Pleasure Seekers (28 page)

I
lene followed Astrid into Enid’s office, her step light, the sway of her hips more pronounced, arrogant. She smiled, dimples deepening when she saw the look of annoyance—no, it wasn’t annoyance but fear—in the penetrating blue-gray eyes.

Enid gestured toward a chair. “Please sit down, Ilene.”

The model sat down, crossing her legs at the knees. She looked nothing like she did when she’d been summoned to the loft two weeks ago. Today she favored a pair of white stretch jeans, an off-the-shoulder wraparound silk knit blouse and leopard-print stilettos.

She brushed several strands of the human-hair weave off her forehead. “I asked to see you because I’m leaving P.S., Inc.”

Only years of experience as a trial lawyer made it possible for Enid not to visibly react to Ilene Fairchild’s disturbing news. “When is your last day?”

“Today is it.”

Enid lowered her gaze. There came a beat of silence. “You’re not giving me much time.”

Ain’t that too bad, bitch,
Ilene mused, smiling. “I didn’t
know there was a waiting period, because you didn’t mention it during your orientation.”

“I didn’t mention it because it doesn’t exist.”

“Then, I suppose that makes us even.”

Pale eyebrows lifted slightly. “Does it, Ilene?”

Ilene leaned forward. “Yes, it does. We both made money and I got a little extra in gifts. I’m relocating but you can send my 1099 to the address listed in my file.”

She had decided to hold on to her co-op. The apartment was the first thing she’d owned outright, and despite what Amelia had promised her, she was still too insecure to rely on another person to take care of her. Once bitten, twice shy had become her mantra.

“In all sincerity,” Ilene continued, “I’d like to thank you for giving me the opportunity to work for Pleasure Seekers.”

Enid smiled and inclined her head. “You’re quite welcome. However, if you change your mind…” Her words trailed off. She knew Ilene wouldn’t call because Claude Wells had informed her that Ilene Fairchild now owned one-quarter of Pine Cay. “Good luck, Ilene. I wish you much success. Maybe we’ll meet again in the very near future.”

Staring at the woman with the ash-blond hair and cool eyes, Ilene nodded her head. “I’m sure we will.”

Enid came to her feet and Ilene followed suit. “You’ve done well for yourself.” She extended her arms, and she wasn’t disappointed when the model hugged her. “Be happy, my exotic jewel.”

In a gesture of sheer impulsiveness, Ilene kissed the older woman’s soft, scented cheek. “Thank you, Enid.” Pulling
out of the embrace, she turned on her heel and walked away from Enid Richards and P.S., Inc., and all she’d experienced in her brief tenure as a social companion.

E
nid waited until Ilene walked out of her office before she sat down again. She still hadn’t moved when Marcus walked in three-quarters of an hour later and kissed her cheek.

“You’re frowning, beautiful.”

Her frown deepened. “It doesn’t matter because I have an appointment with my dermatologist next week for a Botox treatment.”

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Marcus reached over and took Enid’s hands in his. “Who or what has upset you?”

“I’ve just lost one of my exotic jewels.”

“Which one, darling?”

“Ilene Fairchild.” She told him about Ilene owning a share of a private island in the Caribbean.

Marcus tightened his grip before releasing her fingers. He’d expected Enid to say Alana Gardner not Ilene. Earlier that morning he’d met with Derrick Warren who’d discussed the possibility of purchasing Alana’s Central Park West co-op. He’d attempted to pressure his childhood friend to disclose why Alana had put her co-op on the market, but Derrick refused to tell him.

He lifted an eyebrow as he stared at the bonsai plants
on the table behind Enid’s desk, his mind working overtime. Marcus shifted his gaze, staring at Enid as her hand went to the nape of her neck. Whenever she was tense or stressed, she’d massage the back of her neck.

More than aware that Ilene was Pleasure Seekers’ most popular companion of color, Marcus knew he was in for a rough time with Enid because whenever she set her sights on something, she was as tenacious as a rabid coon. She’d pledged five million dollars to Habitat for Humanity for the rebuilding of New Orleans, and he knew she would make good on her pledge, even if it meant dipping into her personal resources.

“Do you realize how many clients have been asking for her?” Enid asked Marcus, her frown still in place.

“No. You know I never want to get involved with the scheduling part of the business.”

Enid lowered her hand and glared at him. “Well, you need to, Marcus.” She hadn’t bothered to mask her annoyance when her reprimand took on a waspish quality.

“No, Enid. We’re not going to shift responsibility arbitrarily. I monitor the bottom line and you deal with the social companions. And I don’t know why you’re so upset about losing Ilene when you still have Faye and Alana. Besides, Faye has earned more than Ilene.”

Enid fixed him a hostile glare. “And how long do you think it’s going to be before I lose her too?”

