by Taras Ford
“This is Adams.”
“Nolen, where are you?” Xenia asked.
“What is it?” He gave an exasperated sigh.
“A celebratory dinner, of course.”
“I have plans,” he said. Xenia had taken to calling Annemarie in order to get to him. He rarely shared his direct line with anyone, not even business associates. Xenia’s persistence would have to stop. It made him feel trapped.
“All night?”
Nolen held his tongue. Xenia was wise enough not to persist. “Ok . . . well, soon, then. We need to meet with my other investors to discuss the benefits of you being a part of my team.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll call you later this week. Bye.”
Nolen handed Annemarie the phone. “My plans this evening with the dancer, are they set?” Annemarie nodded. “Yes, sir. A driver will pick her up around eight and bring her to you within the hour.”
“The dress?”
“She should have it, sir.”
He settled comfortably in his seat. The day might be salvaged after all.
Chapter 3
The Date?
Sydney dropped her foot into the warm water in the spa tub, cloudy with Epson salt. The healing was instant. Portia was on the opposite side of her, holding a cup of tea and looking at her sheepishly. “I know you want to tell me about the audition. I swear, girl, I want to know every single detail, but aren’t you just dying to know who sent those flowers?”
“Oh, good grief, here’s the thing, Portia––”
“Wait, don’t get upset––”
“I’m not. Listen to me. We’ve been to tons of auditions. You know?” She dropped her head back on the sofa cushion. “Producers, directors, actors, other dancers, and, hell, even the janitor hit on you. My best guess is that this NA person was someone with the production who heard me say that it was my birthday, and thought he could get a piece. He’s probably a jerk who screws dancers, promising them parts, and then tosses them like yesterday’s trash. Whoever he is, I’m not interested.”
Portia nodded. “Got it. Moving on, did I tell you what happened when I met with Mr. Romeo.”
“Who?”
“You know the one who said he could get me an interview with the Ford Agency? He’s a photographer, and—”
Sydney shook her head, but before Portia could say anymore, the phone rang. As always, Portia leapt from the couch, chasing after it.
“Sydney?” Portia asked, holding out the phone with a twisted frown. “For you. This dude’s a trip.” Confused, Sydney accepted the phone. “Hello?”
“What up, Ms. Thang?”
“Juan?”
“Told you to call me Juanita,” he snapped.
Sydney smiled. “I thought you said call after six?”
“I did, honey, but I’ve got the dish. You sitting down?”
“Dish?”
“Riddle me this, butterfly. Who’s tall, rich, handsome, and asked about you after your little Butterfly routine?”
“Who?”
“None other than Nolen Adams himself! I like to fainted when that snotty little white woman came over grilling me on how to reach you!”
Sydney looked up to see Portia staring. She shrugged her shoulders. “Ok, Juanita, who is this Nolen person again?”
“See, girlfriend, that’s what I said at first. I saw that hunk of a man step through the door and I thought he was just some tight-ass investor for Xenia. I mean, he didn’t look like his picture in the Daily, at least not from where I was sitting.”
“I don’t understand. I still don’t know who he is,” Sydney said.
“Then you’ve got your head in the sand, honey. He’s everywhere! What is there not to understand? The man is rich, fine, and wanting to spend time. Girl, I knew that big booty of yours drew men like bees to honey, but you’ve hit the damn jackpot! Ms. Minetti said he was investing in our show, and that means star potential for you. Now, you remember it was Juanita that got you plugged, and I want top billing around here!”
“I, um, I—”
“I just wanted to give you a head’s up, birthday girl, and tell you that your next audition is on Thursday at two.”
“Really? Thank you so much. I’m really excited.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, get excited about that silver tongue devil because that’s the real news, honey!”
“Thank you, Juan. I mean Juanita. I’ll see you on Thursday!” she gushed, hanging up.
“Who is Juan-Juanita?”
“Your cousin’s friend, remember? He called to tell me when my next audition was! Can you believe it?
