Love in New York ; Cherish My Heart

by Shirley Hailstock

  In a split second, Susan decided to go. “I’d love to,” she said. Her purpose in taking the job in the store was to meet people, so she shouldn’t turn her back on an invitation when it appeared.

  Drinks turned out to be happy hour at a little pub not far from the store. The place was packed, and as the hour progressed, more and more people poured in. Susan found herself packed into a booth, next to Fred Lang from the marketing department. Fred’s subtle moves went from suggestions to innuendo to outright requests. She turned them all down.

  She had to get out of the booth and possibly leave the group. She decided to go to the ladies’ room, then return and give her regrets. She got up, slid past two other people, who were both jovial with drink and the vision of having two days off, and reached the edge of the bench seat. Unfortunately, Fred was directly behind her.

  “Fred, I’m going to the ladies’ room. You can’t follow me there,” Susan told him.

  As she turned to find her way through the crowd, she came up short against the white-shirted chest of another man.

  “Excuse me,” she said, looking up. André Thorn stood in front of her.

  “Well,” he said. “This time there isn’t a waiter carrying a tray of champagne.”

  “I apologized for that,” she said, with anger coming to her aid. She was already annoyed with Fred and had been expecting this sword to drop all day. Because she was unprepared to have it fall when she thought she was safe, her sarcasm was stronger than she had expected it to be. “Please excuse me.”

  She moved to go around him, but he stepped sideways, blocking her escape.

  “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Susan’s sanity came back to her. This was the president of the company for which she worked. Susan forgot that she could leave and get another job. She knew what it was to be an employee and to be the owner of a business.

  “I think I’ve had enough to drink,” she said. “I’m ready to go home.”

  “So you’re going to escape my presence, the way you did at the wedding?”

  Her head came up to stare at him. Instead of seeing a reprimand in his eyes, she was greeted with a smile.

  A devastatingly handsome smile.

  It churned her insides, not the way Fred had done for her, but with need and the fact that it had been a long time since she had met a man with as much sexual magnetism as André Thorn. No wonder he fit the bill as a playboy.

  “I guess I am,” Susan finally said. From the corner of her eye, she saw Fred sliding out of the booth again. He had to know who André Thorn was, but if he planned to put his arm around her in front of another man, he was sadly mistaken. “Excuse me,” she said and hurried away.

  Susan stood in front of the bathroom mirrors. She freshened makeup that didn’t need it, stalling for time. Why had she reacted to André Thorn that way? Embarrassment, she rationalized. She’d run into him at her friend Ryder’s wedding. Judging from where he sat in the church, he must have known Ryder’s bride, Melanie. He would. Frowning at her reflection, she chided herself for the unbidden thought. It was a total accident that she had slipped and tipped the waiter’s tray filled with champagne glasses. He’d reached for her, and the comedy of flying glasses and fumbling hands and feet would have made her laugh if it had happened in a movie. But it had happened to her—to them. And there was nothing funny about it.

  Too embarrassed to do anything but apologize and leave, Susan had rushed away to try to remove the splashes that had hit her dress and shoes. She hadn’t returned.

  Never expecting to see the unnamed man again, she had felt surprised when their eyes had connected across the orientation room, but the recognition had been instant. And now she had to return to the bar, where he was. Snapping her purse closed, she went back to her group. It was thinner, with a few people having left while she’d been in the bathroom. Fred was not one of them. He immediately stood to allow her to slide back into the bench seat.

  “Please sit back down,” she said. “I’m afraid I have to be leaving.” The group looked at her without censure.

  “Not yet,” Fred said. “Just one more drink.”

  “I’ve had my limit,” she lied. “And I have a lot to do tomorrow, so I need to get going.” Before Fred could protest further, she picked up her sweater and said good-night.

  Unfortunately, she had to pass the table where André and several other guys were sitting. From the look of several of them, they had to be related. Susan had learned something about the House of Thorn. She knew there were stores in several major cities and that André had brothers who ran those stores.

  She smiled as she neared the table. André stepped out of the booth and away from the group. Susan knew it would be rude to slip past him, but she didn’t want to engage in a conversation. They had nothing, except an overturned tray and a wedding, in common. Her steps slowed as she approached him.

  “Don’t run away yet,” he said, opening his arms as if to stop her if she tried to get around him.

  Susan looked him directly in the eye, but didn’t say anything.

  “I just want to introduce myself, since you’re working at the store. André Thorn,” he said.

  “Susan Dewhurst,” she replied. “Although, you were introduced this afternoon.”

  “I know all of the staff, and I wanted to personally greet you and welcome you to our family of employees.”

  “Thank you. I’ve only been here for a few weeks, but it seems like a good place to work.” She glanced over her shoulder, at the booth of coworkers she’d just left. “There are a couple of other newbies at that table over there. Maybe you want to go and introduce yourself to them too. I have to run now.” Susan slipped her sweater over her shoulders and smiled. “Good night, Mr. Thorn.”

