Читать книгу Desire Inc. - Zoe Zarani - Страница 7

Nine-thirty in the morning. I had just stumbled out of my bedroom, barely ready for a new work day, when Leila walked in. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. We start our work day at 8.30. ‘My subway got held up while workers tried to catch a kitten wandering on the tracks.’

‘Did they get it?’

Leila glanced my way, then stopped in her tracks. ‘Hey, what happened to you?’

‘Didn’t sleep much.’ I’d come home so mad at myself I hadn’t been able to sleep. Or masturbate. I’d finally dropped off just as the sun was edging in under the blinds.

She cocked her head. ‘Was Geoffrey’s open house that bad?’

‘There were too many people to see what he’d done to the place, but I had a great time.’

Leila strode to the small kitchen behind the office, making a point of hitting the heels of her lace-up ankle boots hard on the floor in protest. She can always tell when I’m lying.

I followed her. ‘It’s not your turn to make coffee.’ We alternate days. On Fridays, to celebrate the upcoming weekend, Leila brings in doughnuts and coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner. My treat.

‘You don’t look like you could handle the task.’

‘I’ll take tomorrow then. Did they get the kitten?’

‘There was nothing about it on my phone yet. What did you decide about Bergdorf’s?’ Her voice was clipped, annoyed.

‘Hey, slow up.’ How could I tell her about Thorne? It was too humiliating. ‘Let’s have that coffee first.’ I opened the fridge, took out a tray. ‘Want one of those little apple tarts left over from the presentation?’ Leila was a sugarholic and still a size 6. I waved the tray under her nose. She pushed me aside to reach for our mugs. She had a bad-weather look that probably had nothing to do with my lying to her. I waited until we sat down in my living room/show room with our coffees. The apple tarts had gone back in the fridge.

‘How was your date with Melissa?’

‘It wasn’t a date.’ She checked her e-mails, slammed the phone down on the table and picked it up again, her thumbs doing a fast dance on the minuscule keyboard. ‘Kitten’s safe.’ She didn’t look happy about it. It looked like last night had been bad for her too.

‘That’s great.’

She sat back in the chair, settled her wide, serious eyes on my face. ‘Want to talk about it?’

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah, I need to, but you start.’

I told her.

Leila looked dumbstruck for a moment. ‘Thorne’s really got you pegged. I didn’t think men ever had that kind of insight.’

‘Thanks, pal.’

‘OK, your ego and your body took a beating. I’m sorry that happened to you.’

‘He started giving me a lot of BS about how great he was at reading strengths and weaknesses in people.’

‘You’re right to be furious, but he was trying to tell you something.’

‘Yes, that he’s an arrogant bastard, and if I want him to fuck me I have to dangle from his finger until he decides to throw me away.’

‘He doesn’t want you to disappear on him. Look, it must have been just as hard for him to stop.’

‘He probably went straight down to the Barbie doll on the eighth floor.’

‘Did you bother to read any of that information I gathered about him?’

‘No.’

‘Read it. You have relationship issues with men. He has the same issues in reverse.’

‘I don’t give a damn what he has, and I don’t understand why you keep pushing him on me.’

‘Because it’s the first time in the three years I’ve spent more than eight hours a day, five times a week with you that a man has gotten under your skin. I thought something might come of it.’

‘No way.’

‘Did you notice the two of you have the exact same colour eyes?’

‘And that makes us a match made in heaven?’

Leila gave me one of her enigmatic smiles. ‘Maybe. All right. I’ll get serious. He’s going to come knocking again. Can you walk away, forget about him?’

‘Already done or will be done the minute I get over being angry. Your turn now.’

‘Let me talk about Close Encounters first.’

‘No, Melissa first.’ I wanted to hear her bad news. Commiserate with her.

‘We have a situation.’

A situation meant a prospective client needed reassurance before taking the plunge. Someone would e-mail with questions. ‘What if I don’t like the guy I picked? Do I still have to pay the three-hour minimum?’ Or ‘what if he’s older /fatter/ shorter than his picture?’ which told us she’d been burned on the dating sites. Sometimes a woman asked if it was possible to talk to someone by phone or e-mail. On rare occasions, they wanted to meet face to face. Leila thought I was crazy when I accepted, but something about their insecurity made me want to reassure them. I hadn’t started Close Encounters to make money, but to give women a chance to have fun the way men have fun. Getting a charge by doing the choosing and paying for it, or because fun wasn’t happening in their lives. Whatever profit the company made I sent to organisations that helped women in Third World countries.

