“But I apologized to you, Mrs. Urquhart. Do you also want me to do penance?” Not only had he apologized, but he had given her a generous year-end bonus and paid all of the expenses for her trip to the West Coast to visit her grandchildren.
Mrs. Urquhart, sitting up straighter, managed to look contrite. “Penance isn’t necessary, Bartholomew. I just don’t want you to raise your voice at me again or so help me I’ll walk out of here and never look back.”
Bart stood up, slipped out of his suit jacket and placed it over the back of the chair. “One of these days I’m going to call your bluff, Geraldine.” He knew he’d gotten her attention when a rush of color stained her cheeks. It wasn’t often he called the older woman by her given name. Moving over to the elegant Louis Quinze–style desk, he sat down.
“What do I have today?” He relied on his assistant to keep track of his meetings and projects.
Lids lowered, Mrs. Urquhart stared at the silver-haired man she’d come to love like a son. She’d watched him mature from a young architect who’d caught the eye of the boss’s daughter, to an astute businessman, and now real estate mogul.
The love between Bartholomew and Deidre Dunn reminded her of what she’d shared with her precious Ivan, who’d died much too young, leaving her with two small sons. However, when Deidre died there were no sons or daughters to remind Bartholomew of the woman who in death still hadn’t relinquished her claim on him.
She flipped several pages in the pad. “You have a luncheon with Assemblyman Collins.”
“What time and where are we meeting?”
“It’s scheduled for twelve-thirty at the Terrace. The cuisine is French.”
Bart smiled. “Good. I like French cuisine. What’s next?”
“You have an appointment with your ophthalmologist at four.”
He didn’t expect the meeting with the assemblyman to go beyond three o’clock, which meant he would have time to return to the upper west side to see his eye doctor before he returned home to prepare for the Matamoras’ dinner party.
He glanced at the gold timepiece Edmund Dunn had given him the day Dunn Management Sales Group became the Dunn-Houghton Group, Inc. So many things had changed since that day. He’d changed so much since that day.
“Please let Hakim and Lowell know that I want to see them at nine-thirty to go over the Hamilton prospectus before I meet with Assemblyman Collins.”
The politician had insisted a percentage of the sixty units, with studio apartments starting at three hundred thousand dollars, be set aside for low-income families. Assemblyman Collins had refused to meet with Hakim Wheeler, warning the urban planner that he’d exploit his political influence among his constituents if the CEO of DHG did not come to Harlem to discuss what had become an impasse.
However, Bart was prepared to compromise. He would set aside fifteen units for low-income, ten units for low-to middle-income and the remaining thirty-five for middle- and upper-income families.
“Anything else, boss?”
A hint of a smile played at the corners of his firm mouth. “No, Mrs. Urquhart. That’ll be all for now.”
Bart waited for the elegant, petite woman to leave his office; he picked up one of three telephones nestled on the corner of the desk. He pressed a button, activating the speed dial feature.
“Good morning, P.S., Inc. This is Astrid. How may I direct your call?”
“Astrid, this is Bart Houghton. Is Enid available?”
“Yes, Mr. Houghton. I’ll let her know you’re on the line.”
Bart had to wait less than ten seconds before he heard the soft, dulcet feminine voice. “Good morning, Bart. How are you?” she drawled.
“I’m well, Enid.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to secure the services of Faye Ogden for the summer season.” A loud gasp followed his request. He frowned. “Are you saying this would present a problem for you?”
“Not at all,” Enid countered quickly. “It’s just that this is the first time any client has requested exclusivity for one of my companions.”
His frown was replaced by a knowing smile. “That’s because Ms. Ogden is unlike any of your other companions.”
“You’re right, Bart. She is my most exquisite exotic jewel.”
“I’ll give you whatever you want for her.”
“Astrid will contact you before the end of the week to set up a price that should work well for both of us. From now on you won’t have to go through P.S., Inc. to set up appointments with Faye. Astrid will call her and let her know of this new agreement.”
