Haze

by Deborah Bladon

  Cicely's eyes move from my face to Mr. Foster's.

  "There are security cameras," I think aloud. "I've seen Wallis watching the footage when she caught a shoplifter. There aren't any in the rooms but they do give a view of who goes in and out of them."

  "I was just about to suggest that." Cicely turns towards the door. "I remember Wallis mentioning those. We can review them right now to prove what really happened."

  "I need to go." I don't make eye contact with either of them. "I have customers waiting for me."

  I brush past Cicely, twist the doorknob in my hand, and walk back to the front of the boutique knowing that as soon as I can, I'm leaving this fucked up circus behind me for good.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Gabriel

  The water pounds down on me. The heated spray beating a path along my back. My eyes are closed. My mind is too awake. It's near three in the morning and I haven't slept. I can't quiet my thoughts.

  The full day of work I had planned ended abruptly as I watched the security tapes in the Liore boutique. I'd called Wallis to the store from the corporate offices to assist me. She'd been in a meeting, an important meeting, regarding the men's line.

  My better judgement was swept aside by my insatiable, unexplainable need, to see who had fucked who in that change room.

  When Cicely had showed me that condom package and the refuse of what had transpired in the cramped space, I'd been hit with images of Isla bent over the bench, her dress hiked to her waist, her panties pushed aside as a customer pounded his dick into her from behind.

  I'd imagined his hand bunched in her hair, pulling her neck back as he rode her fast and hard. The sense of rage I felt with those thoughts invading my mind was palpable. It wasn't rational but it was real and stifling.

  She'd looked different when her eyes met mine in the boutique. I saw a need and a desire there that I hadn't before. It may have been nothing more than my remembrances of how she looked in the club. She was so ripe, willing, and waiting to be taken.

  My intention when she followed me into the office was clear. I wanted a simple explanation. I wanted her assurance that she wasn’t the one who had taken a man into that space. I needed to know that. It had nothing to do with her job. It had everything to do with my selfish need to slide my cock inside of her.

  I felt relief wash over me when Wallis spotted the culprits on the footage. The cleaning crew had granted themselves carte blanche in the boutique hours before the store opened. The man and his female counterpart, hired to clean the store, had instead fucked like rabbits in the corridor leading to the change room before they fell out of view and into the room.

  Cicely's explanation for not finding the evidence of their misdeeds when she did her required check of the rooms before the store's opening was far reaching. She'd been interrupted mid-check she claimed at first by a customer knocking on the door, wanting early access to the sales items.

  As Wallis ran through the security footage one final time, Cicely's story lost all merit. It was clear that she'd strolled through the corridor before the store opened, unlocking each of the change room doors before pushing them open with a brush of her foot as her eyes were cast down at her smartphone. She was blissfully unaware that cameras were even in place.

  When I finally walked through the boutique on my way out two hours later, Isla's back was turned to me. I'd stopped to thank her for being so cooperative but the only response was a faint nod of her head before she walked to the left to adjust a row of stockings that had been knocked astray by the greedy hands of bargain hunters.

  She's pissed. I don't blame her. Cicely fucked up and I was pulled into that.

  That's not who I am.

  It's not who I want to be.

  I don't care if a woman I'm interested in fucks someone else. I'll find another.

  I don't care if a woman I want tells me to go to hell.

  I move on. I find someone else. I fuck her until I forget everyone else and then I walk away.

  That's who I am.

  It's who I want to be.

  The only difference now is that I know Isla Lane exists and I can't get her out of my mind.

  ***

  "You can't possibly be mad at either of them, Gabriel." My mother hugs me gently taking care not to allow her face to touch mine. From the looks of it, she's spent hours in someone's make up chair. "Caleb and Rowan were waiting for me. I wanted to look my best."

  She looks stunning.

  I'm not surprised. Whenever there's a spotlight to be had, or a red carpet to stand on, my mother will be front and center. Tonight she's wearing a striking royal blue dress from one of our boutiques. It's cut just low enough to show off a stunning diamond necklace. I'm not about to ask where it came from. We'll have that discussion when her credit card bill crosses my desk in a few weeks.

  "I'm not angry," I say quietly hoping to diffuse her. If the cameras aren't pointed at her, she'll do whatever is necessary to draw them towards her. Once, three or four years ago, she burst out in song during a press event for the Berdine line. It took months of negotiating, manipulating and subtle coercion to get the gossip rags to finally move on to another story.

  At the time, my mother viewed their ongoing attention as flattery. I knew better. They would follow her in hopes of catching her in another moment of desperation. Things have calmed now, but I work hard to keep her in the background, out of the way of any stray microphones or cameras.

  Tonight, I'm grateful that they've focused all of their attention on Libby Duncan, the Broadway actress, who is thankfully wearing a red, strapless dress from the Arilia collection. Her picture will be splashed across countless papers and websites tomorrow morning and that dress will be sold out within hours. That's the type of publicity that is priceless.

