John reached out for her hand, needing to touch the woman to assure himself that this was not a mirage. Melanie allowed the contact, needing the man to translate verbatim what his eyes had expressed.
“John, what exactly do you see happening between us?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I really haven’t a clue. All I know is that you’re like a bottle of extra-potent vitamins. When I’m around you I feel younger and lighter and freer. And I like it,” he told her, looking deep in her eyes.
“What do you want from me?”
“At this point, I simply want to spend time with you. I want us to continue sharing ideas on work and the world and be together when we can. You are the reason that I wake up excited about going to work because I know at some point in the day I’m going to speak with you.”
“But you’re…`married.”
“I know I am, and believe me, I love Sharon dearly, but this has nothing to do with her. Whatever I’m feeling for you comes from a totally separate place, far and apart from my marriage. I am drawn to you in a way I can’t seem to explain, no matter how hard I try,” he said, amazed by his very revealing admission.
“Melanie, I no womanizer. I have never cheated on my wife and I’ve never been interested in some tawdry affair—”
“Is that what you see happening between us—an affair?”
Affair. The noun stuck in John’s head. On one hand, it was a word that connoted a large and frivolous occasion—like opening night at the opera or a charity ball. On the other, it held the sleazy insinuation of an immoral liaison. What did either of these definitions have to do with the incredible fondness he felt toward this lovely young woman?
“I don’t date married men.”
“I know you don’t, and I certainly haven’t had a date in nearly twenty-five years. But Melanie, there’s something here between us that I’ve never experienced before. And I refuse to simply shut it down until I know what it is.” John paused, waiting for Mel to respond. Instead, she silently pushed the food around her plate.
“I know you feel it too,” he said softly.
“And just how do you know this?” Melanie could see John trying to read her expression, searching for clues that either confirmed or denied his assertion, but she remained poker-faced, unwilling to reveal her disparate emotions.
“I just know,” John said with a wink, as he reached over and wrapped a springy bronze curl around his finger.
“So what do we do now?”
“Just let things naturally unfold, I guess.” Instinctively he could tell that now was not the time to push forward with this subject. Neither of them had any explanation that made any sense at this point. “And in the meantime, we should decide who gets the last water chestnut,” John declared.
“I believe that has my name on it,” Mel responded, grateful for his diversion.
With the expertise that comes with any defining stand-and-deliver moment, John adroitly picked up the slippery water chestnut with his chopsticks and slowly moved it toward her. “We’ll take this nice and easy,” he said as he proudly delivered the chestnut to Melanie’s waiting mouth. “That way we won’t make a mess.”
After leaving John in his office, Melanie spent the rest of Saturday at hers trying to complete her work on the Casa de Arte. What should have taken only a couple of hours took nearly four. She’d mixed up several copies of artwork, erroneously attaching them on the wrong boards. Detaching the swatches and photocopies had proven to be a messy affair, necessitating the complete redo of several displays. It was nearly eight o’clock when she put the final touches on her presentation boards, packed them up, and headed home.
Melanie knew the exact reason for her lapse of concentration. Her mind kept drifting back to John, replaying each encounter they’d had, from their caustic first meeting in September to today’s emotional revelation. And each storyboard scene of their relationship seemed to indicate that an inexplicable and potent force was steadily drawing them together.
It was a dynamism that felt natural and safe, exciting and salient, but also confusing and uncertain. It was a force that was slowly pulling them across lines drawn in the societal sand by moralists of all colors, steadfast in their conservative beliefs about love and appropriate coupling. John Carlson had all the right stuff in the wrong package. He was talented, intelligent, sexy, and successful. He was also married, white, eighteen years her senior, as well as her teacher and partner. His age and race were serious considerations, but much less than the married colleague issue. Both huge no-no’s in Melanie’s personal code of ethics.
Mel walked into the apartment to the sounds of a ringing phone. Candace sat on the couch, filing her nails and ignoring the noise. Melanie glanced over at her friend in wonder as she picked up the handset.
