The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  The cab moved slower than cold sludge through the morning traffic snarl that was the bane of current-day London. Unfortunately, it gave him too much time to remember the hurt and betrayal in Dorrie’s eyes. The thought of her eyes made him remember how irresistible she’d been at dinner last night. Watching the way she’d savored every bite of sole and asparagus had been one of the most sensual things he’d ever seen. And the way her body felt pressed against him when they danced, all her softness against his hardness, as if their bodies were made for each other . . .

  When his thoughts naturally moved to the memory of her in bed with him and his groin bulged uncomfortably in his tweed trousers, he slammed the brakes on that line of thinking. He wouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of those memories until he’d made everything right with her.

  How had this happened? His knee jiggled as he stared out the cab window, willing it to move faster. He was sure it was his fault. Of course it was. Why didn’t he tell her his real name? Ever since he’d become the face—body, more like—of the men’s boxer-briefs company, Jaunty, his almost naked body had been plastered on the sides of buses, on subway posters, and on the backs of magazines. His was already a household name in Britain.

  So he’d gotten into the habit of using an assumed name whenever he traveled, which was pretty much all the time now. He’d used it so often it had become second nature. He hadn’t intentionally used it with Dorrie. It just came out. But hadn’t he winced when she’d cried out “Henry” when she climaxed? It hadn’t sounded right to be experiencing such intense passion with a woman who didn’t even know his real name. Okay, it was definitely his fault. He should have told her his real name on the drive into London from Heathrow. Normally, he would have, except he was so smitten with her that he’d been taxing all his brainpower to think of a way to see her again.

  Even before the cab swung to the curb, he was already unbuckling his seat belt and yanking bills out of his wallet. The lobby of the Westbury was crowded with guests rushing to meet the noon checkout deadline. It wasn’t in his nature to shoulder his way to the front desk, but he nonetheless found himself fighting the urge to nudge everyone aside to ask about Dorrie.

  Instead, he took the lift to the fifth floor and speed-walked down the corridor to her room, immediately rapping on the door with his knuckles and calling out, “Dorrie, it’s Grant. Please open the door.” No response. He put his ear up against the wood paneled door and listened. Crickets. Maybe she was in the shower and couldn’t hear his knock. He knocked again, much harder this time, enough that his knuckles smarted and turned red, but there was still no answer. He sagged against the wall across from her room and waited. And waited. Nothing. He called her room again and could hear the phone ringing inside. Where in the hell was she?

  He needed to drive, desperately. It was one of the only things that calmed him down when things went wrong. While he waited for the lift, his fingers tapped the number to Entertainment Arts.

  “Grant Maxwell calling for Jillian.”

  “Mr. Maxwell! Everyone’s been looking for you. You just sort of disappeared.”

  “Just get me Jillian, please, now.” His normally polite demeanor slipped in the hour since Dorrie had left. A ding indicated the arrival of the lift, and he stepped inside, leaning against the brass handrail.

  “Jillian here.” At least he could count on Jillian’s efficient, no bullshit approach to work.

  “Get me Omni Publishing in New York, please.” The lift door opened on the lobby floor, and he moved to the front door of the Westbury and out onto the street.

  “Certainly. Hold a moment.”

  In less than ten seconds, he heard a phone ringing. “Omni Publishing. How may I direct your call?”

  “This is Grant Maxwell calling from London. I need to get in touch with Dorrie Applegate immediately.” His voice sounded desperate even to himself.

  “One moment, please.” The sight of a black cab had him waving his arm in the air.

  Another phone ringing. “Arianna DuPres’s office.”

  “This is Grant Maxwell calling from London. I need to get in touch with Dorrie Applegate, as I just informed your operator.”

  A cab pulled to the curb and he slid in, directing the driver to take him to the Pinehurst Building.

  A breathy sound came over the phone, as though someone were fanning herself and struggling to breathe all at the same time. “Hello? Are you there?” he asked.

  A mousy squeak replied, “Yes, Mr. Maxwell. You’ll need to speak to Ms. DuPres. I’ll put you through to her office.”

