by Judith Gould
“More like sixty, but don’t worry, darling! You know how many decorators there are in New York. More than there are clients.
Anyway, the way I see it is: our friends, the deserving competition, and people we owe favors to will get to do the nice rooms.”
“And the ones we don’t like get stuck with the strangely shaped ones, with all those odd bays and impossible angles, as well as the bathrooms and kitchens!” Boo Boo said smugly.
“That’s right!” Lydia crowed gleefully.
“And best of all,” Boo Boo murmured, “I’ve got a whole list of decorators who were nasty to me when I first started out in this business. It’s payback time!” she sang.
“And remember the time Robert and Vincent wooed away the van Diamonts after all the time we spent working on that house?” Lydia reminded her. “Stole them?”
“Do I ever! They’ll get a windowless bathroom.”
“If they’re lucky. And how about the time Juan Pablo bought that Regency dining-room set right out from under us?”
Boo Boo nodded. “He deserves a long, bleak dark hall for that.”
“And what about two years ago, when Albert was assigned the bedroom we wanted to do in that Connecticut showhouse? Do you remember how you smarted?”
“How I smarted! You nearly cried. But since he’s a partner of Parrish-Hadley, and Sister Parrish is still the doyenne of decorating, and a power to be reckoned with, we have to be nice to him.”
“I know. Too bad, isn’t it? But we’ll only be nice to whomever we have to be nice to. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” Boo Boo cried. “Isn’t this all too exciting?”
“It’s wonderfully exciting!” Lydia responded joyfully. “And it just goes to show that what goes around—”
“—comes around,” Boo Boo finished smugly for her.
“Now, let’s get out of here. I’m dusty, hungry, and parched.”
“And I need a drink. Let’s stop off at the Post House before we head back into the city. It’s the least Anouk can do for us, don’t you think?”
Chapter 51
For Billie Dawn, making love with Duncan Cooper for the first time was a major step in recovery. The haunting gang rape at the hands of the Satan’s Warriors had been almost a year earlier. Although she would never be without the mental scars, what had happened then belonged to another lifetime entirely.
So much had happened since. So many good things: Olympia Arpel had taken her under her wing and was boss, guidance counselor, and a dear, caring friend—even though they might disagree from time to time about assignments Billie would refuse to accept because of her growing self-confidence, independence, and interests in animal-rights causes; the modeling career had skyrocketed her to fame, fortune, and the covers of every major fashion magazine; and, last but not least she had a steady boyfriend—up until now a platonic lover—who not only cared for her deeply and worshiped the very ground she walked upon, but who had saved her ruined face.
It was as if she’d suddenly gained a host of guardian angels.
Bad things had happened, as well. The knowledge that Snake was still out there gnawed constantly at the back of her mind. And worst of all had been the terrible discovery of her temporary roommate, Obi Kuti, brutally murdered in the high-rise apartment they’d shared.
She often thought: It could have been me. What if I’d been at home instead of on a modeling assignment?
After Obi’s murder, she hadn’t been able to sleep in that apartment another night, and when Duncan proposed she move into one of the empty bedrooms in his town house, she’d gladly availed herself of the offer. Not to snare Duncan; she knew in her heart of hearts that he was already hers. But somehow, she felt she would feel safest there, with him.
Another complication had arisen from Obi’s murder: Billie had become afraid to go out by herself, and would do so only when she had to. She never walked anywhere, and never took subways, buses, or even cabs—at Olympia’s wise insistence, she went door to door by limousine. Otherwise, she kept herself locked up in the town house.
The town house was her fortress, her keep, her self-imposed prison.
Slowly her life seemed to slip into a steady, reassuring pattern, although when she wanted some fresh air, she went no further than the garden out back.
It was not a healthy existence, and Duncan was worried. He insisted she couldn’t stay locked up in the town house forever. “Leaving every day just to go to work is neither physically nor mentally healthy,” he’d told her one morning. “I’ve got nothing scheduled today, and it’s a beautiful Saturday. Come on, put on your best dress. We’re going to do some shopping, have lunch, do some more shopping, and then have dinner.”