Moving off the desk, Marcus sat on the chair facing the woman who’d become as essential to him as breathing. What surprised him was that he’d never viewed her as a
substitute for his mother. He’d dated and slept with women before meeting Enid, but there was something about the New Orleans native that completed Laurence Marcus Hampton.

“Why do you think you’re going to lose Faye?”

“Bartholomew Houghton is obsessed with her.”

“A lot of our clients are obsessed with our companions,” Marcus countered. “Remember the prince who offered you fifty million to take that giggly redhead back to Bahrain with him?”

Enid smiled. “Don’t you remember me telling him that I will not become a party to trafficking in white slavery? The poor child would’ve become nothing more than a love slave, because there was no way she would’ve become one of his wives.”

“And you think it’s different with Bart Houghton?”

Enid nodded. “It’s very different, and I’ve known Bart long enough to know that when he wants something he won’t stop until he gets it. Right now he wants Faye Ogden.”

“Shouldn’t he be content to have her as an exclusive companion?”

Sitting back in her chair, Enid studied Marcus’s chiseled face with the strangely colored gold eyes. He was so intelligent in all things intellectual yet naïve when it came to matters of the heart. And one thing she knew about Marcus was that he loved with his heart and not his head. If she’d been any other woman she would’ve messed over him, but she hadn’t and wouldn’t because there was something about her lover that frightened Enid. That beneath the
polished veneer of impeccable deportment was a hoodlum who would and could hurt anyone who crossed him.

“No, Marcus.”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because the man’s in love with her.”

A look of surprise crossed Marcus’s face. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“I wish I was. Bart came in personally to deliver the checks for Faye. He stayed long enough to share lunch with me, and whenever he mentioned Faye’s name his face lit up like a neon sign.”

“Do you think she knows how he feels about her?”

Enid lifted a shoulder under a blue-gray silk blouse that was an exact match for her eyes. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to predict that whenever he makes his feelings known she’s going to either run like hell or resign as a companion.”

“I don’t think she’ll resign. Why would she cut off the money?”

Lowering her lids, Enid stared at Marcus through her lashes. “Most black women love with their hearts. Faye signed on with P.S., Inc. as a business venture, but when it stops being business for her she’ll quit because she refuses to see herself as a prostitute.”

“So you’re predicting that if she falls in love with Bart, she won’t accept money from him?”

“I know she won’t.”

Leaning closer, Marcus cupped her chin in his hand. “Now you see why I don’t want to get caught up in the
minutiae of your clients and companions. What else do you know?”

She smiled. “I know that I love you.”

“What else?” he asked teasingly.

“I know that you love me.”

“What else do you know, darling?”

“That you want me to marry you.”

Marcus’s white-tooth smile was dazzling. “Damn. Not only are you beautiful, but you’re also brilliant.”

A soft laugh escaped Enid’s parted lips. “There’s an expression that says if you can’t baffle them with brilliance then dazzle them with bullshit.”

Sobering, Marcus dropped his hand. “Are you bullshitting when you say you love me?”

Her expression matching his, Enid moved from behind her desk to sit on Marcus’s lap, surprising him because she’d made it a rule never to display any show of affection in the office. “No, I’m not. You know that I love you, Marcus. And you know that I’m going to marry you.”

His inky-black eyebrows shot up. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do. What do you say we change our marital and tax status before the end of the year?”

“Give me a date.”

“December twenty-eighth.”

He exhaled a long sigh of relief. Enid had chosen her birthday. “You want to make certain I never forget your birthday or our anniversary.”

Resting her chin on the top of his head, Enid kissed his
close-cropped hair. “And the first time you forget will be your last.”

“Where do you want to get married?”

“I’m partial to Saint Barts.”

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Marcus pulled her closer. “Do you want me to make the arrangements?”

“No. I’ll take care of everything. The only thing you’ll have to do is show up.”

Marcus flashed a Cheshire cat grin. “What kind of ring do you want?”

“Surprise me, my darling. Surprise me,” Enid repeated as she kissed Marcus with a passion that shocked him.

Enid had asked Marcus to surprise her, and he would. P.S., Inc. may have lost its most celebrated exotic jewel, yet the loss would be a temporary one. He planned to ask Derrick to send him head shots and résumés of dancers the producer hired for his music videos, and before he and Enid exchanged vows he would make certain P.S., Inc. would have a coterie of exotic jewels.

F
aye, ambivalent about returning to work after a three-week absence, was oblivious to her coworkers filing into the employee lounge for coffee and bagels. She mumbled a greeting to the receptionist and the copywriter as she neared her office. A note attached to a magnetic board on the door indicated she was scheduled to attend a 9:30 a.m. meeting.

Opening her office door, she looked around for overt changes. Finding none, she sat down behind her desk, stored her handbag in a drawer and turned to stare out the window.

