I can't let that happen though. I made a promise to myself and selling lingerie for the next three, or four, or more years of my life isn't part of that.
"Have you decided whether you're going to audition yet?" She walks back into the room carrying a glass of orange juice. "Here, drink this."
I tentatively take the glass from her hands as I look up at her face. Her olive skin is glowing. Her hazel eyes surrounded by long, beautiful lashes. She rarely wears any make-up. She's never had to. Her natural beauty rivals any woman I've ever met.
"No, not yet. I need more time to think about it."
"There's a woman I work with at Hughes Enterprises. I was telling her about you and…"
"You told her about me?" I interrupt. "What did you tell her?"
"The regular stuff anyone would tell another person about their best friend." She nervously shifts from one foot to the other. "You have a lot in common."
An involuntary smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. "Does she play the violin too, like me?"
"No one plays the violin like you, Isla." She rubs her hand across my forehead sweeping my hair to the side. "If you audition for that opening with the String Orchestra, you'll get that spot. Hell, if you tell them who you are, they'll give you the spot without you having to play a note."
I swallow hard. I know that she's trying to help but she's not. It's in Switzerland. That's an entire world away from my life here. "I'm not ready for that yet. I need more time."
The sigh that escapes her is noticeable in the stillness of the room. "I know. I just don't want you to waste your talent. It's a gift, Isla. I know you can't see it but it's true."
I do see it. That's because I spent the first thirteen years of my life being paraded around the globe like a show pony with a violin in hand. I was my mother's meal ticket and she made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that my talent was what was keeping our household afloat.
She resented the fact that when she was a child my grandmother, Ella Amherst, was focused on her career as the principal violinist with the London Philharmonic. My mother took it upon herself to rebel in every way possible, including getting pregnant with me, when she was still a teenager.
When the two of them finally settled in Chicago shortly after I was born, my grandmother took on a position with the Orchestra there. My mother took up with one man, and then another, and eventually I ended up with two younger half-sisters, and a handful of stepfathers.
My only solace through all the upheaval was the violin my grandmother had given me. She taught me how to play and with each invitation I received to appear on local television programs or radio stations, my mother's greed grew. Eventually, she was booking me to play at weddings, birthdays and even funerals.
I was the adorable blond haired girl with the big blue eyes and the talent of her grandmother. Nothing more than a novelty, drawing the attention of celebrities and royalty who thought it cute to throw the spotlight on a small child who could play classical music alongside many of the best musicians in the world.
As my bank account ballooned, my school work suffered and when I had to repeat seventh grade because the tutor my mother hired only existed on paper as a tax write-off, my grandmother stepped in.
She retired early, hired attorneys and accountants and when the dust settled and my trust accounts were searched, it was obvious to everyone that my mother's large house and her expensive car weren't paid for from her manager's salary. She'd stolen from me; money, time, my childhood.
I moved in with my grandmother then and after school each day, she'd insist I'd finish my homework first and then we'd play our violins, side-by-side, her helping me perfect my techniques. Those are the moments I'll treasure forever.
"You'll think about auditioning, Isla. Promise me you will." Cassia's hands rest on my shoulders.
"I'll think about it. I promise."
CHAPTER TEN
Gabriel
"If I need to get my attorney involved in this, I will."
It's meant to sound as threatening as it does. It's also proven to be an effective way to deal with the hordes of individuals who believe they can produce imitation, substandard products, and sell them with fake Arilia or Berdine labels attached to them.
"No, please, no sir." The small, seemingly meek looking, man stares up at me. "I didn't know. I'll give them all to you. You can take them now."
That would solve all of his problems. Unfortunately, it would only prolong the inevitable. If I gather up the dozens of men's dress shirts and the handful of women's blouses he has on display, it will only put a dent in his business for at most a day, or two.
These portable carts, hawking imitation merchandise, are as much a part of the landscape of the streets of Manhattan as those selling hotdogs and pretzels. The only difference is that the food vendors are earning an honest living.
He can play coy all he wants but I've seen this happen time and time again.
"I'll send someone down to deal with this within the hour." I turn on my heel ignoring his pleading offerings to keep the police out of it.
I will.
All I need is the threat of a lawsuit delivered in the form of one of the company's staff of attorneys to ensure that nothing bearing any of the Foster fashion brands lands on this cart again.
I make a quick call to the head of the legal department of Foster Enterprises, apprising her of the situation, including the location of the cart which ironically is set up less than a block from my office.
As I end the call, I hear the unmistakable chime of a bell signaling a new test message.
I look down at the screen of my phone, read the message and curse under my breath.
What the fuck is this?
I walked to a local bodega to get a cup of coffee to clear my head. I needed fresh air and a break from a day that has been filled with nothing but mundane problems that feel like a waste of my time.
Now, another issue is pressing and since my driver is at least fifteen minutes away, I do the only thing I can think of. I toss the paper cup in the trash, wave my hand in the air and flag down the first passing taxi to take me to the Liore boutique.
