“Of course you may, Abigail.”
Abbey checked her watch. “We’re going to be starting in less than half an hour. The wedding planner will show you to your table. I’m sorry to rush off, but I have to see if my niece needs my assistance.”
A woman wearing a headset came toward them as Abbey scurried away. “May I have your name so I can direct you to your table?”
“B. Houghton and guest,” Bart said, reaching for Faye’s hand.
The woman checked off their names on a list attached to a clipboard. “Please follow me.”
Faye noticed several women whispering behind their hands as she passed their table. A slight smile curved her mouth when she heard one of them say, “Vera Wang.” It was apparent they’d recognized her dress’s designer. The garment was simple and elegant, the colors reminding her of green and lavender jade.
Bart and Faye where shown to a table several feet from the bridal table. He seated Faye, leaning over and inhaling the subtle fragrance of cologne on her bared flesh. His gaze lingered on her profile.
“Can I get you something from the bar?”
Tilting her chin, Faye met his gaze. “I’d like a soft drink, please.”
He noticed waiters were coming around with trays of champagne and finger foods. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”
“Thank you.”
As Bart made his way toward the bar, he stopped a waitress and asked her to serve the woman with the short blond hair. He pointed to the table where Faye sat.
The waitress’s mouth dropped open. “Is…is she Eva, the…the girl who won America’s Next Top Model?” When Bart gave her a puzzled look, she said, “I saw the television show when I was in New York.”
Bart had no idea what the woman was talking about. He rarely watched prime-time TV shows. Public television, CNN and networks devoted to business and finance were the exceptions. Newspapers were his preferred medium of information.
“No, she’s not that Eva.”
The waitress smiled. “But she is as beautiful as Eva.” Her voice was filled with awe.
Bart had to agree with her. Faye wasn’t the Eva this woman was stammering about, but she definitely was beautiful. He’d enjoyed watching her try on clothes and surprising her with the necklace and earrings.
It’d been a long time since he was given the opportunity to spoil a woman. The first and only one had been his wife. He had no living relatives other than his cousin, who’d moved to Utah to marry a Mormon.
His personal net worth was staggering, he had no heirs to whom he would leave his fortune, and he wanted to enjoy what was left of his life; with Faye as companion he was certain he’d never be bored.
When he received Enid’s invitation for her spring soiree, his first inclination was to decline, then he changed his mind. The moment he saw Faye Ogden’s legs, feet and finally her face he knew he’d made the right decision to attend. Unknowingly, the petite woman with the blond hair, gold eyes and sassy attitude had changed him.
CHAPTER 42
Garrett “Gary” Grogan led his daughter, stunning in a Carolina Herrera wedding gown, over a flower-strewn path to where her groom, wedding party, three dozen guests and string quartet had gathered on the beach in bare feet. The rays of the setting sun, the calming sound of the incoming tide and the harmonic melody of the wedding march completed the surreal setting.
Faye couldn’t stop the flood of tears filling her eyes and trickling down her cheeks. She wasn’t certain whether they were tears of joy or tears of regret; joy for the young couple repeating vows that would bind them and their lives together or regret for her own short-lived marriage.
Bart took a quick glance at Faye. His held his breath for several seconds before releasing it. She was crying. For the first time since meeting her she appeared fragile, vulnerable. Gathering her in his arms, he kissed her cheeks, tasting salt on his tongue.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, as a fresh wave of tears flowed. Faye buried her face against Bart’s chest.
Bart patted her back. “It’s all right, baby.”
Faye took delight in the warmth and smell of the man holding her to his heart. He reminded her of what she’d missed, had been missing since her divorce; she missed being held, missed making love, loving and being loved.
Reaching inside his jacket, Bart removed a handkerchief. He dabbed her tears, taking care not to smudge her eye makeup. Anchoring a hand under Faye’s chin, he raised her face. Moisture had spiked her lashes and turned her eyes into shimmering orbs of burnished gold. Smiling, she lowered her lashes demurely and he was lost, and enchanted by a delicate femininity that in no way detracted from the strength he’d come to admire.