‘What’s the situation?’

‘She wants to know what she’ll get for her money.’

‘Tell her she’s paying for a fun evening out on the town. What happens at the end of the evening is up to her and the guy she picked.’

‘I think she wants guarantees.’

I didn’t blame her. I’d thought I had guaranteed sex last night. Free sex. And here she was ready to pay for hers. ‘If I give her guarantees I can end up in jail. If she’s too naïve to know that, maybe we should lose her.’

‘She calls herself Anastasia.’

‘I bet most of the girls being born these days will get that name.’ That trilogy had whetted a lot of suppressed appetites and Close Encounters had seen a nice upswing in bookings.

Leila punched a button on her laptop. The printer in the corner started churning. I glanced at the Google printout on Thorne that Leila had given me. Maybe I should take a look. What possible issues could a man of his looks and wealth have with women?

‘I’m not sure about losing her,’ Leila said. ‘She’s not your usual client. I think you should read what she wrote. You’re the one with a bleeding heart, so you decide.’ She picked up the printed sheet and dropped it on my desk.

Hi, I’m really excited I found your website. I mean, who knew I could pick a gorgeous guy to go out with, but I don’t know how it all works out. I mean, what happens? We go out for drinks, or dinner and then what? Is love part of the package? Can I talk to someone? In person. Please? This really means a lot to me. Anastasia 

‘Love? She sounds very young. A dreamer.’ I’d been a dreamer once. I kept it up even after my father walked out of my life. It was Mom’s death that had wiped dreaming for love out of my system.

‘An insecure dreamer,’ Leila said. The coffee maker beeped. Leila filled our mugs, handed one over to me. ‘With low self esteem. That usually gets to you.’

‘Thanks. You’re right.’ I picked up the laptop, clicked into Anastasia’s e-mail. Hit reply.

Hi. We are happy you liked our website. We unfortunately aren’t able to meet with you, but we can set up a meeting with a good client, who should be able to answer your questions. Would you like that? If so let us know when you’re available.

The Close Encounters Team

Leila gave me a questioning look. ‘You playing client and not boss is a first.’

‘Just a precaution. A client can disappear. Now tell me about Melissa.’

Before Leila could start, the office phone rang. I picked up without looking at caller ID. ‘Desire, Inc.’

‘When can I see you?’ His low, gravelly voice cut right into me, leaving me wanting him instantly. I hung up. In the silence that followed, I felt lost. Deprived. I shook my head, shrugged, trying to get some sense back into my head. Into my body.

Leila mumbled something and left the room.

It didn’t take me long to call him back. His cellphone number was imprinted on my brain.

‘When?’

‘How can you even ask after last night?’

‘Because just thinking of you gives me a hard-on.’ He was holding his cell so close to his mouth, it felt as though he were whispering directly in my ear. ‘Because I want to hold your ass against my face and bite it until there’s nothing left. Because I want to stick my tongue between your cheeks and lick you.’

He was making me wet.

‘Because I want to suck your nipples off. Because you have a deliciously wet cunt I want to split open. Because I want to hear you beg for me to ram it home. Is that enough reasons for you?’

I slipped my hand under my skirt and panties and squeezed hard to stop myself wanting him inside me. ‘You had your chance last night and you blew it.’

‘Did I, Nicole? Didn’t I just up the ante?’ I heard the sound of a zipper sliding open. He must have lowered the phone to his crotch.

‘Damn you, Thorne. Get out of my life.’ I didn’t hang up, just listened to his breath getting heavier. Leila might walk back in any second. I didn’t care. I needed to stay connected to Thorne.

‘Talk to me, Nicole.’ His voice was thick with lust. ‘Just talk. Anything. Your voice will do it.’

