Captain of Industry Page 2

  In the resulting clamor Jennifer looked around her. There was nobody much over thirty, unusual for parties like this where she’d worn clothes for Lucius and other designers all the holiday season. Usually everyone was half dead and super serious, utterly focused on drinking the right thing from the right glass. At the last Lucius party there had been loud words over where the best seats at a play were to be had, and a whispered sharing of which of three kinds of saffron could be found at some Midtown grocer, if you knew to ask for it. She had found it wise to listen and otherwise be a moving statue. Sometimes people even assumed she didn’t understand English and she let them think it rather than argue about whether it was a better view from Fifth Avenue facing west or Central Park West facing east—once you got above 74th Street and the fifteenth floor, of course.

  She unwrapped the little package Suzanne pressed into her hands to find a cheap kazoo, and laughed outright as others joined in with a swing cover of “Jingle Bell Rock” playing on the stereo.

  Suzanne stopped tooting her kazoo long enough to ask, “Afraid you’ll mess up your lipstick?”

  “I am working.”

  “Working?” Suzanne’s gaze flicked to Lucius and back. The music segued to “Deck the Halls” and Lucius was joining in.

  “You didn’t think this was a date, did you? It’s purely business.” Suzanne blinked just enough times for Jennifer to hastily add, “I wear his clothes to parties, he pays me, and that’s it.”

  “Oh, I get it. And you can’t be untidy?”

  “I can hardly ruin my look over a kazoo.”

  “You’re right. A kazoo is a poor excuse.”

  Jennifer found herself being kissed soundly on the lips and released again before she could even react. Her Smouldering Rose Lancôme lip rouge now highlighted Suzanne’s smile. Realizing that she was staring she hastily said, “It’s not your color.”

  With a comfortable gesture at her suit and tie, Suzanne quipped, “You think?”

  Behind her the kazoo band sang out, “Don we now our gay apparel!” and Lucius warbled, “Who’s Don and how do I meet him?” With her employer distracted by the revelry, Jennifer let herself be drawn by Suzanne to the picture windows. The few patches of snow visible through the trees in the park were taking on a moonlit glow. Lights were popping out everywhere, including masses of green and red for the holidays—she couldn’t hold back a pleased murmur.

  Suzanne was sighing. “It’s magical. I’ll be sorry to leave it.”

  “You’re selling?” Jennifer was disconcerted after a glance showed that Suzanne was looking at her, not the view. She was used to flirtation but not with a woman. The kiss had been surprising and nice and she couldn’t think of a reason not to do it again. Except…she hadn’t kissed a woman before. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might enjoy it.

  “I’m renting for now, and I don’t think I have the right stuff to be a New Yorker.” Suzanne crossed her eyes, earning a giggle from Jennifer. “I’m planning to get back to Silicon Valley by spring. That’s where the next big thing will be and I will be there.”

  “New York has a lot to offer. The art. Theater. Food.” She cleared her throat. “Fashion.”

  “Those would be your people?”

  “Well, I’m trying.”

  “Succeeding, looks like.”

  “It’s hard to tell if it’ll last.” She had studied the rise and fall of other models just this season alone. One had publicly voiced fervent disapproval of gay men, forgetting who she worked for and who dressed and photographed her, not to mention it was the Gay 90s. The more spectacular implosion had been the girl who apparently couldn’t say no to alcohol and cocaine. Jennifer had taken note of how quickly both girls, once swimming in fawning followers and fashion reporter attention, had been wiped from everyone’s collective shoe in a matter of weeks. “I’m going to make a confession—I have no idea what Connecks does. Or did.”

  “Neither does AOL, but they outbid Time-Warner.”

  Suzanne’s cheerful wink combined with a cheeky smile left Jennifer with a disconcerting tingle south of her stomach. “How exactly does that all work?”

  “I had an idea about how to more quickly and securely store a lot of data. I got some capital, built up a server farm run by my software and waited for a buyer.”

  “Like flipping a house.”

