Читать книгу Desire Inc. - Zoe Zarani - Страница 8

I walked into the Church Bar of the Tribeca Grand at exactly seven-thirty. I make a point of being punctual for my work appointments. Eric stood up as soon as he saw a woman walking towards him holding a yellow umbrella. His face went red when he recognised me.

‘Hi.’ I gave him a big smile to ease his embarrassment. Eric was too flustered to smile back, but helped me out of my coat and took my umbrella. I would have checked both, but a date’s good manners were important in the escort game. So far, so good. ‘It’s nice seeing you again.’

He ran a hand through his hair. Doubt was creeping into his face. ‘Are you?’ he asked. ‘The yellow umbrella?’ The umbrella was my identifying tool.

‘Yes, I’m the one.’

‘I certainly didn’t expect you.’ He let his eyes run quickly up and down my body, come back to my face. He was smiling now. ‘It’s my lucky night.’

I was barely dressed. Just a grey wool jersey long-sleeved dress, high-heeled purple suede boots. No stockings or panties or bra. Just Thorne’s gift – three tiny lace triangles resting on my nipples and sex, held together by an intricate web of black silk strings. I’d gotten wet just looking at myself in the mirror, thinking of what Thorne would do to me if I gave myself to him. I’d pulled my hair up to leave my neck bare, more kissable.

‘I know the owners of Close Encounters,’ I said. ‘They know I like to go out with different men.’ Eric looked good in a brown tweed jacket, flannel slacks, a blue shirt, no tie.

‘They sent you to test me?’

I sat down. ‘They just want an opinion.’

‘Well, that’s awkward.’

‘Let’s get a drink. That’ll help.’

He called over the waiter, Walter, the one who had served me the night before with Thorne. Eric asked me what I wanted.

‘A Cosmopolitan, perhaps?’ Walter said before I could answer.

I laughed. ‘Thank you for remembering, Walter, but tonight I’ll have a glass of champagne.’ Thorne must tip him very well, I decided.

Eric ordered Ketel One vodka and asked me if I was a regular here.

‘I have friends in the neighbourhood,’ I said. We started chatting about movies, plays we had seen or wanted to see. He didn’t start telling me too much about himself. He kept the focus on me as an escort should. What did I like to do in my free time? Did I like to travel? We exchanged the usual banalities of a first date. The minutes were going by, but I didn’t sneak a look at my watch even once. I wanted Thorne to show up. I wanted to see his face when he saw me with Eric, knowing I was wearing his garment underneath my dress. Oh, I couldn’t wait.

Eric and I kept talking. I did ask a few questions about his personal life, questions I thought some women would ask him. He’d been divorced eight years. No kids. His company had relocated to Iowa and he didn’t want to follow. He was doing part-time consulting work for an import company which might lead to a full-time position. We finished our drinks. Ordered a second round. I sneaked a look at my watch. By now it was eight-twenty. I let my eyes roam the room. No Thorne.

‘What happens now?’ Eric asked. He’d seen my attention waver. I downed my second glass of champagne to calm my mounting anger. Thorne was showing up late on purpose, to prove he was still in control. Or maybe he wasn’t going to show up at all. No, he wouldn’t have sent me that skimpy garment if he didn’t want to see me.

Eric leaned into me. He was wearing a lemony aftershave. Well, if Thorne didn’t show up maybe I would…

No. The whole point of meeting Eric here had been for Thorne to think another man was going to have me while I was wearing his sexy little present.

‘Do we have dinner here,’ Eric whispered, ‘or upstairs in the room? I don’t know how this escort business works.’

‘Like an old-fashioned date. Where your date wants you to take her is established beforehand. Once Close Encounters accepts you, the owners send you a manual of the dos and don’ts.’

‘Such as?’

‘Always be punctual. Have impeccable manners. Dress appropriately for the occasion. Keep your own problems out of the conversation. Know which utensils to use.’

‘Pick them up in the order they’ve been placed and the utensils above the plate are for dessert. Why do I feel like I’m back in grammar school?’