‘What do you want me to say? I can’t get you out of my head? My body aches for your hands? I want your lips on my lips, your tongue inside my mouth, inside my cunt.’ My own breath was coming fast. ‘I think of you and my hands reach between my legs.’ My words mirrored my actions. ‘I stroke and pinch myself. I stick my fingers inside me, push my groin back and forth over my fingers.’ My voice was coming out in a breathless whisper. ‘I want to come, but I can’t because it’s you, Archer Thorne, I want inside me. Not anyone else. Ever. You’re stone-hard now. I know you are and your hands are whipping your cock into a frenzy. My cunt is wet, wide open, waiting for you to plunge it inside me.’ That gorgeously thick penis I could barely fit into my mouth last night. I pushed the speaker-phone button, put the receiver down and with my freed hand I stroked my breasts, feeling his tongue licking them, his teeth biting my nipples. ‘Damn you,’ I moaned, pushing harder against my fingers. ‘You can’t have me.’

‘Oh, baby,’ he whispered. We said nothing more, just took short, hard breaths as we worked ourselves up to a climax. We both came with a loud gasp.

I took my hand out of my panties and collapsed against the back of the chair.

‘Hello, my beautiful Nicole.’ Thorne’s voice was so deep it seemed to be coming from some dark secret place. ‘This is something new for me. You?’

I didn’t answer. Coming over the phone had never happened to me either, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

‘I need to see you.’

‘No.’

‘All right. We won’t have sex. We’ll talk, like friends.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to know everything about you. Because I want to keep looking at your lovely face. Because I can wait to devour that breathtaking, come-inducing body of yours. Because we’ll drive each other crazy. Best of all because the payoff will be explosive.’

Thorne hung up before I could tell him he was full of it. Wanting to know everything about me? Not a chance. I’d sealed myself off from letting men into my emotional life. And it wasn’t because of my father walking out on Mom and me when I was thirteen. Sure Dad disappearing from one day to the next was a shock. It hurt for awhile, but he’d never been a hands-on father. He had let Mom do all the loving. She was the centre of my universe. I took a wad of tissues and cleaned myself up a little, pulled down my skirt, readjusted my top and took a long deep breath. I’d gone crazy. A crazy that gave me a lot of pleasure, but still. Leila could have walked in any minute and seen the spectacle of me writhing in the chair. Not a pretty sight. Well, thank God she hadn’t.

I heard the keys in the lock as I was coming out of my bathroom. ‘Hey, there. Where’d you go?’

Leila gave me a lopsided smile. ‘I went out for a cigarette.’

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘I don’t. I figured you didn’t need an audience to process whatever you were processing.’ She studied my face. ‘You should tone down the blush,’ she said with a big grin. ‘It makes you look too happy.’

I pressed my hands against my cheeks. They were burning. Was I that transparent? ‘It’s very hot in here.’ I walked to the kitchen area and got some iced water from the fridge.

Leila plopped herself down on the couch and sipped her coffee. ‘The Bergdorf’s appointment is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. The buyer’s office is somewhere on Madison but she wants to meet at the store. I think you should be the one to go. Getting an assistant isn’t going to impress her.’

‘You’re right. I’ll go. How did she find out about us?’

‘I didn’t ask. From one of her clients who bought one of our bags would be my guess. I’m still trying to get through to Barneys, which I think is a much better venue for your new bags. The store carries edgier, younger stuff than Bergdorf’s. Any word from Women’s Wear Daily?’

‘Not yet. Maybe Geoffrey put in a good word. He’s helped out with their Decorative Home Department on the seventh floor. I’ll have to ask him.’ I sat down next to her and drank my water in one gulp. I was all dried out from that phone call. ‘How did it go with Melissa?’

‘Melissa is incredibly wonderful.’ Leila’s face glowed, as if she’d just walked into sunlight. ‘I’m in love with her.’

‘Just like that? One evening together and you know?’

‘Yeah. I know. Like you know.’

‘Know what?’

‘You fell in love with Archer Thorne the minute he looked at you with those green, penetrating eyes of his.’

My stomach clenched. ‘That’s not funny.’ Falling in love with a man like Thorne was committing suicide. ‘You didn’t look so happy when you walked in this morning.’

‘Because I wanted to be with her and not here.’

‘Oh, it’s that bad?’ Leila loved work.

Leila beamed a smile. ‘It’s that good. Don’t worry, I’m not going to quit on you just because I’m in love, but I might get a little distracted from time to time. Just like you these past two days.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I know you think I fall in love too easily and always with the wrong women, but this time feels different. It’s right. I don’t know how to explain it. I feel her in the pit of my stomach.’