“Thanks, Enid.”
“You’re welcome. By the way, has she agreed to see you exclusively?”
“Yes.”
“Good for you.”
Good for me.
But was it good for him to become involved with Faye? Despite his wealth and very active social life, he had become an emotional cripple, unable to have a normal relationship with a woman because he refused to let go of his dead wife.
CHAPTER 33
“Who are you going out with tonight?”
Ilene adjusted the lights on her makeup mirror to reflect a nighttime effect, ignoring the query from the figure sprawled across her bed. A flick of a sable brush coated with cinnamon eye shadow over her brow bones accentuated the velvety darkness of her slanting eyes.
She selected a sponge applicator, dipped it into a shocking magenta eye shadow and dabbed the color over the crease of her eyelids. Leaning back on the vanity chair, a smile of supreme satisfaction parted her full lips. She hadn’t lost her touch.
Always a quick study, Ilene had watched makeup artists transform her face from an adolescent gamine into a sensual sophisticate, where the arrogant slant of her chiseled cheekbones blended with the tilt of her eyes. There was just enough gold in her brown eyes to give them the appearance of tortoiseshell. Her nose was short, barely the length of the tip of her little finger. It was her mouth and dimpled smile that most people remembered, men in particular.
One Frenchman had whispered in her ear that whenever he saw her photograph he fantasized about doing naughty things with his girlfriend. His confession empowered her as much as her strutting down a runway with spectators and photographers applauding and capturing her every move.
“Come on, Ilene. Don’t be a bitch. Where are you going?”
Ilene caught the reflection of a profusion of shoulder-length curly hair when the attractive young black woman sat up and folded her legs into a yoga position.
Swiveling on the stool, she stared at Yazmin Symington’s flushed café au lait complexion and dilated pupils.
“Go home, Yaz, and sleep it off. You’re high.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Yazmin’s usually soft Georgia drawl had taken on a hard edge.
“I don’t think I should have to explain why I want you to leave my place.”
“Well, I want an explanation.”
Oh, no, the coked-out be-yotch didn’t go there with me, Ilene thought before she counted to five, praying not to lose her temper.
“I’m not going to explain myself, not when you’re like this.”
Yazmin waved her arms above her head. “Don’t get up on your high horse, Ilene, because you’ve seen me like this plenty of times before.”
Ilene stood up and a black silk kimono-style wrap opened to reveal a swell of small, firm breasts above a red lace demi-bra. “Get the hell out!”
A lopsided grin found its way across Yazmin’s face as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’m going. But there’s no need for you to go ghetto on me.”
Ilene’s temper flared. “You’ll know ghetto when my size tens stomp a mud hole in yo crackhead ass.” She’d stressed the last three words. It’d become an ongoing struggle not to revert to a “ghetto ho,” but her neighbor had forced her to go there.
Yazmin came from a family of prominent African-American doctors: her grandfather, father, mother and brothers. Th
e plans her family made for her to join their lucrative suburban Atlanta practice were thwarted when the pressure to succeed had become too much and Yazmin dropped out of medical school in her third year, citing mental and physical exhaustion. She’d begun smoking weed, and when that didn’t do the trick for her she escalated to pills and, on occasion, crack-cocaine.
Ilene dabbled in smoking or inhaling cocaine, but no one had ever witnessed her using the drug. After all, she had an image to protect. Something she said must have penetrated the transplanted Georgian’s drug-induced haze, when Yazmin stumbled out of the bedroom. The sound of a slamming door echoed throughout the apartment.
Ilene refused to let her neighbor ruin her evening, because her life was back on track. She’d paid all her bills, and had some money left over. And she would earn even more tonight when she met a client at Morimoto. The trendy Japanese restaurant was only three blocks away from her co-op.