‘Look, some of the Close Encounters clients are rich dowager types who might want to take you to their charity benefits. You’ve got to make them look good.’

‘I have to bed them too?’

‘That’s not what you’re being paid for. What happens at the end of the evening is up to the two of you, same as with any date. Some women will expect sex, I suppose.’ A lot of them did and the price was negotiated up front. It wasn’t information I could put on the website or tell Eric. I was playing client, not owner. ‘I guess if you want extra cash for that and she’s willing to pay, that’s your affair.’

‘What about you? Is that what you wanted at the end of the evening? Not that you’d ever have to pay for it. But maybe it gave you a high?’

‘I’m not under discussion here, Eric. You are and let me remind you that men get a very big kick out of paying for sex. Why shouldn’t women? There’s also the chance that you might want to have sex with the woman you’re escorting without being paid extra.’

It was almost nine. He wasn’t coming. Had never planned to come. The bastard! May he rot in hell. May someone cut off his penis and stuff it down his throat. Ooooh, if I ever bumped into him again, I was going to scratch his eyes out.

Eric ran his hand down my arm. ‘I want to. Now.’ His eyes, full of desire, drank me in. Any other time I would have taken him home and worked us both to exhaustion, but I was too angry with Thorne. And, hard to admit – too disappointed.

I caught Walter’s attention and asked for the bill. ‘I’m sorry, Eric. I’m just here to give you a passing or failing grade. You passed beautifully.’

‘Thanks, but what about in bed?’ He tugged at my ear, squeezed it, something that usually sent shivers down my spine. ‘Maybe I’m a lousy lover.’ He brushed his lips against my neck as he spoke. ‘You need to find out.’

I pulled away. Walter brought the bill over and I reached for my credit card.

Eric grabbed my hand. ‘No, I’ll get that.’

‘This was a job interview. Close Encounters pays.’ I grabbed my coat and umbrella and leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the lips. ‘My instincts tell me you’re no lousy lover. Blame it on bad timing.’

We both stood up. He helped me with my coat, kissed my bare neck. ‘When do I see you again?’

I kissed him again on the lips. I would have liked to stay with him, enjoy him and his body, but I wanted Thorne. ‘Who knows?’ I said and left.

As soon as the cab-driver braked in front of my building, an arm reached down and opened the door for me. I looked up. The bouncer type from the morning looked down at me. This time he was empty-handed. He stood guard by the kerb while I paid the fare and got out. As soon as the cab drove away, the man lifted his chin toward the other side of the street where a sleek silver car was parked. My heart did a little jump. Was it Thorne’s? I looked away quickly in case he was sitting in the car.

‘Goodnight, whatever your name is,’ I said to the man and started walking to the front door. He stepped in front of me.

‘Mister Thorne call me Boris. Mister Thorne is waiting.’

‘And I’m going home now, Boris.’ I made the mistake of flashing my keys at him to make my point. He grabbed them.

‘Hey, give those back!’

‘Mister Thorne waits.’

‘Mister Thorne can wait until he drops dead.’ I was shouting, hoping Thorne could hear me. ‘Give me back my keys!’ I kicked him in the shin and stubbed my toe. Boris pocketed the keys, picked me up and carried me across the street. I went limp instead of kicking or screaming. Boris was built like a tank and the only person on the street was Larry, the local drunk, sleeping it off, who couldn’t have cared less what happened to me. I was furious, but part of me was also curious, even thrilled.

The back door opened. Boris slipped me inside and shut the door. He turned to face the street and stood guard, his wide body covering the back-seat window completely. I heard the click of the doors being locked. I was stuck in a dark car with Archer Thorne, a man I wanted and hated at the same time. A tremor ran through my body. A tremor of excitement, maybe fear. Definitely desire.

‘I thought we had a date,’ I said.

Thorne leaned across the seat and kissed me lightly. Too lightly. I instantly wanted to grab his neck and pull him to me, suck his lips. I breathed in the smell of his intoxicating aftershave instead.

‘You did. With another man.’