  "I had hoped that Caleb would be here to present the check." I glance over to where my brother and his wife are standing, engaged in a lively conversation with the orchestra's conductor. "I took care of it. I'm just glad you're here in time for the performance."

  "I've never been to the symphony, Mr. Foster."

  I turn toward the female voice. It's Cicely, in a bright yellow dress. I make a mental note to talk to Caleb about offering our employees a stipend that includes free merchandise from each of our boutiques. A visit to Arilia would benefit Cicely and it wouldn't hurt our bottom line if she wore our designs to Liore each day. Cross promoting our own brands is a smart move.

  Socializing with employees isn't something I'd normally do but this event is a benefit for an organization that promotes the arts for children. The chair is a close personal friend of my mother's and also the head partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York.

  From its beginnings, he's been a robust supporter of the Foster Foundation, an organization founded by two of my cousins that provides medical care to individuals who have fallen on difficult times. Attending tonight, with a large check in hand, is a benefit for everyone.

  "It's nice to see you, Cicely," I offer as I watch my mother walk towards Caleb.

  She grabs hold of my hand, pulling it close to her. "I've never been at an event like this. I'm so honored that you asked me to join you."

  My gaze follows the movement of my hand in hers. I jerk it away just as she's about to clasp it to her chest. "It's an important cause. It's vital that Foster Enterprises shows support. I'm glad that you, and the other employees, could make it."

  She glances up at me, a wave of disappointment washing over her eyes. "I'm always happy to help the company in any way I can, sir."

  I had asked her to attend this benefit, and the charity concert that immediately follows, on the phone, during an afternoon of similar calls to over a dozen employees.

  I hadn't considered my choice of words at the time because I assumed that she'd understand that the invitation was offered in relation to her position at Liore. Not once did it cross my mind that she believed that the two of us would be attending this cocktail party before the s
ymphony's performance as anything other than representatives of Foster Enterprises.

  "Things are going well at the boutique," she blurts out, I assume, to change the subject. "You haven't come in since that day. I mean that day I found that trash."

  It's been almost two weeks since I reviewed that security footage. It had taken all the restraint I possessed not to go back to the boutique after that day. I felt the pull on an almost hourly basis to walk in, under the guise of a short meeting with Cicely, just so I could see Isla.

  It was type of temptation that is pure torture. The desire overwhelming, the need undefinable and the drive to listen to her voice, inhale her sweet scent and touch her is potent.

  Once Rowan returned I'd delegated everything back to her, reminding her that she, and she alone, is responsible for the day-to-day operations of the Liore division.

  She'd fallen back into step, speaking to Cicely about her management skills and spending time at the boutique to streamline their systems. Everything had calmed, even my unexplainable need to see Isla.

  I had almost exploded at the boutique that day. My heart had pounded as I watched that footage, holding my breath with the hope that Isla wasn't fucking someone else. It made no sense. I have no claim to her.

  I can't pull her into my world. I won't walk out of it the same. I can't risk that, not even for a woman like Isla.

  "The performance is going to start soon, Gabriel." My mother taps my shoulder. "I want to freshen up before we take our seats. I'll find you in the concert hall."

  No, she won't. She'll find a cocktail, and then another, and most likely someone more than willing to listen to her retell the story of what she deems her tortured youth back in Belgium. She'll never understand that having to fetch herself a glass of milk occasionally, when the private chef my grandparents employed was busy, is not the same as not having enough food to eat.

  "I'll show you the way." I motion towards the doors that lead out of the reception hall and into the lobby of the venue. "I wouldn't want you to get misdirected. No good would come of that."

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Isla

  "Are you nervous?" I reach up to straighten the lapel of the tuxedo he's wearing. It's the second time I've seen him in it. He looks dashing. I'd told him that the first time and he'd laughed the way he does when he's embarrassed. "You look really nervous, Davis."

  "A little," he confesses as he scoops my hand into his. "I wanted Derek to come with me tonight, but he had to work."

  I sensed the disappointment in his eyes the moment I spotted him across the room. His partner, Derek, is the fountain of strength that he thinks he needs. He's wrong. I've known Davis Benoit for most of my life and I admire him more than anyone else.

  Much of that has to do with his raw natural talent but there's also the fact that he's the most humble person I've ever met. I've watched him accept numerous awards and each time he is honored, he tells me that he's certain they've made a mistake. There's no mistake. Davis is brilliant and I'm very lucky that he's one of my closest friends.

  "What time is it now?"

  I glance down at my hands, realizing that I left my clutch with my phone inside back in the room I was directed to when I first arrived.

  "Don't you have your phone?" I tap on his arm, before I point at the jacket he's wearing.

  "I forgot mine at home. I was in a rush. Do you think I have time to use the washroom?"

  I sigh heavily. I know that he needs to know the time not only so he can steal a few minutes away but so he can mentally prepare himself. We follow the same routine each and every time. The only difference is that usually Derek is nearby and he wears a watch.