Bart’s reference to her being his love had haunted her throughout the weekend. He wasn’t the first man who’d confessed to loving her in the throes of passion, and she was certain he wouldn’t be the last.

Faye exhaled a long sigh. What had she gotten herself into? The moment she opened her legs to Bart Houghton she’d become a call girl, and if she’d wanted to be vulgar—a whore—or as they said on the street, a ho.

The upside was that she was high-price, top shelf and, for a girl from Queens, she hadn’t done too badly: a half-million dollars for eight weeks of work, a wardrobe filled
with haute couture and priceless jewels from designers who counted clients among the rich, famous, upwardly mobile and wannabes.

“Welcome back, Faye.”

She turned to find John standing in the doorway. His tanned face indicated he’d spent time outdoors, and she wondered who he had spent it with—his wife or Jessica.

She forced a facetious grin. “Thank you, John.”

“How was your vacation?”

“Excellent.”

“You look rested.”

“I am. What’s on the agenda for this morning’s meeting?”

John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “We’re meeting with an architect from a real estate group looking for a major ad campaign for one of their Harlem construction sites.”

Reaching for a legal pad and several pencils, Faye pushed back her chair. “I’m ready.” And this time she
was
ready for John and Jessica. Normally she would present her ideas in front of an in-house committee, but that would change today when she’d go over John’s head and interact directly with the potential client.

Faye declined the available coffee, bagel and miniature pastries and settled into a chair at the conference table. The usual suspects had gathered for the meeting: John Reynolds, two senior execs, a newly hired African-American copywriter, Jessica and Zachary. John sat down next to her and opened the meeting with introductions.

She listened intently to Geoffrey Morris, a bookish-looking, auburn-haired architect from the Stembridge Management Sales Group, Ltd. make his presentation, jotting down notes as he outlined the details of one of two new residential developments in Harlem with a select number of spacious two- and three-bedroom apartments and four-bedroom penthouses, all with soaring sixteen-foot ceiling heights and floor-to-ceiling windows. The development would offer five-star hotel services, a private ten-thousand-square-foot health club/spa and on-premises parking, along with many other state-of-the-art amenities. Copies of floor plans and a rendering of the landscaped exterior were displayed on an easel for easy viewing.

What surprised Faye was the overall design of the building. It wasn’t a modern structure but Art Deco, reminiscent of the celebrated Dakota. And like the luxurious apartment building on Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, it boasted sixty to the Dakota’s sixty-five apartments. Overall, the Stembridge architects had designed four apartment buildings for Harlem and upper west side neighborhoods: east and west Harlem, Morningside and Washington Heights. She jotted down buzzwords, filling the legal pad with catchy phrases.

“May I say something, Mr. Morris?” she asked when the architect concluded his presentation.

Geoffrey stared directly at her, then inclined his head. “Please do, Ms. Ogden.”

Faye glanced up to find all eyes fixed on her. She put down her pencil. In each of the buildings a number of
apartments would be set aside for low-income families. “I like what I see.” Her voice was layered with neutral tones. “It’s like old greets new, affordability meets luxury.”

Geoffrey Morris sat up straighter, his warm brown eyes shimmering with excitement. “That has been Stembridge’s mission from the beginning, a blending of the old with the new while allowing longtime residents the opportunity to remain in their neighborhood by offering updated, affordable housing. Ms. Ogden, I believe you’ve just given us our sales slogan.”

There were murmurs of approval around the table. The meeting was unique because it was the first time a client had given an endorsement of their product during an introductory discussion.

Geoffrey looked at John. “I’m ready to discuss the details of our agreement.”

John nodded to those around the table. “Thank you for your time.”

Faye pushed back her chair and filed out of the conference room with the others. Jessica and Zachary were huddled together as if sharing a top secret. She’d put the others on notice that the slogan had come directly from her. If John gave the Stembridge account to Jessica she planned to pack up her personal items, tell John exactly what she thought of him and his
niece,
then hand in her resignation. John had messed her over once, but it would never happen again.

She returned to her office to find Gina Esposito waiting for her. The petite, Brooklyn-born biracial brunette, the
issue of a black mother and an Italian father, reminded Faye of a fragile doll. “How did it go, Faye?”

Faye smiled and angled her head. “I’ll find out soon enough. I haven’t had time to go through my files, but what else did they take besides the Andino account?”

“They took
Chocolate Living,
but returned it the next day.”

“I wonder why,” Faye drawled facetiously.

Gina rested a hand on Faye’s arm. “Listen, I’ve got to go and finish some copy for Bobby who’s out with strep throat.” She headed to the door, then stopped. “What about lunch?”

Faye smiled. “You’re on.” She waited for Gina to leave to sit and study the notes she’d scribbled during the Stembridge meeting, her mind churning with ideas. She’d wait to see what John was proposing before she followed through with her plan to clean out her desk.