  For fuck’s sake, how many hurdles did he have to vault to find Dorrie?

  The next sound he heard was an icy rasp from hell. “Mr. Maxwell! Arianna DuPres here. We’re all mortified by Dorrie Applegate’s behavior and don’t blame you for being angry. There is no excuse for her appalling conduct.” Grant was so stunned at her words that he couldn’t quite formulate a response.

  “I take full responsibility,” the icy rasp from hell continued. “I sent her to London, against my better judgment, but there you have it. I will personally be on the eight-thirty flight to London to meet your people at Entertainment Arts first thing tomorrow morning and straighten everything out. I assure you we’ll be back on track before you know it.”

  Grant scrubbed his forehead back and forth with his fingers, wondering what in God’s name this loon was talking about. “Where is she?”

  “I have no idea. I fired her as soon as I heard about what she did this morning.”

  “You did what?” he spat through gritted teeth.

  “We certainly couldn’t let someone like her continue to represent Omni Publishing. Surely you can understand.”

  “‘Someone like her?’ I don’t know what you mean by that remark, Ms. DuPres. But let me be crystal clear. Miss Applegate is the most professional, principled, ethical, honorable person I have ever had the pleasure to, to, almost work with.” The fact that he hadn’t had the chance to work with her didn’t stymie his diatribe in the least. He could feel his face turning beet red, and he cringed to think how high his blood pressure would register at this moment: probably massive coronary levels. In an effort to restrain himself from screaming, he swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “In fact, I will not work with anyone on my biography except Miss Applegate. If she is not reinstated at Omni and on her way back to London in twenty-four hours, I will hold you personally responsible and use my considerable influence to have you removed from your job—something, mind you, I’ve never had to do before.” His voice cracked with rage as he ended that call with the push of a button. Not nearly as satisfying as slamming down a phone receiver.

  He was not a man who raised his voice for anything but the most egregious wrongdoing, such as what had been done to Dorrie by this ice bitch. He rode the lift down to the parking garage, grabbing his key fob to unlock to door of his favorite car ever, a black Jaguar XKR-S.

  ~*~

  Dorrie sat up in bed, clutching her knees to her chest, and calculated what she had to cut out, on a daily basis, in order to survive until she found another job. Could she even afford the plan for her smart phone? She’d probably need to go to a basic phone because she’d still need a contact number while she applied for jobs. She slumped on the side of the bed, holding her head in her hands. Even subway tokens would need to be rationed at this point.

  If she wanted to blame her depressing financial situation on someone other than herself, it would have to be that ass Grant Maxwell. If he’d just told her his real name on the flight, all this would have been avoided. She’d never have gone to Bumble’s to meet him, never have taken him up to her room.

  Those thoughts led her to Google him on her laptop where she saw his full name: Grant Henry Charles Maxwell. So he hadn’t totally lied by telling her his name was Henry Charles. He just left out the two most important names: given and surname. The photos of him modeling underwear that splashed across the screen were too alluring for he
r not to have a quick peek. And the female models posing with him . . . Well, she couldn’t believe how perfect their tall, trim bodies were clad only in the smallest scraps of fabric generously called bikinis. She cringed, remembering that he had seen her naked. A tiny part of her took solace in the knowledge that at least that would never happen again.

  Okay, enough ogling. There was no point in putting off calling Blanche any longer. She’d pack up her things and take the train to Bronxville where she’d have room and board and the comfort of her loving grandmother, who would still believe in her, no matter what.

  ~*~

  In her freshly painted silver-gray office, Arianna hovered over the cherry-red lacquered desk, certain her head was about to explode. So far, all she’d gotten was that flake Dorrie’s voicemail the hundred times she’d hit redial, and no response to the slew of texts and emails she’d sent. She chewed on a brittle fingernail, realizing that the twenty-four hour deadline was looming large. It didn’t escape her that firing Dorrie could well mean the demise of her own career if she couldn’t find her and soon. Well, she’d just have to get her home address from Human Resources and go to her apartment. That was her last hope.

