Not curious enough to open it right away. I went back to my office and called Olivia. Her housekeeper answered. While I waited for Olivia to come to the phone, I dangled the shopping bag on my finger. It was featherlight. Fantasies, Paris, London, New York. An expensive store, judging from the bag. I’d never heard of it.
‘Nicole,’ Olivia boomed into my ear, ‘is my handbag ready?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I’d forgotten. Maybe Leila was right about my being distracted. ‘These past couple of days have been hectic. I’ll send it over tomorrow morning.’ I told her about my meeting at Bergdorf’s. ‘The buyer said I came highly recommended by a good customer. She wouldn’t tell me who and I thought maybe –’
She cut me off. ‘I am a very good customer of that store, but I did not recommend you. Of course, I’m happy for you, but I hope that doesn’t change our agreement. I still get first choice.’
I suppressed a groan. ‘You will always get first pick. You’re my best customer.’ Mollifying the client was the part of my work I hated and did badly. Leila was an ace at it.
‘It was Archer, I’m sure of it,’ Olivia said, her voice a few decibels lower at the mention of his name. The effect that man had on women was scary. ‘He was very favourably struck by your work. I knew he would be. That’s why I brought him over. It’s flattering when a man of Archer’s impeccable taste agrees with your own taste, don’t you agree?’
Thorne wearing that gold V-necked sweater popped in front of my eyes. Impeccable taste, maybe. Sexy, definitely. ‘I do agree.’
After a few more banalities I got her off. And now the package. I put the envelope aside and unwrapped layers of black tissue paper.
No wonder the shopping bag had been featherlight. What I was holding in my hand was practically nothing. A web of black silk strings with three minuscule lace triangles strategically placed. An ingenious garment, sexy as hell. I couldn’t wait to try it on some unsuspecting gentleman. Certainly not on Thorne, no matter how many stores he recommended me to. If he’d been the one to recommend me.
I threw the garment back in the bag and tore open his envelope. It was company stationery. Thick, expensive beige paper. On top The Thorne Company was embossed in burgundy ink.
Nicole – Meet me at the Tribeca Grand bar. 8 p.m. Wear it. You won’t regret it. That’s a promise.
Archer Thorne
His handwriting was as beautiful and arrogant as he was. He’d used a fountain pen. His thick black inked words sprawled across the page as though the world was his.
Well, I wasn’t.
I texted him. Lovely gift is a perfect fit. Thank you. I’m busy tonight. Busy every night.
I saw that Geoffrey had sent me a message. I clicked on it.
As promised, he’d written. It’s the only pic I have. Hope he makes the grade. And there was the photo of his friend. He was standing next to a barbecue grill, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, holding a beer in his hand. It was Eric, the man who’d tried to pick me up at Geoffrey’s open house party. I’d found him sleepily sexy, I remembered, and would have hooked up with him if it hadn’t been for my wanting Thorne so much. What an idiot I’d been. Still was. My body hadn’t stopped wanting him.
I studied Eric’s picture, enlarged his face. I remembered the wide blue eyes that had laughter in them and the blond-going-to-grey hair. At the party his hair had been clipped short. Here it was longer and sexier. A few wrinkles added character to his face. He reminded me of a younger Robert Redford, although not nearly as handsome. And he looked shy, which was attractive to women who weren’t looking for an Alpha male. He hadn’t been shy with me, but maybe he’d guessed right away that I went for the direct approach.
I tossed Thorne’s shopping bag and letter off my desk, pulled my laptop closer to me and went to the Close Encounters website. There were two messages. The first was from the young prospective client.
That’s great! Thank you so much. I would love to meet your client. I promise not to take up too much of her time. I can meet her after work any place she wants.
Kelly (that’s my real name. Anastasia is just too dumb)
I wrote back that our client would meet her the next day at six o’clock, giving her the address of a Pain Quotidien on Eighth Street.
The second e-mail was from Eric. He’d sent a different picture of himself, this one in a bathing suit. He had a nice sculpted body, a little on the thin side. He’d included his height, weight, age and more information than I needed. He’d gotten through college bartending; he worked out three times a week; had run the Boston and NYC marathon three times; was a good dancer and loved reading; had travelled a lot overseas as a manager of a paper brokerage company. He knew some Spanish – I stopped reading. This man was either insecure or a bore. I’d have to find out.
I’d started to reply to Eric when my cell beeped. I picked it up. Thorne’s answer:
I can wait.
I picked up his letter from the floor, pressed it against my nose. I remembered his smell, his fingers squeezing my nipples, his erection rubbing against my ass, his tongue licking champagne off my sex. Maybe he could wait. I wasn’t sure I could.
I tore the letter into little pieces, watched them fall into the trashcan. I had to send him away for good. I picked up my phone and answered:
I’ll wear it tonight.
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