‘You came to the bar?’ Why didn’t I see him? I’d kept my eyes peeled on that entrance the whole time.

‘Walter spared me the trouble. I had let him know that I wanted our evening to be very special.’

‘Are you trying to make me feel bad?’

‘I want to make you feel good. Always when you’re with me.’ His hand reached up to my hair and took the clasp out. ‘I’m glad to know you didn’t let him see you wearing my present.’

‘I’m not wearing it.’

He smoothed my hair down over my shoulders. ‘You are wearing it. That was the whole point of your game tonight. I was going to walk into the bar and see you sitting with another man in this tight dress.’ His hand was now skimming over my hip, the length of my thigh. He was barely touching me and I had to stop my body lifting up to meet his hand. ‘A dress clinging to your firm ass, your big hard nipples, resting on your bush. You knew I was going to go crazy at the thought that another man was going to have you.’ He slipped his hand under my dress and squeezed my sex. I let out a cry of pure want.

‘I should spread your legs open and possess you right now. That’s the punishment you deserve.’

Yes, do. Possess me. Now. Fuck me every way you can think of.

That thought was like a slap in the face. What was happening to me? I pushed his hand away and slid as far away from him as the back seat allowed. No man had ever made me want him so much.

‘I want to go home, Thorne.’

‘I want to come with you. Take you upstairs and make love to you, over and over again, then fall asleep holding you, start over again as soon as the cock crows, pun intended.’

Why was I falling for this baloney? ‘Make love to you’ instead of ‘fuck you’? He was getting romantic on me and I was liking it. ‘Sorry, Thorne, I kick my cocks out. I sleep alone.’ I wanted him to court my sex, not my heart. I wasn’t about to give that organ away.

‘You’ll miss out in the morning. That’s my best time.’

‘In the morning I have bad breath.’ I jiggled the handle. ‘Let me go. It’s way past my bedtime.’ The clock on the dashboard said 10.35. I usually got a second wind around that time. Some of my best designs have popped out of my head in the middle of the night. Now I was going to go home, take a cold shower and then hit the drawing board and start designing my next year’s bags. All thoughts of Thorne, sexy or angry ones, were going into the garbage. ‘Come on, Thorne. If I must I’ll even say please.’

‘That’s the magic word along with “sorry”.’ He clicked the doors open.

‘Who is sorry?’ I tried to push the door open against Boris’s back.

‘I am. For the other night. For kidnapping you for too short a time. For letting you go now. Sorriest for you wanting to go.’

The door didn’t budge, but that wasn’t what stopped me. Damn him, he sounded like he meant it. Maybe I should stay. We’d have a great time in bed and then I’d send him on his way.

Before I could make up my mind Thorne barked out an order to Boris in what had to be Russian. Boris snapped to attention, turned around and opened the door.

‘I would walk you to your door,’ Thorne said, ‘but I don’t trust myself to let you go. Boris will see you home.’

I wasn’t ready to be walked anywhere by anyone. Not across the street, not across town. I’d just remembered something. ‘Did you recommend my handbags to the Bergdorf Goodman buyer?’

‘I just mentioned to the CEO how much I’d liked what I saw at your presentation. We’ve done business together in the past. The WWD article on your bags is coming out next week. Front page.’

‘Your doing again?’ It was great news, but I hated owing Thorne anything.

‘No, yours.’

‘Why did you do it? You think I’ll be forever grateful and let you play with me whenever you want?’

‘When I see talent, I like to let other people know about it, people who can move that talent along. That’s what I do. I look for small companies that have potential, I buy into them or buy them outright and help them grow. You’ve got a lot of talent and I happen to know a few people in the retail business. Look, in business pride just gets in the way. Take whatever help comes your way. I don’t want or need your gratitude. I do it for me.’ His voice was arctic cold. ‘I happen to get a kick out of it. Now I think you said it was past your bedtime.’

