Falling for Sir (15 page)

A brittle light shone in through that wall of
windows today and made her think of an early spring even though they were
actually months away from it. Her mood lightened and she was actually beginning
to hum as she worked around the apartment, measuring and sketching, scribbling
down ideas. She'd picked out some furniture and arranged for delivery, but it
would take a while as it was being custom upholstered. The decision was made to
start with his bedroom— for reasons that were obvious, as well as very bad for
her.

It was a week since Marianne's last outing to
The Club. At work, when she saw her boss, everything was very professional, as
it should be, as she wanted it. But inside her, Claudia was waiting and growing
impatient. Like a pouting teenager wondering why he hadn't texted her again
since.

She still couldn't quite believe he'd signed off
on her budget for this decorating job. Her next client — if she ever had
another— was likely to be a rude awakening, because Jack Marchetti was
surprisingly easy and unquestioning. Of course, Mrs. Bracknell had warned her,
Marchetti men were like that. In other words they threw money around without
caring. Whatever he thought he was getting out of this, he was paying her very,
very well.

So far he hadn't fired her, despite Christie's
warnings about him learning her name.

Hey, he'd taken her white queen!

Marianne stared down at the chessboard by his
bed. And then she allowed a slow, creaky smile. Straight into her trap. She
moved her bishop.

Check,
Sir. Now what?

The sound of sharp heels clipping across the
hardwood floor below brought her abruptly out of her thoughts.

"Hello?" a high voice called out.
"Anyone here?"

Marianne thought about staying very still and
not answering, but that would be ridiculous and, if she was caught there,
extremely embarrassing, so she grabbed her sketchpad from his pillow and walked
down the spiral steps to the lower floor. "Hello?"

A tall, slender woman in skinny jeans and a hot
pink peacoat trotted into view. "Oh hi! So you must be the decorator!
Jimmy told me you were up here." She flipped a smooth, shiny black bob
over her shoulder.

"Jimmy?"

"The concierge."

"Oh, right." She'd called him James
because that was on his name badge. Apparently pink peacoat was on more
intimate terms. "Yes. I'm the decorator." She offered her hand.
"Marianne Miller."

"Can I just tell you how thrilled I am that
Jack is finally getting this place done?"

"I can imagine."

The woman laughed. Instead of taking Marianne's
hand she clutched her upper arms and performed the double-cheek air kiss.
"I'm Alana, of course."

Of
course?
Marianne had no idea
who she was, but from the inflexion she was evidently supposed to know exactly
who Alana was and why she was there. A drift of expensive perfume wafted under
Marianne's nose and made her sneeze.

"Gesundheit! So what are you planning? Or
is it a secret? I suppose he thinks he's doing this on the sly for me. Men,
they're so funny with their silly secrets!" Alana broke into more giddy
laughter, flashing her fingernails, bony wrists and clattering gold bracelets
through the air. "But finally he's doing something about this place and I
can seriously think about moving in. That's progress! He knew I'd never think
of it until he made it more habitable."

"You're moving in?"
 
Of course, he wouldn't tell Marianne the
decorator, would he?

"It's not official yet, but things are
moving in the right direction and I promised him last year that if we can just
get our schedules in the same time zone for once...." Alana dropped into
one of the recliners. "Honestly, you have no idea how glad I am to meet
you."

She wished she could say the same.

"Mrs. B told me all about you."

Again, she wished she could say the same.

"But I expected someone a little older and
more..." Alana's heavily lashed brown eyes traveled down over Marianne's
three-quarter length skirt and Victorian-style ankle boots, "...more
sophisticated. Don't take offense."

"Oh, no. Of course."

"It's just that the interior decorators I
know are rather more ...more...put together."

Marianne was aware that her own personal dress
style—if it could be called that—leaned toward gothic, but from the way his
girlfriend eyed her clothing choices, anyone would think they went beyond that
and ventured into Halloween territory.

"Do you mind if I see your ideas? I might
be able to insert a few of my own. Stamp a little of my personality on the
place."

Marianne's blood ran cold.
No
, she wanted to shout,
you
may not stamp yourself on anything here.
For some stupid reason it hadn't
occurred to her that Jack Marchetti might have a girlfriend. Maybe, not wanting
to know, she'd deliberately made no effort to find out. She vaguely remembered
hearing he was married a few years ago, but she couldn't recall whether he was
divorced or separated. Unlike his brother, he managed to keep his personal life
out of the newspapers quite well, maintaining a level of privacy that most
people didn't seem to value these days.

She cleared her throat. "Actually
everything is still pretty much in the early stages of development," she
muttered. "In a few more days I'll have some sketches I can show
you."

"Great." Alana beamed with her
blood-red lips and teeth so white the glare hurt Marianne's eyes. "You'll
be using lots of neutrals, of course. Stainless steel and granite in the kitchen.
For resale."

She thought about saying she'd use whatever Mr.
Marchetti wanted, but she kept that to herself. Why did people think of selling
right away? Why did they never just think about living? Dear god, she hated
granite countertops, and the popularity of stainless steel, in her opinion, was
entirely due to a highly skilled marketing campaign, certainly not for its
practicality or its looks. "I hadn't planned to change all the
appliances."

"What? But that ugly refrigerator has to
go!"

"It's a Smeg," Marianne replied,
trying to keep her voice from rising. She had a fondness for the chunky, retro
refrigerator and no intention of replacing it. If she had the money she would
want one herself.

"It's mint green," Alana protested
with a delicate shudder. "I told him he needs stainless. Double door with
a freezer cabinet on the bottom."

Marianne decided to say nothing more and clamped
down hard on her tongue.

