Bart’s face was darker than it had been the week before, and it was apparent he had taken advantage of the warm weather. The richness of his sun-brown skin was offset by the pristine whiteness of a loose-fitting linen shirt and matching slacks. A pair of tan sandals complemented his stylish dressed-down look.
She saw Alana gazing adoringly into the eyes of a tall, black man whose well-toned body should’ve graced the cover of a bodybuilding magazine, while Ilene danced with an elderly man who couldn’t take his gaze off her. Enid’s exotic jewels, as she’d called them, were earning their commissions.
Closing the distance between her and her host/client, Faye said softly, “Mr. Houghton?”
Bart turned slowly when he recognized the dulcet feminine voice, unaware that he’d been waiting a week to come face-to-face with Faye Ogden again. And what he saw made the wait more than worthwhile.
He turned back to the woman beside him. “Please excuse me, Judith, but I must see to my guest.”
He forcibly removed the hand resting on his forearm, welcoming the intrusion because he suspected his neighbor’s wife had been coming on to him. Even if he’d been desperate to bed a woman, he never would sleep with another man’s wife.
CHAPTER 22
Reaching for Faye’s right hand, Bart brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss on her fingers, his gaze never straying from her face. Her eyes, sans the smoky hues of eye shadow, shimmered with gold warmth. However, it was her mouth, full and temptingly curved, and with a hint of gloss, that held his rapt attention.
“Welcome to Southampton. I’m so glad you could make it. I also trust you had a pleasant ride.”
Faye felt a slight shiver snake its way up her arm. It wasn’t from Bart holding her hand but from the way he was staring at her. She’d been on the receiving end of that type of stare enough to recognize lust.
He reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, she thought, mentally running through images of men she’d encountered. Anderson Cooper. His classical features were more refined than the TV journalist, but their resemblance was remarkable.
A hint of a smile softened her mouth. “Thank you for inviting me, and, yes, the ride was wonderful.”
Gently squeezing her fingers and tucking them into the bend of his elbow, Bart returned her smile. “Would you like something to drink before I make the introductions?”
“No, thank you.” She’d had a bottle of imported mineral water from the Maybach’s built-in bar.
She stood with Bart as he introduced her to his Southampton neighbors and the members of DHG’s executive staff. As cautioned by Enid, Alana and Ilene pretended not to know her.
With the introductions behind them, she studied her host. He still held her hand, his touch cool and protective without being possessive. Bartholomew Houghton looked nothing like the men to whom she’d find herself attracted. And even if he’d been black he still was too old for her.
The music lowered and the DJ’s crooning voice came through the powerful speakers around the tent. “Ladies and gents, I’m going to take it down a notch and spin a few old school jams from back in the day. Come on, people, everyone up and dancing.”
The classic number-one hit, Force MD’s “Tender Love” filled the air and Bart wrapped his arms around Faye’s waist, his fingers splayed over her back, she chuckling softly as he sang off-key along with the vocals.
Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “What’s so funny?”
She laughed again. “The only thing I’m going to say is that you dance much better than you sing.”
Pulling back, gray eyes filled with amusement, he angled his head. “Are you saying that if I had to sing for a living I’d starve to death?”
“I don’t know about starving, but there’s no doubt you’d go hungry unless someone took pity on you.”
Bart pulled Faye closer, twirling her around and around in an intricate dance step. “Would you take pity on me and give me a morsel to keep me from starving?”
There came a moment of silence as she tried concentrating on following his fancy footwork. “Of course I would,” she said in a breathless whisper.
She was fighting for breath, not so much from dancing but from the contours of the lean, hard masculine body pressed intimately against hers, and the clean, metallic scent of the cologne that complemented Bart’s natural scent. There was something about him had evoked strange sensations she didn’t want to acknowledge.
I don’t know how you do it.
Alana’s declaration invaded her unsettling thoughts. Her best friend could not understand how she could go months, and as of late, more than a year without sleeping with a man. And as she danced with the man who was her client, a man under whose roof she would reside for three nights, a man who’d paid P.S., Inc. thousands for her companionship, she realized he had unknowingly forced her to question her decision to remain celibate.
Dancing with Bart reminded her that she was a woman who’d been alone for far too long, a woman who’d known of the strong passion within her but had chosen to ignore it.
“Do you mind if I cut in, Mr. H.?”
Bart recognized the voice of the urban planner in whose honor he was hosting the event. Hakim Wheeler was young, brilliant and ambitious, much more ambitious than Bart had been at his age. A Penn State and Columbia School of Business graduate, Hakim was on the fast track to become a key player in the cutthroat world of real estate and investment banking.
With great reluctance, Bart introduced Hakim to Faye and relinquished his hold on her. Under another set of circumstances he would’ve refused the other man’s request. However, he could afford to share Faye because over the next two days he would have her all to himself.
Faye found herself in Hakim Wheeler’s embrace. She stared up at him through her lashes, and thought him too beautiful for a man. Exemplifying tall, dark and handsome, his close-cropped haircut afforded him a conservative look, and his smooth mahogany-brown skin, large dark eyes, square jaw, firm mouth, high cheekbones, straight teeth and strong nose were evidence that he’d inherited his parents’ best features.
