“Jonathan, I’d like you to meet to Faye Ogden and Alana Gardner. Ladies, Jonathan Hamilton.”
Both women recognized the name immediately. The Hamiltons were an old-moneyed family who’d made their fortune setting up department stores.
“I’m charmed, Mr. Hamilton.” Alana smiled, extending her hand in a limp gesture denoting helplessness.
Jonathan held Alana’s hand, then tucked it into the bend of his elbow. “May I get you something to drink?” Alana’s towering height eclipsed his by a full head.
“Why, aren’t you darling.”
Since when did you talk with a Southern drawl? Faye longed to ask Alana.
Her friend had spent the morning in tears after seeing Calvin off and Faye thought she was going to have to attend the Pleasure Seekers party alone until Alana called her back, asking, “Where the party at?”
She smiled at one of the wannabe Baywatch bartenders. “I’d like a gin martini, please.”
“What kind of gin?”
She gave him a blank stare.
“Give her a Beefeater’s. Make it extra dry and very dirty,” ordered a soft male voice behind her.
Faye turned to stare up at a tall, middle-aged man with close-cropped silver hair and intense gray eyes. Not handsome, but very attractive. The tailored lines of the dark suit on his slender body had not come off a rack. She smiled at him, bringing his gaze to linger on her mouth.
“What will you have, Mr. Houghton?” asked the other twin.
“I’ll have what the lady’s drinking.”
Faye lowered her lashes in a demure gesture. “Thank you, Mr. Houghton.”
He angled his head and smiled, the expression softening his rugged features. “It’s Bart.”
Faye extended her right hand. “Faye.”
He held her fingers, bringing them to his mouth and dropping a kiss on her knuckles. He waited until she looked up at him before releasing her hand. “Does Faye have a last name?”
“Ogden.”
“Faye Ogden,” he said thoughtfully, as if memorizing her name.
The twins gave Bart and Faye their cocktails; they touched glasses. Faye felt the heat from Bart’s gaze burn her face as he stared openly at her. She knew he was intrigued by her, but wanted to tell him he was too old for her, and more important, he wasn’t her type.
As she took a sip of her martini, the iciness slid down the back of her throat then exploded in a ball of fire in her chest. She blew out her breath.
“Whoa. That’s potent.”
Bart sipped his martini, nodding. “It is a little strong. Would you like them to make you another one?”
Faye shook her head. “No. I’ll nurse it for the rest of the evening.” She gave him a too-bright smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Bart. Please excuse me. I’m going to circulate.”
The last thing she wanted to do was give Bart Houghton the impression she was interested in him, because she wasn’t. In fact, if the truth were told, she wasn’t interested in any of the men in attendance, doubting if any were under forty. She drifted over to where a quintet played softly while the waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne, caviar and sushi.
“Lovely,” crooned a rotund man with a wet-look comb-over hairdo when she passed him and the statuesque redhead clinging to his arm.
Peering over her shoulder, she winked at him. “Thank you.”
Enid stood next to Marcus, her gaze shifting between Alana and Faye. It hadn’t taken her long to analyze the two women. Alana was outgoing and flirtatious, Faye sedate and definitely more complex. However, both women played the game well. They were courteous and gracious.
She knew without talking to Bartholomew Houghton that he was drawn to Faye Ogden. Bart had been one of several clients whose contract hours had dropped appreciably.
Enid had also noticed that her regular companions glared at the two black women. Usually very competitive with one another, there was no doubt they would join forces to alienate her exotic jewels.
“Where’s Ilene?” she asked Marcus sotto voce.
“She’ll be here.” Marcus took a sip of chilled champagne. “She probably wants to make a diva-style entrance.”
Enid’s eyes narrowed. “She is here.”
For the second time that night, the guests fell silent as Ilene Fairchild strutted out of the elevator like she was on a Paris runway, waist-length braided extensions sweeping over her rounded bottom sheathed in a skintight dress ending six inches above the knee.
