Enid Richards’s evasiveness should’ve set off mental warning bells, but Faye found herself intrigued with the velvety timbre of the woman’s voice.
“When and where do you want to meet?” she asked.
“I’ll leave that up to you, Ms. Ogden.”
She glanced at the planner on her desk. She hadn’t scheduled any meetings for the afternoon or evening. “Tonight at six, Café de Artistes.” She knew she hadn’t given Ms. Richards much notice, but if she were truly sincere then they would meet at her convenience.
“I’ll make the reservation in my name,” Enid said quickly. There came another pause. “Thank you, Ms. Ogden.”
Faye wanted to tell her thanking her was a little premature, but said, “You’re welcome, Ms. Richards.”
CHAPTER 9
Enid arrived at Café des Artistes at five-thirty and requested a table giving her a view of anyone coming through the door.
She’d always thought the artsy eating place naughty and boisterous. A place not to conduct business, but to have fun. The murals of frolicking nymphs painted in 1934 by Howard Chandler Christy added to the joie de vivre of the venerable upper west side restaurant frequented by notable theater and media personalities.
Ignoring the goblet of sparkling water on the table in front of her, Enid’s eyes widened as she watched the woman heading toward her table.
Faye Ogden was petite with a full lush body that did not have one straight line. The short blond curls hugging her head like a cap matched her eyebrows, the color flattering and brightening her light brown face and eyes.
Enid’s penetrating gaze moved from Faye’s head to her feet in one sweeping glance. Tasteful makeup, pearl studs in her ears and a matching strand around her graceful neck, a tailored black linen gabardine single-buttoned jacket and slim matching skirt ending at her knees, and a pair of black leather sling straps that bore the same designer label of a few in her own closet. She had tiny feet, slim ankles and curvy calves. Faye Ogden was perfectly exquisite.
Pushing back her chair, Enid came to her feet and extended a hand. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Ogden. I’m Enid.”
Faye shook her hand, finding the grip firm and confident. Why, she thought, was Enid thanking her when she’d been the one to set up the meeting? It was apparent that the tall, slender ash blond–haired woman was either overconfident or presumptuous.
“Please call me Faye.”
Enid smiled as she waited for Faye to sit before she sat down again. “Then Faye it is. Would you like to order a cocktail?”
“No, thank you.”
Enid gestured to a bottle of mineral water. “Will you share the water with me?”
A hint of a smile softened Faye’s mouth. “Yes.”
With a slight lifting of one pale eyebrow, Enid caught their waiter’s attention. She touched her goblet with a finger as he approached the table. The waiter turned over Faye’s glass and filled it, then retreated, standing a comfortable distance away.
“Would you like to discuss business over dinner, or would you prefer we finish eating?” Enid asked.
“Over dinner is okay with me,” Faye replied.
Enid pretended interest in the menu as she took surreptitious glances through her lashes at the woman she hoped to sign to Pleasure Seekers. She did not think of Faye Ogden as classically beautiful, but her flawless complexion, coloring and compact curvy body would make her a standout among the blondes and redheads who worked for her escort service.
Faye found everything about Enid Richards intriguing. It was hard to pin down her age, but the saying that “black don’t crack,” certainly applied to Ms. Richards. And despite her fair coloring, pale hair color and European features, she knew the owner of P.S., Inc., was a sister-girl. In fact, Enid resembled a great-aunt who’d moved from Georgia to California, and once there elected to pass for white.
Working in advertising gave Faye another advantage. She was able to identify products without seeing their labels, and Enid was a walking advertisement for understated elegance: gold Cartier watch, Mikimoto pearl earrings and necklace, Armani suit, Prada shoes and handbag. She loved Armani, but found the cut too slim for her generous hips. Therefore, Donna Karan had become one of her favorite designers.
She glanced at the menu and decided to order a salad. Her head came up and she found herself looking into a pair of large, deep-set blue-gray eyes. She thought of Alana’s statement that they were being hit on by a woman but quickly dismissed it. Enid wasn’t staring at her the way men did.
“What are you looking for?” she asked, deciding directness was always better than being evasive—especially with a woman. “Or should I ask, what are you selling?”
Enid went completely still. Whenever she interviewed a prospective social companion for Pleasure Seekers, she always took charge of the discussion. This was the first time she’d found herself on the defensive and she realized immediately she had to adopt a different attitude when interacting with a woman of color.
“Let’s order, then we’ll talk,” she suggested. There was no way she would permit Faye Ogden to control her meeting.
CHAPTER 10
Faye gave the waiter her order, then sat staring at Enid. Her former curiosity had become annoyance. She didn’t have many pet peeves, but evasiveness was one.
“Why did you give me your card?”
Enid ran a hand over the back of her neck, massaging the muscles under the blunt-cut, white-gold waves ending several inches above her shoulders. Her tension had returned despite a full body massage earlier that morning.
Lowering her hand, she focused on Faye’s mouth outlined in gold-orange lipstick. The younger woman had no idea how appealing she would be to her clients.