Hakim studied Faye for a long moment. “Are you new at DHG, because I don’t remember seeing you around?”
She smiled up at him. “That’s because I don’t work at DHG.”
Hakim’s expression did not change with her disclosure. Nice voice, and very nice face. Faye Ogden’s skin, hair color and eyes reminded him of the Stevie Wonder hit “Golden Lady.”
“How do you know Mr. H.?”
“We’re friends.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
Faye returned his intent stare. “No. We are friends, Hakim. What do you do at DHG?” she asked without taking a breath, deftly shifting the topic from her to him.
“I’m an urban planner.”
“What do you plan?”
Hakim gave her a wide grin, his upper lip flattening against the ridge of his teeth. “I can’t say.”
It was Faye’s turn to lift her eyebrows. “Can’t or won’t?”
Hakim glanced over Faye’s head, encountering Bart’s intent stare. He’d worked closely with Bartholomew Houghton for the past three years and had come to admire and sometimes fear the man with the mercurial moods who ran his company like a despot.
When Bart made introductions, there was something in the possessive way he’d held the hand tucked into the bend of his arm that indicated Faye was special. How special he didn’t know. Faye said they were friends, while Bart’s body language suggested otherwise.
His gaze returned to the face of the woman in his arms. “I can’t. DHG employees are bound by a confidentiality agreement not to discuss business outside the office.”
“Does that pledge extend to an employee’s family?”
He nodded. “Yes, it does.”
Hakim’s disclosure about the confidentiality agreement told Faye more than she needed to know about her client. It was apparent he was a control fr
eak.
The musical selection ended and Faye dropped her arms. “Thank you for the dance, Hakim.”
He winked at her. “Thank you. Can you spare a few minutes later?”
“Sure.”
She felt the heat of his gaze on her retreating back as she made her way over to a bar where the bartender mixed drinks with a theatrical flourish. She was flattered that Hakim was interested in her, but the truth was that she hadn’t come to Southampton to flirt with the sexiest brother she’d encountered in a very long time.
She’d come to work.
CHAPTER 23
“What can I get you?”
Faye forced herself not to stare at the tattoos covering the bartender’s forearms. His body art was a collage of black Asian characters with colorful fire-breathing dragons.
“Two Beefeater martinis, extra dry and very dirty.”
“Two dirty beefs coming up,” Deacon Jeffries repeated. Minutes later he placed the cocktails on the bar.
Faye smiled at him. “Thank you.” She picked up the glasses, walked over to Bart and extended one. “May I offer you one Beefeater martini, very dry and very dirty?”
Bart took the glass, his fingers brushing against hers. “Thank you, Faye.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Houghton.” She dropped her eyes before his steady gaze and took a sip of the cool liquid. It was perfect.
A slight frown dotted Bart’s forehead. “I thought we’d established last week that you would call me Bart and I’d address you as Faye.” His reprimand was as soft as sterile cotton.
Her expression did not change with the slight rebuke. “What image do you want us to present to your guests? Are we business associates or are we friends?” she whispered.
Bart took a deep swallow of his martini, welcoming the iciness followed by the heat spreading throughout his chest. He’d underestimated Faye Ogden. When they’d sat together over dinner he’d found her intelligent and at times very witty. But now there was something in her tone and body language that indicated defensiveness.
“Friends, Faye.”
Holding his gaze, she said in a quiet voice, “I know I’m here on business, and that is what it will remain, because I’ve made it a practice never to crawl into bed with a man after only one encounter.” Rising on tiptoe, she leaned in closer. “Maybe it will never happen.”
If she’d sought to shock Bart, then she did when he recoiled as if she’d slapped him. She’d misunderstood his intentions for hiring her.
His eyes darkened like angry storm clouds. Reaching out with his free hand, he led her over to an area of the garden where they wouldn’t be overheard by the others. “You’re right, Faye, because I didn’t pay P.S., Inc. because I want to sleep with you.”
Pay. The three-letter word reminded Faye why she was in Southampton and not in Queens with her own family. She’d become a paid escort for Pleasure Seekers.
“Then I take that to mean that I’m here for your new vice president.”
Seconds ticked off as Bart stared down at the woman who made him feel things he didn’t want to feel. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “No. You’re here for me.”
The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other. Faye had her answer. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“Let me clear up something before we go any further,” Bart said in an eerily quiet tone. “You’ll be spending the next two days with me because I’m paying you for companionship.” A half smile softened the sharp angles in his face. “Yes, I know you may find that hard to believe, but that’s it. I have no hidden agenda. And before you ask whether I’m gay or impotent, the answer is no to both.” He winked at her, then put the glass to his mouth and drained it. “Please excuse me, but another one of my guests has just arrived.”
Faye didn’t move even after Bart disappeared from her line of vision. “Damn!” she spat out between clenched teeth. Her ego had overridden her common sense. Why, she thought, was she so programmed into believing men were attracted to her because they wanted to sleep with her?