  Suzanne laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right. Except that I created the real estate, built the house, and then flipped it for a big profit. The employees didn’t do too badly either.”

  The woman oozed confidence, and who could blame her, Jennifer thought. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, worth millions and had the brains to do it all again. “And to think all I’ve done is hit the gym, get dressed and walk up and down a runway.”

  Suzanne put the view to her back, hands comfortably tucked in her pant-front pockets. “I’m thinking that’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  “If it were, anyone would do it.” She shifted her shoulders, the right slightly higher than the left, and shook back her hair. She might not like champagne or know what half the little tasty things were that kept going by them on trays, but she had mad skills of her own.

  She was satisfied by the heated look on Suzanne’s face, and realized at the same time she’d never been given that look by a woman before, at least that she’d noticed. Hadn’t wanted to see it before either. The kiss had been for fun, and they’d abruptly tumbled right past flirting. There was no air.

  After glancing over the party, Suzanne said, “No, not everyone can do that.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Jennifer lied.

  Twilight had finally eased into night and they were now reflected in the window. She’d grown up in a noisy house with one full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Gazing at the picture the two of them made was part vanity, but it was also a now habitual check that the built-in breast shields and neckline were still where they were supposed to be, and that the static cling so common in dry falling temperatures wasn’t ruining the line of the dress around her calves.

  As her gaze ran up the long crease in the front of Suzanne’s trousers, she knew it was more than aesthetic appreciation. Yes, she liked the way Armani looked on Suzanne and she flashed on an image of the jacket and tie draped over the end of her bed. Flustered, she asked, “Do you dress that way to make a point?”

  The frown she got in answer made her regret even more the abrupt question. She’d clearly given offense.

  “Maybe. If the point is that women can be exactly what they want to be. Would you have asked a man that question?”

  “Sure.” Realizing that Suzanne was on the verge of walking away, she brushed an imaginary hair off the nearest sleeve of her jacket. “You have to admit, it’s not the norm.”

  “It is for me.”

  And when you’ve made millions before your thirtieth birthday, what’s normal for you is exactly what you get to be, Jennifer thought. “Good for you. I have no idea what I’d wear, left to my own devices.” She glanced down. “I’d wear these boots every day of the week, I guess.”

  “They’re very fetching.” Suzanne’s body had relaxed again.

  A chorus of “Santa Baby” rose from the kazoos, now clustered around the bar. Suzanne abruptly frowned at the sight of more arrivals.

  “I apologize. It’s someone I’d especially hoped would show.” She met Jennifer’s gaze and visibly swallowed. “Please don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

  “I won’t.” The promise slipped out before she could think of anything coy.

  She watched Suzanne greet a turtleneck-wearing man she knew she should have recognized. Some tech mogul, probably, and at least a decade older than anyone else at the party.

  Lucius returned to her side and maneuvered them in that direction. “Jennifer, dear girl, if either of us married that guy we’d be set for life.”

  Her gaze flicked to Suzanne. “Lucius, dear boy, he’s not my type.”


  Chapter Three

  For the next hour, she watched not one but two very cute blondes drape themselves on Suzanne. She also realized that nearly everyone there was probably gay. She was surrounded by gay men at photo shoots and in couture dressing rooms, but gay women not nearly as much. She’d assumed that high fashion didn’t interest them, but the Givenchy and McQueen holiday gowns intermittently pressed up against Suzanne’s hips proved her wrong. Suzanne seemed well-acquainted with both women. That or she didn’t mind being used as a thigh napkin.

  Which didn’t stop Jennifer from looking over Lucius’s head in that direction, or reduce the searing flare of desire she felt when she caught Suzanne looking back at her.

  Lucius was enjoying himself, but at precisely ten p.m. he paused in his pursuit of the scrubby-cute waiter to tell her she was off the clock. She wasn’t going to party until dawn on his dime, a fact she accepted. Normally she would have called for a cab and gone home. She had a photo shoot with a new photographer at eight thirty in the morning. She’d expected this party to be another midweek yawner.

