The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  Dorrie was at a loss for words, so she kissed him back and smiled up into intense azure eyes that made her insides turn to jelly. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  ~*~

  A slim young woman in tight jeans and a New York Yankees ball cap cringed just out of sight in the doorway of an art gallery. When Dorrie headed back to Grand Central, she followed her.

  Chapter 17

  Carly kept Dorrie’s raspberry red cardigan in sight as she shoved her balled fists into her pockets. Grant had told her he was meeting someone for lunch at the Russian Tea Room, but he didn’t say whom. Because she had to know, she discreetly watched from across the street as first Grant entered and then Dorrie. It took every bit of self-control she could muster not to go in and confront the two of them. Grappling with her blind jealousy, she tried to reason through the situation. She didn’t really know if anything was actually going on between them. Maybe it was strictly business to do with his biography. But when she saw the way Grant kissed Dorrie outside the restaurant, tenderly with his eyes closed, she knew something was going on. He’d never kissed her with so much emotion. Or gazed at her the way he’d gazed at Dorrie with an expression bordering on reverence.

  ~*~

  For her part, Dorrie felt as if the sliver of sunshine beaming down between the buildings on West 57th enveloped her in a bubble of euphoria. If no one were around, she would have skipped with glee, arms in the air, a la Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road, all the way to Grand Central. A seismic shift had occurred during the time they were at lunch. Somewhere between noon and two Grant’s demeanor toward her had reverted back to the way it had been before the ugly night at The Breakers. As if it had never happened.

  No, that wasn’t quite it, because she felt even closer to him now. They’d come through this ordeal, and even if he hadn’t completely forgiven her, he’d taken a giant leap in that direction. But what did it all mean? Whatever it meant, the hundred pound anvil of guilt had been lifted from her shoulders. She’d never felt closer to anyone than she did Grant. She was on the verge of breaking out in a chorus of “Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead,” when she felt a hand grip her arm.

  At first, Dorrie didn’t recognize the woman. But when she saw the familiar cat’s green eyes and perfectly proportioned features, she knew it was Carly Ann.

  “We need to talk.” Carly Ann pulled her away from the throngs of people coming and going over to a deserted newspaper stand.

  “Hello, Carly Ann. Nice to see you, too.” Dorrie raised her eyebrows.

  “Cut the crap, Dorrie. You’re no happier to see me than I am to see you.”

  “Not necessarily. But what’s this about? You’ve obviously been following me.”

  “I want to know what you think you’re doing meeting Grant for a romantic lunch.”

  “None of your business.” Dorrie started to walk away, but Carly grabbed her arm again. Dorrie stared at the hand on her arm. “I suggest you let go of me.”

  “There’s something you need to know about Grant and me.” Carly’s face was flushed, and perspiration dotted her forehead and upper lip.

  “And what’s that?”

  Carly didn’t flinch as she stared straight into Dorrie’s eyes and said, “We’re engaged to be married.”

  At first, Dorrie wanted to burst out laughing. The intelligent, discerning man she’d just reconnected with had asked Carly Ann to marry him? Hardly. Then her stomach clenched as her assurance faltered. Carly Ann and Grant had spent a lot of time together since Palm Beach. And they’d looked happy enough in the photos she’d seen of them. In fact, Carly Ann in a ball gown and Grant in a tux did resemble the figures on top of a wedding cake.

  She yanked her arm away. “Well, congratulations, Carly Ann. I just have one question. Do you love him?”

  “God, I hate these things.” Carly yanked off the ball cap, and her long waves tumbled around her face and shoulders. “How can you ask me that? Of course I love him.”

  Studying her face carefully, Dorrie asked, “What specifically do you love about him?”

  Carly scrunched up her face as if Dorrie were a moron. “Have you seen the man? What’s not to love? Throw in his bank account and fame and it’s a no-brainer.” Her phony laugh made Dorrie’s skin feel as if fire ants were crawling all over her.

  Throngs of people passed them, some taking notice of the two women. Dorrie shook off the creepiness of Carly Ann’s response. “There’s so much more to Grant than physical beauty, fame, or money. Tell me you see that.”

