Perfume Girl

by Vanessa Fewings

  “I have a great table for you with the best view.” She licked her lips seductively.

  Okay. That was an interesting development; her tongue was pierced and that shiny bauble promised no end of pleasure. I gave her another heart-stopping smile.

  She spun around and led the way.

  I strolled the short distance across the patio wondering why my unpredictable sister had chosen to meet here rather than our South Beach office.

  “Thank you,” I said graciously as I sat. “Someone is joining me.”

  “That’s fine.” Her gaze flitted to the empty seat. “Can I start you off with a drink?”

  Start me off?

  Those years at Eton in England had garnered me with an unquestionable arrogance when it came to the use of language—after my highbrow education where I’d sat in classrooms beside future kings, sons of presidents, and the men who would become Dubai’s finest leaders. I’d returned to South Beach bearing unrealistic expectations that no mortal could live up to. British aristocracy had threaded its way beneath my skin and I still hadn’t shaken it.

  While there, I had been taught to favor luxury over austerity, pleasure over pain, and had been exposed to an addictive level of power. It left me with expensive tastes in all things, including sex. I liked my pussy gold-plated—a woman who could match my intellectual sparring. But not a relationship…not even close. I preferred the “fuck me hard and call me if you want” kind of lover. The non-clingy, no commitment necessary type.

  “Start me off” girl may have tempted my diabolical side but she was too sweet to ravage. And although my imagination ran wild with how I could bring this flirty bud to blossom, my demands would no doubt leave her weak, needy, and addicted to a level of passion she hadn’t earned. Wallflowers needn’t apply.

  Though that blush on her cheeks was alluring, and I couldn’t deny the soft scent of vanilla gave off the impression of pure innocence. What followed were the rakish notes of bubblegum—fucking bubblegum. She was wearing Play With Me, a scent that made me die inside each time I caught a waft.

  “Water. Still.” And as it was Penelope’s habit to be late I reached for the menu and considered an appetizer. “Sparkling water, too, please.” My sister would be out of breath and thirsty, or at least she’d feign she was for keeping me waiting.

  I set about conducting business on my iPhone, as time was too valuable to burn.

  The waitress returned with our drinks and casually slid a coaster toward me. It had a phone number on it. Hers, I assumed.

  There was no regret in her fresh-faced expression. “I know I shouldn’t,” she admitted.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Skye.”

  “You want me to call you later, Skye?” I flipped the coaster between my thumb and forefinger. “After your shift?’

  She batted her eyelids flirtatiously. “If you like.”

  “And then take you out on a date?” I leaned back, intrigued by her forwardness.

  “Sure.” She pressed a tray to her chest as though it were a shield.

  “And then?” I coaxed.

  “Then?”

  “I would take you to a luxurious setting where a bed would be waiting and then bring you so much pleasure I would ruin you for all other men.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Maybe there’d be more?”

  “More?”

  “Maybe we’d get along and things would become serious?”

  “And then boredom would set in. A kind of slow death.”

  She chewed her lip, seemingly annoyed by the way I’d rounded out our tedious future.

  I leaned forward. “Can I let you in on a secret?”

  “Yes,” she answered quickly, her tone breathy.

  “Before you commit to any time spent with me go read Dante’s Inferno, it’s a reasonable preview.” Noting her frown, I added, “It’s a fourteenth century poem—”

  “I know what it is.”

  “Good. I desire nothing more than to take you through Purgatory—and if you pass that level, Heaven—”

  She looked shocked. “The next one’s Hell.”

  “So it is.”

  Her confliction turned to consideration.

  “Welcome to Purgatory,” I said matter-of-factly. “How’s it looking from the cheap seats?”

  She reached for the coaster and snatched it back. She hurried away, turning her head to glance over her shoulder at me with a seductive smile to hide her embarrassment.

  I wasn’t in the habit of seducing spring-breakers and then decimating their hearts. No, I preferred a different kind of woman altogether. Someone older, more confident—a woman with verve who would not be threatened by my desire to ravish her into oblivion.

  I’d been kind to Skye. Maybe it was the ocean air that had brought out my congenial side and my decision not to ruin her.

  A slender woman hurried toward me in an inspiring flurry of frenetic energy. Penelope’s stride grew faster when she saw me. “Am I late?”

  I tucked my phone into my jacket and gave her my usual look of disapproval, which she dutifully earned on a daily basis.

  I’d made the best use of my time by answering emails, sending off texts to my staff at The House of Beauregard, and had even gone over our sales numbers. Our business was thriving and we were fast becoming a front-runner. However, the competition was always hot on our heels. There were too many perfumers out there with vintage scents that had garnered loyal customers. The same customers I was going to steal away from them with my superior products.

  I threw my sister an unimpressed smile.

  And then it wafted over me…

  She was wearing a scent so devastating it took me a few seconds to gather my thoughts. The notes stilled my mind and elicited an easy escape from the present—a masterstroke that was truly humbling.

  Penelope’s smirk revealed her mischievous side. She knew I’d picked up on her new perfume and the fact she was wearing a competitor’s scent was maddening. Irked, I perused the menu pretending to read it as I quietly seethed.