“I’d like you to work for P.S., Inc.,” Enid said, deciding it was time to be direct with Faye.
Faye blinked once. “I already have a job.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m in advertising.”
“Does it pay well?”
“Well enough,” she said, refusing to disclose how much she earned.
“Six figures well?” Enid held up a hand. “You don’t have to answer that one.”
Faye leaned closer. “What is P.S., Inc.?”
“Pleasure Seekers is an escort service.”
“Are you asking me to become a prostitute?” She stared at the woman with the sultry voice and cool blue-gray eyes.
“No,” Enid said softly. “I told you what I propose is legal. Besides, if I were running a prostitution venture I’d never hire you. I’d consider you too old and much too intelligent. Men pay hookers for their bodies not their brains.”
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Yes, you should.”
“Well, I don’t consider thirty-two old, even for a prostitute. What are you selling, if not sex?”
A small smile of enchantment touched Enid’s lips. “Social companionship, my dear. My clients are men, extremely wealthy men who are willing to spend thousands of dollars an hour, day or even a week for my social companions.”
“That’s it?”
“Why? Do you want more?”
“No. I…I just don’t understand.”
“There’s not much to understand, Faye. It all comes down to supply and demand. I would never ask that you give up your career or day job to work for Pleasure Seekers. You can begin with weekends or one or two nights a week.”
“Why me?”
Picking up her glass, Enid took a sip of water, her gaze meeting the gold-flecked one over the rim. “I overheard the conversation between you and your friend last night at the Four Seasons and—”
“You were eavesdropping on a private conversation?”
“Only after I heard your voices.”
“What about our voices?”
“I knew you were black women.”
“What’s the saying? It takes one to know one, Ms. Richards,” Faye countered, her eyes glittering like polished citrines.
>
The skin around Enid’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. “Touché, Ms. Ogden. How did you know?”
“You look a lot like my grandmother’s sister.”
There was something about Faye Ogden that piqued Enid’s curiosity. “Is she passing?”
Faye nodded. “Are you?” she asked, knowing she’d surprised Enid when her expressive eyebrows lifted.
“No. If they don’t ask, I don’t tell.” Reaching into her handbag, she took out two envelopes and placed them on the table next to Faye’s place setting.
“I’m hosting a party in Soho this weekend. I’d like you and your friend to consider attending.”
“Why?”
“I’d like a little diversity.”
Shaking her head, Faye stared at the famous murals. “You need diversity.” Her gaze swung back to Enid. Pleasure Seekers needed women of color and she needed money for CJ’s appeal.
“You’re right, Faye. I do need diversity. I’d like you to come to the soiree because it will give you the opportunity to meet my clients and the other social companions who work for P.S. And I’d like you to consider the possibility that you can earn upward to five thousand dollars a day as one of my exotic jewels.”
“How much would I get?”
“Forty percent.”
Faye sat up straighter, an expression of satisfaction shimmering in her eyes. Pleasure Seekers needed black women and she needed money—a lot of money.
“Make it fifty and I’ll think about it.”
A powerful relief filled Enid as she extended her right hand, and she wasn’t disappointed when Faye took it. She knew she was in no position to negotiate a difference of ten percent. It was either fifty or nothing.
“Everyone who signs with Pleasure Seekers receives a thousand-dollar tax-free signing bonus. For everyone you refer and we sign, you’ll get an additional thousand-dollar bonus.
“You’ll have to attend an orientation session where you’ll be apprised of what is expected from you as a social companion. There are also documents that will require your signature.”
“What kind of documents?”
“Tax and bank information. Payments will be processed through electronic deposits, and at the end of the year you will receive a ten ninety-nine for your gross earnings. Your bonuses, of course, will be tax free.”
Faye felt a newfound respect for Enid. She had what she’d overheard young kids say, that she had her shit wrapped mad tight. There were other questions she wanted to ask her, but decided to wait for the party and orientation.
Their entrées arrived and Enid and Faye ate while discussing local and international news, films and the scandal involving a senator’s wife. Someone had uncovered evidence that as a college student she’d played major roles in several hard-core porn films.
Enid touched the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “All she has to do is admit to the accusation, then go on with her life.”
“Do you think it’ll be that easy for her?” Faye questioned.
“It will if she tells the truth. No one respects a liar.”
Faye agreed with Enid. Once she had confronted her ex-husband about his discretions, he didn’t lie to her. His admission diffused her rage, and made it easier for her to face reality and move on with her life.
Now her reality was that she needed money for her brother’s appeal, and Enid had come to her with an offer she couldn’t refuse.
She would work for Pleasure Seekers long enough to earn what she needed to pay the attorney to overturn her brother’s rape conviction, then she’d focus on setting up her own advertising agency.
Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. She couldn’t wait to call Alana and tell her about Enid Richards.
CHAPTER 11
“Lanie, baby. Wake up! I’ve got good news for you.”
“What?” she mumbled.
“I made it, baby. I’m going to Europe with the band.”
