Captain of Industry Page 7

  It was a lovely enough gown, clever even in what it did and didn’t expose when still or in motion, but she eyed the show-closing Michael Kors’ winter lace and Basque-waist wedding dress and knew there was a difference Lucius would probably never achieve.

  She wished she’d taken the time to look at Monique’s note, but it had seemed important to let Monique know she would take care of it in due course. That this girl did not answer “how high” to anyone’s “jump.” High school already felt like a decade ago, but the lesson of never letting a cat-calling, harassing masher see her flinch had been a good one. Working in the menswear department at the mall had underscored the need to seem above all the crude remarks about her figure, the invitations to tour the dressing rooms and the outright groin rubs by guys who wanted to be sure she saw them touching themselves. She channeled her inner Lauren Bacall and they became invisible.

  Monique DuMar’s note seemed to glow inside her handbag. Was it a personal referral to the kind of agent who hadn’t even responded to the delivery of her portfolio a few months ago? And a publicist? Was she ready for that?

  She was about to risk moving from her assigned place to dig into her handbag when a harried intern thrust a padded envelope at her.

  “Someone dropped off something for you. Said it was part of your outfit.”

  Lucius looked up from fussing around another girl’s winter-in-the-park ensemble. Was she becoming a horrible egotist that she thought the outfit looked pedestrian on someone else? Hadn’t Lauren Bacall said that looking in a mirror was a poor reflection of life?

  “You’re complete,” he snapped. “I don’t know what that is, but you’re not wearing it.”

  She bit one finger of her three-quarter length glove and pulled it off in spite of Lucius’s despairing groan. Careful of her nails, she pried up the envelope corner and out tumbled a small green Lego brick.

  Her laugh of delight turned heads.

  “Get that glove back on!”

  “Yes master,” Jennifer said.

  The envelope had nothing written on it so she let it float to the floor along with the rest of the dressing room detritus. The tiny Lego piece she tucked in between Laverne and Shirley.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m a stranger in a strange land, Suzanne had to admit. Normally, her interest in attending a fashion show would take an electron microscope to detect. The difference between teal and cerulean wasn’t a battle she wanted to pitch. Preferring masculine cuts and leaving the decision of just how narrow her ties should be to a tailor had simplified her life to no end, that much was clear.

  There had been a point in her past when being surrounded by this many gorgeous women giving her a second glance would have caused a euphoric asthma attack. Frothy bits of lace and sleek jackets that wouldn’t keep anyone warm were walked up and down the elevated runway that split the long, narrow banquet hall. She pretended interest for the sake of her host, a friend of a friend of the Wealth Management Specialist from her investment brokerage, who had been regularly offering her gratis tickets to plays and charity events for the past few months. When you had money lots of things were free. She could easily imagine her parents shaking their heads over the unfair irony.

  She glanced at the catalog she’d been presented with at the door. Around her, some people were following along eagerly while others were chatting and sipping champagne. At the back of the room was an amazing display of cut fruit and canapés arranged like a fashion runway with a winter bride as the centerpiece ice sculpture. No one was eating any of it that she could tell. Her stomach rumbled.

  She’d spent half the day on the phone with Annemarie discussing the right people to handle finance and legal. Those specialties were outside her expertise and trust was important. She’d followed that by reading the most recent prospectuses for both companies. Her missed dinner was talking loud in her empty stomach. Would it start a scandal if she touched the food? It was after nine—just entering dinner hour for some Manhattanites.

  Fanning forward a few pages she could tell that Jennifer’s designer was coming up. She would wait and take Jennifer out somewhere quiet. She hoped.

  “Were they Armani or Brooks Brothers?”

  It took Suzanne a moment to realize the petite woman was talking to her. Her black hair was outrageously coiffed into a rolled shape on top of her head that “bun” didn’t even begin to describe. She could have been any age between thirty-five and fifty. The only inelegant touch was a notebook stuffed to breaking with photos and loose papers.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “La Lamont’s pajamas the other night. I understand you were her…” Keen dark eyes appraised her from head to toe. “Her knight in shining armor.”