She’d demurred.
He was insistent. “You have to get out, and I’ll be with you every moment. I’ll make sure nothing and no one hurts you,” he promised, and added forcefully, “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
How could she refuse him? She loved him—even if, until now, it had been a love without physical fulfillment.
“I’ll say one thing for you, you don’t give up easily,” she’d murmured, but she was secretly pleased, and smiled. “Who do you think you are, my protector?”
“Your everything,” he’d declared staunchly. “Now, let’s get cracking. I’ll give you twenty minutes to get ready.”
She must have really wanted to get out—she was ready in a record fourteen.
They’d decided to “do” Lexington Avenue. “Everybody does Madison, or Columbus,” Duncan declared.
It was an afternoon she’d remember forever. Sunny and brisk and tailor-made for being out-of-doors. She wondered how she’d ever managed to keep herself cooped up all this time.
On foot, they hit all the shops between the Sixties and Nineties. At Philippe Farley they explored all four enticing floors of superb antiques and tapestries. At Leslie Eisenberg Folk Art Gallery they marveled over all the Americana, from cigar-store Indians to weather vanes to figureheads from ships. At Ages Past, Duncan insisted on buying her a pair of exorbitantly expensive Staffordshire whippets.
“What’s money?” he’d countered her protests and, laden with the two boxes, they’d taken a break and gone into Succés La Côte Basque, and with cappuccino had slices of the house specialty, a gluttonous meringue torte layered with mocha cream, chocolate ganache, whipped cream, and nuts.
Then it was over to the Ice Studio, the East Side’s favorite indoor ice-skating rink, where, wobbling on their skates with shrieks of laughter and delight, she and Duncan worked off the calorie-laden cake.
Legs aching from the exertion, they gladly turned in their skates and window-shopped some more. Often people on the street stared openly at Billie, especially women, some of them doing double-takes. Obviously they recognized her face from the recent spate of magazine covers.
Duncan grinned. “My girl’s famous. How does it feel to be recognized?”
Billie tossed her head, flipping her satiny waist-long hair back in that way she had. “Quite honestly, I don’t know if I really like it.” She frowned thoughtfully. “It’s rather disconcerting, since it puts me on an odd sort of footing. These people all know who I am, but I don’t know who they are.”
“You’ll get used to it,” he laughed. “Celebrity has its fringe benefits.”
They ducked into a shop specializing in terrines, then visited the New York Doll Hospital, and popped into II Papiro, where Billie bought Duncan a hand-marbleized calendar book. At the Lowell Gallery he purchased a much-sought-after unframed first printing of an advertising poster. “For my office,” he’d told her as the salesman rolled it up and packed it carefully in a cardboard tube.
They had just come out of the shop and were waiting at the curb for the light to change when two middle-aged women next to them stared blatantly at Billie.
“Billie Dawn?” one of them ventured, and then turned to the other. “My God, Ethel! It’s her! It’s Billie Dawn, the model! In person!”
Billie’s lips quivered at the corners.
“You’re even more beautiful in person!” the woman gushed. “Could you . . . I mean, we’re visiting from Chicago, and . . . I have this month’s Harper’s Bazaar right here . . . could you autograph the cover?”
“Sure.” Billie forced a smile and scrawled her signature. Then the pedestrian light changed and Duncan adroitly helped her escape.
Billie’s face was puzzled. “Did you see the way they stared? You’d think I was Elizabeth Taylor! Imagine. Someone asking me for an autograph!”
“You’re worth twenty Liz Taylors,” Duncan said loyally, “and you’re lovelier too.”
“That’s right, keep it up,” she teased, her eyes bright. “Spoil me rotten.”
“Filthy dirty rotten.” He grinned. “And that’s a promise!”
She laughed and gave his arm a squeeze. “I’ll hold you to it.” She shook her head teasingly, and added, with mock clucks of her tongue, “Poor Doc. You’ll have your hands full.”