Rolling over, Alana sat up, blinking against the light coming from the lamp on Calvin’s side of the bed. “What?” she repeated, suddenly wide awake.
She stared into Calvin McNair’s dark eyes before her gaze inched lower. She loved his firm lips, dreaded shoulder-length hair and goatee. She had fallen in love with the talented bassist on sight when she’d gone to a Greenwich Village jazz club with Faye.
She’d returned to the club the following weekend—alone, unable to believe her luck when Calvin approached her table and introduced himself. A week later he moved into her apartment.
They were compatible in and out of bed, but Calvin refused to discuss what she wanted most: marriage. She wanted marriage and he fame.
“What did you say about going to Europe?” Her pounding heart slammed against her ribs.
Cradling Alana’s face between his palms, Calvin brushed a kiss over her parted lips as her warmth and scent swept over him like a sensual fog. He loved her, her passion and her generosity, but not as much as he loved his music.
“Jimmy’s out and I’m in. Tony caught him smoking crank and fired him on the spot. I’ll be leaving with the band Saturday morning.”
“Saturday?” The word came out in a strangled whisper. “This Saturday?” Calvin smiled, nodding. Alana struggled to control the hysteria making it difficult for her to draw a normal breath.
A callused finger touched her lower lip. “Yes, Lanie.”
Tears filled Alana’s eyes. “You can’t…you can’t just drop this on me.”
Pulling her closer, Calvin pressed a kiss over her eyelids. “We’ve talked about this, baby. I told you I was waiting for my big break, and now that it’s come I have to take advantage of it.”
“Like you’ve taken advantage of me.”
“How have I taken advantage of you, Lanie?”
“Faye says while I house and feed you, you get free use of my body.”
“That dyke bitch better stay the hell out of our business or…” His words trailed off.
“She’s not a dyke, Calvin. And she’s my best friend.”
“I’m sorry I called her a dyke.”
He hadn’t wanted to apologize, but the two women were friends long before he shacked up with Alana, and he didn’t want to say anything that would jeopardize his relationship with her.
She crawled onto his lap like a small child, her arms circling his neck. “How long will you be gone?”
“Six months?”
Alana stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “You’re going to spend six months in Europe?”
“No, baby. We’re touring Europe, Africa and Asia.”
Her eyes filled again. “No, Calvin,” she sobbed, shaking her head. “You can’t leave me for six months.”
“I have to go, baby. I’ve waited all of my life for this moment.”
“But what about me?”
Calvin hid his disgust behind an expression of indifference. Alana was so incredibly beautiful and sexy that she could have another man in her bed before he darkened her door. But her beauty and intelligence was minimized by a draining neediness that always set his teeth on edge.
If he forgot to tell her that he loved her she would sulk and pout until he did, and it hadn’t taken him long to learn to play her game. If he was asleep when she left in the morning he made certain to call her and tell her or leave a message on her voice mail that he loved and missed her.
“What do you want, Lanie? Do you not want me to go?”
Alana pressed a kiss against his warm throat. “I would never try to stop you from following your dream.”
Combing his fingers through her mussed curls, Calvin kissed the fragrant strands. “What’s the matter, baby?” he whispered in her hair.
A tumble of confused emotions beset Alana as she struggled to control them. A man she loved was asking her what she wanted and she was too afraid to open her mouth and say what lay in her heart, had lain in her heart for years.
Years and thousands of dollars spent on therapy sessions hadn’t prepared h
er for this moment, even though she had rehearsed it over and over since she’d invited Calvin into her life and into her bed.
“I want to be Mrs. Calvin McNair.”
CHAPTER 12
Calvin stared at Alana. “You want me to marry you?”
“No, Calvin. I want us to get married.”
“Where is all of this coming from?”
She rested a hand over her heart. “From here. I want a commitment from you.”
“I am committed to you.”
“Committed enough to marry me?”
There was a pulse beat of silence. “Yes, Lanie. I am committed enough to marry you, but not now.”
The heavy lashes that shadowed Alana’s cheeks flew up. Stunned, Calvin’s admission had rendered her mute. “When?” she whispered, recovering her voice.
“When I come back we’ll announce our engagement.”
A frown creased her smooth forehead. “Why wait? Why can’t we get engaged now?”
“No, Lanie,” Calvin countered, shaking his head. “I want to do it right—the ring, on bended knee with the traditional will-you-marry-me scenario. I also want to save enough money so we can buy a house in the suburbs with a good school system. I don’t want our children to go to New York City public schools.”
His words did not register on Alana’s troubled senses. She didn’t want to wait six months. She wanted now because she didn’t want her life to parallel her mother’s, who’d lived with her common-law husband for twenty-three years and borne him three children. The liaison ended after he married another woman—a much younger woman whom he’d gotten pregnant. Melanie Gardner’s battle with depression had been exacerbated because none of her children claimed Carlos Moore’s last name.
“We both went to public schools and we did all right,” she argued quietly.
Calvin ran a finger down the length of her nose. “I don’t want them to do all right. I want them to excel.”
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