by Vivian Leigh
“Are you another of the casualties, Ms. Wilson?” Sam asked, as I approached the security desk.
“Unfortunately.” I passed him my badge.
“I’m really sorry to hear that, miss. You were always one of my favorites. Not too many pretty girls have a head on their shoulders like you do.”
“Thanks, Sam. Take care.” What does he know about having a head on my shoulders? I headed out the front doors. My day was suddenly clear, but I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I marched toward the train, home and a bottle of wine.
***
Steam billowed up where the running water splashed into the tub. It wasn’t the two foot deep, jetted tub-of-amazing that I wished I could have, but hot water and some bubbles were enough to take the edge off the day. The wine didn’t hurt, either. I leaned back and let the heat soak some of the tension from my shoulders. If I slid down far enough, the water came up to my chin and I could blow channels in the bubbles. I sent a stream floating through the steam and giggled.
I turned off the water with my foot. The only sounds were the soft pop of the bubbles and the gentle piano mixing with Miles’s saxophone. Who needs jobs?
I did, of course.
The phone rang in my living room. I rolled my eyes. Whoever it was, they could wait. My ring tone ran its course, but a few seconds later it started up again. “Damn it, I’m trying to relax.” I pushed myself up out of the tub and stomped across my apartment, bubbles trailing behind me.
I picked up the phone and stared at it, confused. Who would have an unlisted number? “This is Kate,” I said, into the phone.
“Good evening.” It was him! I’d know that sexy accent anywhere. “We have reservations at Citronelle at eight.”
Citronelle? Reservations? “What?”
“Dinner reservations. I’ll pick you up.”
“But how do you know my number?”
“See you at seven, Kate. Dress appropriately.”
The phone went dead. I stared at it, dumbfounded. Dress appropriately? How did we go from fooling around in the stairwell to reservations at the nicest restaurant in town? I flicked a clump of bubbles off my elbow and turned a circle in the middle of the living room. Then the most important question hit me: What am I going to wear?
I raced to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. I had an hour to get ready before I left with a man whose name I didn’t even know.
Time screamed past and I was just zipping my nicest dress when the phone rang. The number was unlisted again, so I assumed it was my stranger.
“Hello,” I said, as I answered it.
“I’m outside your building.”
“I don’t even know your name. I don’t know how comfortable I am with this. And how do you know my number? I didn’t give it to you.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking how I know where you live?” He laughed. “My name is Adamson, Aaron Adamson. Until around noon today, you worked for me.”
My hand covered the O of my mouth. “Holy crap,” I mouthed. “I see,” I said, aloud.
“Hurry along. I’m in the limo.” The phone shut off.
I steadied myself on the side of my sofa, trying to get my bearings. I knew he had to be powerful. The company didn’t let just anyone go eat on the executives’ balcony, but the CEO?
Should I even go? That was the real question. I didn’t know what a man like Aaron Adamson wanted with a girl like me. Well, if I was honest with myself, I was afraid I knew all too well what he wanted. The thought of it made my stomach tighten. The devil on my shoulder spoke up: If his hands were that talented, what about the rest of him?
I stuffed my phone into my nicest clutch and started for the door. Halfway there I stopped, and went to my bedroom instead. I grabbed a tube of lipstick and added it to the purse, just in case.
***
“Thank you for joining me this evening,” Mr. Adamson said, as he opened the door to the limo.
“It was quite a surprise,” I said. I glanced around the inside of the limo as I entered. The smoke colored windows didn’t let much light through from the outside, but the recessed interior lights revealed pale gray leather seats. I made myself comfortable as Adamson sat back at some sort of command center. He had a monitor on one hand and a wet bar at the other.
“Forgive me for not introducing myself before. I assumed you knew who I was.”
I shook my head. “You’re not that famous.” Oh, crap. I just insulted him.
He smiled. “Perhaps not, though after working for the company for six months, you can see why I would make such an assumption.”
I nodded. God, I should have known who he was. It wasn’t like he was just some vice-president. “So how did you know where I live?”
“I looked it up on the company HR software.”
“The HR software that decided to let me go?”
“Sadly, that wasn’t a software decision. We chose to reorganize the legal department about a month ago.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse knowing that an actual person decided I wasn’t worth keeping at the company. “So why did you invite me to dinner?”
Mr. Adamson toyed with a pen as he watched me. “Do you mean ‘why did I invite you to dinner after laying you off?’ or ‘why did I invite a beautiful woman to dinner?’”
“Both, I guess.”
“I didn’t know who you were until you told me your name this morning. As for the beautiful part, it’s true. I’ve seen you watching me for the last few months. The way you tried to be so coy made me think you were hiding something. When you weren’t…” He shrugged. “Kate, you tantalize me in a way I can’t even describe.” He reached into a cabinet beneath the bar and withdrew a pair of wine glasses.
I pursed my lips, speechless. Me? I tantalized him? He could have just about any supermodel in the world and he wanted me? “Thank you.”
