by E. J. Noyes
“You too, thanks again for your help.”
“You’re welcome.”
This is it. I stopped beside the cockpit, tilted my head slightly and made eye contact with the woman I now knew to be Captain Graham, first name still a mystery. “Thank you, very much.”
“It was my absolute pleasure,” she said evenly. She held my gaze for a moment until my eyes dropped to her lips.
“Thank you,” I repeated dumbly before turning to walk down the steps. Very articulate, Isabelle. I hoisted my laptop bag onto my shoulder and strode toward our waiting car.
There was a sound of footsteps behind me, followed by that delicious voice. “Excuse me! Ms. Rhodes?”
I paused and turned. The woman smiled. A hand was offered. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced yet. I’m Audrey Graham.” Her eyes slid downward to linger on my breasts for a moment before returning to my face. “I’m very excited to be working for you.” I had no idea how she managed to look like a respectful employee while ogling my tits, but she did.
As I took her hand, I wondered if it was sexual harassment if your employee had done all the propositioning, or you didn’t know they worked for you. Something to look into. “Audrey,” I repeated.
The smile wavered. “My mother really likes Audrey Hepburn movies, particularly My Fair Lady.” The way she said it made me think that she explained her name every time she introduced herself. She let go of my hand, but not before her thumb brushed up and over mine.
I bit my lip to stop the smile tugging at the edges of my mouth. “It could have been worse. She could have named you Doolittle.”
Audrey laughed like it was funny instead of the lamest joke ever. Leaning against the step railing, she folded her arms over her chest but it wasn’t defensive. It made her look even more confident. And sexy. Very, very sexy. Despite the change in appearance—hair pulled back neatly, lightly made up with uniform clean and sharply pressed—she was still the woman from last night.
Audrey nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Doolittle. Well that would certainly be in direct conflict of my work ethic.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “As I’m sure you’ll remember.”
All too well. Even thinking about it made my heart race. Before I could help myself, the old fear crept in. The one that would sit in the back of my mind and tell me women only wanted to be with me for what they could get, not because they cared about me. I lifted my chin. “About that. You really had no idea who I was? I find it hard to believe you didn’t see me yesterday morning.” I worked hard to keep my tone neutral, professional.
Her forehead wrinkled. “No, Ms. Rhodes, I didn’t. I was far too occupied with my first day at a new job. I’m sure you can understand that noticing a blonde with killer legs while running postflight checks isn’t the same as being able to recognize their face at a bar.” Audrey snorted. “Besides, what idiot would knowingly sleep with their employer the first day?”
She was right, and she had me with the compliment about my legs. What can I say? I have as much ego as the next person, if not a little more. I clamped my teeth down on my lower lip and decided to let it go. She leaned a little closer, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her perfume. Not floral, but something clean that had me imagining a rainforest. The scent dragged me back to last night. My groin sent a pulsing reminder for good measure, as if it thought I’d forget about what she could do. She’d turned me into a ridiculous, horny mess.
Audrey passed me a card from her pocket. “Here. In case you need to contact me.”
I studied the text and held it up between two fingers. “In case I need to contact you for what exactly?” Dial-an-orgasm service sounded like the best reason.
“Anything, Ms. Rhodes.”
Bad idea to call her. I tucked the card into my purse and lifted my eyes to meet hers. “Well, I hope you enjoyed your first experience working with us.”
Her face lit up with another smile. “I certainly did, Ms. Rhodes though I’m sure you’ll understand that you’ve set very high workplace standards.”
Chapter Three
When the regulation chauffeur-black Bentley pulled to a stop in front of our building in Lower Manhattan just after one p.m., I slid from the backseat, hoping to lose Mark before he could pin me down with a barrage of questions. I rushed to the elevators, punched the button to close the doors in his face and congratulated myself the whole way up to the fifteenth floor. The second elevator pinged as I opened the glass doors of our office and I turned back just in time to see Mark stepping out. Shitshitshit. I hurled breathless greetings at everyone, accepted a handful of messages and was practically running by the time I got to my office.