“I cry at weddings.”
Cradling her face between his hands, his lips slowly descended to touch hers, her mouth sweet and warm under his. “And I cry at funerals.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine you crying,” she whispered.
He kissed her again. “Why?”
Faye couldn’t respond, not with his mouth making her feel things she didn’t want to feel. It was not easy to remain in control with him so close, with his kisses sending her pulse spinning.
“Why?” he asked again between soft, nibbling kisses over her lower lip.
“Because…” She never got to complete her statement, because the sound of applause captured her attention. Zarcarias and Helena Grogan-Crane were now husband and wife.
“We’ll continue this later,” Bart promised.
Everyone on the beach waited for the wedding party to sit at the bridal table before they returned to their assigned seating.
It wasn’t until hours later, when Faye and Bart were alone, that they were able to talk without someone eavesdropping on their conversation. They lay on a blanket on the beach, facing each other.
The wedding and reception that had begun at sunset went on for hours. The music from the string quartet gave way to a local calypso band with steel pans that had the entire wedding party and their guests up on their feet until they retired to their respective tables to dine on a sumptuous feast of Caribbean-inspired dishes.
A renowned caterer and his staff had prepared platters of lobster, crab, conch, fork-tender filet mignon, jerk pork and chicken, along with side dishes of fried plantain, rice with pigeon peas and the ubiquitous crudités with exotic vegetable dips. The distinctive spices in the dishes were the perfect complement for the potent rum punch and finest vintage champagnes. And for the first time in a very long time Faye overindulged.
When it came time for the limbo, she lifted her dress above her knees and shimmied under the length of bamboo. She and a male cousin of the groom were crowned limbo king and queen. She’d felt Bart’s gaze on her the entire time the young man danced with her when they celebrated their victory.
She’d lost count of the men who’d asked her to dance, but once she found herself in Bart’s arms he refused to relinquish her. After a while the other men stopped asking. What they didn’t understand was that she wasn’t there for them, but for Bartholomew Houghton. He was paying her for companionship.
The bride and groom had retreated to their honeymoon bungalow half a mile from the resort, while their guests continued to drink and dance until the clock signaled the beginning of a new day. Soon after, Faye told Bart she wanted to leave because she was beginning to feel the effects of the rum punch. They’d walked back to their villa, changed into T-shirts and shorts before walking down to the beach.
Splaying a hand over Faye’s back, Bart massaged her bare skin under the cotton fabric. “How’s your head?”
She smiled. “It stopped spinning.”
“How many drinks did you have?”
“I took a few sips of champagne and had a couple of glasses of rum punch.”
His fingertips caressed the length of her spine. “The punch was like Hawaiian Punch.”
Faye smiled again. “Yeah, right. Hawaiian Punch with a little extra.”
Shifting on the blanket, B
art nuzzled the side of Faye’s neck. “How did you meet Enid Richards?” She told him about Enid eavesdropping on her conversation with her best friend at the Four Seasons, and their subsequent meeting.
“I’m glad she did,” he mumbled, placing tiny kisses along the column of her neck. “I’m glad you signed on with her, glad I decided to come to her soiree and ecstatic because I have you all to myself.”
I am not your chattel. Faye swallowed the words poised on the tip of her tongue.
She had to learn to play the game in order to win the ultimate prize: a half million dollars. Bart had given Enid a million dollars for her services for the summer, a sum to be paid out in amounts that would not raise a flag with the IRS.
Moving closer, she placed her leg over his. “Me, too.”
“Me, too, what?”
“I’m glad that I met you, that I’m with you.” Why, Faye thought, did she sound so sincere? When had she become such an accomplished actress?
The fingers of Bart’s left hand feathered over the nape of her neck. “Show me how much you want to be with me.”