“Good evening, Melanie,” Frank said in a deep and very proper voice. “Is Candace there? We were supposed to meet at nine o’clock and she’s nearly half an hour late.”
“Hi, Frank,” Mel answered, glancing over at her roommate for instructions. She watched as Candy shook her head no.
“She’s right here. Hold on a sec,” Mel said, deliberately ignoring Candace. Rolling her eyes and sucking her teeth, Candy snatched the phone.
“Frank.”
“Where are you?”
“Sorry, but I lost track of time.”
“Or maybe your boyfriend was a little slow getting up and out for work tonight?”
Candace laughed coyly, letting Frank stew in his own erroneous conclusions. She hadn’t seen Griffin since last night, as he was in rehearsals all day with an understudy for tonight’s performance. “Look, I’m walking out the door. Wait for me,” she said, hanging up and plopping down on the couch.
“Didn’t you just tell Frank you were leaving?” Melanie questioned as she hung up her coat.
“He can wait a little longer. Maybe the Mrs. jumps when he hollers, but I am nobody’s beck-and-call woman. Besides, he’ll wait. He’s trying hard to make up for the other night.”
“Candy, why do you even bother playing these games with Frank?”
“Do you know where he’s taking me? First to dinner at the Palm and then to the Niche. I’ve been trying to get into that club for months.”
“What about Griff?”
“Like he could afford either one, let alone both. But I’ll hook him up later.”
“So you want a benefactor, not a mate.”
“There’s absolutely no reason why I can’t have both,” Candy replied, dismissing Melanie’s statement. “You can lose that high-and-mighty look. Don’t tell me you’ve never double-dipped, Melo. Every single girl should have a mate and a date. Men do it all the time. Girl, life is too short. Live a little. Now, if Griffin calls, tell him I’m having drinks with the partners.” Candace turned to leave, unwilling to divulge to her friend that she wanted and needed Frank Warren not only for the things he represented, but because having him in her life helped maintain the distance between her and Griff.
Melanie shook her head in double disbelief as her roommate departed. She hoped that Griffin never called. She didn’t want to be in the position of lying to one friend in order to cover up the deceit of another. This situation was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It was one thing witnessing all of Candace’s Machiavellian escapades, but it was quite another to be forced into being her accomplice—particularly when Candy’s victim was someone Melanie liked and admired very much. Where did loyalty to others end and devotion to one’s personal values begin?
Why is life always so damn confusing? Mel wondered. Just when she thought she’d come to terms with her feelings toward Will, just when her career was taking off in ways she’d only dreamed of, and just when she thought she’d found a mentor and friend she could learn from—BAM—complications abounded, leaving her feeling emotionally dazed and morally confused.
Melanie decided that the only remedy for what ailed her was a hot, sudsy tub. She headed first to the kitchen, grabbed an open bottl
e of red wine and a glass, and then crossed the hall to the bathroom, where she proceeded to draw herself a bubble bath. She lit several candles and turned on the radio before stripping down and easing into the warm jasmine-scented water.
Her body parts seemed to sigh in unison as she sat down. Mel sank deep into the bubbles, letting the soapy suds coddle her skin while she waited for the magic combination of water, music, and wine to relax her and shake loose all of her questions and frustrations.
Melanie felt the heat of the bath float over her naked body and instead of feeling mellow, a new agitation took over. After nearly a year without a man’s touch, her untreated lust was begging to be satiated. Mel could feel her earlier confusion completely dissipate. Rising up in its place was a defiant cry from a body demanding immediate sexual gratification.
As R&B singer Joe’s sexy voice sang about doing all the things her man wouldn’t, Melanie stretched out into the warm liquid and let the bubbles caress her nakedness. But soapy effervescence was a poor substitute for the soft contact of gentle hands stroking her skin. Mel closed her eyes and let her mind wander into the enticing realm of fantasy seduction, pulling from her vivid imagination a sexy, faceless lover. She pictured him soothing her body with his silken touch, liberating the sexual tension built up from months of restraint.