This is really happening! I’ve got to go shopping. I need to make sure . . . I—”
“Whoa, whoa! What did he say about a Nolen Adams?”
Sydney waved off the question. “He’s a little goofy. He told me who sent the flowers and made some crack about my butt.”
“Well, so, who sent them?”
“Some guy named Nolen Adams.”
“What? Are you sure! Nolen Adams, the guy on Wall Street? Um, the banker guy?” she asked, putting her hand to her mouth.
“What difference does that make?” Sydney asked, rolling her eyes.
“Sydney! Do you know who he is?”
“Don’t start.”
Portia ran to her room.
Hearing her knocking things over, Sydney leaned across the arm of the sofa to look inside. Portia was on her knees, digging through her stash of fashion magazines and gossip rags. Smiling, she rose from the floor and came back into the room with a copy of some financial paper. “I got this on the corner the other day. Just curious, ya know? Wanted to check out the top ten richest men under forty.”
“Curious, huh?” Sydney gave her a sideways look.
Portia grinned like she was holding a winning lottery ticket. Sydney took the magazine and checked the cover photo.
There he was, labeled as a financial wizard in an uncertain economy. His brown eyes had an usual golden sparkle to them and leapt off the page. No they literally blazed off the cover. She’d never seen such amazing eyes under heavy lids. His smile looked more sly than friendly. She flipped through the magazine and found the article, which was accompanied with another photo of Nolen Adams. Devastatingly handsome, he was dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt and matching grey tie. Tall, his massive shoulders filled his suit. His dark curling hair was tapered short on the sides. A skyscraper loomed behind him. The clean, light look of him impressed her. He had a ruggedness and vital power that would draw any woman. Still he looked a little young to be such a powerhouse. Yet there was a complete self-imposed isolation she found in his arrogance. The photographer had taken the picture from a low angle, which gave Adams’s larger than life presence even more emphasis.
Sydney skimmed the article on his investment plans for the city. She paused when she read Adams’s response to the interviewer’s question about his rumored heartbreaker ways with women. “I love women. I enjoy all kinds of women and never tire of them. But if you’re asking about that special one, what can I say? Every time I meet one, she’s special to me.”
“Give me a break,” Sydney said, she tossed the magazine.
Portia sat down. Picking up the magazine, she forced the article back under Sydney’s nose. “You have to tell me how you managed to get one of the richest men in this state to send you flowers? What did you do at that audition? The rump shaker?”
“This is ridiculous. I never met this guy.”
“Well he sure as hell thinks he met you!”
The doorbell rang. Sydney shoved the magazine and Portia out of the way. She continued to use her foot. The healing had to come quick.
“I don’t care. I’m not some Pop-Tart for him to use to get his cheap thrills,” Sydney said, hobbling to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw a deliveryman, so she undid the double bolt and opened the door.
“Yes?”
“Sydney Allen?”
&n
bsp; “Yes.”
“Sign here, please,” he said, passing her an electronic notepad. Sydney signed and then traded the pad for a box.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. She closed the door and had barely turned around before Portia was at her side, snatching the box from her hands.
“Girl, this ain’t no birthday. It’s Christmas!” Portia said and laughed.
Sydney watched her take the box to their tiny dinette and pull off the wrapping. Glancing at the card that read, HAVE DINNER WITH ME, she looked up in time to see Portia open the box. Black with a silver trim, it was from one of those expensive shops off Madison Avenue. She and Portia loved to drool over the clothes in those store windows. Portia slowly pulled out a fitted red dress with one shoulder strap. Its bodice sparkled with tiny ruby colored stones. Portia held it up to her lean frame, grinning.
Sydney gawked at the dress, which must have cost as much as she earned in three months, including tips.
“Why is he doing this?”
“What did the card say?”
Sydney read it aloud.
Portia nodded. “The man said have dinner with him, and I’m here to tell you, you’re having dinner with him!”
“This is stupid I’m not going!” Sydney said a couple of hours later. Trish put down the curling iron and frowned. Sydney ignored the disapproval in Portia’s eyes and walked into her room. She could hear her friends in hot pursuit.