‘Are you sure that’s not just sex talking?’

‘Of course I want to make love to her, but I also want to listen to her, take care of her, make her happy. Sex isn’t everything.’

Maybe it wasn’t, but sex was all I wanted from a man. ‘Will Melissa make you happy?’

‘She does now. That’s enough.’

‘You’re not afraid of getting hurt again?’

‘No. I’ve opened up all of me. I’m ready for whatever comes.’ Leila leaned over and squeezed my hand. ‘Nicole, you don’t know what you’re missing. It’s like riding a rollercoaster. I know I’m going to land safely in the end, but the ride – it is scary, but it’s also exhilarating.’

I envied her optimism, her enthusiasm, her ability to give herself without a thought to the consequences. I also thought her foolish. ‘And how will you feel when it’s over?’

‘It doesn’t have to be over. I know it happened to your mother and to lots of other women, and, yes, to me a couple of times, but it doesn’t have to happen this time. You and I, we can get lucky.’

‘Melissa loves you back?’

Leila stood up, took the empty glass out of my hand and strode across the room to the sink. I followed her. ‘Does she?’

‘We made slow delicious love all night long.’ She whipped around. ‘Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t –’

I cut her off. ‘I’m glad at least you did.’ Sex over the phone was an hors d’oeuvre. I was still hungry for the full meal. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘She loves me. She just doesn’t know it yet.’

‘Leila!’

She wrapped me in a bear hug. ‘Stop sounding like a den mother. It’s going to be great. You know what I wish for both of us?’

‘Whatever it is, leave Thorne out of it.’

She cupped my chin with her hand. ‘I wish us a sky full of love.’

‘Whoa.’ I pulled away. ‘I didn’t see anything about being a hopeless romantic in your résumé.’

‘I know. You wouldn’t have hired me, but you’re the one who called your company Desire, Inc.’

I laughed. ‘I think it’s time we forget about love and get back to work.’

I woke up in a filthy mood. I was nervous about the Bergdorf Goodman appointment. The store was the most elegant in the city and I had nothing to wear. The radio announced that the temperature had dropped to the low fifties and my winter clothes were still in storage at the cleaners. Leila was going to be up at the workshop in the Bronx all day. Just as orders were coming in for the new collection, two sewing machines broke down last night. Since our phone session yesterday morning, Thorne had not bothered to call or text, not that I wanted to hear from him ever again, but I did want to be the one to dismiss him. And I was furious with him for haunting my dreams all night long. Dreams that left me panting with anxiety. I couldn’t recall a single one of them. What I did remember was Thorne sitting on the edge of some dreams, looking out into space, or walking through other dreams like a man taking a stroll on a busy street, unaware of his surroundings. I remember at some point calling out to him, but he didn’t turn around. I guess I was really furious at myself for still thinking about him.

In red high heels, black skinny jeans, black silk shirt and a grey leather short jacket, and with a large portfolio of photographs in one hand, I wheeled my Desire, Inc., suitcase into the 58th Street entrance of Bergdorf’s. A uniformed doorman gave me and my suitcase the once-over. I acknowledged him with a nod and walked past him to stare at shelves and glass cases displaying merchandise from the stars of the handbag firmament. Céline, Dior, Tom Ford, Fendi, VBH, Bottega Veneta, Valentino, Prada and Nancy Rodriguez gleamed under the light from crystal chandeliers. The bags were all handsome, but I found them staid and remembered what Leila had said about Barneys’ merchandise being edgier. Only Nancy Rodriguez with her Cayman alligator bags in knock-your-eyes-out colours had some punch to them. I reminded myself that the first floor featured the top designers, who paid for the privilege of being there. The fifth floor showed handbags from more varied and accessible designers such as Phillip Lim, Alexander McQueen and Marc Jacobs. Having even one handbag shown in that company would blow my mind.

I walked through the jewellery department on the way to the down escalator, taking envious peeks at scrumptious jewellery that was way outside my price range. I was meeting the buyer at the Goodman Café in the basement floor. I ended up at the other end of the store, by the Fifth Avenue entrance and the Chanel and Loro Piana handbag corner. Goyard patterned plastic totes hung from a rack – they’d been the rage a few years back at $1300 a bag. I had thought that finding copies on every street corner would have stopped anyone paying a ridiculous price for a plastic tote that would take one of my employees twenty minutes to assemble, trim and all. But if Bergdorf’s still carried them, people were still buying.