I dropped my bags on the plush carpet and as I was closing the door, a hand grabbed the wood and stopped me. “Nice try, Belle.” Mark closed the door calmly behind himself. He would never raise his voice or slam a door when people were around. Image you see. But after a whole flight and car ride to think about it, he’d be tumultuous.
I told him frequently that bottling up emotions was unhealthy. He’d probably have a heart attack before he was fifty. No heart attacks for me—I made sure to take the cap off my emotional bottle on a semiregular basis, releasing anger by griping at incompetent people. Mark’s a damp match, constantly trying to get lit. I’m a firecracker. Burn hot and bright then go out. Really, I’m not a bitch. Just occasionally bitchy.
Mark spun around to face me. “Isabelle.” My full name, not his usual shortened version. He was serious with a capital S. “What the actual fuck? Did you sleep with her? How?”
“How? You want a lesson in the logistics of lesbian lovin’?” I grinned at my alliteration and deft sidestepping.
“Belle.”
“Fine.” I lifted a forefinger. “I did, but I can explain. It’s quite simple really.”
“I’m sure it is.”
I made sure to enunciate. “I. Didn’t. Know.”
“How could you not know?”
I ticked off my defense as I walked across to my desk. “You hired her, her back was to me when I walked past and I worked with earphones in the whole flight.” If I’d heard her voice, I would have recognized it in the bar immediately. It was as delicious as she was and I was pretty confident I’d heard her entire octave range, right from deep whispers of dirty things in my ear to muffled screams.
Mark grunted and my explanation picked up speed. “I’m serious, Mark. I was drinking at the bar and she approached me. We had a few more drinks and went up to her room. Do you really, honestly think I’d have fucked her if I knew? Like, really?”
“No, I don’t but—”
“But nothing. When I left the jet she assured me she was unaware of who I was. And you know what? I believe her.” I dropped the handful of crumpled call notes next to the phone and rested my ass against the edge of my heavy mahogany desk.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. So…no more? It’s out of your system?”
Eyes wide, I clamped my lips together and gave him a very noncommittal gesture. It was not out of my system. Not by a long shot. Mark stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked over to me. “If you’re going to sleep with her again, you need to talk to HR. We need waivers. And no, we can’t fire her just so you can screw her again, Belle.”
I gave him a hard stare. “I know that, you fucking idiot.” I’d already been through all the possibilities, including that one. Thinking of the crescendo as she came, I was tempted to do it anyway and risk being sued for unfair dismissal just so I could have my tongue inside her again. “Look, I don’t plan on sleeping with her again, but I’m allowed to have thoughts, Mark.”
His cheeks puffed. “Fine. But talk to Tom so if she sues your ass for sexual harassment because of last night, we’re prepared.”
I glared at him. “I’m fairly sure consensual sex between two adults isn’t considered sexual harassment. Especially if the sex, mind boggling as it was, happened before these two adults were aware of any e
mployer-employee connection.” Still, a small part of me wondered if I might actually be in trouble.
Mark’s hands came up to make half-closed fists before he let them drop again. “I just don’t get how you could make a mistake like that.”
“You don’t get it. Hello?” I leaned forward and tapped the air with a forefinger. “Is this microphone on? I feel like you can’t hear me. I didn’t realize who she was!”
“Very funny,” he said drily.
“I don’t understand what the problem is. I spent one night with her. It’s not like I’m going to force her to lick me every time we take a trip if she wants to keep her job.” It was an appealing thought. The licking, not the forcing in order to keep her job. “Anyway. Stop being so damned self-righteous. You dated one of our interns, or have you forgotten that?”
He ignored me and barreled on. “This is completely different.”
“No it’s not,” I muttered under my breath, my back to him as I walked to my chair and dropped into it. His mention of a waiver had darkened my mood, and the fact that he was right darkened it further.