Ilene spied Marcus and headed toward him. “Darling,” she crooned. At six foot two in her heels, her head was level with his.
Marcus held the ex-model at arm’s length before she could kiss him. “I’m glad you could make it, Ilene. You were supposed to be here at seven.” He hadn’t bothered to mask his annoyance.
She waved a hand. “Whatever. I’m not even an hour late.”
Enid raised her eyebrows as she listened to the interchange between her lover and the model. If her clients hadn’t been gawking at the young woman, she would’ve had her escorted out of the building.
An attaché with the French consulate approached Ilene and lapsed into rapid French.
She replied in the same language, the words flowing fluidly from her lips. “Oui, monsieur, I would love a glass of champagne,” she crooned, switching back to English.
Enid looked at Marcus, who lifted his shoulders under his tuxedo jacket before she went in search of her party planner. The cocktail hour was winding down and it was time they sat down to eat.
Bart approached her as she headed toward the elevator. “May I have a minute of your time?”
She offered the real estate developer an enchanting smile. “Of course, darling.”
“What are the odds of me sitting next to Faye Ogden?”
“Very good.”
“Thank you, Enid.” Bart angled his head and lowered his voice. “I’m hosting a party out East next weekend to celebrate the promotion of one of our African-American executives to a senior position, and I’d like to book the three women of color.”
Nothing in Enid’s expression indicated the smugness she felt because her exotic jewels had hit the jackpot. “Call Astrid Monday and she’ll set up whatever you need.”
“Thank you again, Enid.”
She gave him her most beguiling smile. “You’re welcome, Bart.”
CHAPTER 19
Three days later, Alana, Faye and Ilene were summoned by Astrid Marti to return to the Soho loft for an orientation session. They were seated in plush chairs at a black Asian-inspired lacquered table in a second-floor office instead of the penthouse garden. A tray cradling bottles of sparkling water and goblets were provided for their liquid refreshment.
Enid entered the office, her expression impassive, and closed the door behind her. Saturday evening she’d smiled, chatted and had become the perfect hostess. But today it was only business, as evidenced in her choice of attire and hairstyle. She wore a black linen pantsuit with a brightly colored scarf tied at her throat; her hair was pinned up in a French twist.
“Good evening, ladies,” she said with a hint of a Southern drawl. “I thank you for being prompt.” Her gaze lingered briefly on Ilene before she joined them at the table. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light repast, but first I’m going to give you an overview of Pleasure Seekers, then I’ll answer any questions.”
She paused, staring at each woman. “I’ve established Pleasure Seekers to offer social companionship to a select group of men. All of my clients have been scrupulously screened, and it doesn’t matter if someone is CEO, entertainer, athlete, politician or a Middle Eastern prince, all go through the same background-check process.
“You all are adults, so I’m not going to play big mama. My business is run on discretion, discretion for the clients and discretion as to their social companions. And you will be paid quite well not to talk about who you see, where you go and what you do. I must caution you about sleeping with your clients. I
t always spells trouble. I will not tolerate any form of pornography or drug use. I cannot stress enough that I am not running a brothel.”
“What happens if it just happens?” Ilene asked. “I mean, the sleeping together,” she added.
“How old are you, Ilene?” Enid knew her age because she’d gleaned the data from the back of her head shot.
“Thirty.”
“At thirty, it just doesn’t just happen,” she countered, glaring at her. “Do not, I repeat, do not ever attempt to see a client without going through P.S., Inc. A single infraction will result in immediate dismissal. What you earn depends upon how often you choose to work. Most companions begin working weekends. I charge my clients a thousand an hour, with a two-hour minimum. There will be times when you can earn upward of five thousand a day. You’ll be paid fifty instead of my usual forty/sixty percent split.” Her gaze narrowed. “Please keep this information among yourselves.”
Faye and Alana exchanged sidelong glances. It was apparent P.S., Inc.’s women of color were worth more to Enid Richards than their Caucasian counterparts.
Ilene raised her hand again. “If you’re charging a thousand an hour and if we work all day, wouldn’t that calculate into at least a ten-thousand-dollar split?”
A hint of a smile touched Enid’s lips and crinkled the skin around her eyes. “No woman is worth ten thousand dollars a day.” Her expression changed like quicksilver, her gaze narrowing as the nostrils in her straight nose flared slightly. “I’ve established a ceiling of five thousand a day, but if you, Miss Fairchild, can think of a reason why you’d be worth more, then I’d like you to let me and these other exotic jewels in on your secret.”
Ilene stared down at the table as she bit down on her lower lip. The gesture showed deep dimples in her smooth dark brown cheeks. Ilene Fairchild’s face competed with her slim beautifully proportioned body for one’s attention. Small, round and with doll-like features, her face was stunning with or without makeup. Her lips, whether pouting or parted in a dimpled smile, had become her signature trademark.
“How are we paid?” Alana asked, her question diffusing what could’ve become an uncomfortable situation for Ilene.
Lacing her fingers together, Enid raised her coiffed head slightly. “All payments will be processed as electronic transfers. I’m going to need your banking information. After you eat, Astrid will give you a questionnaire that will give me an idea of your personality, a signed release so I can conduct a background check on each of you and you’ll be asked to leave a urine sample for a drug test.”
Ilene raised a hand yet again. “Why would you want to check us out?”
Enid’s delicate jaw tightened. There was something about Ilene she did not like; she found her crude and gauche. “I need to know if you’ve ever been arrested or convicted of a felony or whether you’re taking drugs. I can’t afford to set up a client with a woman who has a rap sheet as long as his arm. Let me know now if you’re unable to pass the background check or drug test.”
There came a moment of silence before Enid and the others let out an audible breath. She smiled for the first time since walking into the room.
“Good. Never ever accept money from a client. He may give you a gift, but not cash. You are social companions, not hookers.”
“Do we have the option of refusing a client?” It was Faye’s turn to ask a question.
“Are you asking if you can refuse before you go out with him the first time?” Enid asked.
Faye nodded. “Yes.”
Enid shook her head. “No, Faye. But, on the other hand, after the first time, you’ll have the option of not going out with him again.”
She knew Faye was uneasy about Bartholomew Houghton. Although seated together, Enid knew Bart hadn’t tried coming on to Faye. She’d noticed them talking quietly and several times Faye had laughed at something he’d said.
She lifted an eyebrow as she continued to stare at Faye. Perhaps Miss Ogden found herself drawn to Bart when she didn’t want to be.
“The day I call you for your first assignment you will receive a thousand-dollar tax-free signing bonus.”
“You’re going to tax our earnings?” Ilene asked with an incredulous look on her pretty face.
Enid smiled at Ilene. “I pay taxes on mine, so why should you be exempt?” Now she was certain the calorie-challenged model foreshadowed trouble, yet she planned to sign Ilene because the French attaché and a Japanese financier had both asked for her.
“Speaking of taxes,” Enid continued, “remember to keep receipts for your clothes, makeup, hair, nails and transportation for write-offs.”
A knock on the door garnered everyone’s attention. A young woman with a spiral-curl hairdo stuck her head through the slight opening. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the food is here.”
Enid nodded at Astrid. “Give us another five minutes.” The door closed again. “I hope all of you are available this weekend. A client has requested your presence at his Southampton estate Saturday afternoon. He just promoted an African-American executive to a senior position and would like to have some professional women of color in attendance. You will be picked up separately and driven out to Long Island. At no time are you to let on that you know one another.”
Alana smiled at Enid. “I’m available.” She had a lot of time now that Calvin was in Europe.
“I’m also available,” Faye said.
Ilene waved a hand. “I can make it.” She needed money, like, yesterday. She was nearly three months behind on the maintenance for her Chelsea co-op.
Enid pressed her palms together. “Wonderful. As soon as I receive confirmation on your background information Astrid will contact you.”
Pleasure Seekers’ payroll listed six employees. Astrid Marti, her booking-agent executive assistant and a private investigator were integral to the company’s ongoing success. Victor Payton, a retired FBI special agent with links to police departments, the Bureau and the IRS more than earned his annual six-figure fee.
Astrid had proven herself invaluable because of her fluency in English, Spanish, French, Portuguese and German. The daughter of a Haitian mother and Dominican father, she’d come to the United States on a student visa as a language major. After graduation she worked with the United Nations as an interpreter; she’d found herself a victim of workplace sexual harassment and contacted someone at the Haitian consulate, who’d referred her to Enid. Instead of bringing a suit against a man with diplomatic immunity, Enid hired Astrid as an executive assistant for Pleasure Seekers.
Bartholomew Houghton hadn’t blinked when Astrid quoted a fee for the services of Faye Ogden, Alana Gardner and Ilene Fairchild. The three women were different—in looks and temperament, their potential earning power incalculable to men where the asking price for companionship was infinite.
“Are there any more questions?” Enid asked.
The three young women shook their heads.
Lowering her gaze, Enid stared at them through her lashes. It was a look of supreme satisfaction; a look she usually gave a man whenever she set out to seduce him, and a look she’d learned and studied from the young women who’d worked for Darcie Richards; the coy glance of an experienced courtesan who’d never had to use her body to get what she wanted from a man or a woman.
Pushing back her chair, she rose to her feet. “Thank you, ladies.” Enid walked out of the room, leaving the subtle scent of a classic perfume in her wake.
Within seconds of her departure the door opened and a man and woman entered, pushing a serving cart filled with cellophane-covered trays. Reaching for a bottle of water, Faye twisted off the cap and filled a goblet with mineral water. She didn’t want to acknowledge that she’d just committed to becoming an escort to wealthy men who thought nothing of spending thousands to have her entertain him with her presence.
It sounded almost too good to be true, but if what Enid Richards professed to be true was, in fact, true, then there was no doubt she would be able to earn enoug
h money by the end of the summer to retain the best appeal attorney in the Northeast.
“What do you think?” Alana whispered close to her ear.
“It sounds good,” Faye whispered back.
Alana leaned closer, her shoulder touching Faye’s. “Do you really believe we don’t have to sleep with these men?”
“It doesn’t matter because I don’t plan to sleep with any of them,” she said through clenched teeth.
Alana filled her glass with bottled water, her thoughts going into overdrive. If she saved the money she earned working for P.S., Inc., then she and Calvin could marry as soon as he returned from Europe. She had three weeks’ vacation leave coming to her, and instead of spending that time with her mother or working on the book she’d been writing for the past two years she would work as a social companion. There was no doubt she would earn enough to buy the house in the suburbs Calvin wanted. A knowing smile parted her lips. She’d just turned thirty-three and she was about to realize her dreams.
CHAPTER 20
Ilene hadn’t done it in a very long time, but today she prayed her urine wouldn’t show traces of the cocaine she’d snorted three weeks ago.
She’d dabbled in recreational drugs for half her life and cocaine had become her drug of choice because she could either snort or smoke it, and it kept her thin. The times she smoked marijuana she couldn’t stop eating, and the result was that she’d lost a major modeling assignment because she couldn’t fit into the designer’s creations.
A few models Ilene knew were into heroin, injecting themselves between their toes, under the soles of their feet, or in their pubic area, but Ilene was too vain to mar her body with needle marks or even a minute tattoo.
Her body and her face were her greatest assets, and although her modeling career was winding down, she’d diversified and begun a new one in music videos. She planned to dance, strut and shake her behind until she found a man with enough money to indulge all her fantasies.
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