  She looked at Suzanne again, caught her looking back, again. This time there might have been even a hint of a plea.

  Club soda on ice with a twist of lime looked sophisticated and wouldn’t ruin her dress if spilled. The bitter taste made her grimace the same way people who loved their whiskey or gin did. One more locked-eyes exchange with Suzanne brought her all the way across the loft, skirting the cushions that had slipped onto the floor and the chairs askew from little cocktail party tables.

  Blonde #1 received her most sincere smile of pure ice, perfected by studying her idol of grace and sophistication, Lauren Bacall. It had the instantaneous effect of loosening the talons gripping Suzanne’s arm. Suzanne gave her a grateful look and completed her escape by turning her back on Blonde #2.

  A welcoming gesture opened a path directly into the midst of the cluster surrounding Suzanne. “Can you finally enjoy yourself?”

  That’s when her boot heel caught on a chair leg, snagging her dress.

  She felt the ping of popped stitches along her ribs.

  The drink went left, Jennifer went right.

  The dress stayed where it was.

  She needed two hands to keep her face from smashing onto the concrete floor. She needed two hands to cover Laverne and Shirley.

  Everyone nearby had been moving away from her arrival. Only Suzanne had been moving toward her. How the long arms got under her before she face-planted on the floor she never knew. Then she was wobbly but upright.

  She used one arm to cover the girls, and her free hand to keep the dress from dropping farther than her hips, then found Suzanne’s jacket draped over her shoulders. Clutching it close she realized the kazoo ballad had stopped and both blondes were giving her looks of pure delight.

  “You’re heavier than you look.” Suzanne was laughing.

  “You did not seriously just say that to me.” She dashed her hair out of her eyes.

  Suzanne flushed, but her merriment continued. “You’re not expecting me not to have noticed…” She waved a hand toward Jennifer’s chest. “The, umm, kit and caboodle.”

  Blonde #2 waved her Nokia at Jennifer. “Why don’t I call you a cab?”

  Lucius rushed up, overflowing with concern. “Is anything torn? Did the skirt catch?”

  “How about a trip to the powder room to assess the damage,” Suzanne suggested. “It’s this way.”

  This is not happening, Jennifer thought. “I just caught my heel is all.”

  “There’s a side panel stitch showing now,” Lucius fussed.

  The bathroom held the three of them without a problem. Suzanne reclaimed her jacket as Jennifer assumed strip position. She tried to ignore Suzanne as Lucius whisked the dress past her black panties and thigh-high hose to just below her knees. She stepped to the left as Lucius moved to the right, a familiar dance without a hint of modesty—until she realized Suzanne wasn’t making any effort to avert her eyes.

  “I don’t see any damage,” Lucius cautiously announced.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” Jennifer snapped. She caught Suzanne nodding. “Could I have a towel or something?”

  Lucius let out a wail. “The side seam is popped! How could this happen?”

  Because you’re a lousy tailor, Jennifer wanted to say.

  Suzanne slipped out of the room leaving Jennifer still without anything to use as a cover-up—the delicate little hand towels were less dignified than nudity. The little bag that had been dangling forgotten from one shoulder all evening was on the loft floor, no doubt, with her ID, lipstick and cab fare in it. It wouldn’t even cover one boob, let alone both, and Lucius was useless.

  A quick knock at the door led to Suzanne’s reentry. She offered a wrapped package. “A gift from someone who doesn’t know I prefer cotton. You’re tall enough I think.”

  Silk pajamas, dark blue. Jennifer ripped the package open, shook out the pleating hooks and cardboard liner and pulled the top over her head without bothering with the buttons. Everything was going fine until she couldn’t get her head through the collar.

  “Hang on.” Suzanne’s cologne—something subtle and mildly woody—wafted under the pajama top. Jennifer felt fingers at the first button, then her head was clear. Her hair tangled on the collar and Suzanne’s touch was gentle as she separated it. “Don’t want to damage the extensions.”

  “I don’t have any, but thank you.”

  “So this is all you?”

