Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

  “It’s not an ad,” Booth corrected, breaking into Seneca’s musings. “It’s a television spot.”

  Seneca was certain Booth could hear the runaway beating of her heart through her blouse. Her first television commercial would pair her with none other than Phillip Kingston. Unable to get out the words locked in her throat, she managed a barely perceptible nod. Within three days she’d gone from part-time student and part-time commercial model to one with infinite possibilities.

  “I’m glad you didn’t lie to me about meeting with Kingston,” Booth continued. He knew Seneca was stunned by his pronouncement that he wanted her to team up with Phillip for a television commercial. What he hadn’t disclosed was that the ten-second spot would preview during the Super Bowl.

  “There’s no need to lie to you, Booth. Phillip and I are consenting adults,” she said after she’d recovered her voice. His comeback was preempted when the waiter approached the table to take their lunch selections. Seneca studied the menu, then flashed a demure smile. “What do you recommend?”

  Resting a proprietary arm over the back of her chair, Booth leaned closer to Seneca, inhaling the subtle woodsy notes that made up her perfume. The fragrance matched her looks and personality: unabashed sensuality.

  “The corn crêpes with sautéed chicken livers and sherry are always good.”

  “How’s the endive salad with pears, walnuts and Roquefort cheese?” she asked.

  “It’s also quite good.”

  Seneca stared up at him through her lashes. If she’d been like her mother and sister, she probably would’ve found herself entranced by Booth Gordon. Dahlia and Robyn liked older men, while she preferred them closer to her own age. That was why she hadn’t been receptive to Luis Navarro’s subtle advances.

  “What are you having?” she asked.

  “I’m leaning toward the chicken paillard with sage and squash gnocchi.”

  “Please order the salad for me.”

  Booth beckoned the waiter closer, giving him their selections. “I’d also like a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rosé and Perrier for the lady.”

  The waiter bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

  Booth settled back to enjoy the youthful beauty of a woman who was completely unaware of her marketability. When the photos Mitchell Leon had taken of Seneca Houston ended up on his desk, he’d found himself mesmerized by the face that made love to the camera.

  He’d seen and been with more beautiful women than he could count or remember, but there was something about the up-and-coming model that was different. With or without makeup, with her hair in a sleek, sophisticated style or curling naturally around her face, she was stunning. Whether fully or half clothed, she was spectacular. He hadn’t missed the admiring glances directed at Seneca from the other patrons when she was escorted to his table. His only consolation was that he would have her undivided attention for the next two hours.

  “What are you smiling about, Seneca?”

  “I’m wondering why you would select a romantic restaurant when you want to discuss business.” White-bone English china, napkins, exquisite wineglasses—all set on white table-cloths—provided the backdrop for a breathtaking arrangement of white camellias.

  “La Grenouille is the unofficial headquarters of top fashion designers and many of their best customers. Speaking of designers—you’d mentioned a Luis Navarro. Who is he?”

  Seneca told Booth about meeting Luis at party in the Village and how he’d approached her to model his designs for a private client. “He says I’m his muse—his mariposa. That’s Spanish for butterfly,” she explained, seeing his puzzled expression.

  Booth stared at the embroidered butterflies on her blouse. “Didn’t you wear a necklace with a butterfly clasp Friday night?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Do all of his designs have butterflies?”

  “No,” she said, laughing softly. “However, whenever he makes something for me he’ll include a butterfly somewhere on the garment.”

  Their drinks arrived, the sommelier uncorking a bottle of wine, filling a wineglass and a goblet with sparkling water. He backed away from the table as they raised their glasses in a toast.

  Booth winked at Seneca. “To Seneca.”

  “To Butterfly,” she crooned, bringing Booth’s gaze to linger her parted lips.

  Seneca declined dessert in favor of a cup of imperial green tea while Booth, who’d finished the bottle of wine, ordered espresso. She’d gleaned a lot about the man who was to become her agent while she’d watched him eat. He was attentive, his table manners impeccable, and he had asked several times if the meal was to her liking.