She drew her hands through her hair in a long lazy stretch. Imagining her hands to be his, she parted her lips and gently sucked her fingertips, experiencing the erotic pull in her fingers and in areas below. Tilting her face to the ceiling, she slowly ran her hands down her neck, shoulders, and breasts, cupping them and gently squeezing them together.
Melanie reached for the Neutrogena body oil from atop the radiator, tipped the bottle over her chest, and watched as the golden liquid pooled in the valley between her bosom. As the light sesame scent traveled up to her nostrils, Melanie slowly began massaging the warm oil into her skin, gently kneading and stroking her breasts until they began to swell under the slippery smoothness of her oiled fingers. She could feel her nipples grow longer and harder as they strained against the moist air in search of his mouth.
Her fantasy lover seduced Melanie into higher levels of arousal, leaving her begging for instant relief. She slipped her hand into the sudsy water and began to stroke herself as Joe’s naughty-and-oh-so-nice lyrics fondled her mind. Melanie massaged her clitoris in a soft circular motion, causing her to wriggle as she felt it grow deliciously tighter and tighter. Soft groans escaped her mouth and mingled with the sounds of water gently splashing the sides of the tub.
Melanie penetrated herself with two fingers and continued to pet her clitoris, her rational mind lost in the fantasy of him making love to her. The thought of his hardness penetrating her and gloriously gliding in and out of her body pushed Mel closer and closer to the verge of orgasmic delight.
“Oh, John,” Mel moaned as her inner muscles exploded around her fingers into contractions that were both pleasurable and powerful. She sank deeper into the tub, enjoying the drunken aftermath of her self-love experience. She lay there for several moments, savoring the delicious sensations, before the realization of her utterance settled in. Melanie bolted upright, splashing water over the sides and onto the bathroom floor.
She’d known all along that she was intellectually and creatively drawn to John Carlson—two important components to a sound personal and professional friendship. But she now had the answer to the question Candace had asked a couple weeks back. Yes, she was definitely sexually attracted to the man.
Mel sat back into the now-tepid water, abruptly seized by yet another unsettling truth. While her orgasm had momentarily taken the edge off of her pent-up desire, it was merely a hors d’oeuvre to what she really craved—a full-course gourmet meal of sensual pleasure. Melanie was sexually ravenous and tomorrow she would be on a plane headed for one of the most popular sin cities in North America with a man she found wildly desirable and totally untouchable.
Could things get any more complicated?
Chapter 13
As they strolled across busy Collins Avenue, Melanie lagged behind, ignored by both her partner and client. While the two men chatted amicably, Melanie took in the sunshine and seductive sights of South Beach and played a round of the good news, bad news game. The good news: Containing her attraction to John was obviously not going to be a problem.
On the flight down, John had been too preoccupied with some unexplained issue to say more than a few words to her. Immediately after checking into the five-star, Royal Palm Hotel, he canceled their scheduled dinner and disappeared into his suite. Melanie ate alone in her room, hoping that John’s troubled mood would dissipate before their meeting. His disposition hadn’t brightened this morning and they silently shared a taxi to survey the site where, if all went well these next two days, the Casa de Arte would stand.
Melanie sidestepped an enthusiastic shopper laden with bags from the many nearby designer stores as she stood considering the bad news. The charming man of flea market confessions and cozy office dinners was gone and in his stead was the cave dweller she’d first met and detested. Mel was totally confused by his sudden reversal of behavior. Since shaking hands this morning with Roberto Alvarez, a wealthy Cuban real estate developer, he had morphed into John Carlson—arrogant, world-class architect.