  As she opened the door, she heard a whoop of laughter from the direction where André stood. Were they laughing at her?

  * * *

  “Ah-ha.” Blake’s hand clamped on André’s shoulder. “Someone who doesn’t bow to your charms. We’ve got to meet this Wonder Woman.”

  André’s brothers laughed. He did too, but he didn’t think it was funny. He knew his reputation within the family. They all thought he was the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was cautious. He knew why most women wanted to go out with him, and he wanted to be sure of a woman before he fell in love with her.

  After slipping back into his seat, André sipped his drink, forcing himself not to glance at the door where Susan had exited. He wondered about her. She’d intrigued him at the wedding, and she was a mystery to him now. He wasn’t used to women running away from him. As Blake had pointed out, rarely did a woman want to avoid him. Was she acting?

  He mentally shook his head. If she’d known who he was, and he was sure she had, then she’d have made contact with him long before now. He frowned. Maybe she was just shrewder than the others were. Maybe she’d taken a job at the House of Thorn to get close to him.

  André shook his head. That sounded arrogant. He wasn’t arrogant. He was cautious.

  “André,” Blake said, interrupting his thoughts. “You’re not still thinking about that woman, are you?” Blake glanced toward the door. André’s eyes followed, but Blake’s position obstructed his view. He knew she wasn’t there. It was the last place she had stood. For some reason, he felt her presence would still be there.

  “Of course not.” André covered his lie by taking a drink. Then he shifted toward his brothers and toasted them with his glass. While he’d given the answer Blake had expected, he continued to think about Susan. Why was it that she seemed to run in the opposite direction whenever he came near her? And why was he allowing it to matter?

  * * *

  The store was super busy on Saturdays. André liked to get in early. He’d review the sales reports and check the analysis on special offers and clearance items. He’d r
eview proposals from the various departments in preparation for the Monday-morning meetings. Then, when the doors opened to customers, he’d walk through the various departments. That was the part he liked best. He’d done it since he was a boy, and he loved the store.

  And it was time.

  After checking the clock on his desk, André stood up. Glancing through the window, he looked at the streets below. They were teeming with people, as they always were. Day or night, there were always crowds on the street. And in one minute, they would begin pouring through the doors.

  André began his morning ritual. He loved the tourists who came in and considered everything. More of them bought goods to take back to their homes than not. And they either went for the souvenirs or the really expensive items. From a young age, André had learned to pick out who bought inexpensive gold necklaces and who headed for items like handmade, soft-as-butter, designer boots. He could tell a man who shopped for his wife from the one who was there to buy his mistress an expensive piece of jewelry or a designer negligee. He could distinguish a grandmother buying for her grandchild from a mother-in-law shopping for a son-in-law or daughter-in-law she didn’t like. He could also tell the one who did like their son or daughter’s choice of a spouse.

  He’d reached the furniture department. Naturally, Susan came to mind. She wasn’t there. He wondered if she was on the schedule for this Saturday. New employees usually got the weekend hours. He waved and smiled at several employees in the area. Since he didn’t see Susan, he could only assume she had the day off.

  The first customers got off the elevator and entered the department. They were a couple, and they were looking at one of the beds. Again, André wondered about Susan. Why was he obsessing over her? Why did she keep coming to the front of his mind? Was she genuine, or was she just like the others? He didn’t know. With all of his knowledge about people, he couldn’t tell a real relationship from one based on his bank account.

  During the course of his walk, he spoke with more and more department heads and a few customers. When he got to the first floor, the place was teeming with people—mostly tourists, he assumed. They were at the perfume counters and the makeup areas, and a few looked through the glass cases in the jewelry department. The only place left to inspect was the exterior of the building. The revolving doors were swinging so rapidly, he was practically forced out onto the street. As usual, the tourists were looking in the windows, while locals rushed to take care of errands. André turned left. He would check the windows. The staff had themes for the Fifth Avenue side of the building, but along the side street, there were daily changes.

  Just as he turned, he stopped short. Across the street was a woman with a camera. That in itself was not unusual. The reason he had stopped was that the woman he saw was Susan. She had a tripod set up and was taking timed shots of the building. There was so much movement on the street, she couldn’t be taking photos of people.

  André saw the traffic light turn green and rushed across the street with the mass of people.

  “Susan,” he said.

  She turned. He saw her smile. Then she raised a camera that was hanging around her neck and snapped a picture.

  “I didn’t know you were a photographer,” he said, stopping in front of her. Her eyes were clear and brown, and he took in the violet color of her lipstick, which matched her dress. Her lips called to him with an urgency so strong, he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “It’s something I picked up in Europe and love doing.”

  “So, you’re taking a photo of the store?”

  “I’ve taken several. It’s really an architecturally beautiful building.”

  So was she, André thought, but instead of having hard edges like the building, she had soft, rounded curves. André cast his eyes toward the upper edge of the House of Thorn’s New York store to keep from allowing her to see the appraisal in his eyes.