  Booth touched the napkin to his mouth, then placed it to the right of his cup and saucer. Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he removed a minute tape recorder, activated the Record button and set in on the table.

  “Now we can talk.”

  Seneca noticed his voice was slightly raspy, attributing the change in timbre to the amount of wine he’d consumed. “Why the tape recorder?”

  “I don’t want to have to repeat what you’ve said to your celebrity public relations consultant.”

  A slight frown appeared between her eyes. “I thought you would be my publicist.”

  “No, baby,” Booth crooned. “You’ll have your own publicist, makeup and hairstylist.”

  “How much is this going to cost me?”

  “Twenty-five percent of everything you earn. I get fifteen, the publicist five and the makeup and hairstylist split the remaining five evenly.”

  “Do all of your models give up twenty-five percent of their earnings?” She couldn’t imagine earning a hundred thousand, then just handing over twenty-five thousand to Booth. “No.”

  “Why not?” She literally spat out the two words.

  “They’re not you, Seneca. None of them will ever earn what I project you’ll make. Of course BGM will get them assignments, but we don’t go all out to promote them. They’re only as good as their last job. If a designer likes them, then they ask for them again. If not, then they’re shit out of luck.”

  “Why did you sign them up if you weren’t willing to market them?” Seneca asked. Booth closed his eyes, seemingly deep in thought. When he opened them they appeared more green than blue. “You’re using them.” Her query was a statement. When he didn’t confirm or refute her question, she asked, “What else do you want to know about me?”

  “How did you get the name Seneca?”

  “I was named for my paternal grandmother’s people.”

  Booth’s hooded lids lifted. “You’re Native American?”

  “Only one-eighth First Nation,” she said, correcting him. My grandmother was half-Seneca.”

  “Do you want to be marketed as First Nation or African-American?”

  “African-American.”

  “Are you versed in your grandmother’s history?”

  Seneca nodded, then remembered she was being taped. “Yes. Only because she was proud of her Indian heritage. The Seneca were the largest of the five tribes that comprised the Iroquois League, or Nations. They’re the only Nation in the United States to own a U.S. city.”

  “What city is that?” Booth asked as he sat up straighter.

  “Salamanca. It’s situated on land owned by the Alleghany Indian reservation. I have relatives who still shave their heads in Mohawk fashion. They also tattooed their bodies with symbols that identified them as members of the Five Nations.”

  “Do you have any tattoos?”

  “I have one,” Seneca admitted.

  Booth was aware that some designers wouldn’t book a model with body art, but that was about to change. Temporary-tattoo-inspired bodies had been introduced on the Spring 2010 runways by fashion houses as different as Rodarte and Jean Paul Gaultier. Even Chanel had gotten in on the trend. Called Les Trompe L’Oeil de Chanel Temporary Skin Art, it was now available through their Internet Web site.

  “Where is it?”

>   “It’s at the small of my back.”

  “What is it?”

  Seneca stared at the timepiece strapped to Booth’s wrist, watching as the sweep hand made a full revolution. “It’s a butterfly. To Native people, it’s a symbol for joy.”

  Booth sighed inaudibly. He’d prayed she would say a butterfly, because the beautiful insect would become her signature. “Do you want to be known as Seneca or Butterfly?”

  “Butterfly.”

  He smiled. “I’d hoped you’d say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because butterfly can be translated into many languages, whereas Seneca can’t. Once you sign the contract, I’ll set you up with a runway coach. You’re versatile enough to do commercial, print and runway.” Booth paused, waiting for her to digest this information. “How much education have you had?”

  Seneca recalled her mother’s reaction to the news that she was dropping out of college. “I’ve just completed thirty college credits. I’m enrolled at NYU with a major in film and theater.”

  Booth found his potential client more interesting with every question he put to her. “Do you sing?”

  “No.”

  “Dance?”

  Seneca smiled tentatively. “Yes.”

  Lines fanned out around his eyes when he returned her smile. “How well, Butterfly?”