I could just picture the scenario. Can I sleep with you again? Will you sue me if I do? Please sign here and I’ll see you out back in five for a quickie. Fuck. I kicked my heels off.
Mark started to gather his things. “So the sex was really that good?”
I spun my chair around, pushing off the carpet with my bare foot. “You’ve seen what she looks like, right?” The chair made a full revolution.
“I have.”
I arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “Take that, multiply it by the four screamingly good orgasms she gave me and you have your answer.”
* * *
By burying myself in work, I managed to push Audrey Graham into a deep recess of my brain, ready to drag out again as soon as I got home. I set a reminder to call Tom, the company attorney, in the morning to see if I really was in any sort of deep legal trouble. He would relish the chance to bill me for preplanning how he would yank me out from under a potential harassment lawsuit. It would make Mark happy to know we’d been proactive. A happy Mark was a quiet Mark and a quiet Mark meant a happy Isabelle.
My frustrations weren’t helped by a twenty-minute call with one of my clients trying to reassure him that a dip of thirty basis points in his portfolio wasn’t a catastrophe. He was slightly mollified when I pointed out that the last time this happened, I came back with a two percent increase for him. Lord save me from people who don’t trust.
If it wasn’t for the high commission I’d negotiated from the very beginning, I may have been tempted to tell him to take his shitty whiny attitude elsewhere. In a nice way of course. By the time I ended the call there were hard indents in my legal pad from angry doodling. Mentally drained, I decided to take a break outside the office. I gathered my things, tugged my heels back on and started to walk toward the lobby.
“Ms. Rhodes?” Clare scurried up beside me, tucking her shiny black bob behind her ear. “I’ve just sent your meeting schedule for next week. And here are the ideas from Christopher for Saturday’s gala and the benefit on the eighteenth.” She passed me two folders, both with my name in my stylist’s extravagant penmanship.
“Thank you.” I tucked the folders under an arm and as we walked, opened up my schedule on my tablet. Two meetings in Dallas Monday, late meeting in office Tuesday, Chicago Thursday, lunch meeting back here on Friday. Four flights, four opportunities to see Audrey Graham. Excellent. No, not excellent. No touching. “Please call Christopher and tell him I’ll make a decision on the final two outfits for Saturday’s gala by five today. He can come to test and fit tomorrow lunch time.”
“Of course, and I already have Saturday’s hair and makeup scheduled for two.”
“Great, thanks.” I flipped through a few of the stylist’s notes, bored and uninspired by the gowns.
“Rick Elliot called about this year’s list issue. He wanted you to know that despite what’s rumored, they’re doing it in the same format as always for the top ten.”
I nodded. “Whatever they want, wherever you can fit it in.” It would be my third year running on the magazine’s NYC Wealthiest Self-Made Women list, which meant a photo shoot and an interview.
Wordlessly, Clare held out her hand and I passed the folders back. She hovered. “I’ll leave these on your desk. Have you eaten lunch, Ms. Rhodes?”
Food. Shit. I glanced at the clock, noting it was almost three. “Not yet. I need some air. I’ll pick something up and be back in an hour. Send calls to my cell, please. Oh, and Clare, can you arrange another airport lounge card for Oklahoma please? One that won’t demagnetize in the first month.”
I hurried out of the building and down the street toward Lou’s, my favorite eatery on Ann. It was warm, the sun was shining and I resolved, as I did at least three times a week, to spend more time outdoors.
Lou held his arms wide, his already protruding belly protruding even further. “Blondie. I’ve missed you. The usual?”
“Yes, please.” I dumped my purse on the counter while Lou started working on my ham, Swiss, tomato and mustard on rye, chattering about his son’s upcoming wedding. People were staring at me like a woman in a four thousand-dollar suit and shoes that cost two grand waiting for a sandwich near a back alley was an anomaly. Maybe elsewhere, but not in Manhattan.
I’d been propositioned by men at Lou’s who either thought I was a high-class escort or I was lost. The truth was far simpler—I really liked Lou’s sandwiches and I liked sitting at his counter listening to him talk.