She finished applying her makeup, then brushed her hair weave until it shimmered with dark brown and gold highlights. She’d spent hours in the salon earlier that morning taking out the braids and replacing them with tracks of human hair ending halfway down her back. The stylist had touched up her roots until they were bone straight before she sewed in hair that cost as much as Ilene’s co-op maintenance. She thought the straight hair a better investment because she didn’t have to visit the salon every two weeks to have her braids retightened. After all, she was supermodel Ilene Fairchild, and she couldn’t be seen in public with a ratty do.
Walking over to a closet, she slipped a three-tiered black ruffled skirt in silk chiffon off a padded hanger, stepped into it and buttoned the waistband. Peering closely into the full-length mirror on the door, she smiled. The outline of her thong panties and thighs were visible through the delicate fabric. It was just enough to garner the attention she needed. Reaching for a raw-silk blouse in magenta, she buttoned the body-hugging garment with a mandarin collar. Maximo Callucci was still her favorite designer. One season he’d designed an entire line for her body’s proportions.
Ilene pushed her bare feet into a pair of black quilted suede mules with a wedge heel. She reached for a small matching purse with a silk cord strap and a black cashmere shawl. She strutted across the bedroom as if she were on a Milan runway and flicked a wall switch, leaving only a bedside lamp lit. Even when she was home alone she worked at perfecting her trademark walk.
She was determined never to allow her celebrity persona to slip. The year she’d turned fifteen, modeling had changed her life. Her agent changed her name from Ella Williams to Ilene Fairchild, and before her sixteenth birthday she’d become the darling of Parisian couture houses, and the following year the ward of a man old enough to be her father.
CHAPTER 34
Ilene stopped at the host station. “Ilene Fairchild. I’m here for the Nakanogo party.”
The maître d’ checked the list of reservations, nodding. He beckoned to one of the hostesses. “Please escort Miss Fairfield to Mr. Nakanogo’s table.”
Ilene removed her shawl, tossed it over her arm and followed the woman. This was her first time inside Morimoto and she was totally impressed with its cool, clean, white-on-white look. The setting was a sparkling wonderland for the glitterati sipping exotic cocktails, laughing, talking quietly and enjoying what had been touted as the best sushi in the city.
When a woman pointed at Ilene, heads turned in her direction. A cast member of a popular TV reality show stopped tapping his cell phone long enough to give her a mock salute.
Ilene flashed her dimpled smile. Oh, hell yeah. I’ve still got it! She didn’t care what the fashion critics said; she wasn’t too old, she still grabbed the public’s attention, and because her face had graced the covers of the world’s most prestigious fashion magazines, she would always be acknowledged as a supermodel.
Christie Brinkley was still doing television commercials and print ads, and she was over fifty. Just look at her girl Tyra Banks. She’d started a second career with her own reality show that segued into a talk show. The icing on the cake had been when she took her last walk down the runway as a Victoria’s Secret model. Tyra had proven there was life after modeling, and that had inspired Ilene to exploit her very bankable face and body in music videos. She knew she didn’t have the temperament to do television; but she wanted to keep her name and face in the spotlight until she met a man willing to give her the lifestyle she’d had when she lived in Europe.
Anthony Nakanogo saw her, and stood up, the other men at the table following his lead. He ran a hand down the length of his four-hundred-dollar silk tie before bowing to her.
Ilene closed the distance between them, resting her palms on the lapels of his exquisitely tailored suit jacket. She pressed her cheek to his smooth one and affected an air kiss.
“Konban wa.”
“Good evening, Ilene,” Anthony replied in flawless English. Holding her at arm’s length, his eyes sent her a private message. “Ogenki desu ka?”
Ilene looked at him through artificial lashes fused to her own. “Hai, genki desu.”
Anthony smiled. “Your Japanese is still very good.”
“That’s all I remember,” she admitted. She’d spent three months in Tokyo and she’d learned enough basic Japanese to exchange polite greetings and order food. Her love affair with sushi had begun the first time she tasted the raw-fish delicacy, and during her stay she’d become a vegetarian, eating only fish and vegetables. As long as she’d lived in Japan there hadn’t been a need for her to monitor everything she put into her mouth.