The down escalator was a few steps up into another room and to the left. Off I went, with my suitcase, my portfolio, my stomach dropping like a plane hitting an air pocket. Did Desire, Inc. belong in this palace of elegance? If the buyer, by some miracle, thought it did, was I ready for the big lights? Could I and my hard workers in the Bronx deliver? I straightened my spine. What was the matter with me? It wasn’t like me not to be confident. Thorne haunting my dreams had done a number on me. I headed for the perfume counter and asked the saleslady to spritz me with Olivia Farrington’s favourite perfume. It would bring me luck.

‘Opium’s a good perfume on you,’ Vivian Janelli said after we shook hands. She was a stunner. In her early forties, I guessed. Close to six feet tall, with straight blonde hair bluntly cut just below her ears, a strong square face softened by large, carefully made-up blue eyes. She had covered her model’s figure with a simple pearl-grey long-sleeved sheath and matching grey suede boots. Her only jewellery was a thin Swatch watch.

I thanked her and sat down after her. The café was small and stark, with unadorned taupe walls and tables and pea-soup-green upholstery on the chairs. We were the only people there. She offered coffee. I declined, afraid I would spill it on my photos or, worse, my bags.

She held out her hand. ‘Let’s see.’ I unzipped the suitcase and took out four bags. Three of the new, funkier ones, and one classic shoulder bag.

She caressed each one, inside and out, tested the seams, opened each pocket, tested how well the bag closed. ‘They’re well made,’ she said. I bristled at the surprise in her voice, but kept a frozen smile on my face, while my stomach did a frenzied Zumba dance. She gave the bags back and looked through my portfolio. Twice. She pointed to the photo of a large floppy satchel with long multicoloured leather ribbons running all across the opening. ‘I’d buy that in an instant.’

I think my body just stopped doing its staying alive thing for the minute it took me to digest what Vivian Janelli, handbag buyer of the most elegant department store in New York City, had just said. ‘Oh,’ I finally managed to say. No ‘Thank you’ or ‘That’s great’ or ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Just a dumb ‘Oh.’

‘I think a few of your bags will fit right in our store.’ She beamed at me, obviously enjoying making my day, my month, my year.

‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said, stopping myself hugging her.

‘Call me next week to set up an appointment,’ Vivian said. ‘We’ll work out the details then.’ She stood up. I did the same. We shook hands.

‘How did you know about Desire, Inc.?’ I asked. I had been waiting to have a higher profile before approaching the store.

She gave me a puzzled look. ‘You were highly recommended. Of course, no one can influence what merchandise we choose for our store. The recommendation was just a door opener. Didn’t you know about it?’

‘No. Who recommended me?’

Vivian shook her head. ‘If you don’t know, perhaps it’s best that I don’t say. I wouldn’t want to upset a good customer.’

I called Leila at the workshop the minute I stepped out of the store. She repeated the news and I heard a burst of applause and cheers coming from the women.

I waited to get in a cab to call Geoffrey. He gave a low whistle and said the news called for a mega celebration – dinner at Thomas Keller’s Per Se, which would cost him $300 a person, wine not included.

‘You’re a sweetheart,’ I told him, ‘but let’s wait to celebrate until Barneys gets on board too. Then maybe I’ll be able to pay my own way. You didn’t recommend me, by any chance, did you?’

‘I would have if I thought I had 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 his height, weight, age and more information than I needed. He’d gotten through college bartending; he worked out three times a week; had run the Boston and NYC marathon three times; was a good dancer and loved reading; had travelled a lot overseas as a manager of a paper brokerage company. He knew some Spanish – I stopped reading. This man was either insecure or a bore. I’d have to find out.

I’d started to reply to Eric when my cell beeped. I picked it up. Thorne’s answer:

I can wait.

I picked up his letter from the floor, pressed it against my nose. I remembered his smell, his fingers squeezing my nipples, his erection rubbing against my ass, his tongue licking champagne off my sex. Maybe he could wait. I wasn’t sure I could.

I tore the letter into little pieces, watched them fall into the trashcan. I had to send him away for good. I picked up my phone and answered:

I’ll wear it tonight.