I ate there for the same reason I wore torn dirty jeans, rode the subway to see a movie or go bowling and volunteered some scant free time at the animal shelter. Because I liked the normalcy. I liked people treating me like a regular person, not calling me Ms. Rhodes, or climbing up my ass, or trying to get something from me.
I realized then that was why I felt so drawn to Audrey. She had treated me like a regular person. Every woman I’d dated knew who I was before we started out. They knew me as Isabelle Rhodes: stockbroker with a net worth comfortably in the hundreds of millions, philanthropist and member of various pointless A lists. Not Isabelle Rhodes: ex-middle class social misfit, secret reality television addict and lover of quiet nights at home with a cup of tea.
For the seven perfect hours I was with Audrey, I was just me and me was someone she wanted. Even after she discovered who I was, she looked at me the same way she had the night before, as much as she tried to hide it behind the thin layer of deference.
Lou set my sandwich down on the counter, complete with two pickles sliced into spears. He always gave me two. I smiled up at him. “You’re too good to me.”
He shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased. “Eh, I just know what you like, Blondie.”
“Tell me more about this wedding. You got your suit ready?” I picked up my sandwich, took a bite and listened to him talk.
* * *
I left work at seven and was in the private elevator up to my Tribeca penthouse by seven twenty. Peeling out of my clothes, I took a moment to admire the faint bruising and suck marks peppered along my collarbone and over my breasts. Closing my eyes, I finally let my thoughts run rampant. Do you like that…you taste so good…fuck, you’re gorgeous…I’m going to come…right there…oh, God…don’t stop. I opened my eyes, shuddered and let out a long breath. Christ.
Though it was the last thing I felt like doing, I spent forty minutes running on the treadmill and another thirty doing Pilates in front of the television. After an NYC men’s blog named me sixth most eligible bachelorette a few years back, I’d developed a weird sort of vanity.
It was like a subconscious part of me feared that this was as good as it would get and the moment I hit forty, everything would go to shit. The ego boost of being included on the list barely outweighed my annoyance at them not even performing a basic background check, because as far as I knew, my sexuality was no secret. I’d spoken about it in interviews and t
here were a number of photos on the net of me at events arm in arm with women. I knew this for certain because after therapy or a few glasses of Sav Blanc, I Googled myself.
Still sweating from my workout, I picked through a freezer full of nothing but Lean Cuisine boxes and pints of ice cream I saved for guilty pleasure television night. I checked messages, tossed a random meal in the microwave and trudged upstairs to shower. Moments after I stepped out of the glass cubicle, my cell started ringing on the kitchen counter. The unique tone announced Mama was calling. I raced downstairs and snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Is-a-belllle.” My name lasted a full five seconds.
“Hi, Mama. How’re you?”
“Why’d you take so long to answer?” Indignant.
“I was in the shower.”
“Well, why didn’t you just leave it then?” Incredulous.
I stifled a sigh. Telling her because then you’d complain about me not answering was not productive. “I was almost done and I thought it might be important. Plus I haven’t talked to you in a couple of days. What’s up?”
Mama’s tone softened. “Just checking in with you, Bunny. You eatin’ right?”
“Yes, Mama. I stopped for sushi and salad on the way home.” Behind me, the microwave dinged loudly. I cringed, waiting for her shrill admonishment.
Mama did not disappoint. “Isabelle Renee Rhodes! I heard that awful machine. You lyin’ to me aside, microwave meals are not an acceptable way to nourish your body. And those things are never heated long enough, they’re just dyin’ to make you sick.”
I popped the door of the microwave to stop it beeping again. “Sure they are. What do you call reheated leftovers?” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I sometimes ate a handful of pistachios and drank a glass of wine for dinner because I couldn’t even be bothered heating a precooked meal.
“Lord knows why you do not just hire yourself a personal chef. They don’t care if your schedule’s all over the place. Do I need to come up there?”