  “Very well. I started dancing at four.” The tape continued to roll when she told him about her grandmother, who’d appeared in more than two dozen independent black films and had passed her love of moviemaking on to her granddaughter. “Whereas my grandmother loved being in front of the camera, I prefer being behind the camera,” Seneca explained.

  “What’s your ultimate goal?”

  “I want to direct…” Her words trailed off when Booth shut off the recorder. “Why did you stop the tape?”

  “I’m selling Butterfly, not Seneca Houston. Speaking of your last name—you pronounce it like the street in downtown Manhattan.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed.

  “What if we change it to sound like the city in Texas?”

  “No,” Seneca said in protest. “It’s always been House-stun, not Hugh-stun.”

  “Excuse me,” Booth said when he felt his cell phone vibrating. He removed the tiny phone from the pocket of his shirt, staring at the display. “Yes, Raye. Hold on and I’ll get it.” He palmed the tiny instrument. “The contract is ready. I need your attorney’s name and phone number.”

  Seneca retrieved her cell and scrolled through the directory for Electra’s father’s law firm, giving him the number, and he repeated it to the person on the other end of his line.

  It’s about to begin. The realization hit Seneca full force. Talking with Booth had just been that—talk—until he’d mentioned the contract. The legally binding document made it real. She would have an über-agent, publicist, makeup person and hairstylist. They were the team Booth had put together to turn her into a supermodel. He wanted twenty-five percent of her earnings, which to Seneca was tantamount to extortion. She was willing to give up twenty percent, and not one percent more.

  Her cell phone rang before she could put it back in her handbag. The name that came up on the display sent her pulses racing. She pressed a button. “Please hold on. Excuse me, but I have to take this call,” she said to Booth. He half rose to his feet when she walked in the direction of the rest rooms.

  Seneca put the tiny instrument to her ear as she pushed open the door to the ladies’ lounge. “How did you get this number?”

  “Booth gave it to me.”

  Sitting on a tufted chair, she crossed her legs at the knees. “He told me you were coming back to New York for a photo shoot.”

  A deep chuckle caressed her ear. “A photo shoot I’m really looking forward to.”

  “So am I, Phillip,” Seneca admitted.

  “What do I have to do or say to convince you to hang out with me for a couple of days?”

  She smiled. “All you have to do is ask me.”

  “Miss Houston, will you have breakfast, lunch and dinner with me?”

  Seneca’s smile was as dazzling as bright sunlight. “Yes, Mr. Kingston, I will have breakfast, lunch and dinner with you.” She wanted to talk longer but didn’t want Booth to send someone to look for her. “I’m going to have to ring off, because right now I’m meeting with your agent.”

  “Lucky you,” Phillip teased, laughing.

  “Goodbye, Phillip.”

  “Goodbye, baby.”

  She ended the call, left the rest room and returned to the table, ignoring the questioning look the agent gave her. “Where were we?” she asked.

  “You seem quite pleased,” Booth stated.

  “I am.”

  “Who…” His words trailed off when he spotted someone he hadn’t seen in months.

  “Do you mind if I join you and the lovely lady?”

  Pushing back his chair, Booth rose to his feet. “Rhys, when did you get back?”

  “One day last week. But I must have caught something during the flight, because I was flat on my back for days. May I sit?”

  A flush crept up Booth’s neck to his hairline. He’d forgotten his manners. “Of course, please sit.” He retook his seat when the fashion designer sat, in his opinion, a little too close to his client. “Rhys, this is Seneca Houston. Seneca, Rhys Calhoun.”

  Seneca offered her hand to the man who three years ago had exploded onto the fashion scene with an Asian-inspired collection of wedding dresses. Those in the industry referred to him as the male Vera Wang, which he’d accepted as the ultimate compliment.

  Her eyes met a pair so dark she doubted whether light could penetrate their fathomless depths. Rhys had pulled his strawberry-blond hair back into a queue with a black silk ribbon. His skin was so pale it appeared translucent. Her eyes shifted from his eyes to his mouth, and she was hard-pressed not to laugh when she realized he was wearing lipstick. Putting her forefinger to her own lips, she made a sweeping motion.