  Carly flipped her hair over one shoulder in a dismissive gesture and glanced down at her Rolex. “I really don’t have time for this. I need to get ready for my date with Grant tonight.”

  “Hold on.” This time it was Dorrie grabbing Carly’s arm. “Grant is not the kind of man to be a trophy husband, to be trapped in a loveless marriage just to make some bunny rich and famous and look good on his arm.”

  Carly glowered at her and pulled away. “I have to go.” But Dorrie didn’t stop.

  “He’s my friend, and I will do anything in my power to keep him from being roped in a miserable marriage.” It wasn’t until she said it that Dorrie realized Grant was her friend. He had come to her apartment because he cared about her well-being when she’d hit rock bottom, and then he’d cared for her and had taken her to Blanche’s. Today he’d even offered her career advice. She suddenly felt like giggling. But then she remembered that Carly Ann was standing there, glaring at her. If looks could kill . . .

  Dorrie gave up and started to head into Grand Central when she heard a plaintiff, “Wait, please.” Turning toward her, she saw Carly Ann’s face in pain, her eyes pink with unshed tears.

  “Don’t do this, Dorrie. Please. You’ve had every advantage in life while I’ve had to scrape and claw every inch to get where I am. This is my one shot. Don’t take it away from me.” Her voice faded as a tear trickled down her cheek.

  “Both of my parents died when I was seventeen, Carly Ann. How is that every advantage?”

  Carly wiped her wet cheek with the sleeve of her shirt. “At least you had parents. And good ones. My mom was a stripper who didn’t want me. And my dad died when I was seven. Trust me. I’m way past feeling sorry for myself. I just really need this chance with Grant.”

  Carly seemed pathetic. Dorrie wondered if this was a snow job. She cared too deeply for Grant to let this go.

  ~*~

  While Dorrie and Carly faced off over him at the entrance to Grand Central Station, Grant was struggling to control the urge to murder Luke Parker. After hearing Dorrie describe what he’d done to her, he imagined his hands closing around the stupid prick’s scrawny neck and squeezing the life out of him. But then again, if he smashed his face in, he’d assure Luke would never work as a model again, and that would be a fate worse than death to the prima donna. His clenched fists itched to punch Parker in the nose when he recalled Dorrie’s devastated expression as she described how he’d assaulted her. But as satisfying as these thoughts were, Grant knew he’d never do it. That’s not who he was. Even for Dorrie—the reason he was so fired up to begin with. No, he’d have to figure a way to destroy Parker’s modeling career that didn’t involve murder or fists. Or a long prison term. This was going to take some serious thought and planning. And possibly Stefan’s help.

  As he made his way back to his hotel, Grant thought about the fact that while no one in the male modeling world liked Parker much Stefan truly despised him. For one thing, Parker had stolen Stefan’s coveted bag of styling tools right before a major shoot. All to get at Grant. It seemed that Parker tended to target those closest to him instead of taking on Grant himself. Well, Grant wasn’t going to return the favor. His sights were set directly on Parker. Period.