  “A guest fell and I had an unopened package. It was those or one of my suits.”

  The woman’s pen danced across a notebook page. “The mind reels at the image. Jennifer Lamont as the new Dietrich.” She tucked the notebook under one arm long enough to proffer a pale hand. “Monique DuMar, features at Glamour. It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms. Mason.”

  The brief, limp handshake was preferable to the air kisses everyone else was sharing.

  “I have bad news for you,” she went on. “If you’re here to reclaim your pajamas, La Lamont told me she’s been sleeping in them.”

  Suzanne’s hackles rose. DuMar had obviously sought her out looking for some kind of salacious tidbit, like a circling shark looking for chum in the water. “They were of course a gift.”

  “And your presence here tonight is just coincidence?”

  Yes was a lie and no was blood in the water that would involve Jennifer. Jennifer, who was managing her name, exposure and career so carefully. Jennifer, who wasn’t out, and for all the signals she was sending might consider herself straight. Suzanne hoped her slight hesitation was unnoticed as she decided to mix truth and lies to avoid the topic of Jennifer altogether. “It was on my to-do list, to attend a fashion show in New York. I might have new business to tend to in California soon.”

  Her feeling that DuMar was only interested in gossip about Jennifer was confirmed when the reporter didn’t follow up with the obvious question. She’d given an opening a financial journalist would have jumped all over.

  Instead, DuMar asked, “What made you choose blue pajamas?”

  “It’s the only color I had.”

  “Happy circumstance? Creating the kind of unforgettable photograph of your gorgeous loft and the most beautiful young woman of the year lounging gracefully in front of a view of Central Park?”

  “Can fashion be accidental?”

  “Not fashion,” DuMar said. She glanced at the runway and said, more to herself than Suzanne, “Style.”

  Her brain finally offered up a way to get rid of the woman. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  A flash of horror preceded a wry smile. “Aren’t you gallant?” She patted Suzanne’s tie and again gave her a visual once-over. “I can’t think of a single way to improve you.”

  “That’s a compliment?” She let her puzzlement show.

  “Imogene!” DuMar waved a frantic hand at someone behind Suzanne. With a parting glance she said, “Yes darling. Ask anyone.”

  Feeling as if she’d crossed the Gorge of Eternal Peril, Suzanne retreated toward the buffet table. There were very few people near it, so it seemed safe. The music changed from an electronic beat blended with swing to something that sounded like blocks of cement grinding on asphalt. She’d been wrong that the music was as loud as it could get. The only word she understood in the emcee’s announcement was “Lucius.”

  After two models displayed day wear more practical for winter on Venice Beach than Central Park, the next two were lingerie. Scanty scraps of snowflake-imprinted gravity-defying fabric clung to hips and breasts, drawing scattered applause. But neither of the models was Jennifer, which seemed odd given her flawless, generous curves.

  An outpouring from the fog machine billowed across the stage. The mist swir
led and retreated to reveal Jennifer in a long, deep blue gown that at first glance seemed so demure it was out of place.

  Jennifer seemed to falter, her gaze downcast. Then a unique twist of shoulders, lift of chin and slow blink of her lush lashes promised there was much more than a proper lady under the dress. Her first steps, revealing floor-to-hip bone slits, confirmed it.

  Never in her life had Suzanne ever felt as if she were drowning in desire. She remembered to close her mouth, tried to swallow. There was spontaneous applause as Jennifer reached the end of the runway. She paused long enough to slowly strip off her gloves, then spun on her toes to look over her shoulder toward the bank of photographers. The panels of the dress parted again to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of thigh-high stocking. Camera flashes dazzled Suzanne’s eyes. There was a roaring in her ears so loud she thought the music had stopped.

  She wiped her palms on her pants. She would never again joke that tongue-tied, sweating arousal was exclusive to teenage boys.