“Girl, don’t be crazy. You have to go!” Portia said.
“I don’t have to do anything.”
“Wait, Portia, if she doesn’t feel––” Trish interjected.
“No, Trish! This is it. This is either do or die. It’s obvious the man owns the production. If she doesn’t go, she can kiss her little show goodbye.”
“Maybe that’s for the best if she can only get the part that way.” Trish frowned.
Sydney looked over at her friend, relieved that she understood. Trish was the voice of reason for them both, and the most different, both physically and emotionally. With skin like peach tinted cream, and her golden-blond hair hanging loosely past her shoulders, she carried a childlike girlish innocence. Yet when she spoke, she seemed to have a better grasp on the world than either of them.
Portia stepped around Trish. “Ok, you need to listen to me. This man is the most sought after bachelor in the city. How you don’t know about him is beyond me. His face is everywhere! This is a privilege, girl.” Sydney sighed. “It’s my birthday, Portia. I wanted to spend it with you guys. Ricky has something planned at the club.”
“Who cares about that funky club when you got Prince Charming calling? Tell her, Trish. She needs to stop sulking and be a little grateful.”
“Back off, Portia,” Trish scolded.
Portia threw up her hands and marched out of the room. Sydney shook her head, refusing to debate it further. When she looked up she saw Trish approaching and averted her eyes. “I’m not going,” Sydney said. “I don’t want to go. If it costs me the gig, oh well. I’m not doing this again.”
“There is something else to consider,” Trish said.
“Like what?”
“He owns the show. The invitation may not even be what you think. What if he wants to offer you a bigger part in the production? If you don’t go, you will be left with a lot of what-ifs.” Sydney frowned. She hadn’t considered that. She’d just assumed his motive was sinister. The gifts were kind of creepy since she’d never even spoken to the dude. Then the bitter memory of Mr. Mendoza popped into her head, and how desperate she was to get into the Academy when she first arrived in New York. She shivered through the recollection of his hands all over her, and the way she fought to escape his clutches. She’d never shared with Trish what had happened that day, but she couldn’t suffer through that again.
“How about you go with me?” Sydney asked.
“Me?” Trish drew back. “No, sweetie, that wouldn’t work.”
“This is why you and I need agents.” Sydney sighed.
“True, but we don’t have one.”
“You could pose as one? Or maybe Portia could,” Sydney said, her eyes lighting up. “We could just tag team him.”
Trish laughed. “You take Portia to meet that man and she’s leaving with him. What happens to your chance then?”
They both laughed, then Trish asked, “So what’s it going to be?” Portia appeared in the doorway. Sydney looked at her and then back to Trish. “Whatever. I’ll go, but I’ll let him know I’m not for sale. And I sure as hell won’t wear his dress.”
“Are you kidding?” Portia snorted.
“I mean it. That dress implies something that he won’t be getting from me. I’m going to keep this strictly professional, see if this is a real gig or a big waste of my time. You two wait for me so we can go to Ricky’s club after.”
Sydney felt Portia’s disapproval, but chose to ignore it. Instead she went to her closet and found the only after-five dress she owned. She removed her robe and slipped it on while they watched. The dress, a dark shade of blue, clung to her curves. It was strapless and pushed her breasts up invitingly. She never got a chance to wear it. Portia had told her and Trish that they needed a red-carpet dress for when they hit it big, and this was it for Sydney. Careful of her foot, she put on the most comfortable heels she could manage. The swelling had gone down and remarkably she felt better.
“You look like a Manhattan socialite. Very chic,” Trish said from behind her.
Portia shrugged and rose from the bed. They watched Sydney at the mirror inspecting herself once more. The makeup was a bit much, since she didn’t normally wear any, but she didn’t want to fight about removing it.
Shaking her feathery light curly hair, she disagreed. “I’m going to freeze to death in this thing.”
“I got you covered,” Portia said and bolted from the room.