  The day after tomorrow they were both scheduled to do a shoot together for a briefs ad with two other models. Perfect.

  ~~~

  Two days later, Grant casually handed Luke a cup of coffee as he passed by him on the way to change for
the shoot. Luke’s eyebrows went up in surprise at the gesture, but he took a sip and called after him, “Thanks, man.” Stefan kept his eyes glued on Parker until he finished the cup and pitched it toward a waste can. It banked off the rim and landed on the floor with a plop.

  Scant Briefs had asked for the top male models for this shoot. Clad in nothing but different styles of white silk briefs, the four male models were positioned to the director’s satisfaction in the studio. Lighting was optimized, and the photographers were about to start snapping when the director snarled, “Fuck! What are you doing, Parker? Get a grip on that thing, will you?”

  Every pair of eyes immediately zeroed in on Parker’s crotch, the fabric of the white silk protruding like a white carrot from a snowman.

  “Parker!” the director growled.

  “It’s not me! I can’t fucking help it!” Parker yelled back.

  “Well, think of something else, right fucking now—dead puppies or whatever—or we’ll do the shoot without you.”

  After about five minutes, they had to proceed without him. Stefan discreetly recorded it all on his smart phone, and it went viral within seconds. The caption, “Get a grip on that thing,” accompanied the video of Parker’s inability to control himself.

  Later that day, Grant managed to lift Parker’s phone long enough to disable the alarm. Luke missed the start time of a shoot the next morning. Ad agencies were severely displeased when that happened, and there were scores of young, hungry male models champing at the bit to take his place. Between the never-ending chorus of “Get a grip on that thing!” dogging him wherever he went and missing a start time, Luke Parker was visibly rattled.

  Then, somehow, poison ivy extract found its way onto Luke’s bath towel. He’d scrubbed the towel all over his body—scalp, face, and genitals—and had to be hospitalized for treatment. All his jobs were canceled indefinitely.

  “Pity,” Grant mumbled to Stefan as he styled his hair for a cologne ad. “I heard there might even be some scarring. That pretty-boy face may not be so pretty anymore.”

  “Wanker Luke Parker Can’t Control His Wanker” was popping up all over social media. For every indignation Parker suffered, Grant felt redemption for Dorrie.

  ~*~

  One week after her lunch at the Russian Tea Room with Grant, Dorrie thumbed through papers at her desk in her office at Omni. She’d moved back into her apartment over the weekend, Grant’s encouragement fueling her to re-energize her career. Searching for a new apartment was in her sights, but it would have to wait for a bit. She had to get the rest of her life in order first.

  Before her ten o’clock meeting with Arianna and Mr. Everhard, Dorrie organized her desk, carefully separating the messy mound that had accumulated during her absence into appropriate piles. She chose what she considered to be the ten most interesting requests she’d had for biographies and set those aside. Among them were a star NFL quarterback, a male ballet dancer, a young pro golfer set to win the Masters, the star of a new sci-fi movie, and a Major League Baseball pitcher. Then she jotted down notes for the meeting. There were going to be some changes if she stayed at Omni, especially since she’d just received a brow-raising offer from J & E.

  Grant had called several times before he left for an assignment in Milan and had helped her with this list of demands. He’d pushed harder than she would have, but he had far more experience with negotiating. He’d said he wished he could be there when she told Arianna and Everhard that she wanted a pay increase, an assistant, and free rein on her projects. She smiled at the memory of those conversations. The fact that she had him back in her life made her feel warm inside. Everything was right in the world again. Neither had mentioned Carly Ann.

  Tucking her notes in a folder along with the information about the biographies she was considering, Dorrie strode down the corridor to the elevators in the orange sherbet sheath dress with a black belt and heels she’d decided to wear today. The warm April weather had put her in the mood for vibrant colors and lightweight fabrics. She rode up two floors to Mr. Everhard’s office, tucking loose curls into her casual chignon and smoothing down her dress. His secretary greeted her and led her to the large corner office. Arianna was already seated in one chair across from Mr. Everhard. Dorrie lowered herself into the seat next to her.

  “It’s so good to see you, Dorrie. We’re thrilled that you’re back with us,” Mr. Everhard uncharacteristically gushed as he stood and grasped her hand.

  Arianna chimed in, “Yes, we’re so happy you’re back. And you look great.” Dorrie shook her head, not certain she’d heard Arianna correctly. A compliment from her? Unheard of.

  After the short meeting, Dorrie wondered if she’d asked for a million dollars and to take over Everhard’s job if they’d have said yes because they’d agreed to every single one of her demands. She had been certain they’d balk at her request for an assistant and a pay increase, but they hadn’t batted an eye. Did they know about the offer from J & E?