‘I have trouble owing people anything. You help me with my work, but at the same time you humiliate me, then you send me a sexy present and expect me to show up wearing it when and where you want. I’m getting mixed messages from you and I’m a little confused, but thank you. I do appreciate your help.’ I leaned over and kissed him quickly. I half expected, wanted him to hold on to me, but he didn’t.

I walked across the street to my building, Boris dutifully following, and realised Thorne wasn’t the one confusing me. I was sending mixed messages to myself. What did I want from this man? Just mind-blowing sex or something that might touch my heart? At the door I turned around. Thorne had turned on the light and was reading the newspaper. Well, maybe I deserved that.

‘Goodnight, Boris,’ I said. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to see him again. Or Thorne. I’d messed things up with my ingratitude.

‘Goodnight, madam.’

‘My name’s Nicole.’

I stripped off my clothes, tossed Thorne’s three-triangles lingerie in the trashcan and took a long hot shower. Propped up in bed in a pair of unsexy pyjamas I’d had since college, I started to read the information on Thorne that Leila had gleaned from the Internet. I kept the bedroom door open in case…yes, part of me was hoping that the downstairs buzzer would ring. That Thorne wasn’t angry with me. That he still wanted me. Just like my mom, hoping for no good reason at all. And again, for what? The possibility of love? Dumb, dumb me. Why was I bothering to read this stuff?

I quickly read through every mention of him and his company in The New York Times, Bloomberg Businesss Week, the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. He was 34 years old. He’d gone to Yale, then gotten an MBA at Wharton. The net worth of his company was estimated at $130m in one article, $150m in another. Various charitable institutions had honoured him for his generosity. He founded an organisation, FirstStep, that helped people in need start their own businesses. There was a glowing comment in one paper from a single mom with three kids who was able to have a knitting shop thanks to FirstStep. ‘Archer Thorne gave me back hope. That alone is worth a million bucks.’

I was learning that Thorne was a good guy. I was also learning about his dating life. Leila had included a series of pictures taken from Vanity Fair and The New York Times’ Sunday Style section. He was always with the same woman. Darci Dirshen, a drop-dead willowy blonde in one beautiful strapless gown after another.

A New York Post Page Six item read:

New York’s favourite bachelor Archer Thorne has been going around town gloating like a MegaMillions winner. It has nothing to do with money this time. It looks like he’s found his dream woman, model Darci Dirshen. Last week they were spotted dancing at the Literacy For All benefit. There was no music playing. Maybe when you’re in love you make your own.

Another Post item. This one from Cindy Adams:

Does that eight carat diamond sparkling on Darci Dirshen’s finger mean Archer Thorne has finally gotten down on one knee?

An eight-carat diamond was gross. Thorne was playing around, showing off how rich he was. I didn’t care how many diamond carats Thorne tossed to his bimbo. I threw the pages on the floor, turned off the light. Fluffed up my pillow. Remembered I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Turned on the light again. When I got to the bathroom, I discovered my toothbrush was wet. That meant I had brushed my teeth. God, I was getting old before being old. I looked at myself in the mirror.

OK, face it, Nicole. You want to know how the eight-carat-diamond story ended. It had to end in a bust. Had to. Or else Leila…

I went back to my bedroom, picked up the sheets of Leila’s printout. Luckily the paper clip still held them together. I flicked through to the last page. One last picture. This one hit me like a body blow. I dropped down on the bed.

June 28, two years ago. Their smiling heads touching each other.

Darci Renee Dirshen and Archer Thorne were married Saturday at Albergo Cipriani in Venice, Italy, by Judge Albert Schecter, a childhood friend of the groom’s.

Mrs. Thorne, 28, is a model who is now pursuing an acting career.

I stopped reading. Thorne had a wife. I was having a hard time getting my head around that stark, nasty little fact. Why didn’t I ask? I didn’t bed married men, no matter how much they turned me on. My mother had imprinted that lesson in my brain. Thorne married. The possibility had never crossed my mind. I tore that sheet into confetti, threw it in my face. I wanted to kick myself. How could I be so stupid? Damn Leila! She’d read this stuff, printed it out. Why didn’t she warn me? I glanced at my clock. It was past two. I reached for the phone, but a picture of her and Melissa fast asleep together stopped me. I’d slam her with my anger the minute she walked in the door tomorrow morning. I got up, fished Thorne’s present out of the trash can and tore those damn triangles to shreds. What a bastard. And that gorgeous apartment he’d taken me to. Was that his and Darci’s home? Darci safely far away, pursuing her acting career in some B movie?