  Arianna’s hair was practically on fire as she harangued the cab driver, thumping the back of the seat with her fingers all the way to the First Avenue address she’d procured from HR. The poor man was tempted to knock himself out cold by banging his head on the steering wheel just so he wouldn’t have to listen to that shrill Susan Estrich-like voice any longer.

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” she screeched when he pulled over at her destination, dropping a twenty in his lap.

  “No!” It was almost a shout, so he quickly lowered his voice. “I mean I have another fare waiting to be picked up.” It was a bald-faced lie, but he was beyond caring.

  Arianna stared in disbelief as the cab pulled away and disappeared from view around a corner. Stranded in this God-forsaken neighborhood, she wished she had a Taser tucked in her Marc Jacobs bag or, at the very least, pepper spray.

  Chapter 4

  The small village of Bronxville, New York, sat within the town of Eastchester and was a mere fifteen-minute train ride from mid-town Manhattan. Sarah Lawrence College sat on its western border, and the village had its own hospital and train station. A mix of opulent single family residences, apartments, and condominiums, teeming with old world charm and abundant greenery, it boasted the motto “Endlessly copied and never matched.”

  Blanche MacDonald’s leg muscles flexed fluidly as she hurried down Lake Avenue. The heavy grocery bag she carried didn’t hamper her progress in the least. She was of solid, hardy stock, as her mother used to say. Statuesque. Decidedly more Ava Gardner than Grace Kelly. No one observing her swift gait would have ever believed she was sixty years old.

  Blessed with excellent health, seemingly unlimited energy, only a smattering of gray in her naturally curly dark hair, and but a few creases around her eyes and mouth, she appeared to be in her late forties at most. Her current job as office manager for an actuary kept her mind active and her bank account sufficient. Today she was rushing home to her small apartment to cook dinner for her granddaughter Dorrie, the light of her life. But her sunny disposition was clouded with concern this particular evening.

  The phone call she’d received a few hours earlier had her mind racing with questions. Dorrie had said she was back from London, no longer working for Omni Publishing, and that she’d explain everything after her train arrived from Manhattan. Whatever had happened, Blanche knew it couldn’t be good. When Omni Publishing hired Dorrie, Blanche had finally experienced a feeling of solace, comforted by the fact that Dorrie would be financially secure even after she was gone. During her restless nights these past years, thoughts of Dorrie’s future security had plagued her.

  Her daughter and son-in-law had died in a freak accident, leaving Dorrie without parents at the age of seventeen. Proceeds from the sale of their home almost covered college tuition, books, and living expenses for four years. Dorrie had come to live with her, so it had been just the two of them as Blanche’s husband, Harry, had passed away ten years earlier after suffering a massive heart attack.

  ~*~

  When Arianna DuPres found no one home at Dorrie’s apartment, she sagged against the door, beads of perspiration dotting her forehead, knowing she would have to call her boss and tell him she hadn’t found her. Malcolm Everhard was not a man to be trifled with. His hair-trigger temper was legendary at Omni. Arianna’s fingers hovered over the pad on her iPhone. That twit Dorrie couldn’t have just disappeared. She had to be somewhere. Her next thought gave her a flicker of hope as she dialed HR instead of Mr. Everhard.

  “Arianna DuPres here. Pull up Dorrie Applegate’s file and give me the emergency contact information,” she barked at the receptionist, grateful she hadn’t already left for the day. While she waited, Arianna clutched at the pain in her chest. She was either having a heart attack, an anxiety attack, the worst indigestion of her life, or all three.

  The receptionist rattled off a name, phone number, and address. A local address.

  ~*~

  Dorrie sat at her grandmother’s round oak pedestal table, sipping coffee and wondering how in the hell she was going to explain the Grant Maxwell debacle. She toyed with the teaspoon on her saucer, twirling the cold silver between two fingers, and glanced around, stalling for time. Blanche had just headed into the tiny kitchen off the dining room to retrieve the coffee pot.

  Everything was as neat as a pin, shiny and spotless, a lingering scent of pine in the air. Blanche had laundered and ironed the living room and dining room curtains. Dorrie had often wondered if her grandmother didn’t have a touch of OCD when it came to cleanliness.