All morning, both he and Roberto sought her opinion only on minor questions, which were more about polite conversation than sincere professional counsel. Roberto she could almost excuse. It was obvious that he was enamored of John’s prestigious reputation, just as she’d been in the beginning. But for John there was no exoneration. Instead of treating Melanie as his respected partner who had conceived and helped develop the concept, John behaved as if she were his humble assistant. Gone was his penchant for soliciting her approval and crediting her ideas, replaced instead by an insulting authoritarian attitude that Melanie neither appreciated nor understood.
Despite her disappointment and anger, Melanie was determined not to let John’s attitude dampen her enthusiasm. While John and Roberto walked back to inspect the existing façade, Melanie decided to take in the view from across the street. She was struck by the wonderful location of her first major project. South Beach was a virtual mosaic of sensuous hues, sounds, and scents. As she watched the colorful characters zipping by on bikes, in-line skates, high heels, or flip-flopped feet, Melanie was reassured that their decision to create an inviting option for those who preferred more unique accommodations was dead on target.
Melanie closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun before releasing a frustrated exhale. She lifted her lids and looked up into the azure sky, clear but for a few wispy strokes of white cloud.
This is beautiful. Too exquisite to be covered by plaster, she thought. Melanie knew that the Starlight Gallery Restaurant must be included. It would be the hotel’s pièce de résistance, its calling card for locals and tourists alike. But John had been absolute in his opposition to presenting the idea to Roberto and, given his current temperament, would not be conducive to any last-minute discussion. Still, Mel was sure that its addition would make all the difference between the Casa de Arte staying a good hotel or becoming a great one.
Melanie looked back across the street and saw John waving her over. She strolled over to the crosswalk and as she waited for the light to change, a flyer tacked to the street sign caught her attention. It was an announcement for the upcoming Art Miami Festival in late January. Perfect timing, Mel thought as she removed the notice and tucked it into her pocket.
Sitting in the Blue Door Restaurant in the famed Delano Hotel, John proceeded to bask in Roberto’s unadulterated hero worship, while Melanie continued to go over every design detail with a keen eye. When it opened, the hotel made the front page of every style magazine in the country for its funky, whimsical, and sophisticated décor. Melanie glanced around the room from their secluded corner table. There was something to suit every taste in this hotel—from the eclectic furniture groupings to the
heavily used billiard table to the stream of “beautiful people” parading through the lobby on their way to the Alice-in-Wonderlandesque patio deck.
The conversation abruptly concluded when Felipe Martinez, Roberto’s partner and main investor, joined the group. After brief introductions, the business meeting began.
“So, Melanie, John tells me that it was your idea to change the name of the hotel,” Roberto remarked with an accent that, prior to deeming him a chauvinistic asshole, she would have found charming.
At last, some credit. “I thought it fit the concept and at the same time retained the exclusive connotation that the original name held,” Melanie replied adeptly.
“I agree. I like it. In fact, I like the entire artistic theme very much. I find the approach to be refreshingly luxe, particularly in this city of sparse and desperately hip accommodations,” Roberto continued.
“That is our plan, Señor Alvarez, to use luxurious textures inside and out, as a compliment to the sensual nature of the artwork. Isn’t that right, John?” Melanie asked smartly.
“Yes, it is.”
“I too like very much the art theme, but I do have a problem with the exterior of the building,” Felipe Martinez spoke up, turning to John for clarification. “Our hotel will be built in the middle of the famous Art Deco District. I’m concerned that such understatement might get lost among the more colorful and elaborate architecture.”
“I’m sure a man of John’s obvious experience and success has considered this,” Roberto commented with complete deference.
“Of course I have, and I am absolutely confident that my design is strong enough to compete with any other building,” John said with indignant authority.
“But we are here on the same block as the Delano, the Raleigh, and the Marlin Hotels—all bright, trendy-looking celebrity magnets. What about the look of our hotel is strong enough to pull away the likes of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones and bring them here?”
“A beautiful environment, an effective marketing campaign, and a reputation for intimate and fine service, Señor Martinez. Creating the environment is my job, letting the public know about it and building a superb reputation is yours,” John countered.
Hitts & Mrs. Page 13