  Skye reappeared and took our order, all the while avoiding my gaze. That deranged whiff of bubblegum came back around to assault me and I coughed to clear my airway. She caught the intensity of my disapproving glare and spun around and hurried briskly toward the kitchen.

  “What happened?” Penelope reached for her serviette and laid it over her lap.

  “In what regard?”

  “Astor?” Penelope said, her tone amused. “What did you say to her?”

  “The waitress?” I recalled our last interaction. “Something like, ‘I’ll have the lobster salad. Light on the dressing.’”

  “You scared her.”

  “Me?” I reached for my glass.

  Penelope blew out an exasperated sigh.

  “So has the time come for you to leave the business?” I asked flatly.

  “Why would I?”

  “That’s not why we’re here? So you can tell me privately?”

  “No, it’s not.” She sat back. “Why would you say that?”

  “You’re never in the office. You hate the lab. You’re reluctant to attend PR meetings. And I’m using the word ‘reluctant’ as a courtesy. Though you do enjoy wearing the profits.” That strike was aimed at her Chanel suit. “What’s going on?”

  She waved her hand in annoyance. “I work from home. You should try it. You work too hard. You’ve grown boring.”

  “In what way?”

  Skye reappeared with two plates of imaginatively displayed salads and placed one in front of each of us.

  She focused on Penelope. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  My sister gave a gesture of dismissal and turned back to me. “How’s Vedado?”

  “My horses are fine. All of them.”

  “He’s your favorite.”

  “I don’t have a favorite.” My spine straightened. She was wearing a fragrance I didn’t recognize. It was remarkable. “What perfume are yo
u wearing?”

  “I’ve been working on something unique for us.”

  I sat back stunned at her admission.

  Her face brightened. “It’s exciting and arousing and—”

  “You created this?”

  Penelope lifted her Hermes bag and rested it on her lap, rummaging around in it for an annoyingly long time.

  Forcing a courteous smile I said, “You have it on you?”

  With a triumphant flip of her wrist she presented a small Lalique bottle containing a clear liquid. Shards of light reflected off the crystal in a hypnotic prelude to the fragrance.

  “It’s not finished though, right?”

  She looked impressed. “I’m almost there. Thought I’d get your input as you’re the expert at refinement.”

  “Is that Oud I’m picking up?”

  Penelope removed the stopper and raised the bottle with pride. She rose a little out of her seat, leaned over the table and sprayed. I waved the mist away from my face.

  “Well?” She tucked her tongue in her cheek.

  I pushed to my feet and my chair scraped loudly. It drew unwanted attention. “I have a meeting.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  It was the fact that this masterpiece had been showcased in a damn restaurant. This wasn’t proper etiquette, it was classless, and she knew this setting would throw me off and give her the advantage. A place she loved to reign.

  Snatching the bottle out of her hand, I clutched it in my palm possessively. “I’ll take a look.”

  “Hey!”

  “I’ll see you back at the office.” I pulled out my wallet and tossed cash on the table to cover lunch as well as a new perfume.

  “You haven’t finished your meal!” Penelope called after me.

  The scent she’d spritzed me with soaked into my senses and a shiver ran up my spine. I spun around and faced her.

  She looked amused. “It’s good, right?”

  “It’s worth a closer look.”

  Yes, there was genius here, but it needed something more…

  I made a beeline for the door and entered the inside seating area, weaving my way through the tables.

  In the corner, Skye was chatting with the barman who was placing drinks on her tray. She saw me and hurried over.

  “My sister will take care of the check,” I reassured her.

  Skye’s scent was a cacophony of noisy notes, reminding me of a crazy night out doing shots and other unscrupulous acts of rebellion. Conduct that would end up being recorded on a phone and streamed online, tarnishing an already shaky future.

  I gave her a warm smile. “Skye, may I offer you some life-changing advice?”

  She looked intrigued.

  “Don’t wear Play With Me. Go with something like Espíritu de Amor or La Vida es un Angel’s Quest. The House of Beauregard has an exceptional line. ”

  She rested her hands on her hips. “Like I can afford that.”

  “I left you a generous tip, Skye. May I suggest you use it for the sole purpose of not smelling like a call girl?”

  “And you’d know how a call girl smells.”

  “Only the high-end ones.” I headed for the door.

  “What are you wearing?” she asked.

  Turning, I studied her awed expression.

  “I like that one,” she said as she studied the delicate bottle in my hand. “It’s different, it’s…”

  “It’s not finished. I need more time with it.”

  “What?”

  “This is too sophisticated for you,” I shot back. “You’ve not gotten to the age where you can appreciate the profoundness of being.”

  Because that’s exactly what this scent elicited…a profound aliveness.

  She hurried after me and rose on her toes to whisper, “There’s a name for men like you.”

  I smiled. “Yes, and it probably describes me perfectly.”

  I walked away from her.

  “Sure you don’t want my number?” she called after me.

  The fresh sea air hit me when I stepped outside and my Jesus, take the wheel moment was answered as Skye’s bubblegum scent released its claws.