  Rhys reached for the handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket and blotted his mouth. He winked at Seneca. “Some ladies are a little frisky.”

  Booth didn’t like that the designer was flirting with his client because Rhys had established a reputation for combining business and pleasure. “Where is your next show?”

  “Miami. I’ve put together a swimwear collection that, as the kids say, is mad crazy. If she’s available, I would like to have Seneca in the show.”

  Booth’s eyebrows flickered. “I’ll check her schedule and let you know.”

  Seneca stared at the flower petal that had fallen from the superb arrangement. You lying, crafty fox. Something told her Booth would hold out as long as possible to up the fee for her appearing in the show.

  “Send me an e-mail,” Rhys demanded. He touched the sleeve of Seneca’s blouse, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips. “Where did you buy this?”

  “I didn’t. It’s a Luis Navarro design.”

  Rhys angled his head. “Why haven’t I heard of him?”

  Opening her handbag, Seneca handed him one of Luis’s business cards. She’d mentioned Luis’s name to Booth at every opportunity, but he’d deigned to ignore the importance of the man who’d brought her to this point in her life. If not Booth, then she would make certain Rhys Calhoun was apprised of his fashion genius.

  “Give Luis a call.”

  Rhys pocketed the card. “I will.” He gestured to Booth. “Don’t forget to e-mail about Seneca’s availability. I have to be off,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing gracefully to Seneca. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Booth’s eyes turned frosty as he stared at Rhys’ retreating broad back. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” Seneca asked.

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, Seneca.”

  She bristled at his acerbic tone; a tone that sounded too much like Dahlia’s. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “I’ll talk to you any—”


  “No, you won’t,” she countered, interrupting him. “Must I remind you that you’re not my agent until I sign the contract. And even then, you will not talk to me as if I were chattel.”

  You just used up your second strike. Booth seethed, struggling and successfully curbing his explosive temper. If he hadn’t had plans—grand plans—for Seneca Houston, he wouldn’t have permitted the bitch to cross his threshold. He’d married and divorced two women because they’d continually forgotten their place. He’d grown up watching his overbearing mother browbeat and berate his father until the man couldn’t get it up—not for her; however, there had been one exception. The woman who’d been his confidante.

  The day he turned fifteen he left home, moving in with his uncle and aunt. The childless couple gave him the affection so missing from his parents, and the first time his mother’s brother took him to his office one weekend to show him what he did for a living Booth was hooked like an addict taking their first hit of crack. He started in the mailroom, then worked his way to gofer and finally got to sit in on the negotiations when his uncle signed an emerging actor to a daytime soap who a decade later would go on to become an A-list star. He’d learned the art of the deal from the best, but it was his natural instincts that had turned a mediocre entertainment and sports agency into one that rivaled William Morris and Creative Artists.

  “I’m sorry, Seneca,” he apologized insincerely, “if you take offense to my tone, but I deal with so much bullshit from men that I sometimes forget my manners.”

  Seneca leaned over the table. “I grew up having to bite my tongue, because my mother has a tongue that cuts like a cat-o’-nine-tails. And when I left home I swore an oath that I would never put up with that type of verbal abuse again. Please, Booth, don’t make me regret signing with you.”

  There was an unidentifiable emotion in the eyes of the twenty-year-old woman-child that made Booth take note of her warning. Seneca Houston hadn’t grown up in the slums, but there was something about her that said she could’ve easily been in a street gang. He recognized the latent dangerousness because his best friend had beaten another boy with a baseball bat when he wouldn’t stop shaking him down for his lunch money. The bully lapsed into a coma and died before he could tell the police who’d attacked him, and Booth, who’d witnessed the assault, never told anyone what he’d seen. It was a secret he would take to his grave and Dennis Mayfield repaid him for his silence because whenever Booth wanted to apply a little pressure to close a deal, Dennis provided the needed incentive.