For the first time since she’d come face-to-face with the man holding her to his length, Faye took the lead. Instinctively, her body arched toward him as she closed her eyes and kissed Bart, kissed him with a passion she’d withheld from every man since ending her marriage.
His fingers circling her neck, tongue slipping between her parted lips and the growing erection he was unable to conceal quickened her pulse and sent waves of excitement coursing throughout her body. Aroused, Faye pressed closer.
Bart, deepening the kiss, reversed their position until she lay between his legs. The motion elicited an unbidden pulsing between her thighs that made breathing difficult.
Bart reversed their position again; this time he lay between Faye’s legs, and went completely still, unable to move because he couldn’t move. If he did, it would be to break his promise not to make love to Faye. He was enthralled by her smell, the satiny feel of her skin, the sweetness of her mouth.
I lied, Bart’s inner voice taunted. He’d lied to Faye and to himself. He’d told her that he wouldn’t sleep with her when that was exactly what he wanted to do.
He’d accomplished and accumulated more than he’d ever dreamed of achieving, but he wanted more.
And the more was Faye Ogden.
CHAPTER 43
A smile replaced Enid’s frown the moment she detected the scent of the familiar cologne. She didn’t have to turn around to know who’d come up behind her, although the gallery was a bustle of activity with the caterer and his staff setting up a bar and several tables with platters of finger foods.
“What do you think of this one, darling?” She pointed to a matted black-and-white photograph of a Japanese woman holding her toddler daughter.
“It’s nice, but I never figured you for cute.”
She’d asked Marcus to meet her at the Madison Avenue art gallery. The owner of the gallery, a P.S., Inc. client and former celebrated photographer in his own right, had opened the gallery an hour early for his elite customers to view a collection of black-and-white prints Peter Janus had taken during a year-long stint in Asia. Art critics were now comparing the up-and-coming photographer’s work to that of Ansel Adams. She owned several Janus photographs, and when she had them appraised, she found that her investment had increased appreciably.
Enid moved closer to Marcus, looping her arm through his. “What’s wrong with cute?”
Lowering his head, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Didn’t you say you don’t like photographs or paintings with children?”
Tilting her chin, she met his honey-gold gaze. They’d been living together for almost a month, and she had to admit the experience was most enjoyable. However, it hadn’t been that way with her ex-husband. She’d married the insurance executive, eighteen years her senior, not because she’d been in love with him but because he’d helped her attain a social plateau she’d always dreamed about. She would’ve been content to give her twice-married older husband an heir, but fate intervened on her behalf. What she hadn’t told her husband was that she didn’t like nor want children.
“They are scene stealers, darling.”
“Scene stealers or you don’t like children?”
“Both,” she admitted. Enid had been forthcoming with Marcus early on in their relationship when the one time they’d made love and he hadn’t used a condom she told him that she couldn’t get pregnant because of a surgical procedure, and even if she could, she didn’t want children.
Enid glanced at the catalog, taking note of the price. The print was reasonable, compared to one of the others she’d selected. “Despite the child, there is something I like about the photo,” she admitted.
“If you like this one, then you should see two others.” The gallery owner had overhead her.
Pulling her arm from Marcus’s, Enid turned to find Stephen Jacobsen standing a few feet away. Tall, slender, with a pockmarked face, Stephen had affected a short blond beard to conceal the aftermath of adolescent acne that had continued well into his twenties and thirties. His lament was, “Where the hell was Proactiv when I was a teenager?”
“Which ones, Stephen?” Enid asked.
“Six and ten. Six is a photo of the grandparents, and ten the little girl’s great-grandparents. You can hang them to form a triptych.”
Enid and Marcus moved over to view the photos. The great-grandparents wore traditional Japanese garb, and the grandparents a mix of Japanese and Western, while the young mother and child were resplendent in what Enid recognized as Dior and Ralph Lauren.
“How much for the three?”