***
It's the most erotic instance of déjà vu I've ever experienced.
As I walk through the door of the boutique my eyes instantly gravitate toward Isla. She's near the back of the space with a female customer.
Her hair is different today. It's wavy, as if she let it dry on its own before she ran her fingers through the golden locks. Her dress is pale blue, fitted and framed in lace. She looks innocent and angelic. She looks nothing like she did three nights ago at Skyn when she was escorted from the club.
I'd left the private room and had stood in the shadows listening to her speak with the female manager who had been sent to accompany her home. She was sweet, sexy, and irresistible as she tried to wrestle her clutch purse away from an asshole that had no right to be near her.
I'd watched in both horror and fascination as her clutch opened revealing everything she'd tucked inside it before she'd arrived at the club.
The condoms and money were expected. The handcuffs caught me off guard.
I haven't touched a pair since college when I'd used them on a woman I met at a club similar to Skyn. She was sure it was what she wanted but when she'd heard the click of the metal closing around her wrists and I parted her legs to fuck her, she'd panicked.
I fumbled with the key as I unlocked her, trying to comfort her but the slap across my face had stilled everything.
She'd left my dorm room in a huff with the handcuffs still attached to one of the posts of my bed frame. I'd tossed them in the trash along with her number.
I prefer softer restraints. Fabrics that have enough give to allow a woman to feel comfortable, yet enough strength to hold her exactly where I want her to be.
Isla's preference is metal. Although judging by the condition of her handcuffs as they hit the floor a few feet from where I was standing, they've rarely be
en used, if at all.
That might speak to her experience or lack thereof. Either way, it's becoming harder to ignore her.
"Mr. Foster, you're finally here."
I look to my right to where Cicely is standing, her voice conveying the same panic that her text message had.
"Cicely, the building isn't on fire. I don't see anyone with a weapon demanding money." I gesture towards the crowded sales floor. "If there's an emergency here, I'm not seeing it."
"I didn't mean it was that kind of emergency, sir." She's wringing the pair of lace panties within her knotted fists so tightly that I wouldn't be surprised if they ripped in two.
"Don't manhandle the merchandise."
"I tried calling Wallis but it goes straight to voicemail." She sighs heavily as her eyes survey the boutique. "I found something in one of the change rooms. I don't know what to do with it."
I have no idea why I didn't call her before I raced to the boutique. Actually, that's a lie. I know why. The reason is blonde, effortlessly beautiful and now bent over to retrieve a bra that the customer she's helping has dropped. I wanted to see Isla.
"Will you look at it?"
"Look at what?" I can't pull my gaze from Isla. She's laughing. Her eyes dancing over the face of the woman she's helping. It's obvious why she sells more product than any other sales associate in this store. She's captivating. Who in their right mind could walk away from her?
"It's in the back office, sir." Cicely's hand rests on my forearm. "I'll show it to you now."
I turn my head to look at her hand. "I don't have time for this. You're the manager. Your job is to handle anything and everything that involves this store."
"I know. I do. I just don't know how to deal with this."
"Are you like this with Rowan?" I ask out of sheer frustration.
Foster Enterprises employs thousands worldwide. Each of those people has to report to someone above them within the company's hierarchy. For Cicely, that's Rowan Bell and right now, I'm cursing the fact that I sent her to Europe at all. She should be back here, holding Cicely's hand to get her through this latest non-crisis.
"Like what?"
"Exactly what am I doing here?" I pull my arm free so I can turn to face her directly. "I can't imagine what you found that warrants me dropping everything to come down here."
"I can't say it, sir." She blushes as she looks up at me. "Can you please just come with me so I can show you?"
"Fine," I snap. Unless I give this woman what she wants, which amounts to even more of my time, she's not going to leave this be.
I follow her through the store, my eyes locking briefly with Isla's as I offer a simple greeting to the customer she's helping. Although I want nothing more than to stop to speak with Isla, I don't. I need to see what has Cicely in knots so I can get to the first of several meetings I have scheduled this afternoon.
"It's right over here, sir." Cicely marches across the tiled floor of the cramped office to a wastebasket sitting next to a plain metal desk covered in invoices, order forms and schedules.
"What is over here?" I stop to glance down at my smartphone in my palm.
"That." Her hand darts into the air towards the wastebasket. "I found that on the floor in one of the change rooms an hour ago."
I shake my head as I move towards her, my eyes glued to her face. "We hired you for this position because of your background in retail, Cicely. Unless you can show more leadership and take more control over this store, I'm going to discuss an alternative arrangement with Rowan."
The expression on her face doesn’t shift at all and I realize she likely didn't hear anything I just said. Her hand is bobbing in the air right above the wastebasket.
I drop my gaze, lean forward and look in.
"You found that in a change room?"
She nods briskly. "I found it an hour ago, sir."
"Who was working then? Who was here?"
Her bottom lip quivers slightly. "It was just me and Isla. We were the only two here."