  There was no air again. Her skin was both warmed and chilled by the silk. “All me.”

  She tried to tell herself that panting was unattractive, but desire was so loud in her ears that all she could hear was a low, thick pulse. I should be afraid, she thought, but she could see in Suzanne’s face exactly what she felt.

  With Lucius moaning over the dress, Suzanne offered wordless assistance with the pajama bottoms.

  “I can take the boots off.” Her own voice sounded far away.

  Kneeling, Suzanne cupped the back of Jennifer’s ankle and gently pulled the pajama leg upward while protecting it from heel snags. “It’s okay, I’ve got it. Now the other one.”

  Looking down at the short-cropped hair and the Oxford shirt, Jennifer had only one thought: I’m glad she’s a woman. She didn’t know what showed in her face, but Suzanne looked up suddenly and swallowed hard.

  Jennifer was glad Lucius was there and wanted him to go away.

  Suzanne retreated to the opposite wall and Jennifer fussed with rolling up the waist so she wasn’t walking on puddles of pajama silk.

  A Frisbee fight using now-useless hourly America Online trial CDs had broken out by the time Hurricane Jennifer joined the party again. A little worse for wear and in loose-fitting Brooks Bros. silk pajamas, she avoided the flying discs and coiled up in front of the picture window. She sincerely hoped Suzanne would join her.

  When a Times photographer took a photo of her mussed, yet comfortable look she asked for a courtesy copy to be sent to her agent, which was what she’d been told she should always do even though no one ever sent one. The photographer departed, happy with her scoop.

  Suzanne brought her a drink and a plate with two crackers, a wedge of cheese and some strawberries.

  Her jangled nerves settled with the food, but when Suzanne sat next to her she found it hard to swallow. Heat seemed to ripple through Suzanne’s shirtsleeve and the silk, and it only made Jennifer crave more warmth. The blondes, it seemed, had given up pursuit.

  “Thank you—for everything.” Jennifer eyed the drink Suzanne had given her.

  “Just club soda. The bartender said that’s what you were drinking.”

  Thoughtful… “I wasn’t drunk.”

  “I tripped on one of those damned things earlier, when they were setting them up.”

  “Photographers like to provide champagne during photo shoots, but I don’t get it. They say it’s for nerves.” She thought of her father. “I don�
�t drink on the job. I guess I’m getting used to the taste too.”

  “Where did you live before you got to Manhattan?”

  She found herself telling Suzanne about King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, the Queen of Prussia College for Models and the big photo shoot for the first anniversary issue of Glamour that had paid off her school loan and made the deposit and first six months of rent in the East Village possible. Focusing on the joys and hazards of learning Manhattan she avoided mentioning her family and hoped Suzanne didn’t think that was strange. That was all behind her.

  It was after midnight when Suzanne declared it a “school night” and closed the bar. Jennifer turned down invitations to take her new fashion look out on the town and start a new rage. Lucius had departed with his poor little dress and suddenly, with the exception of the caterer packing up glasses and trays, they were alone.

  I could never live in a place like this, Jennifer thought. Though the bedroom was tucked on the other side of the floor, around the corner from the dramatic open-plan kitchen, it had no door, no walls. There was no real privacy.

  Small talk seemed dangerously complicated.

  They were sharing the view again, agreeing that the winter moon seemed larger than usual, when Jennifer said, “I have an appointment at eight thirty in the morning that I can’t miss.”

  Suzanne glanced at her watch, looking rueful. “Where do you have to be?”

  “The shoot is in Midtown. I’m supposed to arrive with hair down, no makeup—they provide a stylist.”

  “Then I should get you home.”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  Suzanne was again looking at the moon. “You’re not taking a cab alone, dressed like that.”

  “I’m all covered up,” Jennifer insisted, though she didn’t want the evening to end. “I am usually wearing less than this, and Lucius didn’t provide a coat.”

  “Cheap bastard.”

  “His checks don’t bounce. Which is why my agency keeps sending me out with him.”

  “I would think pneumonia would be against everyone’s business interests.”