Trish touched her shoulders and looked at her in the mirror. “I’m so proud of you. You deserve to celebrate with a rich man who wants to show you a good time on your birthday. Relax, Sydney.”
“Thanks, but this is business, remember?”
Trish smiled. “Business or not, you deserve a good time. So have one.” Portia appeared with a floor-length faux mink coat she’d been allowed to keep from one of her modeling gigs.
Sydney laughed. “You’re going to let me wear your diva coat?”
“Damn right!” Portia grinned. “Show him you can hold your own!” Sydney caught the coat mid toss and put it up to her. When she heard the knock at the door, her heart pounded. “Is that him?” she asked, swallowing another lump of fear.
Portia smiled. “Calm down. It’s probably just the driver.”
Sydney stomach churned. She dropped the coat on her bed and went to her bedroom door. She and Trish watched as Portia opened their apartment door to reveal a lean dark-skinned man in a chauffeur’s uniform.
He tipped his hat to her. “Sydney Allen?”
“That’s me,” Sydney said, stepping out.
Trish retrieved the coat and slipped it onto Sydney’s shoulders, then passed Sydney her purse.
“Would you come with me, please?” the driver requested.
Trish and Portia took turns hugging her. “We’ll be right here waiting for you,” Portia said, “and I put my can of mace in your bag.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Oh, so now I need mace?”
Portia laughed. “Have fun!” She giggled as she delivered a playful smack to Sydney’s rump.
Sydney gave her roommates another look of uncertainty, then nodded and followed the man.
Riding in a limo for the second time in her life, Sydney stared out the window at the nightlife. When she first arrived she found it hard to adjust to the city. Her first ride on the subway was a disaster. She cried in frustration and it took Ricky to make the trip with her several times before she was brave enough to do it alone.
The thought of Ricky brought a smile to her face. He was so sweet and protective of her. They made out,
and nearly got to second base, but never quite took it to the next level. She hesitated because of their friendship.
Though she often wondered if Portia was right. Friends can make the best kind of lovers.
Large snowflakes drifted pass the window caught in the glowing lights of Columbus Circle. A warning voice, which sounded a lot like her father’s, whispered in her head. She forced it away. Of course she knew better than this. Even if the man did own the Minetti’s production, she knew better. Portia may have been right. She could be naïve. Agreeing to this invitation proved it. For a second she contemplated telling the driver to take her home, but the limo came to a stop. Sydney leaned closer to the glass and stared out.
The divider slowly lowered. “Mr. Adams awaits you in the Mandarin.” They’d arrived at Time Warner Center. A luxury restaurant and hotel that she’d heard about but had never ventured into. The building towered up into the heavens.
He is a creep! He brought me to a hotel! she thought, growing angrier over the arrogance of this stranger. The driver got out, the wind and snow whipping around him, and walked around to the front of the limo. Holding his hat, he pressed it flat to his head to keep it from blowing away. He opened the door for her, and then extended his hand to assist her. Accepting it, she stepped out. The unrelenting wind tossed her locks around her head, and she held the coat closed by the collar.
“You will find the Mandarin on the thirty-fifth floor.” The driver flashed a crooked smile. Now she knew how Red Riding Hood must have felt when she stepped into the trap set for her by the wolf. She couldn’t see his eyes under the brim of his cap, but she felt the heat in his stare. It warmed her despite the night chill. What it implied drove another deep blush to her cheeks.
Careful of her step she hurried away from him and the car, she walked briskly up the sidewalk to the entrance and went inside. Sydney went straight through the spacious lobby, ignoring the glances of men and women. She finally let out her breath when she entered the elevator. She now found herself side by side with a redhead sporting a real mink. Large diamonds sparkled from her earlobes and dripped from her fingers.
Sydney’s eyes met the woman’s in the mirrored doors of the elevator. The stranger gave her a confident smile, which Sydney responded with a cut of her eyes. They arrived at the same floor, and the redhead strutted past her, tossing her hair and flashing another bemused look.