But she knew the answer the instant the thought formed in her mind. Every man she’d ever dated eventually wanted the same thing: sex. It had been that way with her first lover, the men that followed and with her husband. Norman admitted he’d married her because he couldn’t get enough of her; but he also couldn’t get enough of Kendra, Lisa, Cherie and others too numerous to name.
She took another sip of her drink, recalling what Enid had said during the orientation: I’m going to caution you against sleeping with your clients. It usually spells trouble. If Enid’s social companions were warned not to sleep with their clients, then there was no doubt the clients were given the same warning.
Faye had to remember she was a companion not a hooker. She’d made a serious faux pas when broaching the subject of sleeping with Bart Houghton. However, she had the rest of the weekend to put things right between her and her client.
What she also had to remember was that Pleasure Seekers was a business, and as a contract worker she had to conduct herself like a businesswoman.
She’d come to Southampton as an actress in a role, a role in which she intended to give an award-winning performance.
Her gaze shifted to Alana and Ilene. The two were laughing and dancing, enjoying themselves while she agonized over minutiae. All she had to do was be pleasant and polite for the next two days, and come Tuesday morning she would go back to all that was familiar and predictable.
CHAPTER 24
Bart half listened to his chief financial officer ramble on incessantly about a golf game, his attention was focused on Faye Ogden.
He watched her set her martini on the bar. What he’d suspected the night he sat next to her at Enid Richards’s dinner party was confirmed. She wasn’t much of a drinker.
Faye had intrigued him the first time he saw her, and she continued to intrigue him. Dressed for the evening, he’d found her beautiful, sensual, alluring. Dressed casually, she was still beautiful but radiated an aura that said look but don’t touch.
And he wanted to touch her. His touching did not translate into making love because that would ruin his fantasy, vivid images that swept over him when he least expected.
What Bart had found shocking was that he hadn’t indulged in capricious daydreams about the opposite sex since puberty. Then his fantasies weren’t about black girls but a well-endowed redhead at his prep school. When he wasn’t dreaming about Hannah, it was a nubile Hollywood starlet.
He wasn’t certain whether he was undergoing a midlife crisis, but if he was, he wanted it to continue until he discovered what it was about Faye Ogden that had him so preoccupied with her.
“Nice party, Bart.”
He shifted his gaze, nodding and acknowledging the head of DHG’s banking division. “Thanks, Jeff.”
It was the first time he’d hosted a gathering at his Long Island vacation retreat. He always planned holiday parties for the employees of the Dunn-Houghton Group at upscale Manhattan restaurants, but no one, other than the six who made up his executive team, had ever been inside his Olympic Towers penthouse with panoramic views of the East River, and the many bridges connecting Manhattan with the other boroughs.
He hadn’t taken his company public, but that hadn’t stopped business analysts from following DHG’s successful ventures or failed deals.
His private life was shrouded in mystery, the way he preferred it. A distant cousin had become his date for an occasional soiree, but now that was about to change. He planned to take Faye Ogden to the Cayman Islands for the wedding of the daughter of a former college buddy.
CHAPTER 25
Alana couldn’t pull her gaze away from the brilliance of the perfect Lucinda cut diamond solitaire on the finger of a young woman clutching her fiancé’s hand. A wave of envy swept over her, as she realized she wanted to be the one wearing the ring while sharing adoring gazes with Calvin.
The day, which had begun so delightfully with the limousine ride to Southampton, ha
d suddenly soured. She’d spent the afternoon eating, drinking and floating on an inflated raft in a heated Olympic-size pool before playing a vigorous game of tennis with a man who reminded her of her favorite dessert, Duncan Hines double-chocolate devil’s food cake. The brother literally and figuratively looked good enough to eat. Lowell Knight was single, lived alone and wasn’t a baby daddy. He would’ve been perfect if she wasn’t committed to Calvin, who had promised to call her as soon as he recovered from jet lag. She’d been to England enough times to know that it didn’t take eight days to get over jet lag.
Her light playful mood had vanished, replaced by a headache and a dark mood that would linger for days unless she sought relief from an over-the-counter medication. And, despite the number of people gathered under the large tent, their voices raised in laughter, and the frivolity that accompanied a relaxed outdoor social gathering, she felt completely alone, abandoned by the one man who claimed the same initials as the first man who’d walked out of her life when she needed him most. Her father: Carlos Moore.
Reaching for her large leather purse, Alana searched its cavernous depths until she found her cell phone. She punched in the numbers for her voice mail, then the access code. Biting down on her lower lip, she willed the tears pricking the backs of her eyelids not to fall when the familiar voice telling her there were “no messages” came through the earpiece.
Scrolling through the directory, she depressed another button for her therapist’s number. “This is Alana Gardner,” she whispered into the tiny microphone. “I would like to come in Tuesday at six. Please ring me back Tuesday morning to confirm.” She ended the call and dropped the tiny phone into her bag.
“Are you all right, Lana?”
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