any clout there. They didn’t adopt a single one of my suggestions, but at least I got paid. Promptly too. Listen, I need a favour.’
‘Anything.’
‘A friend of ours has been out of work for over a year. He’s a good-looking guy, solidly hetero, forty-two years old. Clean bill of health, according to him. He needs to make some money and I thought maybe you’d consider him for Close Encounters. I saw on the website that your “middle-aged man” offerings needed boosting. I’ll e-mail you his picture.’
Geoffrey and Giles had known about Close Encounters from the start. They had even offered start-up money, which I’d turned down. I wanted it to be my project, no one else’s. ‘Don’t send the picture to me. To the website address with his e-mail.’
‘You’ll give him a chance?’
‘I’ll meet with him. If he meets the requirements, I’ll add him. Then it’s up to my clients to pick him.’
‘Thanks. And again congratulations. You deserve the world.’
I blew him a kiss over the phone. The morning’s bad mood had evaporated. I felt on top of the world. My hard work was paying off and I had the best of friends. I didn’t need anything or anyone else.
The downstairs doorbell rang just as I was dialling Olivia Farrington’s number. I hung up and rushed to the door. I’d been anxiously expecting a shipment of Italian brocade that had taken too many days to clear customs.
‘Who is it?’ I asked over the intercom.
‘A package for you, madam.’
Madam? That wasn’t usually part of delivery-man speak. The accent wasn’t either. ‘Third floor,’ I told him and I rang him in. I waited on the landing as the old elevator creaked up.
The elevator door opened and a man in black jeans and a black sweatshirt filled the doorway. A really big guy with fists for cheekbones. A football player or a nightclub bouncer, making an extra buck during the day, I guessed. I was the only resident on that floor, but for some reason I wasn’t scared. Maybe because of that polite ‘madam’.
‘You have something for me?’
‘Yes, madam.’ He handed me a small shopping bag. The silver logo read Fantasies.
‘What is this?’
‘Do not know. From Mister Thorne.’ He shut the elevator door and descended. For a second I was tempted to run down the three flights and hand that shopping bag right back, but it would have just been childish. Besides, I was curious.
Not curious enough to open it right away. I went back to my office and called Olivia. Her housekeeper answered. While I waited for Olivia to come to the phone, I dangled the shopping bag on my finger. It was featherlight. Fantasies, Paris, London, New York. An expensive store, judging from the bag. I’d never heard of it.
‘Nicole,’ Olivia boomed into my ear, ‘is my handbag ready?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I’d forgotten. Maybe Leila was right about my being distracted. ‘These past couple of days have been hectic. I’ll send it over tomorrow morning.’ I told her about my meeting at Bergdorf’s. ‘The buyer said I came highly recommended by a good customer. She wouldn’t tell me who and I thought maybe –’
She cut me off. ‘I am a very good customer of that store, but I did not recommend you. Of course, I’m happy for you, but I hope that doesn’t change our agreement. I still get first choice.’
I suppressed a groan. ‘You will always get first pick. You’re my best customer.’ Mollifying the client was the part of my work I hated and did badly. Leila was an ace at it.
‘It was Archer, I’m sure of it,’ Olivia said, her voice a few decibels lower at the mention of his name. The effect that man had on women was scary. ‘He was very favourably struck by your work. I knew he would be. That’s why I brought him over. It’s flattering when a man of Archer’s impeccable taste agrees with your own taste, don’t you agree?’
Thorne wearing that gold V-necked sweater popped in front of my eyes. Impeccable taste, maybe. Sexy, definitely. ‘I do agree.’
After a few more banalities I got her off. And now the package. I put the envelope aside and unwrapped layers of black tissue paper.
No wonder the shopping bag had been featherlight. What I was holding in my hand was practically nothing. A web of black silk strings with three minuscule lace triangles strategically placed. An ingenious garment, sexy as hell. I couldn’t wait to try it on some unsuspecting gentleman. Certainly not on Thorne, no matter how many stores he recommended me to. If he’d been the one to recommend me.
I threw the garment back in the bag and tore open his envelope. It was company stationery. Thick, expensive beige paper. On top The Thorne Company was embossed in burgundy ink.
Nicole – Meet me at the Tribeca Grand bar. 8 p.m. Wear it. You won’t regret it. That’s a promise.
Archer Thorne
His handwriting was as beautiful and arrogant as he was. He’d used a fountain pen. His thick black inked words sprawled across the page as though the world was his.
Well, I wasn’t.
I texted him. Lovely gift is a perfect fit. Thank you. I’m busy tonight. Busy every night.
I saw that Geoffrey had sent me a message. I clicked on it.
As promised, he’d written. It’s the only pic I have. Hope he makes the grade. And there was the photo of his friend. He was standing next to a barbecue grill, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, holding a beer in his hand. It was Eric, the man who’d tried to pick me up at Geoffrey’s open house party. I’d found him sleepily sexy, I remembered, and would have hooked up with him if it hadn’t been for my wanting Thorne so much. What an idiot I’d been. Still was. My body hadn’t stopped wanting him.
I studied Eric’s picture, enlarged his face. I remembered the wide blue eyes that had laughter in them and the blond-going-to-grey hair. At the party his hair had been clipped short. Here it was longer and sexier. A few wrinkles added character to his face. He reminded me of a younger Robert Redford, although not nearly as handsome. And he looked shy, which was attractive to women who weren’t looking for an Alpha male. He hadn’t been shy with me, but maybe he’d guessed right away that I went for the direct approach.
I tossed Thorne’s shopping bag and letter off my desk, pulled my laptop closer to me and went to the Close Encounters website. There were two messages. The first was from the young prospective client.
That’s great! Thank you so much. I would love to meet your client. I promise not to take up too much of her time. I can meet her after work any place she wants.
Kelly (that’s my real name. Anastasia is just too dumb)
I wrote back that our client would meet her the next day at six o’clock, giving her the address of a Pain Quotidien on Eighth Street.
The second e-mail was from Eric. He’d sent a different picture of himself, this one in a bathing suit. He had a nice sculpted body, a little on the thin side. He’d included