  With this pivotal meeting over, she could focus on her next subject. She’d decided to take on the NFL quarterback. She’d always had an interest in football but had never had a chance to go to games or learn much about it. And the quarterback’s story intrigued her: a walk-on with so little going for him that it seemed a miracle he’d made it to this point. She just hoped he’d been able to maintain his humble roots and that his ego wasn’t the size of a football stadium.

  Back at her desk and tapping her toes with excitement, Dorrie snatched up her phone and dialed Grant. What time was it in Milan, she wondered? Just then a deep voice answered, “Hello?”

  She shivered at the sound of his voice. “Hi, it’s me. Am I calling at a bad time?”

  “It’s never a bad time when you call, Dorrie. I take it you just got out of your meeting?”

  “I did. And it went really well. Your suggestions were right on target. I can’t thank you enough for your help. They even agreed to the assistant and the pay increase. I’m still in shock.”

  “Wish I were there to celebrate with you.” His voice sounded husky and held a note of poignancy she’d never heard before. “Tell you what. I’ll be back in New York next week and we’ll celebrate then. Okay?”

  “Sure, Grant. I just wanted to share the news with you.” Dorrie’s throat felt as if it were full of rocks as emotions hit her. She wanted Grant here. Now. Holding her. Kissing her.

  “Dorrie?”

  She had to pull herself together. “I’m here. I just wanted to thank you.”

  Chapter 18

  Dwayne Wright, Jr. was a man who had nothing left to lose. His marriage had ended years ago, and his sons barely spoke to him. He hardly cared what happened to him. The obsession that had overtaken his entire life—Carly Ann Applegate—was the only driving factor that mattered to him. Sometimes a whole day went by before he remembered he hadn’t eaten anything. Some days he forgot to shower and shave. Other days he forgot to change his clothes. One thing he never forgot: the lovely, sweet, pristine young woman who had given herself to him all those years ago in that crummy little motel room. He cringed at the memory.

  That was the only thing he would change if he could. Their night should have been in a five-star hotel to match the experience. Well, he’d make that up to her as soon as he could. In the years since their time together, Dwayne had at first continued to work while he searched for her. Harley Granger, the general manager of Dwayne’s construction company, understood him and was a loyal friend. By the time Dwayne left Pine Bluff to search for Carly Ann, his company had taken advantage of the building boom and was making money hand over fist. Interest rates were low, subdivisions were sprouting up all over the outskirts of Pine Bluff, and with the opening of the car-manufacturing plant twenty miles to the south, demand for new homes had never been higher.

  After the divorce settlement with his wife and college tuition accounts he’d set up for his sons, Dwayne still had over two million dollars squirreled away. Harley had kept the company profita
ble when Dwayne had gone in search of Carly Ann, so money was still streaming in to the company. And Dwayne routinely checked in with Harley, making sure he kept his thumb on the pulse of his business so he would be able to provide for Carly Ann, giving her the kind of life she deserved.

  Even though his mind was focused on her, Dwayne attempted to keep himself at least somewhat healthy and fit. He understood that Carly Ann’s expectations were higher now than when she was a teenager in Pine Bluff, so he worked out in the hotel’s gym whenever he remembered to, and when he did eat, he limited himself to chicken, pork, fruit, vegetables, and water. On certain days, he might look scruffy, but he was in better health than he’d ever been in his life. The determination to be worthy of Carly Ann had even caused him to stop drinking.

  Grant Maxwell was enemy number one. In addition to following Carly Ann’s every move, Dwayne had added Grant Maxwell to his daily Internet search. For someone who’d never been computer savvy, Dwayne was now almost an expert at Google searches and had sites he checked daily. Aware that Maxwell was a big, fit guy, Dwayne had to come up with a plan to get him out of Carly Ann’s life. A fist to his glamour puss wouldn’t be enough.

  Six months ago, on the day he’d miraculously located Carly Ann, Dwayne almost went berserk. He’d been having lunch at the Fox & Crow when the cashier sidled over holding open a celebrity magazine with a photograph of Carly Ann with a tall, dark haired man at a charity event in Palm Beach, Florida. Dwayne had headed to Florida that night.

  By the time he reached Palm Beach, Carly Ann had left for New York, and Dwayne was on the next flight to La Guardia.

  The night he’d seen her outside The Pierre with Maxwell, Dwayne was so beside himself at finally seeing her he could barely string two coherent sentences together. It hadn’t gone well. He would be prepared the next time. That was for damn sure.

  ~*~

  Grant sat in the kitchen of his renovated three-story Victorian home, cradling a hot cup of coffee in his hands and thinking about Dorrie. When the three-day public relations marathon in Milan had ended, he’d gotten word from his agency that he needed to appear at the opening of a new store, so instead of heading back to New York, he was in London for two days.