“Do you care for a drink?”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about adding another glass of wine to what I’d already consumed that afternoon, but I was less sure how to politely turn him down. Plus I had a suspicion that his wine was going to be much higher quality than mine. I decided that a sip couldn’t hurt.
“Sure.”
He poured me a glass of deep crimson liquid and passed it over, then poured a second for himself. “It’s a Rioja.”
I sipped it and was immediately impressed by the smoothness and faint taste of cherries.
“Do you care for it?” he asked.
“It’s excellent.” It was easily better than anything I had ever tried.
“I just purchased the vineyard a few months ago.” He re-corked the bottle and set it in a guilded cage on the bar.
“I know you’ve been with the company for six months. Well, I suppose that you were with the company. And your transcript was very impressive. What did you hope to do before we let you go?”
“I was planning on law school. I’ve applied to Georgetown for next year.”
“I see. Just using us as a stepping stone then?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the limo stopped and the window behind Mr. Adamson’s head lowered. “Mr. A, we’re here,” said a gruff voice.
“Thank you, Thomas.” The window slid back into place. A moment later the door opened, and a white gloved bellman looked inside.
“Good evening, Mr. Adamson,” the bellman said. Another man stood behind him, this one with silver hair and a tuxedo.
Adamson climbed out, then leaned back into the car, holding forth a hand. I let him help me out of the car. Flashbulbs snapped as soon as I was on the sidewalk. The building itself was just red brick, but the throng of people crowding the entryway gave it an air of importance that belied the architecture. Photographers zoomed in on both of us.
My heart fluttered. I had seen paparazzi on TV, but I had no idea what it would be like on the other end of their cameras. I was scared shitless. Adamson must have sensed my hesitation because he stepped in between me and the cameras.
/> “Mr. Adamson, your table waits,” the silver haired man said.
“Thank you, Geordie,” Adamson said. He cocked his elbow, and not knowing what else to do, I slid my arm into the opening.
We followed the older man--I realized he must be the maître d’--past the crowd of people. More flashbulbs went off as we walked.
“I’m a little overwhelmed,” I whispered, to Adamson. “It feels like I’m in Hollywood.”
“Just smile and keep moving,” he said, as we passed through the doors.
Linen covered tables were scattered around the restaurant. Black-suited waiters with white ties moved between them. The maître d’ led us to the back of the restaurant and seated us at a table tucked into a corner.
A waiter was with us and pouring waters even as we sat. The maître d’ stepped aside. “What can I bring you to drink?” the waiter asked.
“A bottle of the ’95 Veuve,” Adamson said.
“Very well.” The waiter slipped away.
“The usual, monsieur?” the maître d’ asked.
“Please,” Adamson said.
“And for the mademoiselle?”
I looked around, unsure what my options were. With Adamson’s order of “the usual,” I didn’t have any frame of reference for what I should get. The menu didn’t even have prices, so I couldn’t just pick something in the middle. Citronelle was so unlike any restaurant I had ever been inside, and the whole date was so unlike any date I’d ever had, I was at an utter loss.
“Ah…”
“The promenade gourmande,” Adamson said.
“Excellent choice.” The maître d’ disappeared in the same direction as the waiter.
“It’s a bit of everything,” Adamson said. “I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”
“Um, thank you.”
The waiter returned with a silver serving platter. “The fois gras.”
A white plate held a circular portion of caramel colored meat, shot through with spices and seared on the sides. Succulent juices beaded on the surface of the hand’s width of still sizzling meat. Fresh herbs and vegetables lay in a circle of red sauce.
“What is the sauce today?” Adamson asked.
“We have pickled red onions with a sweet beet sauce.”
“Very well.” Adamson carved a portion of the meat and placed it on a bone white saucer that looked nearly translucent. He set the saucer before me and waited.
I cut off a corner with my fork and sampled it. It tasted like heaven--rich and meaty with an herbal undertone of rosemary and a smooth texture that melted on my tongue. “It’s amazing.”
“Try the sauce.” He cut a portion for himself and added a few of the onions and beets to the side.
Seven courses later my tongue needed a vacation. Such a profusion of tastes and textures. And between every course, we sampled a new wine. I was afraid to stand, for fear of wobbling, and I had barely sipped each glass.
“So before dinner you were telling me about how you were planning to abandon the company in a year?” He had a twinkle in his eye that made me think he wasn’t entirely serious.
“Well, of course. Use the company for a year, then kick it to the curb once I had my fill. The way of the world, right?”
“What are you trying to imply, Miss Wilson?”
I glanced away. It was too hard to keep up a playful façade when I was so nervous. “Nothing. I just wanted to go to law school or be in a place that made me happy. A place where I could do some good.”
“I see. Well, I have a proposition for you. I need a personal assistant.”
I took another sip of my water and realized the glass was already empty. “So hire a secretary.” It slipped out, and immediately I regretted it. I would never have been so forward with him, with anyone I didn’t already know as a friend, but he made it so easy to feel like I’d already know him for years.
“I spend a fair portion of my time traveling and attending formal functions. I don’t think a secretary would do. I want someone beautiful and charming and intelligent. I want you, Miss Wilson.”