  Jennifer had disappeared into the mist and been replaced by a new designer’s models before Suzanne could make herself move. Even then she didn’t know what to do with a body that didn’t feel like it belonged to her anymore. Her clothes were too tight, her fingertips were tingling. A deep breath didn’t help.

  She gave it a college try by reminding herself that Jennifer, like all women, was not her sex object to drool on. But innate business sense reminded her that Jennifer’s career, at least for now, was marketing her looks. The woman walked like sex. Exactly what was the right reaction to have?

  She’s not her career. She’s more than that. You don’t want to be like some guy grabbing for what’s not on sale.

  Sure, thinking about it more was going to help.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Or maybe it was that there was something right with her.

  She felt her phone buzz in her suit pocket. Flipped it open, then closed. JLMNT would be in front of the hotel in thirty minutes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jennifer’s first thought on leaving the hotel was how glad she was she’d stuffed a scarf and gloves into her coat pockets. The night had turned bitterly cold.

  Her second thought was how happy her eyes were to spot Suzanne, huddled deep inside her overcoat, standing just past the bellman’s desk. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours and she had news to tell, though her thighs’ appreciation for the pressure of Suzanne’s, after a warm hug of greeting threatened to drive everything else out of her head.

  Suzanne was the one who pushed away, saying, “Holy tennis balls, it’s cold.”

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” She double-looped the scarf around her neck and zipped the ends under her jacket. She’d decided on the peplum blouse over Imperioli boyfriend jeans. At least the UGG boots were keeping her toes warm.

  “I was just there for the one thing. And that I enjoyed very much.”

  She thought that Suzanne looked a little pale. “Fun dress to wear. For what it was. Are you hungry?”

  “I was thinking you’d never ask. One block over there’s a new place in the basement of the Marquis. Big central fireplace. I have no idea about the food.”

  “A fireplace sounds great.” Her toes felt warmer just thinking about it.

  They turned toward Lexington and Jennifer shared with her the best part of the evening. “I have big news! Sorry it took me a little longer to get out.”

  Suzanne steered her out of the path of a winding box office queue. “It’s okay. What’s up?”

  “A reporter gave me the name of one of the two top agents for models, but even better, both of those agents left their cards for me. But the best part is that the second one is also a theatrical agency for models who do both. Who knows, another month and I could be a dead body on Law and Order.”

  “You’re so, so, so much better as a live body.”

  Jennifer linked her arm with Suzanne’s, their steps in rhythm. “Thank you for thinking so.”

  They had crossed the street and dodged around people making a beeline for the subway entrance before Suzanne said, “I’m afraid of sounding like everyone else. You looked incredible. I mean, I’ve seen photographs of you, obviously, but you were all that and live. Bet you hear that all the time.”

  A quick glance revealed that Suzanne’s expression was unusually guarded. “I know I’m just starting out, but I think I can tell the difference between idle flattery and a compliment from someone who’s really looking.”

  At the top of the stairs leading to the promise of warmth and food, Suzanne turned her to face the glow from the streetlight.

  Jennifer looked up at her inquiringly but Suzanne said nothing.

  The silence became charged, growing hot against Jennifer’s cheeks and throat. Then she realized it was a deep flush and she knew it had to show. Suzanne’s lips parted—they might have trembled, Jennifer wasn’t sure.

  What am I supposed to do? Boyfriends had never been shy about what they wanted, but Suzanne was just looking at her, waiting. Waiting for what?

  A couple coming up the stairs from the restaurant jostled past them, snapping the taut, expectant silence. Jennifer turned to descend, pulling Suzanne after her.

  The restaurant lobby, lined with highly polished oak paneling, was beautifully, deliciously warm. A table near the fire opened up and Jennifer shrugged out of her jacket. The heat immediately warmed the silk.