The international banker turned to the others at his table. “Ladies, gentlemen, Miss Fairchild will be joining us this evening.” He introduced her to the four men and three women, all of whom seemed surprised that a world-famous supermodel would join them for dinner. She recognized Rohit Sarkar. The handsome actor who was one of Bollywood’s leading men. His dining partner was his latest costar, a twenty-something British actress with three ex-husbands. Ilene nodded and gave each her celebrated smile as Anthony seated her. The man to her left was her client’s Japanese-American partner, Preston Fuwa. Although all of the men wore wedding rings, none were there with their wives.
Ilene found herself completely charmed with the sixty-year-old grandfather from whom she would earn two thousand dollars for sharing dinner with him and his friends. She ate sparingly, sampling tofu and noodles with shiro, miso, wasabi and sudachi—her favorite was the Morimoto sashimi, terrine-like cubes made from layers of hamachi, smoked salmon, barbecued eel and seared toro—while the men dined on copious amounts of Kobe-style beef and lamb carpaccio dressed with Japanese green onions, grated ginger and garlic oil as countless bottles of saki and champagne were consumed by everyone but her.
Dinner was interrupted several times when well-known personalities and a few wannabes stopped by the table to offer greetings to Anthony and Rohit. Once the word got out that Ilene Fairchild was dining with India’s answer to America’s Brad Pitt, a steady stream of men and women sauntered by to glance in their direction.
Anthony and Preston were honored that Masaharu Morimoto, a Nobu alumnus familiar to viewers of Iron Chef, came over to greet them. They spoke Japanese too quickly for Ilene to follow their conversation. She managed to charm the famous chef when she greeted him in his native tongue, and blushed furiously when Anthony translated for Morimoto, saying she was even more beautiful in person. With her straight hair, parted in the middle, framing her small, round face, Ilene was more than aware of her effect not only on men, but also on the women gawking at her.
It wasn’t quite eleven-thirty when Anthony settled the bill, informing the others at the table he’d be back as soon as he saw Ilene safely home. They stood on Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue, waiting for a passing taxi.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said in a quiet voice.
Ilene successfully kept her expression impassive. “That can be arranged.”
“I will call for you for this wee
kend.”
Her gaze narrowed as if she was deep in thought. “I have to check my planner, but I think I’ll be available,” she lied. There was no way she wouldn’t be available for the banker unless another client proposed a better offer.
Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, the elegant man with salt-and-pepper hair pulled out a small flat velvet case. “Perhaps this will help you make up your mind.” He handed her the case before he signaled for a taxi.
Ilene barely had time to react, when she found herself seated in the back seat of a cab. Anthony handed the driver a large bill, telling him that if he got the lady home safely he could keep the change.
The bearded cabbie turned and looked at Ilene with half-hooded lids. “Where you go, lady?” She gave him her address and he stared at her as if she’d spoken a language he didn’t understand. The well-dressed Asian man had given him a hundred dollars to drive three blocks! “Hang on!”
He flipped the meter and took off like a rocket. Two minutes later Ilene stepped out of the taxi and walked to the entrance of her building. The doorman who’d been lounging on a chair in the vestibule got up and opened the door, giving her a lecherous grin.
“Good evening, Miss Fairchild.”
“Good evening,” she mumbled, not meeting his gaze. She felt the heat of his gaze on her bare legs as she walked toward the elevator; she entered and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
Ilene managed to quell her curiosity long enough to uncover what Anthony Nakanogo had given her until she undressed, cleansed the makeup from her face, braided her hair in a single plait and showered.
Clad in a short pale yellow silk nightgown and matching bikini panties, she sat in the middle of her bed and opened the case. She was unable to suppress a soft gasp of surprise. Her client had just made up her mind whether she would see him again. He’d given her a necklace of alternating black and white Tahitian and South Seas cultured pearls separated by spacers of coruscating diamonds in eighteen-carat white gold. She estimated the pearls to be at least fifteen millimeters.
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