Soon they arrived at Gino’s for an early, leisurely dinner.
“Oh, Doc!” she breathed, her eyes inspecting the dining room in one long sweep. “This place is delightful!”
And it was. The restaurant had radiant white tablecloths, red wallpaper with frolicking zebras, and maroon-rimmed china. Also, a devoted clientele.
The maitre d’ knew a drawing card the instant he saw one. Nothing filled a dining room quite like a celebrity—especially an eye-popping, drop-dead beauty of a celebrity. Bowing deferentially, he murmured, “If you will follow me, please,” and proceeded to lead them to the best and most visible table in the house. After lavishly pulling out a chair for Billie, he summoned a small army of waiters and busboys with a single click of his fingers.
“You see?” Duncan said. “What did I tell you? Celebrity hath its privileges.”
“One,” she laughed, nothing but her extraordinary eyes visible above her menu. “It gets us a good table without reservations.”
“It’s a start. Maybe from now on we should eat every meal out.”
“Silly man!” She leaned across the table and punched him playfully.
They were so tuned in to each other that neither was aware of eating the unrivaled pasta segreta, the fresh-from-the-oven slices of crusty Italian bread, or sipping the superb fruity red wine. It was their eyes that feasted—on each other.
Later, when they returned to the town house, they unpacked the Staffordshire whippets in Billie’s second-floor room.
“I want you to put them in the spot of your choice,” she told him.
Duncan didn’t need to give it any thought. “How about right here?” He set one at each end of the elaborately carved, massive marble mantel. After adjusting them slightly, he stepped back and eyed them critically, checking to make sure they were placed symmetrically. Satisfied that they were, he handed her the cardboard tube containing the antique advertising poster.
She looked puzzled.
“I lied,” he confessed with a smile. “I didn’t buy it for the office. I got it for you.”
“Oh, Doc!” She was overcome by his generosity. “You’re so good to me!” she said softly, her eyes glowing like aquamarine lasers. “I only wish,” she added huskily, “I could be as good to you.”
His eyes locked on hers. “You are, dammit!” he growled.
“Doc?”
“Later, Billie, later.”
Putting his arms around her, he drew her to him, then raised her face to his by pushing up on her chin with a gentle finger. “Billie, my Billie.” His breath was like hot perfume against her lips.
A wonderful tremor passed through her, and he began kissing her lightly. Once. Twice. A dozen times. All tender little nips.
A sense of soft, yielding love she had never before experienced took hold of her. Urgently now she returned his nipping kisses, and then his arms tightened around her and his mouth closed completely over hers.
His lips were electric, his tongue fiery quicksilver.
She shut her eyes and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. She was smoldering, as if something at the very epicenter of her being had ignited. Oh, if only she had experienced these loving wonders instead of sexual violence! If only she had met him long ago! If only every man on earth were like her Doc—
His lips moved from hers and her eyes flew open. What. . . ? She looked at him in surprise, wanting—no, needing—to continue feasting on his love. But the taste of him . . . Ah, she still had the fruity, masculine taste of him to savor on her tongue. And they were still locked in their embrace, standing there looking intensely at each other.
The air inside the room seemed suddenly heavier. Warmer and more humid. Fragrant with overpowering musk. Sparklers and pinwheels and fiery chrysanthemums exploded invisible pyrotechnics only the two of them could see.
Tentatively she lifted a hand and stroked his lips with a fingertip.
He held on to her. “I love you, Billie,” he said quietly.
“And if you only knew how much I love you!” She rested her head against his chest, and through his shirt she could hear the throbbing, quickened hammering of his heartbeats . . . could feel the racing of his pulse . . . could almost sense the roaring of his blood as it rushed through his arteries and veins.
All her senses seemed heightened.
“Billie,” he murmured, his words soft, warm gusts of breath. “My Billie.”
Locking her arms around him, she raised her face and stared up at him, seeing her tiny reflection in his eyes. “My Doc.” Her voice was a wonder-filled whisper.