  I scan the area near us looking for a server. They always know the time and they're less likely to look down their noses at me when I ask. I don't see one so I take a few steps to the side, hoping one of them will pop into view.

  I throw Davis a half-shrug before I start towards a couple standing a few feet away from us. They can't be much older than I am and when I first arrived, the woman had smiled at me. It was nothing more than a common act of decency but it felt generous to me.

  I try to walk towards her but I'm quickly swallowed up the crowds. I look back but Davis has disappeared behind a wall of people I've never met.

  "Isla Lane?"

  The sound of a man's voice, combined with a light tap on my shoulder, stops me in my tracks. I search my mind, trying to place a face to the voice. It's deep, gruff and completely unfamiliar.

  I turn on my heel and look up, my eyes quickly clouding with tears.

  "Mr. Benoit," I say his name as he pulls me into his chest. "You came. I didn't think you'd make it."

  "I can't resist an invitation from you. You asked and I delivered."

  "Davis is going to be so excited." I playfully tap his shoulder as I look up at his kind face, now covered with a graying beard. "He has no idea you flew here from Chicago, does he?"

  "I haven't said a word." His eyes leave mine to survey the people around us. "Where is he? Do I have time to talk to him now?"

  I grab hold of his wrist and glance at the antique gold watch he's wearing. "You have time. He's near the box office. That's where I left him."

  "You'll show me?" He extends his hand in front of him. "I want him to know it was your idea that I come tonight."

  "I really need to use the ladies' room," I lie. "I'll catch up with you two in a few."

  He nods as he walks away, gently pushing his way through the crowd. I stand in place wanting to give them at least a few moments together before I reappear. They need a chance to just be a dad and his son. I need the time to search out a glass of water to quench my thirst.

  I look to the left for a server and just as I spot one, a man steps into my view. I stare at the meticulously crafted tuxedo he's wearing before my eyes travel up to his face and the beginnings of a beard covering his chin. The moment my gaze reaches his lips, my pulse quickens. It's him. Gabriel Foster, dressed to kill, is staring right at me.

  ***

  "Perhaps you'd like something stronger to drink?"

  I lick the water from my lips and hand the now empty glass back to him. "I'm fine now. Thank you."

  He nods to the server as he places the glass tumbler back on her tray. I'd stopped her when she walked past me just after I spotted him across the lobby. I'd downed the water so quickly that a few drops had scattered onto the front of my black silk dress. I'd brushed them aside. As I did, his eyes raked me from head-to-toe.

  "I didn’t expect to see you here. You look lovely, Isla."

  I look completely out of place. I knew the event was formal. I'd gotten that memo but this is one of three dresses that I always wear to an event like this. It's not elegant by any means. It's simple and understated.

  "Thank you," I say quietly. "I should probably go. Someone is waiting for me."

  "Wait." His voice is smooth as he tilts his head to the side. "Is that someone Davis Benoit? I saw you talking with him earlier."

  I shouldn't be surprised that he knows who Davis is. There was a generous write up of him in the Sunday arts section of the paper last month. It ran in conjunction with the announcement that he'd been offered a position in an artist-in-residency program with one of the most influential cellists in the world.

  "That's him," I answer steadily.

  "How do you know him?" He glances at a couple standing near us. "Did he come to watch the performance? Are you his date?"

  I study his face, wondering if anywhere beneath that impenetrable expression, there's a hint of jealousy. I can't see it. I can't imagine it either. He's so gorgeous and in control. He could approach virtually any woman in this room and have her naked, and on her kne
es, within five minutes.

  "Davis is gay," I shoot back. "We met when I lived in Chicago. We've been friends since."

  A small grin flows over his lips. "I was mistaken."

  "Apparently." I half-shrug. "How's Cicely?"

  "Cicely? Your manager?"

  I don't need him to remind me that I answer to her. Tonight is an escape from the boutique. It's a chance for me to be who I really am. I don't want to think about tomorrow when I have to go back to work and face Cicely again.

  "Your date," I counter.

  He cocks his left brow. "The misunderstandings are mutual, Ms. Lane. I'm here alone."

  "Cicely said she had plans with you, I just assumed…" I begin before I catch sight of her approaching from the right. "I assumed you two came together."

  He turns his head towards her. "I'm not here with her, or anyone, for that matter. She's one of a group of employees we invited."

  I shouldn't care that she's not dating him. It shouldn't matter to me that he's here, in this room, staring at me, but it does.

  "I want to apologize for what happened at the boutique." He reaches forward as if he's going to touch my hand, but then he pulls his back. "I didn't have all the facts when Cicely called me. If I had, I never would have questioned you."

  "I gave you my word that I wouldn't break the rules. I don't break my word, Mr. Foster."

  "Isla, there you are." I feel a hand on my shoulder just as I hear Davis say my name. "It's time. We need to go."

  I suck in a deep breath, sorry that this moment has to end. "It was nice to see you, sir. I hope you enjoy your evening."

  "I will, Isla." His eyes lock on mine. "I most certainly will."