I blinked. Beautiful and charming and intelligent? Who’s the charmer here, exactly. “I…”
“You don’t need to answer immediately. Take a few hours and think about it. I assure you that the compensation would be most generous. And perhaps I could have a word with the admissions office at Georgetown.”
The first thing to spring to mind was “hell yes,” but what was the catch? Would he just use me, then throw me away? But what choice did I have? I needed a job, and at the moment I was in danger of not being able to make rent. On the other hand, I didn’t feel comfortable taking on the role of high class hooker; I didn’t care how rich he was. I would not be some man’s expensive prostitute. Just the thought of it made me want to shudder. The stairwell was an aberration, I told myself. I am an intelligent, classy woman; I will not let any man think he owns me.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, at last.
“Excellent. Do you have other plans this evening?” He asked so politely, as if he really thought I might have something else more important. I couldn’t tell if it was an act, or if he really did care that I might have a busy night of Law & Order scheduled.
“I’m free.”
“The Discovery is at the Air and Space Museum now and I haven’t been to see it yet. Do you fancy a trip to the Smithsonian?”
“The space shuttle?”
He nodded.
“Is the museum open?”
He chuckled. “It is for us.”
The maître d’ came over to the table and took Adamson’s black credit card. He swiped it on a hand held scanner and handed it back. “Thank you for dining with us, sir. Have a wonderful evening.”
“You, too, Geordie.”
I followed Adamson out the back of the restaurant, far from the crowd, to a waiting limo.
***
The museum rose up, a great curving bluff of white illuminated by long splashes of light shining from the ground. It was so big that it didn’t even look like a hangar. A jet roared in the distance, and I peered out the window to see it crawl into the sky.
“Have you been here before?” Adamson asked.
“Yes. It’s not a coincidence that I worked for an aerospace company. I grew up at an FBO in upstate New York.”
The limo stopped before the catwalk-like awning. “Interesting.” Adamson and I climbed out of the door. The passenger window lowered a few inches. “I’ll call you when we’re finished,” Adamson said, to Thomas.
“So how are we going to get inside?” I asked, as we passed down the sidewalk.
“We’re going to knock on the door.” He rapped on the glass and waited.
“Do you know someone on the inside?”
“The company makes substantial donations. It conveys a few privileges.”
Must be some donations. It made sense, though. The heritage the museum preserved was Adamson Aerospace’s heritage, too.
A security guard appeared a few moments later. “The museum is closed,” he said. Adamson took a business card from his pocket and held it to the glass. The guard’s eyes grew wide. “I’ll be right back.”
“He has to run it by his boss,” Adamson said.
“You’ve done this before?”
“A few times.”
“Do you bring all your dates here?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
I harrumphed at that. It was hard to tell if he was joking, or if it was a glimpse of his true character.
“So whose card was that?” I asked.
“The museum director’s.”
Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? The guard returned and unlocked the door. “My boss said to give you the run of the place.” His hands shook as he locked the door behind us.
“Thank you,” Adamson peered at the guard’s nametag, “Jake.” He took my hand and led me through the atrium, toward the nose of the SR-71. “You said you grew up at an FBO?”
“M
y dad ran a little airport by Plattsburgh.”
“So do you fly?” We stopped before the rakish black jet.
“Not anymore. I had an instrument rating, but I’m not current.” I walked around, admiring the curves on the 71. Seen from above it looked terribly phallic, but from the ground it was more like an obsidian knife.
“That’s too bad. Why did you stop?”
“My parents were in a crash.” I spoke more softly. “It was fatal. I lost the urge after that.”
“I see.” He stepped closer to me and looked deep into my eyes as if he was searching for something.
“It’s been eight years.” I swallowed hard. This wasn’t the time to dredge up those emotions. “I used to love flying, though. The sense of freedom when you’re bobbing along by yourself with nothing around but the clouds and the birds is amazing. I keep telling myself that when I get out of law school, I’ll get back into it.” I pointed to the Blackbird. “This thing still gives me a thrill every time I see it.”
“My father contracted some of the avionics in it. He worked directly with the Skunkworks back in the 60s.”
“No kidding?” If your dad worked for Lockheed, how did you get that accent?
“It wasn’t long after he started the company.” Adamson sighed. “I’ve never gotten my own license. It’s always business travel, and the company keeps a pair of pilots on payroll.”
“You should at least learn the basics. If your pilot has a heart attack, you’d be able to land.”
“You might be right.” He stared in the distance, quiet for a few moments. “I think the Discovery is down here.” He led us around a corner and toward a door marked staff only. He slowed down just enough to make sure he wouldn’t slam into it if it were locked, then pushed on through.
The first thing I noticed was a faint smell of paint, but then I saw the shuttle. It was breathtaking. At nearly 60 yards long, it dominated the hangar where it was stored. “It looks so rough,” I said.
“They’re restoring it.” He walked around to the far side and stopped at the foot of a ladder. “Do you want to look inside?”
I looked at him like he was crazy. It was scandalous enough to even be in the building, and he wanted to sneak into the space shuttle? “Should we?”