  Yet this one…

  The same one kissing my skin, the same one Penelope had a hand in was absorbed into my being. This scent was a goddamned miracle. My mind reeled over the fact that it had been my sister who had developed this masterpiece.

  Climbing into my Mercedes, I drew in a luxurious, serene breath, reluctant to let this experience dissipate.

  I could finish this…refine its chemistry and take it all the way to perfection.

  DESPITE FEELINGS OF HUMILIATION, I held my head high as I navigated the tables of Dunedin’s La Traviata, all the while ignoring the glances from staff who knew I was the ex of their head chef.

  Standing in the doorway, staring across the sleek kitchen, my gaze fell on the man who I had once found mesmerizing. Even now—after the carnage of our divorce—I still understood why I had fallen so hard.

  Though that love had been shattered the moment I saw Damien with her.

  The memories flashed real and raw as I watched him preparing a signature dish…

  “Happy Birthday!” The masseuse’s forceful fingertips found all the right places, forcing the tension out of my tired limbs.

  “Thank you,” I replied, grateful for it all.

  “What a terrific husband.”

  “He is,” I managed to say, despite the pressure of her elbow between my shoulder blades. “He’s spoiling me.”

  Everything about this spa was heavenly, from the classical music to the hypnotic massage oil that had me nearly drifting off.

  Afterward, I showered and prepared for my next treatment. A manicure and pedicure that I needed after spending the last three weeks tackling Christmas season in Dunedin. Though it had been hard work, I had seen my sales soar and my brands becoming more popular.

  The interview published in Vogue had made a big difference to my online sales too, and this had been my best year yet.

  Waiting in the private spa to be called for my next treatment, I was met by an associate.

  “Mrs. Silver,” she greeted me. “I’m sorry. Kristen was supposed to do your nails, but she had to leave. Everyone else is booked up. I understand it’s your birthday, and we want to bring you back to make up for this.”

  I’d been looking forward to this treat—my nails were almost badger-esk.

  I let out a sigh. “That’s fine. I hope everything works out with Kristen.”

  She handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s a coupon for any two services, not including the one you didn’t get today. Happy birthday.”

  Yes, another year down and feeling just as fabulous.

  After the heavenly massage, the drive home was even more relaxing. I peered out my window at the lush beauty of green trees, exotic wildlife and endless ocean. We’d be heading out on the water this afternoon with a picnic hamper and a heart full of happiness.

  Though I did think it strange my husband had booked me a spa day so far away from home. There and back was an hour’s drive. As usual, he probably had been in a hurry due to running a busy restaurant.

  I pulled into the driveway of our home, noticing a red Mazda parked to the side. Wondering who it belonged to, I peered through the driver’s window looking for clues, but didn’t see anything that gave the owner’s identity away. Perhaps his mother had gotten a new car.

  I let myself into the house and came to an abrupt stop when I saw a handbag on the kitchen counter—a Burberry. With my heart thundering in my chest, I closed the gap between me and the island and opened the purse.

  I wasn’t meant to be back yet.

  Feeling numb, I walked into the foyer. I paused at the bottom of the staircase, and then slowly began the ascent to the upper floor. I didn’t want this to be true…didn’t want to believe Damien would betray me.

  How could I possibly survive the pain?

  I told myself there had to be a good expl
anation, though my throat still tightened in trepidation as I made my way down the hallway to our bedroom.

  The two of them were on our bed, their clothes strewn on the floor right next to my dignity.

  The naked blonde was on all fours with her butt in the air. Damien was pounding her from behind, his grunts matching her loud moans thrust for thrust.

  Five months after our divorce, the ache in my chest still hadn’t lifted…nor would it ever.

  La Traviata’s kitchen was hot as hell and I wondered how the staff could stand it.

  Damien’s blonde locks were damp and ruffled. The deep blue eyes that were capable of so much kindness were focused on his work as he stood at the central island.

  He sliced through the bloody slab of meat with the same indifferent precision he’d used to slice through my life.

  That tattooed hunk had once been my everything.

  His gaze rose to meet mine and for a moment, just a moment, he looked happy to see me. That lazy smile reached his eyes, crinkling into warmth.

  Feeling wary, I took a deep breath and bravely stepped toward him. “Hey.”

  The smile faded. “Raquel, you need to call first.” There was tension in the way he held his knife.

  I glanced over at his colleague. “Can you give us a moment, please?”

  “We’re kind of busy, babe.” Damien threw an apologetic glance at his friend.

  I stared at him. “I’m not selling the store.”

  “Not here,” he scolded.

  “You don’t return my calls.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  With her. He’d been busy with her.

  “I had a break-in at the store.”

  He laid his knife down and leaned forward on the countertop, his forearms flexing. “You’re okay though, right?”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “The insurance company called me.”

  “And you didn’t think to check on me?”

  “They told me no one was hurt.”

  God, what an asshole. “I refuse to sell the store, Damien.”

  “Then write me a check and we’re even.”

  “They took my formulas—”

  “Why don’t we do this later?”

  “Do what?”

  “Talk about why you should sell the store.” His eyes narrowed and his expression looked like condemnation.