Stephen angled his head as he mentally tallied the price of the three photographs. Enid was one of his best customers, so he decided to offer her a discount. He quoted a price, his expression registering anticipation. The figure was high, but not so high that Ms. Richards wouldn’t at least consider it.
“Take ten percent off and I’ll take it,” Enid said smoothly.
“But I’ve already discounted ten percent.”
“What do you think, darling?” she asked Marcus.
Marcus had watched the interchange between his lover and the gallery owner with what appeared to be bored indifference. He was hard pressed not to laugh. Enid had played this game so well that he knew she didn’t actually need his opinion.
“Thirty-six fifty does appear to be a little steep for three photographs,” he drawled, sighing as if totally bored.
A flush stole its way up Stephen’s neck to his flaxen hairline. “I’ve already taken nine hundred off the catalog price.”
“Nine hundred is nothing when I’m willing to pay ten thousand for the one with the Kyoto teahouse.”
Stephen had to admire Enid Richards. Not only was she exquisite, but she was a shark when it came to business. She wanted something the gallery owner had, and he wanted something she had.
“I’ll give you the four of them for ten but…”
Enid’s pale eyebrows lifted. “What do you want, Stephen?”
“I want you to arrange for me to photograph Ilene Fairchild.”
A knowing smile touched Enid’s lips. Stephen was as sly as a fox. “I can ask whether she’d be willing to sit for you, but I believe you’re going to have to deal with her agent who still handles her modeling jobs.”
“I don’t want to deal with her agent.”
“What do you plan to do with her photos?” Marcus asked, deciding it was time he became involved in the discussion. After all, he was responsible for Ilene becoming a social companion for Pleasure Seekers.
“I’d like to exhibit them here at the gallery.”
“Do you plan to sell them?” Enid questioned.
Stephen nodded. “I will if Ilene signs a release.”
“What’s her take?” Marcus asked.
Stephen shrugged a shoulder under his black silk and wool jacket. “Fifty.”
Enid and Marcus exchanged a glance. “
Give her sixty,” Marcus said, “and I’ll talk to her. I know a way we can get around her agent.”
Grinning broadly, Stephen offered Marcus his hand. “Deal.”
Enid wanted to throw her arms around Marcus’s neck and kiss him. There was no way she or her partner would permit the gallery owner to exploit their social companion. “I’ll draw up the agreement and you can have your attorney look it over before Ilene agrees to sign your release.” Without warning, she’d gone into legal mode.
“No problem, Enid.” Stephen wasn’t going to argue with her when there was the possibility that he would photograph one of the most beautiful faces to ever grace the cover of a fashion magazine.
Opening her purse, Enid took out her checkbook and business card. “Please have them delivered to my office.” Sitting at a small table, she made out the check to the gallery.
Bowing elegantly, Stephen took the check. He beckoned to Marina, his assistant. He gave the woman the check and business card. “Please place Sold stickers on numbers six, ten, eighteen and thirty-two.”
Reaching for an envelope in the pocket of her slacks, Marina put the check and card inside and wrote down the numbers of the prints on the front. It would be another forty minutes before Jacobsen Galleries opened for the Janus showing, and seven of forty photographs in the exhibit were already sold.
Enid offered her hand to Stephen. “Thank you. It’s always a pleasure doing business with you.”
He took the proffered hand, kissing her fingers. “Aren’t you going to stay and have some champagne?”
Easing her hand from his gentle grip, Enid smiled at him from under her lashes. “I’m sorry, Stephen, but not this time. Marcus and I have an engagement at Lincoln Center in less than an hour.”
Stephen inclined his head to Enid, then Marcus. “Anytime you want a private showing, please call me or Marina.”
Looping an arm around Enid’s waist, Marcus led her to the entrance. One of the employees opened the door, but before they exited, a man and woman entered. He felt Enid stiffen before she relaxed against his arm. Bartholomew Houghton had come to the private showing with Faye Ogden on his arm.
Pleasure Seekers Page 16
