That thought was like a slap in the face. What was happening to me? I pushed his hand away and slid as far away from him as the back seat allowed. No man had ever made me want him so much.
‘I want to go home, Thorne.’
‘I want to come with you. Take you upstairs and make love to you, over and over again, then fall asleep holding you, start over again as soon as the cock crows, pun intended.’
Why was I falling for this baloney? ‘Make love to you’ instead of ‘fuck you’? He was getting romantic on me and I was liking it. ‘Sorry, Thorne, I kick my cocks out. I sleep alone.’ I wanted him to court my sex, not my heart. I wasn’t about to give that organ away.
‘You’ll miss out in the morning. That’s my best time.’
‘In the morning I have bad breath.’ I jiggled the handle. ‘Let me go. It’s way past my bedtime.’ The clock on the dashboard said 10.35. I usually got a second wind around that time. Some of my best designs have popped out of my head in the middle of the night. Now I was going to go home, take a cold shower and then hit the drawing board and start designing my next year’s bags. All thoughts of Thorne, sexy or angry ones, were going into the garbage. ‘Come on, Thorne. If I must I’ll even say please.’
‘That’s the magic word along with “sorry”.’ He clicked the doors open.
‘Who is sorry?’ I tried to push the door open against Boris’s back.
‘I am. For the other night. For kidnapping you for too short a time. For letting you go now. Sorriest for you wanting to go.’
The door didn’t budge, but that wasn’t what stopped me. Damn him, he sounded like he meant it. Maybe I should stay. We’d have a great time in bed and then I’d send him on his way.
Before I could make up my mind Thorne barked out an order to Boris in what had to be Russian. Boris snapped to attention, turned around and opened the door.
‘I would walk you to your door,’ Thorne said, ‘but I don’t trust myself to let you go. Boris will see you home.’
I wasn’t ready to be walked anywhere by anyone. Not across the street, not across town. I’d just remembered something. ‘Did you recommend my handbags to the Bergdorf Goodman buyer?’
‘I just mentioned to the CEO how much I’d liked what I saw at your presentation. We’ve done business together in the past. The WWD article on your bags is coming out next week. Front page.’
‘Your doing again?’ It was great news, but I hated owing Thorne anything.
‘No, yours.’
‘Why did you do it? You think I’ll be forever grateful and let you play with me whenever you want?’
‘When I see talent, I like to let other people know about it, people who can move that talent along. That’s what I do. I look for small companies that have potential, I buy into them or buy them outright and help them grow. You’ve got a lot of talent and I happen to know a few people in the retail business. Look, in business pride just gets in the way. Take whatever help comes your way. I don’t want or need your gratitude. I do it for me.’ His voice was arctic cold. ‘I happen to get a kick out of it. Now I think you said it was past your bedtime.’
‘I have trouble owing people anything. You help me with my work, but at the same time you humiliate me, then you send me a sexy present and expect me to show up wearing it when and where you want. I’m getting mixed messages from you and I’m a little confused, but thank you. I do appreciate your help.’ I leaned over and kissed him quickly. I half expected, wanted him to hold on to me, but he didn’t.
I walked across the street to my building, Boris dutifully following, and realised Thorne wasn’t the one confusing me. I was sending mixed messages to myself. What did I want from this man? Just mind-blowing sex or something that might touch my heart? At the door I turned around. Thorne had turned on the light and was reading the newspaper. Well, maybe I deserved that.
‘Goodnight, Boris,’ I said. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to see him again. Or Thorne. I’d messed things up with my ingratitude.
‘Goodnight, madam.’
‘My name’s Nicole.’
I stripped off my clothes, tossed Thorne’s three-triangles lingerie in the trashcan and took a long hot shower. Propped up in bed in a pair of unsexy pyjamas I’d had since college, I started to read the information on Thorne that Leila had gleaned from the Internet. I kept the bedroom door open in case…yes, part of me was hoping that the downstairs buzzer would ring. That Thorne wasn’t angry with me. That he still wanted me. Just like my mom, hoping for no good reason at all. And again, for what? The possibility of love? Dumb, dumb me. Why was I bothering to read this stuff?
I quickly read through every mention of him and his company in The New York Times, Bloomberg Businesss Week, the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. He was 34 years old. He’d gone to Yale, then gotten an MBA at Wharton. The net worth of his company was estimated at $130m in one article, $150m in another. Various charitable institutions had honoured him for his generosity. He founded an organisation, FirstStep, that helped people in need start their own businesses. There was a glowing comment in one paper from a single mom with three kids who was able to have a knitting shop thanks to FirstStep. ‘Archer Thorne gave me back hope. That alone is worth a million bucks.’
I was learning that Thorne was a good guy. I was also learning about his dating life. Leila had included a series of pictures taken from Vanity Fair and The New York Times’ Sunday Style section. He was always with the same woman. Darci Dirshen, a drop-dead willowy blonde in one beautiful strapless gown after another.
A New York Post Page Six item read:
New York’s favourite bachelor Archer Thorne has been going around town gloating like a MegaMillions winner. It has nothing to do with money this time. It looks like he’s found his dream woman, model Darci Dirshen. Last week they were spotted dancing at the Literacy For All benefit. There was no music playing. Maybe when you’re in love you make your own.
Another Post item. This one from Cindy Adams:
Does that eight carat diamond sparkling on Darci Dirshen’s finger mean Archer Thorne has finally gotten down on one knee?
An eight-carat diamond was gross. Thorne was playing around, showing off how rich he was. I didn’t care how many diamond carats Thorne tossed to his bimbo. I threw the pages on the floor, turned off the light. Fluffed up my pillow. Remembered I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Turned on the light again. When I got to the bathroom, I discovered my toothbrush was wet. That meant I had brushed my teeth. God, I was getting old before being old. I looked at myself in the mirror.
OK, face it, Nicole. You want to know how the eight-carat-diamond story ended. It had to end in a bust. Had to. Or else Leila…
I went back to my bedroom, picked up the sheets of Leila’s printout. Luckily the paper clip still held them together. I flicked through to the last page. One last picture. This one hit me like a body blow. I dropped down on the bed.
June 28, two years ago. Their smiling heads touching each other.
Darci Renee Dirshen and Archer Thorne were married Saturday at Albergo Cipriani in Venice, Italy, by Judge Albert Schecter, a childhood friend of the groom’s.
Mrs. Thorne, 28, is a model who is now pursuing an acting career.
I stopped reading. Thorne had a wife. I was having a hard time getting my head around that stark, nasty little fact. Why didn’t I ask? I didn’t bed married men, no matter how much they turned me on. My mother had imprinted that lesson in my brain. Thorne married. The possibility had never crossed my mind. I tore that sheet into confetti, threw it in my face. I wanted to kick myself. How could I be so stupid? Damn Leila! She’d read this stuff, printed it out. Why