future different from hers. But none of those relationships with the so-called alphas of New York City panned out in the way I had hoped.
Philip Hartley, an Ed Harris dupe with a Cialis prescription, dumped me after I deigned to ask his sister-in-law about the family trust when we were blitzed on rosé at their vacation home in Palm Beach. Like we were competitors on The Bachelor, that “recovering” bulimic with a benzo problem told him I was there for “the wrong reasons.” Busted.
That’s what I got for trusting a woman. Sloppy work on my part. Deserving of the scathing critique she definitely would have given me. I could just hear her, but I always heard her, even when I didn’t want to. The words floating out of her mouth, in that light and airy tone of hers, nearly always in complete juxtaposition to the dark and deprecatory language launched in my direction. A verbal lashing disguised as care or concern to anyone else’s ear but my own.
Dan Felix was a high-profile litigator who’d had previously court-appointed anger management classes, and he flat out smacked me across the face when I got a text from a male coworker after midnight asking for my dealer’s info. Dan didn’t actually care about the content of the message—he was the one with the coke problem, whereas my own usage was rather infrequent and purely recreational in cases where I thought it could bond me with someone useful—and Dan wrongly assumed I was cheating on him. As if I would waste my time on some junior account executive who shared his place with three roommates in Dumbo. Please.
But I was learning. An angry man simply would not do.
Speaking of cheating, Morris Haley III, a real estate developer, chronically cheated on me, which I knew would happen on occasion, and the act didn’t outright bother me, but there was nothing discreet about his dalliances. I didn’t take kindly to openly looking like a fool in front of others, even though he was outrageously handsome—a rarity—and had one of those Kohler shower rooms with seemingly endless streams of water shooting out from all angles. Pure luxury.
She would have approved of Morris, but my reputation mattered too much to me to carry on with him. Meanwhile, that woman had no concept of a reputation at all. Why would she? Her endgame was not like mine. For her, it was about the count. One after another after another after another, for as long as she could. But I wanted something different. I relished any differences between us; truth be told I craved them. Clung to every last one.
I had rarely dated men my own age, or thereabouts, because I wrongly assumed it would be a fruitless pursuit of true affluence. But when Collin Case asked me out, I decided to give the notion of inherited wealth an earnest whirl.
I had successfully pitched the Case Company, killing it in the room with all of Collin’s underlings, roughly three to five midlevel hires without any real say in the matter but who enthusiastically nodded at me as I performed flawlessly all the while. It was this combination of total self-possession, self-confidence and the wherewithal to weave utter bullshit like a magic wand that got me the job in the first place. It’s not like anyone in HR actually checks a university transcript, and providing faux references isn’t exactly difficult, is it? It’s just advertising, for God’s sake; you simply have to roll in and dominate, that’s all that really matters, and that’s exactly what I did. For example, by the time I wrapped up the pitch for the Case Company, Collin wanted to close the deal in the room. Naturally. Shortly after, he crept into my office exuding almost zero confidence and delivered a small knock accompanied by a nervous laugh. I knew immediately what he was after, so I made it easy on both of us.
“You have my card.” I smiled. “It has my office line. And my cell.”
“Great,” he said. “So I’ll call you?”
“Looks like it.”
“Cool.” He grinned, like an oaf, proud of himself for taking the leap even though I had basically operated the safety harness for him. He wasn’t the first client, current or prospective, to ask me out, but he was the first I actually considered. After perusing some online literature about the Family Case, I correctly estimated that Collin could more than afford me. Everything in the public record all but confirmed it, but so did my foray into more extensive research, which ended up being a hollow quest. I was undeterred. In fact, I was more confident than ever he was the one.
See, most people have plenty of private things out in the open if you know where and how to look, and I do—thanks to her—but a family like the Cases? You only see what they want you to see. Everything else is in the vault. And that was the crux of pursuing a man like Collin Case. The true challenge would likely not be obtaining Collin’s eternal love and devotion but securing my acceptance into his world.