  But Dorrie felt safe and comfortable in her grandmother’s home and full of gratitude that she had Blanche in her life. A tower of strength and fortitude in hard times, Blanche was the first person to celebrate and live large in the good times.

  Blanche poured them each more coffee, returned the pot to the stove with a clink, and took her seat beside Dorrie, tilting her head and making eye contact.

  “So, tell me what happened, pumpkin.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek, Dorrie knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. “Well, on the flight to London, I met this outrageously handsome and somehow decent guy who invited me for a drink at an exclusive London club. We had the most exquisite meal of my life and danced until midnight to Tony Bennett’s music. I really wished you could have been there.

  “This man, who said his name was Henry Charles, walked me back to my hotel. He was attentive and so polite. I was the one who invited him up to my room.” She paused when Blanche grimaced, shaking her head. “I know. I know. I should never have done that. But I did. And we were, well, intimate.” She rushed to add, “But very careful and safe.

  “Anyway, at the Entertainment Arts meeting the next morning, I found out to my utter horror that Henry Charles is actually Grant Maxwell. He had given me the assumed name he uses when he travels. Actually, his two middle names. I left the office and contacted Arianna DuPres. Omni Publishing has a strict moral code for employees, and I crossed the line, unintentionally, of course, because I hadn’t known who he was. But that doesn’t matter. What’s done is done and Arianna fired me.” Dorrie’s shoulders slumped under the weight of her shame. But at least she’d been honest about what happened.

  After several minutes of prickly silence, Blanche spoke. “Well, I can’t say that I’m not let down, but you didn’t know who he was, and you would never have gone out with him if you had known. So, let’s put it behind us and figure out what to do next.”

  Without hesitation, Dorrie leapt up from her chair and threw her arms around her grandmother, whispering, “What would I ever do without you?” Blanche hugged her back, patting her shoulder, and then jumped at the sound of her kitchen phone ringing.

  ~~~

  “Doesn’t that just beat all,” Blanche remarke
d after Dorrie relayed the gist of the call from Arianna. “What are you going to do now, sweet pea?”

  “Wait until my head stops spinning like a top on marble for one. I’ve never heard Arianna sound so desperate. She practically fell all over herself apologizing to me. I swear her voice cracked like she was on the brink of a break down when she begged me to come back. Have I fallen down the rabbit hole? Why in the world is Grant Maxwell so adamant about me writing his biography? Could it just be guilt that he lied to me about his name when we met and subsequently got me fired?”

  Blanche folded her hands in her lap after sitting back down at the dining room table. Her expression softened as she gazed at Dorrie, who paced back and forth in the small space. “You know, Dorrie, there’s a distinct possibility that you made a strong impression on Mr. Maxwell. You have many fine qualities he just might have noticed.” Her smile was as loving as it was playful, and Dorrie stopped pacing to focus her attention on her.

  “Be serious.”

  “I am being serious.”

  “Then why do you look like the cat that ate the canary?”

  “I can’t help it if Mr. Maxwell is taking everything about you into consideration. Now, how did you leave it with Ms. DuPres?”

  ~~~

  Dorrie snuggled down in the twin bed in her grandmother’s tiny guest room, her laptop propped up on her knees. This time, by God, she was going to be prepared for Grant Maxwell. After she called Arianna back to say she would take back both the assignment and her position at Omni, Arianna said she would email her the flight information and make all the arrangements. Dorrie assumed that Arianna had had some sort of come-to-Jesus moment when Grant Maxwell had insisted on having Dorrie write his biography and she couldn’t find her.

  Dorrie still had the assignment folder with her and began studying it from cover to cover. After finishing, she resolved to find out every detail she could about Grant Maxwell. The image tab on Google showed the broad range of his photo shoots, from skimpy Speedos to bespoke Savile Row three-piece suits. A few of the pictures made her cringe. How could he pose like that, almost naked with his arms over his head, shamelessly flaunting his raw sexuality? It seemed gauche to her and unworthy of the quiet, humble man she had spent the evening with. Was it because the price was right? If that were the case, it would be disappointing.