I stare at the used condom and the empty foil packet. It's the same brand that fell from Isla's clutch and littered the floor of the club.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Isla
I saw Mr. Foster checking me out when he walked into the boutique twenty minutes ago.
Checking me out may be too strong of words, or more likely, wishful thinking.
I did notice him staring in my direction. It may have had everything to do with the fact that I didn't have enough time to straighten my hair after my shower. I'm a mess. I overslept this morning and being late isn't something I can afford to do right now.
I can't screw up again. Mr. Foster made that very clear.
"Isla, I need a word."
My head pops up at the harsh clipped sound of Mr. Foster's voice. He's standing in front of the counter, not more than two feet away from where I am. Cicely is next to him, her arms folded across her chest.
I'm in shit. Real shit this time.
"Of course, sir," I say in the most sincere tone I can muster. "Can someone take over for me?"
Cicely looks around the store. "Steph started ten minutes ago. I'll get her to watch the register."
I nod as I stand in place, my eyes focused completely on Mr. Foster. He's wearing a black shirt and suit today. The only contrast is the silver tie around his neck. He's polished, calm and judging by the way he's looking at me, he's not going to be as understanding as he was last time.
Lucky for me, I haven't broken any rules since then; at least, none that I know of.
"We'll do this in the office." He steps away from the counter just as Steph, another sales associate, comes into view. "Follow me."
I do as I'm told. My heels drumming a fast beat against the tiled floor as I fall in step behind him. I don't turn to look but I know instinctively that Cicely is pulling up the rear of this train of doom.
She'd looked panicked when she went to retrieve garments from the fitting rooms earlier. I'd stopped her to ask a question but she'd brushed me off with a shake of her head and a hand in the air to silence me.
I hadn't pushed. I've been working for her long enough to know that when she's on a mission, it's best to get the hell out of her way. I did that by focusing on customers and doing what I was hired to do.
"Close the door, Cicely."
My stomach knots instantly when I hear the brash tone of his voice. Something is definitely wrong. This job is becoming way more trouble than it's worth.
I hear the latch of the door as it's closed. I stand quiet, waiting for him to speak.
"You had intercourse in one of the change rooms this morning." Cicely's anxious voice breaks the silence. "I know it was you."
Mr. Foster cocks a dark brow as his eyes jump to my face. I can't tell what his reaction is. He's silent save for the faint tapping of his shoe against the floor.
"What?" I shake my head from side-to-side as Cicely moves into view. "I didn't. I wouldn’t."
"You did." She reaches towards a wastebasket. "I found a used… there was a used thing in there. I found the package too."
"A used thing? A condom?" I search her face trying to find something there that resembles even a shred of sanity. I've been well within her view all morning. I've been on the sales floor, helping one customer and then another. "I haven't been in the change rooms. It wasn't me. It was someone else."
"Well it wasn't me," she spits the words out. "I checked the rooms before I opened the store the same way I do every morning and there was nothing there. There were no garments leftover from when customers tried things on yesterday and there were no... nothing else was in that room. That means that you took a man in there so you could do stuff with him."
Stuff? Grow the fuck up, Cicely and just spit it out. You think I fucked some random in the change room.
"Mr. Foster," I say his name quietly realizing that I need to appeal directly to him. Cicely has already convicted me of being a shameless slut. "I didn't do this. I know the r
ules."
His full lips part slightly before he runs the tip of his index finger over his eyebrow. "We've already had this discussion, Isla. You don't always follow all the rules."
I suck in a slow, deep breath as his eyes fall from my face to the top of my dress. "I didn’t break that rule. I wouldn't take a man into a change room with me."
"Do you have any idea who would?" he rasps. "If it wasn't Cicely or you, explain to me who had that access."
I can't. The doors are locked until an employee unlocks them. It's a measure that's in place to deter theft. We know exactly what items go into each room and we have to account for what comes out. We're also not allowed to let men go back there to see their wives or girlfriends trying on the merchandise.
"I don't know. All I know is it wasn't me."
"Are you saying it was me?" Cicely's hands jump to the waist of her purple dress. "Do you think it was me, Isla?"
I look her over from head to toe. "Of course not. No one would think it was you."
Her eyes squint. "What does that mean?"
I don't have to explain it. I can't explain it. It hasn’t slipped my mind that Cicely and Mr. Foster have a date next Friday night. I'm not about to insult her with him standing less than a foot away from me.
"I've been on the sales floor since I got here." I look down at my hands, twisting them together in frustration. "I wasn't near the change rooms at all today."
"You didn't let any of the customers in the rooms?" Cicely says in a tone that is way too judgmental. "You're telling me that not one of your customers wanted to try anything on?"
I turn towards her, my patience wearing thin. "I spent time with two customers this morning." I dart two fingers in the air. "One was a woman who wanted to buy new bras for her mother who just had a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. She knew the size. It's a perfect 34C. My other customer was in here last week. Her husband loved the things she bought so much that she came back for more so she could surprise him on their anniversary. Neither of them needed to go to the rooms."
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