  She glanced at Suzanne and was pleased at the look in Suzanne’s eyes. Score one for Yves St. Laurent, she thought. A fast-beating flutter of tension settled deep in her stomach.

  “Bruschetta perhaps? Or are you hungrier than that?” Suzanne’s voice was tight and low.

  She stopped herself from saying, “I’m hungrier than that,” because it was going to sound like she meant sex, which of course she did. She studied the menu for a moment so she could confirm exactly what bruschetta was. “Little toasts. Sure. Maybe the bison sliders—split an order?”

  “That sounds fantastic. I worked through dinner as it turned out.”

  “More about the merger deal?”

  “Yes, though I’m waiting to be approached. It’s all gossip right now.”

  Another silence fell, broken by the trim, pale waitress who cheerily encouraged them to have a frothy coffee drink or hot buttered toddy, the house specialty, and launched into a description of the chef’s special for the evening.

  Suzanne interrupted the description of something that sounded like “charred cuticle” with a request for the sliders. Jennifer ordered the coffee because she didn’t want to risk being carded.

  “So if no one has called you about the merger thing, why are you working on it?”

  Suzanne was gazing into the dancing yellow flames. “Something to do. If they do call, I want to make an impressive, full throttle start. Everybody knows I know the technology. I want to build confidence in my competence for the rest of the business. Leadership, organization. I guess—most people think I just got lucky. I’d like to change their minds.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Plus being gay, a lot of people are eager to discount the value of anything I do.”

  “That’s the same almost everywhere, isn’t it?”

  “There’s been a lot of progress this decade. A president who can say lesbian without choking.” Suzanne looked as if she was going to say more, then she sipped from her water and returned her gaze to the fire.

  I want to spread her out on the table and run my hands over every inch of her. It was a terrifying, thrilling image that played out over and over on Jennifer’s mental movie screen, right up there with Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster rolling around on the sand.

  Their desultory conversation was filled in with long silences—some velvet, others pins and needles. Jennifer couldn’t remember what any of the food tasted like even though the plates were now empty.

  “You don’t seem to like the coffee.”

  She shrugged. “Not my favorite thing. I needed the
water more than anything.”

  Suzanne suddenly smiled. “I like that you like food.”

  “Duh. I just can’t eat that much of it.”

  “You were one of the few women I saw on the runway tonight that I didn’t think was maybe too skinny.”

  “So you did like the dress?”

  “Of course.” She shook her head slightly. “Of course. I thought it was a mistake not to use you for the lingerie but then I saw the dress. Not the dress. You in the dress,” she added quickly.

  “It’s what Bette Davis meant about flannel nightgowns.” Suzanne looked confused so Jennifer continued, “About a bare shoulder in a flannel nightie being sexier than a naked body.”

  “Good lord, that’s the truth. I didn’t even look at the other models once I knew they weren’t you.”

  Jennifer exhaled hard.

  Suzanne blushed to the roots of her hair. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you want to—”

  “Yes.” Jennifer reached for her jacket.

  As they neared the restaurant exit, Jennifer gestured toward the posh powder rooms. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Suzanne continued toward the stairs.

  “Earth to Suzanne. Yoo-hoo.”

  Suzanne startled. “Sorry. You’re… Sure.”

  “What’s wrong? The merger thing?”

  “God no.”

  “You’re shivering.”

  Suzanne just looked at her.

  I want to give her what she needs. It was a blazing hot thought, weakening her knees.

  A glance showed a green “vacant” indicator on the nearest bathroom door. The hallway was deserted for now but that could change at any moment. Jennifer seized Suzanne’s arm and propelled them both through the door.

  Turned the lock.

  Pushed Suzanne against the back of the door so hard the louvers creaked.

  “Shh.” She kissed Suzanne in a rush of breathless abandon, holding her face with trembling fingers.

  Suzanne came alive under her hands. They were panting together, struggling to get Jennifer’s coat off, then the heat from Suzanne’s hands through the silk covering her back threatened what control Jennifer had left over her knees.