"Now, I do love a dash of pink too,"
his girlfriend added, bouncing a little in the recliner, apparently assured her
opinions mattered and were being noted. "I don't like anything too
industrial in the lounge or the bedroom. Those areas should be softer to
reflect my personality."

"Pink?" Oh how badly she wanted to say
, I wasn't aware this was your apartment
.

"To make things pop."

And there it was.
Ding, ding, ding
! All the cliche cherries were up! "Pop"
was another of her pet peeves. That and the trend for "changing
out
" and "price
point
". Marianne stared, wondering
if the appearance of this woman was another of her brother's practical jokes.
Had he hired her from Rent-A-Vacuous Bimbo?

"Of course, I don't want to completely
overwhelm him, but you know what I mean. The dull browns and that awful orange
vinyl dinette set just have to go. That seventies kitsch drives me crazy. He
just doesn't know how to spend his money properly."

Clearly, she'd teach him how.

Alana's coal-black hair swung again as she
tilted her head. "You're much younger than I expected. You can't have been
in the business long."

"No. Just started."

"Ah. That's Jack for you, always looking to
give someone an opportunity. Champion for the underdog." She looked
Marianne up and down again and smiled, oozing condescension from every pore.
"Mrs. B tells me he's asked you to put the staff Holiday party together
too."

"Yep."

"That's a lot on your plate. Don't let him
intimidate you."

"He doesn't."

Alana's bracelets jingled again as she ran her
fingers through her perfect, glossy hair. "If he gets out of hand, just
let me know. I'll take him to task. He shouldn't be loading so much on your
young shoulders."

Marianne gathered her samples, shoving them back
into her portfolio. "Must get back to work." She glanced at her
watch. "Lunch is almost over."

"Making you work through lunch? He's
keeping you busy."

"Yes." She managed a smile.
"Very."
You have no idea, lady
.

She pulled on her shabby coat, grabbed her
portfolio under one arm and made a hasty exit.

* * * *

As soon as she got back to her office Marianne
closed her door, sat at her computer and did what she should have done already.
Googled Jack Marchetti. Why she hadn't done it before now she had no clue.
Unless, by denying the needs of her natural inquisitive streak, she'd hoped to
ignore how large a part of her thoughts he now consumed. Page after page turned
up results about the Marchetti luxury stores, the family yacht, his brother,
Charlie, the construction of a new branch in Dubai. And there, as she scrolled
down to the bottom of the third page she found Alana on his arm at some charity
gala last summer in the Hamptons.

Giacomo
"Jack" Marchetti arriving with Miss Alana Shepherd
, the caption read. Oddly enough, while the
piece went on to say what he did, his companion was only described as the
former wife of a famed plastic surgeon, who was also a notorious tax dodger,
and daughter of "philanthropist" Dr. Martin Shepherd. Interesting.
Apparently poor Alana was defined by the men in her life
. Poor
Alana? As if.

They made a beautiful, tanned, glamorous couple.
She wore a long, sequined gown with linguine-thin straps—the sort of gown a
woman would fall out of if she didn't possess a naturally concave chest with a
perfectly unnatural pair of spherical tits bolted on. Her hair was slicked back
and diamond, shoulder-duster earrings accentuated her scrawny, ballerina-type
neck. Jack, of course, looked like ten billion bucks in a tuxedo, even if he
wasn't smiling.

Briefly she imagined herself in the photo,
superimposing her face over Alana's.

Nope. Just didn't work.
 

Anyway, she'd rejected his offer of a date. Shot
him down really before he got out of the starting gate, so why did she care?

With a sigh Marianne clicked off the search,
switching screens to the letter she'd been working on earlier. But only a few
minutes later, unable to concentrate and after re-reading the same paragraph
five times, she clicked back again, trawled through the search results and
eventually came to a four year-old obituary for his wife. She groaned, staring
at the screen, shoulders slumped. This was even worse. Had he simply been
separated or divorced she could cope with that. A broken romance was one
thing—she could expect that. But a dead wife was something else. It was a love
affair unfinished, unresolved, never to be forgotten.

Why hadn't she known this? Probably because
everyone just assumed it was common knowledge.

Is that why Jack Marchetti had sadness in his
eyes?

Not that his past love life should matter to her
anyway. He had Alana now, with her girly love of pink, her chic "put
together" clothes and her eagerness to match her schedule with his. A
professional arm-holder, molding herself to fit the needs of the man at her
side. She'd certainly hinted that she had a well-established place in his life,
but did she know about her fine, rich, shiny boyfriend's trips to The Club?

Somehow Marianne could not imagine the lovely
Miss Alana Shepherd submitting to "Sir" and his demands, getting her
hair all messed up and her lipstick smudged.

No, women like Miss Shepherd never got their
panties in a bunch.

She typed in a new search and brought up a ton
of articles on his girlfriend. It seemed Alana was trying for her own infamy by
appearing on a reality show set in the New York City socialite scene. No wonder
she'd assumed Marianne would know who she was. Marianne, however, had never
watched the show. She only watched TV at night, late, when trying to fall
asleep. Most of the time she preferred a book.

Opening her top draw she took out a stick of
gum. It was a few years now since she gave up cigarettes, but sometimes, when
the stress and anxiety piled up, she still longed to find a forgotten packet
somewhere in a drawer or the bottom of her purse. What she really needed right
now was a ciggie and a dirty martini. Or two. Juicy Fruit—bless its
heart—wasn't going to meet her needs.

Suddenly her door opened. No knock. Bob
Rawlings, of course, probably trying to catch her up to no good. Which he very
nearly had.