  He heard a shutter open and close in succession and knew she’d taken another picture of him. He looked at her.

  “Is this how you spend your days off?”

  “Mostly.” She smiled. “New York is hard, though. Every picture you take is already a postcard.”

  “And still, photographers and tourists take their own.” He glanced at the street encompassing the crowd of tourists, many looking up, mostly with cell-phone cameras, recording their own versions of stock footage. Turning back, he faced Susan just in time for her to snap another photo. “You won’t find that on a postcard,” André said.

  Susan smiled.

  André looked at her camera as she was about to raise it again. “Is that a Hasselblad?” he asked, unnecessarily. The name was written in silver lettering above the lens. André didn’t know much about photography, but he recognized the expensive camera.

  “It was a gift,” she explained.

  André’s brows rose. “That must have been a very good friend.” The camera looked too new to be secondhand.

  “I studied photography for a while.”

  “You must be good at it.” André wondered if she was being careful with her words. He felt there was more to this story. Who’d give her such an expensive camera? How close had she been to that person? He felt an arrow of jealousy go through him. Shifting position, he pushed it aside. She worked for him. There would be nothing between them.

  “I’m afraid I have to go,” she said, packing the tripod and camera into a bag. “I’m meeting someone and I don’t want to be late.”

  He watched as she walked away, unable to stop himself from seeing what direction she went. Or from taking note of the way her body swayed as the pants she wore outlined every curve of her slim frame.

  André didn’t stop checking her out until she turned a corner and was out of sight. Mentally, he shook himself. He shouldn’t have the thoughts for Susan that he did. He’d been able to exclude every other woman who worked in the store from his mind. But Susan was someone different. He didn’t know why. But he was a red-blooded American male, and she fit the bill of a hot woman.

  Lord, did she make him hot.

  Chapter 2

  Susan saw her coming through the lens of her camera. She’d have recognized Minette Marchand anywhere. She was the image of her father, only with a mane of dark curly hair. Jerome Marchand had once had the same color hair, but at fifty-five his hair was salt-and-pepper. He looked more like a distinguished college professor than a world-renowned photographer.

  “Minette,” Susan called, moving the camera from her face.

  The woman who was about Susan’s age smiled and walked faster toward her. “Hi,” she said.

  The single word brought Susan home, like so many references she hadn’t heard in years did. In Europe things had been more formal—the words weren’t truncated or reduced to shortened phrases.

  “I’m Susan. Thank you for meeting me. I met your father in Italy, and he’s told me so many things about you.”

  “Really?” She frowned. The expression on Minette’s face froze, and she dropped her eyes to hide it. Susan knew Minette and Jerome were estranged, but Jerome loved his daughter, and Susan wasn’t sure the woman knew how much.

  “He’s got photos of you all over his studio.”

  Minette took a moment and then cleared her throat. Susan wondered if an unexpected emotion had caught her unaware. “I see you’re a photographer, too.”

  “I am.” Susan smiled. She glanced at her camera. “I have your father to thank for that. He took me under his wing in Italy and taught me everything about the camera and good photographs.”

  “Is he a good teacher?” she asked.

  “Excellent. Didn’t he teach you things?”

  Minette took a moment to glance up at the sky. Susan followed her gaze. A moment later, Minette looked her straight in the eye. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Do you know he’s thinking about coming ba
ck?” Susan asked.

  The two began to stroll toward the river. Susan occasionally lifted the camera and snapped a photo.

  “He eluded to it when he wrote about you being in New York.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Susan asked. She saw the surprise on Minette’s face. “He told me the two of you weren’t on the best of terms.”

  “I suppose you two talked a lot.”

  Susan heard the disapproval in her voice. “We did, but if you’re thinking I replaced you as a daughter, you couldn’t be more wrong. First he was my friend, when I really needed a friend. Then he was my teacher and mentor. But he loved you, and while he’s never said it to me, I think he needs you.”

  “He’s never needed me in the past.”

  Susan stopped walking. “Do you really believe that?”

  “If not, why did he leave me? Why did he go all the way to Italy and never reach out to me?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is your father is a wonderful, compassionate man. I believe he has a reason. And I believe the two of you should talk about it when he arrives.”

  She sighed, as if she’d been through this before. “He’ll be too busy. Whenever he does one of these shows, he has no time for anything or anyone except his photographs.”

  Susan smiled. “Just keep an open mind and talk honestly with him.”

  “I’ll try,” Minette said. “Now, I know you’ve been in the city for a long while, but I’ll bet you haven’t seen much of it.”

  She was wrong. Susan was a tourist at heart, and before getting her job at the House of Thorn, she’d visited many of the monuments and places of interest, but she didn’t say that. She knew that even if she lived in this city for the rest of her life, she’d never see it all.

  “I’ve got my camera.” Susan raised it in one hand. “Let’s go.”