The thought that he could take me to the home where he lived with his wife made me sick. I slammed the door of my bedroom with all my strength. Bits of plaster from above the frame rained down on my head. Served me right for leaving the door open to hear the doorbell that I now wasn’t going to answer and that Thorne had no intention of ringing in the first place.

Loud music jerked me awake. What the hell? I hadn’t set the alarm on the radio. I turned over toward the bedside table and tried to bring the red numbers on my clock into focus. It took a while. The last time I’d looked it was 4.03. Now 6.13. The tailend of a bad night in the company of Mrs Archer Thorne modelling through my dreams in one strapless designer gown after another. I kept wondering how she managed to keep those dresses from falling down since she had no breasts to speak of.

The singing stopped and it hit me. Alicia Keys singing ‘Girl on Fire’. The ringtone I’d picked, jacked up to the highest level so I’d hear it in my handbag. I reached for the cellphone. On the screen: Leila. Message. Ah, yes, my faithful assistant. She had a few choice words coming to her. I clicked on the message.

Am in ER with Melissa. Will be late. Sewing machines fixed.

My heart skipped a beat, my anger at her instantly wiped out.

I texted back. Are you hurt? Which hospital? I’ll come right away.

I’m fine. Doctor finally here. Will explain later.

What can I do?

Hold the fort.

Was she really fine? Was she lying so I wouldn’t worry? Later when? Leila in an emergency room reassuring me that the sewing machines were fixed. Telling me to hold the fort. How wonderful was that? Crazy. She couldn’t be that hurt.

Leila, please be OK, please. I promise I won’t say a word about Thorne being married.

Maybe she just printed out whatever she found without taking a close look.

I pulled on jeans, a sweatshirt, ran a comb through my hair, dabbed some lipstick on. A busy day had just gotten busier. We were filling orders on the bags I’d shown a couple of days ago. It was a hectic time, a time when I totally depended on Leila’s calm, her incredible organisational skills. I had great patience designing the bags, but almost none with the niggling problems that inevitably came up.

I grabbed an apple and was on my way out the door when I remembered I’d promised to deliver Olivia Farrington’s handbag today. I looked at my watch. 7.26. Plenty of time to take the subway uptown to 77th, walk to Park and 79th, drop off the bag, pick up my cheque, then get back on the subway to the Bronx. Maybe I’d even get to the workshop before the women. I liked to greet them with coffee and muffins to start off what was always a tough day. Leila had already wrapped the bag in red tissue paper and slipped it into the Desire, Inc. shopping bag Geoffrey had designed, a shiny black bag with ribbon handles and the logo splashed across both sides in the same bright red as the handles. I picked up the bag, hooked it on my shoulder and off I went.

On the way to the subway I e-mailed Geoffrey, something I should have done last night.

Eric is a go. Thanks. We can always use a new face.

When I got off the subway on 77th Street, Geoffrey’s answer was waiting for me.

Glad to hear it. You sure you want to let other women enjoy him? If A.T. is a negative, Eric might just be the man for you. You bowled him over. Can’t stop talking about you.

Why did everyone think I needed a man? All right, not everyone. Leila and Geoffrey. My best friends, with Giles a close third. Come to think of it, they were everyone. I didn’t have any other friends, best or not.

I’ve gone off the hetero wagon for this year and next. Is there any chance of getting together tonight?

I kept walking toward Olivia’s apartment building on Park Avenue, crossing the street without looking, typing, reading Geoffrey’s answer. An accident in the making guaranteed. I was down enough not to care. I typed:

I could use the boost.

Shit, I was feeling sorry for myself. I hate that. I added: