Tossing a profusion of freshly braided human-hair extensions, hair that had cost her more than she could afford to pay for at this time, over her shoulders, Ilene smiled at Alana, then Faye. When she’d entered the penthouse Saturday night and saw the two black women, she’d viewed them as her competitors until she felt the overt hostility from the preening blondes and redheads.
“Miss Fairchild.”
Ilene turned and stared at Astrid. “Yes?”
“I’ll test you first, then Miss Ogden and Miss Gardner. Please come with me.”
Please, Lord, help me, Ilene prayed again as she stood up and followed Astrid to a bathroom where she was handed a plastic cup with her name printed on an affixed label.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to watch me piss?”
Astrid’s solemn expression did not change. “Yes, I am.”
“Enjoy the view,” she mumbled, unbuttoning the waistband of her fitted jeans and sliding them down her hips.
As a model, modesty wasn’t in her repertoire. Her gaze locked with Astrid’s as she eased her thong panty below her knees, squatted over the commode and urinated into the cup while Astrid slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She half filled the cup and left it on a low table beside a vase of fresh flowers.
“How soon will I know?” Ilene asked, adjusting her clothes and washing her hands in the black marble sink.
“When you get the phone call,” Astrid said noncommittally. “Please let Miss Ogden know that I’m ready for her.”
Enid made her way through her office and into a space that had become an office within an office and her inner sanctum; she sat down on one of two facing deep-cushioned maroon tapestry club chairs, rested her feet on a matching footstool and waited for Astrid to bring her the scores from the personality profiles and drug-test results.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls brought the outdoors in regardless of the hour; the gurgling sounds from a Zen fountain, lighted scented candles and the distinctive sound of Gregorian chanting coming from concealed speakers provided the perfect environment for total relaxation.
Enid closed her eyes and inhaled a lungful of air, held it, then exhaled slowly as she opened her eyes. Lengthening shadows came through the glass with the waning daylight. It would be dusk in a matter of minutes, her favorite time of day, a time when she loved to sit on her rooftop terrace and watch the neighborhood settle down from the frenetic daytime bustle to the leisurely nighttime hours.
She glanced down at her watch. She’d promised Marcus she’d be home before ten because they’d planned to walk over to the South Street Seaport for a late dinner. Under another set of circumstances she would’ve left following the orientation, but tonight was the exception. Waiting until the following day to go over the outcome of Faye’s, Ilene’s and Alana’s drug tests and personality profiles was not an option for Enid.
Sitting up straighter, all of her senses on full alert, Enid stared at her assistant as she entered the room cradling three folders to her chest. The glossy curls framed a dark-skinned, youthful face that would’ve belied her actual age of twenty-eight if it hadn’t been for Astrid’s full, womanly figure.
“Let me know now if what’s in those folders is going to make me upset.”
“Quite the opposite.” Astrid smiled, handing her boss the data she’d collected from P.S., Inc.’s latest social companions.
Enid gestured to the facing chair. “Please sit down and tell me the good news.”
“All passed the drug test,” Astrid began, smiling. Enid had directed her to order testing kits from a company in the Midwest rather than send the urine samples to a local laboratory. The kits were more expensive than lab fees, but the advantage was that the wait time for results was instantaneous.
“I’ll begin with Ilene Fairchild,” the booker continued. “She’s single, thirty, speaks fluent French and began modeling at the age of fifteen. She was born Ella Williams in Gulfport, Mississippi, but legally changed her name for professional purposes. Ilene lived in Belgium and France for thirteen years before returning to the States two years ago.”
“What about her education?” Enid asked.
“She never attended high school, but has a GED.” Astrid paused. “I don’t know if this is going to present a problem…” Her words trailed off.
“What kind of problem?”
Astrid heard the slight edge that had crept into Enid’s voice. It wasn’t often that she saw the owner of Pleasure Seekers lose her composure, and when she did, it usually did not bode well for the person who’d upset her.
“She only checked off Caucasian in the racial-preference category.”
Enid lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you see that as a problem?”
Astrid paused again. “I believe it would limit her earning potential.”
“What did she indicate as a reason for signing on as an escort?”
“She wants a husband.”
“I don’t see her wanting to date white men as a problem,” Enid said. “I don’t know if Ilene is aware of it, but she’s more European socially oriented than American. And since she is a former supermodel, most men, regardless of race, would want to be seen with her. What is a problem is her wanting to use P.S., Inc. as a dating service, because most of our clients are already married. What about Alana and Faye?”
“Both indicated they’re signing on to make money.”
Good for them, Enid mused. If Faye and Alana were motivated by money, then it stood to reason that they were willing to work—and often.
Biting back a smile, Enid nodded. “What else, Astrid?”
“Alana’s racial choices are African and Caribbean American, Hispanic and Middle Eastern. Faye’s preferences are African and Caribbean American, followed by Hispanic, Native American and, lastly, Caucasian.”
Enid listened intently as her assistant revealed what she’d gleaned from the three personality profiles. “Fax everything to Victor and label it Rush.” She handed the folders back to Astrid.
A soft exhalation of breath from Enid followed Astrid’s departure. She didn’t know why, but she felt as if she’d been holding her breath since the night she’d met Marcus at the Four Seasons to discuss the decline in their company’s profits.
Rising to her feet, she walked into her office and sat down at the glass table. Reaching for a Montblanc fountain pen, she unscrewed the cap. The writing instrument, a Christmas gift from one of her clients, was one of only seventy-five of a limited edition produced two years before. It took her nearly three months to write with a pen whose price tag astounded her. She would’ve sold it and donated the money to her favorite charity if it hadn’t been engraved with her name.
Unconsciously her brow furrowed as navy blue ink flowed over the pale blue blank page. May 24—I will know within hours whether Alana, Ilene and Faye will become P.S., Inc.’s latest social companions.
Enid paused, the solid gold nib poised over the page as the delicate chiming of the telephone shattered her concentration. Marcus’s name and cell phone number showed in the display. She pushed a button for the speaker.
“Are you calling to cancel dinner?” A deep husky laugh greeted her query.
“No. But there’s going to be a change of plans.”
Enid sat up straighter. Marcus knew she didn’t like surprises. “What is it?”
“I’ve decided to cook for you.”
Her pulse quickened as a rush of color suffused her face. Marcus had only cooked for her twice before, and both times when she hadn’t been feeling well. She’d thought of herself as very good cook, but his culinary skills were exceptional.
“What are we celebrating?”
“We’re not celebrating anything. And please take me off the speaker.”
Enid deactivated the telephone feature, then picked up the receiver. “There’s no one here with me.”
“That may be true, but walls do have ears.”
A slight frown furrowed her smooth forehead. “What do you want to tell me that’s f
or my ears only?”
“I love you.”
Enid’s frown vanished, replaced by an easy smile. “And I love you, too, Marcus.”
“Hurry down, baby.”
“Where are you?”
“Downstairs. I told Henry that I was taking you home.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You’ve dismissed my driver and offered to cook for me. What other surprises do you have in store for me tonight?”
He laughed, the sensual sound sending a shiver up her spine. “I’m certain I’ll think of a few more before we get home.”
It was on a rare occasion that Marcus Hampton showed Enid another side of his staid personality. It was only when they were on vacation together, away from his students, clients and their business that he was totally relaxed.
“I’ll be down in five minutes.”
Enid capped the pen and placed it and the journal into a black lacquered box covered with Chinese characters for love, peace, prosperity and good luck. She locked the box and pen in the drawer of an antique side table.
She was looking forward to her dinner rendezvous with Marcus. He’d moved some of his clothes and personal items into her apartment on Saturday, and when she awoke to find him in bed beside her Sunday morning, it wasn’t to panic, as she’d anticipated, but to a gentle peace she hadn’t thought possible.
Marcus loved her and she loved him, but where would their love for each other lead them?
CHAPTER 21
Faye cradled a cordless phone between her chin and shoulder as she filled an overnight bag with clothes for several days.
“I’m sorry, Mama, but it’s too late for me to change my plans for the weekend.”
“Can’t you give up one day to spend with your family?”
“No, Mama.”
“You already work five days a week. Shouldn’t that be enough for your boss?”
Faye rolled her eyes even though Shirley Ogden couldn’t see her. “This is not about my boss.”
“Then who is it about?”
“No one you know.”
It took all of Faye’s self-control not to scream at her mother. Shirley was talking about family get-togethers when she had to focus on getting through the weekend wherein she’d become a social companion to a middle-aged white man who was willing to spend thousands for her to entertain him.
“There will be so many other folks at the cookout that you won’t have to speak to your daddy if you don’t want to,” Shirley continued in the whining tone Faye detested.
“This client is very important.”
“How can a client be more important than your family, Faye Anne Ogden?”
And she hated when her mother called her Faye Anne. “Right now, this one is.”
Faye wanted to tell Shirley that Bart Houghton was Sugar Daddy, Big Willie and Daddy Warbucks all rolled into one. She’d researched Bartholomew Houghton on the Internet and was astounded by the number of articles written about his company. And to her the real estate developer represented a means to an end—lots of money.
“Is your client a boyfriend?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She hadn’t done it at twenty-two, and now at thirty-two Faye didn’t feel that she had to report to her mother about who she saw or slept with.
“What am I going to tell everyone when you don’t show up?”
“Tell them I’ve committed to a working holiday weekend and that I’ll see them for the Fourth.”
“When am I going to see you?”
Faye smiled for the first time since answering the call. “Why don’t you come into the city on Friday and spend the weekend with me. We can check into a nice hotel, order room service and shop until we drop.”
“I thought you were trying to save money for CJ’s appeal.”
“I am. But I believe I can afford to treat my mother to a little R&R.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “That’s all right, baby,” Shirley crooned softly. “You don’t have to. Besides, I have to check with your father to see if he has planned—”
“Stop it, Mama!” Faye shouted, cutting her off. “You know you don’t have to check with anyone. Call me before your train gets in to Penn Station and I’ll meet you by the information booth,” she continued, her tone softening considerably. “I’m going to have to hang up because I don’t want to keep my driver waiting. Give everyone my love, and I’ll see you Friday.”
“Okay, baby. I love you.”
“Love you back, Mama.”
Pressing a button, Faye ended the connection. If she’d known she was going to get into it with her mother she never would’ve answered the telephone. She needed to be in control for what she was about to embark upon.
Astrid had called her cell phone Thursday morning to let her know she’d been contracted to work for P.S., Inc. The signing bonus and an additional thousand were deposited into her checking account because Alana Gardner had been hired as well. The booking agent wasted few words when she told her that Bartholomew Houghton wanted her to spend the three-day Memorial Day weekend at his Southampton estate, and that Mr. Houghton would arrange for her return to Manhattan early Tuesday morning.
Astrid had quoted a figure for what she would make for the weekend that rendered her mute long after she’d hung up. Faye was aware of those who won millions on the turn of a card, roll of the dice or with the purchase of a single lottery ticket; but those were games of chance that anyone could win or lose. However, she was a guaranteed winner as long as she worked as a social companion for P.S., Inc.
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, Faye realized she had less than fifteen minutes before the driver arrived to take her to Southampton. She rechecked her bag, zipped it and placed it in the entryway with the garment bag containing her clothes for Tuesday.
Retreating to her bedroom, she removed a short black silk robe that covered a peach-colored swimsuit; she slipped into a pair of black stretch cropped pants, pulled a white cotton and silk–blend tank top over her head, tying the sleeves to a matching cardigan around her shoulders as she pushed her feet into a pair of black-and-white pinstriped high-heel mules; she peered into a full-length free-standing mirror in the corner of her bedroom. Smiling at her reflection, she squared her shoulders.
Faye Anne Ogden was ready for Bartholomew Houghton and her first assignment as a social companion.
Bartholomew Houghton’s chauffeur stood on the sidewalk next to a gleaming black Maybach. He became suddenly alert when he spied a woman matching his boss’s description. Striding forward, he reached for her weekender and garment bag. Inclining his head, he gave her a polite smile, his gleaming white teeth a startling contrast against his deeply tanned olive skin.
“Miss Ogden, I am Giuseppe, and I promise to make your ride to Southampton a most comfortable one.”
Faye was charmed by the man’s accent and his modest confidence. She returned his smile, bringing his gaze to linger briefly on her mouth. “Thank you.”
Giuseppe shifted the garment bag to his left arm, bent slightly and opened the rear door of the luxury limousine. He waited until Faye was seated, closed the door, then stored her luggage in the trunk. Minutes later, he pulled away from the curb, maneuvering down streets leading to the Triborough Bridge and Long Island.
Faye settled back against the white napa leather seat that was soft and supple as velvet. She touched the natural-stained wood trim on the doors. The gorgeous black lacquer against the white leather created an art deco mood.
Bentley, Pope and Oliviera handled the Maybach account. The three-ton 57S in which she was a passenger was touted as a super-sedan that delivered luxury and performance combined at the highest level. It was advertised to be impressive and not imposing like the Rolls-Royce Phantom, and even though it didn’t catch the eye the way a pricey car should, the ad agency’s sales pitch was that people rich enough to own the Maybach didn’t always want to look rich.
She stared out a side window, her curiosity p
iqued. Exactly who was Bartholomew Houghton, president and CEO of the Dunn-Houghton Group, a man whose private life was shrouded in mystery, a man who’d sent his personal car and chauffeur to bring her to his Southampton estate, a man who’d paid an escort service thousands of dollars for her to entertain him?
The Dunn-Houghton Group, known in the business world as DHG, was still privately owned. There had been talk of it going public ten years before, but the rumors proved unfounded. There was also talk that the CEO of DHG controlled more land than any private developer in America, and though low-key, his real estate projects eclipsed Donald Trump’s. And unlike Trump, Bart almost never granted interviews and was highly secretive about his operations.
Letting out a barely audible sigh, she closed her eyes and her mind. She had at least an hour to bring her fragile emotions under control. She didn’t want to think about her mother’s accusation, her brother’s plight or what she was about to embark upon.
When she opened her eyes again she’d left the towering buildings, rumbling subways and pedestrian traffic of the city behind for the pastoral tranquility of the suburbs.
Road signs indicating unfamiliar hamlets and villages dotting Long Island’s south shore gave way to Patchogue, Quogue, Shinnecock and finally Southampton.
Giuseppe maneuvered onto a local road, passing farm stands, vineyards and acres of farmland. Faye sat up straighter when she stared at the sprawling properties of the rich, famous and upwardly mobile. Her eyes widened when out of nowhere a large gray-and-white-trimmed three-story house with connecting outbuildings appeared as if she’d conjured it up. It was built on a rise that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
A large white tent was erected at the rear, providing shade for those, most dressed in white, who sat at tables, stood around in groups of two or three or danced to the tunes spun by a disc jockey.
Giuseppe turned off the engine and came around to assist her. “I’ll see that your bags are taken inside.”
Faye nodded. “Thank you.”
Glancing around, she recognized Bartholomew Houghton; his back to her, he was engaged in conversation with a woman clinging possessively to his arm. A lone swimmer swam laps in an Olympic-size swimming pool while a bikini-clad nymph floated facedown on an inflated hammock.
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