As an added and unexpected perk, I quickly learned that another major difference between Collin and my exes, aside from him being considerably younger than them, was that he was actually nice to me. Her men were nice, too. Easy targets and easy to live with. Easy to gain their trust and their loyalty. Easy to maneuver and manipulate, among other things.
But the types of brash, ambitious men I had been wasting prime husband-hunting years on were angry and dominant and focused purely on their self-made success. I yearned to end the game, and soon, but not at the cost of keeping such brutal company for a life sentence.
With someone like Collin, I realized there was another way.
Collin had had just about everything handed to him, so naturally it made him soft. Some might say malleable. Impressionable. Qualities that were much to the chagrin of the family patriarch, but I didn’t see how that was Collin’s fault. Sure, he bumbled around at work, practically playing dress-up in his father’s clothes, but he saw an opportunity with me where he could actually be himself and I would respond kindly. He wanted to be coddled and praised and adored. In return, he would do the same for me. Boring, sure, but safe, if it went my way. Perfect for me. And he was right there for the taking.
Men like him were rarely accessible, even to tens like me, dating in the same moneyed domains for decades, outsiders deemed too messy to bring into the fold. They don’t understand the proclivities and problems of the rich. Keep it in the circle. It’s just easier that way, for everybody. But Collin opened a window for me, and I wanted to leap right through it. There would be many obstacles and absolutely no guarantees I’d get what I wanted, but she wouldn’t even try for someone like Collin Case. That’s how big of a challenge I was up against.
And that settled it. I had to have him.
It would take the ultimate social finesse, but I believed I was up to the task. I had done it before so many times, albeit not on this scale, but all the more reason to trust myself and test my skills and just truly go for it with everything I had.
* * *
• • •
I WAS NEVER one to parade my relationships around at work, but I took particular care to keep my relationship with Collin Case quiet at the office. He was officially a client of the agency, and I knew that the optics wouldn’t be great for me, professionally speaking. I was a senior business development director at one of the biggest advertising agencies in New York, where most of the men pretended to be Don Draper and Roger Sterling, tossing back bourbon in their offices when the clock struck five, taking prospectives and currents out to Gramercy Tavern, where they could all act like they were more attractive than they were due to the generous low lighting. As for the women I worked with, they largely resented me for ascending to a senior role relatively quickly, at least compared to their own moderate trajectories. I knew they all thought it was because of how beautiful I was, and while I’m under no delusion that didn’t factor in as an element of my success, I’m also excellent at my job because of my skillful play of the corporate game.
Yet another difference between her and me—and an important one. I devoured all of those bullshit businesswomen bibles by the likes of Sheryl Sandberg, Ivanka Trump and Dr. Lois P. Frankel, applying their strategies with a deft hand so I could use them to my advantage. I also read all the strategy books aimed at the C-suite, written for men in power, so I was aware of what was going on in their feeble minds. Unlike her, I could actually apply myself in a multitude of ways. I could succeed in business and in dating. I earned a salary. I had benefits. I had an expense account. I enjoyed my work, commanding the room, closing deals, counting my money that I had earned.
As if she ever had a real job. She could never.
Soon enough, I knew exactly how and when to lean in, always just enough, but never crossing any perceived boundaries that would label me a bitch or ballbuster by the male powers that be. In truth, I found it all rather entertaining and supremely rewarding when I would unlock another achievement at work, whether it was in the form of a promotion or an opportunity to collaborate on a challenging pitch.
I learned the rules so I could win.
I always knew what men wanted to hear, the setting never mattered, and specifically in business, the playbook was so abundantly clear. Sexism goes in and out of vogue depending on the year or damning article making the rounds in the press, but the deep-seated sentiments never change. So Miss Jessica McCabe could speak ill of me in her cube all she liked, languishing for years on end in an entry-level position, but it was hardly my fault she didn’t get her head in the game so she could snag an actual office with a door that shuts. Address the bags under your eyes and seek out a reliable silhouette to flatter your wide-set hips, Jessica, and just watch what career wonders could unfold for you. Didn’t her mother teach her anything? Looking good is perpetually a transferable skill.