He bent down to kiss her again; her twin reflections growing in size. She shifted against him and parted her lips eagerly.
This time his kiss was deep and urgent. There was an acute concentration behind it, a lusty appetite, and she could feel his breathing accelerate, triggering her own thirst for him. Hungrily her tongue explored and probed the soft succulence inside his mouth. How gluttonous and sustaining, this kiss! What rapture it induced! And what miracles it wrought: through her clothes she could feel the unmistakable demand inside his trousers swell until it strained the fabric and pressed against her hips.
She caught her breath sharply and felt herself shudder, then let her eyes close and pushed her pelvis against his.
The pressure intensified his hardness.
Her heart swelled and soared and filled to bursting. Oh, God! How she loved it! How she loved him! How she needed him! How—
Without warning, her mind fractured. The flashback thundered in. Hellish images spewed up out of her subconscious, obliterating everything else.
Strong rough hands seized her—bruising hands like claws and vises. . . .
The vision was so graphic and real that she jerked under the impact and gasped.
Then she realized: hands were clutching her now.
Dear God!
Billie Dawn clamped her mouth shut, unaware of piercing Duncan’s lip and drawing blood; she did not hear his startled cry of pain. And still the images came at her, streaking through her mind like tracer bullets in the dark.
Countless hands pulled . . . yanked . . . jerked her naked legs wide . . .
. . . Reeking armpits smothered her face; thick hairy elbows pinned her viciously across the throat and belly . . .
. . . Nearly choked her . . .
. . . Rendered her helpless . . .
. . . And then one smelly animal after another mounted her, tore her apart as she screamed and screamed in sheer agony. . . .
Cold shock froze her body, momentarily shut down her awareness of reality. Suddenly she could no longer breathe. The air in the room was foul and fetid and without oxygen, filled only with the stench of stale beer and unwashed bodies.
Suddenly her eyes snapped open and she shoved Duncan away, pummeling him with blurring fists while staring at him with wild horror.
“No!” she screamed. “No! Please . . . don’t! DON’T!”
“Billie!” His voice, gentle yet
urgent, tried to reach beyond her terror. “Billie!” Heedless of her flying fists, he didn’t try to grab her by the arms or wrists to subdue her, but embraced her even more tightly. “For God’s sake, Billie! It’s me! Duncan!”
Duncan.
Doc.
Her Doc.
Her pummeling fists froze in midair and her expression slowly changed. She frowned. “Doc . . . ?”
“That’s right.” He forced his voice to sound light and cheerful. “Me, in the flesh. Ain’t no one else here.”
The relief that flooded her face was painful to see. Almost instantly the nightmare images dissipated and reality rearranged itself. The fear on her face was gone, and she began to cry quietly.
“Billie . . .” he said softly.
“I’m sorry!” she sobbed. “Oh, Doc, I’m so sorry!” She clutched him tightly and buried her face in his chest. “It’s just that ever since—”
“It’s okay, Billie,” he whispered, stroking her head lovingly. “I understand. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”
She raised her face and looked up into his. “But I do!n Her cheeks were streaked with wet rivulets. “Don’t you see? I love you, dammit! And I want to make love to you! I want us to share everything a man and a woman—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently with a tender smile.
Her eyes were still on his, and her voice grew hushed. “You’re the last person on earth I’d ever want to disappoint. You know that, Doc!”
Duncan looked into her upturned face. He felt a painful twisting inside his gut. He could feel all the pain and terror she’d been subjected to, as if he had suffered them himself. His voice was tight. “Billie, can’t you understand that nothing you do or don’t do could ever disappoint me?”
She stared back at him in silence.
“You’ve been terribly wounded,” he said, “physically as well as emotionally, and recovery takes time. Rape isn’t something you undergo and then wake up from, cured, overnight. It isn’t like getting rid of a head cold. Maybe I am just a glorified cosmetician, but I am a doctor too.” His voice went hoarse and his eyes were gentle pools of knowledge. “I understand these things.”
