Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

  The driver stopped at the checkpoint, and the guard in the booth gave him a ticket and instructions on where to park. Everyone coming or going was monitored by cameras. The driver maneuvered into the curving driveway at the entrance to the beautifully maintained medical facility, then continued to the parking area.

  Seneca walked into the reception area, welcoming the heat wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. The temperature in Virginia registered forty-two degrees, forty degrees lower than what she’d left in the Dominican Republic.

  “I’m Seneca Houston. I’m here to see Dahlia Houston. This is Dr. Rollins,” she added, when the dour-faced woman glared at Eliot after she’d pulled up the computerized information on Dahlia.

  “I need to see some ID, Dr. Rollins.”

  Reaching into the breast pocket of a waist-length black leather jacket, Eliot took out a case and handed the woman a card identifying him as a Fellow of the American College of Surgeons.

  The receptionist gave him a warm smile. “Thank you, Dr. Rollins. Miss Houston, your mother is in ICU.”

  Eliot felt Seneca trembling when he placed his arm around her waist. There were so many things he wanted to say to her. That if she needed him—for anything—he would be there for her.

  “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered in her ear. “I won’t leave you.”

  Biting on her lip, Seneca nodded when she saw her brother and sister together. Both stood up when they spied her. Their expressions spoke volumes. She was too late. Jerome’s face looked as if it was carved out of wood, while Robyn’s puffy red eyes indicated she’d been crying.

  Seneca held out her arms to Robyn, but her sister didn’t move. It was Jerome who came over and folded her against his chest. Robyn was galvanized into action when she put her arms around her brother and sister.

  Eliot watched the Houstons comfort one another, remembering when he’d huddled with his younger siblings after their father told them their mother had left to sleep with the angels. It was Eliot, Sr.’s way of telling his children that their mother wasn’t coming home.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  BGM’s spin that Butterfly hadn’t shown up at a show in Southeast Asia, then the announcement that she was walking away from high-fashion modeling, had worked too well. The result was that Dahlia Houston’s funeral had become a media spectacle. Reporters and photographers had respected the family’s wish not to crowd into the small church in the Ithaca suburb where longtime friends and family had gathered, waiting instead in and around the cemetery where Dahlia was to be buried beside her late husband.

  They hadn’t come to pay their respects but to catch a glimpse of Butterfly, the supermodel who’d reigned as queen of the catwalk for more than a decade. When she hadn’t shown up for Bangkok Fashion Week, rumors circulated that she was either pregnant or she’d come down with food poisoning because some unnamed source remembered seeing her retching. An other rumor was that she’d gone to the Caribbean to recover from a bout of influenza. Those who were close enough to get a glimpse of Seneca Houston were awed by her poise and natural beauty. Her deeply tanned face bore little traces of makeup when she emerged from the rear of the limo to take her place near the open grave.

  Long-range lenses caught and captured the images of what had become a who’s who of fashion. There were familiar and not-so-familiar faces. One photographer snapped a photo of Seneca’s gloved hand reaching for the hand of Dr. Eliot Rollins, the renowned Beverly Hills plastic surgeon to the rich and famous. He moved closer, taking frame after frame of the tall couple at the exact moment Seneca rested her head on his shoulder.

  Seneca closed her eyes as she leaned into Eliot’s length. He’d promised not to leave her, and he hadn’t. His presence had served as the buffer between her and her siblings when they’d sat down to make funeral arrangements. When it had come to the delicate topic of money, she’d preempted the discussion, informing her brother and sister that she’d prepaid Dahlia’s funeral when they’d buried Oscar. The only expense was transporting the body from D.C. to Ithaca, which she’d offered to pay when Jerome looked as if he was going to panic.

  Jerome and Robyn had made arrangements to spend several days with their Ithaca relatives, who’d opened their home to them and their families, but Seneca had decided not to join them. Who she would miss were her twin nieces who were carbon copies of their mother. She’d informed Eliot that she wanted to leave following the burial observance, and he’d arranged for a driver to take them back to Manhattan. She would return to her condo; he’d reserved a suite in a hotel near Kennedy Airport. Instead of returning to the Caribbean, he planned to go back to California.

  Seneca hadn’t wanted to be a hypocrite and pretend all was well between her and her siblings when it wasn’t. She still hadn’t forgiven Jerome for not telling Robyn where she’d taken their mother. And she wasn’t certain whether she would ever forgive Maya for leaving Dahlia tied to the chair.

  The graveside prayers concluded, Seneca turned to meet a pair of blue-green eyes. Booth Gordon had come to pay his respects. She dropped Eliot’s hand and hugged her agent. “Thank you for coming.”

  “How are you holding up, Butterfly?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  Booth stared at the woman who was the epitome of beauty and grace even in mourning. His gaze shifted to his Punta Cana neighbor. They exchanged handshakes, Booth pulling the doctor out of earshot from Seneca. “Take her out of here as soon as this over,” he whispered harshly. “She’s going to need your protection.”

  Eliot didn’t have time to react to the cryptic demand when two men wearing dark suits and topcoats walked up behind Booth. “Mr. Gordon, will you please come with us,” said the taller of the two.

  Booth frowned. “Who’s asking?”

  The man opened his hand, flashing a small gold badge. “FBI. Special Agent Richman.”

  Booth’s face seemed to crumple like an accordion. “Am I under arrest?”

  The federal agent’s expression never changed. “Sir, we can do this quietly, or you can embarrass yourself and Miss Houston.”

  “Do I have time to speak to Miss Houston?”

  “No, Mr. Gordon.”

  A cynical smile twisted Booth’s thin mouth. “Time,” he drawled, “is an uncompromising bitch.” He spat out the last word.

  Eliot watched, stunned, as Booth was led away. “Take her out of here. She’s going to need your protection.” He hadn’t wanted to believe Seneca was involved with something that required FBI scrutiny.

  The agent’s parting words lingered with him as he returned to Seneca, who was hugging and thanking those who’d come to support her in her time of grief as photographers, standing a respectable distance away, snapped frame after frame. Several reporters were talking to Jerome and Maya, a few handing them business cards.

  They reminded him of vultures feeding on carrion. He’d seen enough. Eliot waited five minutes and then closed the distance between himself and Seneca. Cupping her elbow, he led her away from the crowd to where automobiles were parked.

  “I want you to come to L.A. with me.”

  Seneca stopped in midstride, losing her balance but for the firm grip of Eliot’s hand on her arm that prevented her from falling. “Why?”

  Eliot knew he couldn’t reveal what he’d just witnessed, or Booth’s warning, so he decided to do something he rarely did: lie. “I’m not ready to let you go.”

  Unconsciously her smooth brow furrowed. She’d spent two weeks with Eliot Rollins and at no time had he openly demonstrated he wanted anything more than friendship. When they’d arrived in Ithaca they’d checked into adjoining hotel suites, and when she’d offered him the extra bedroom in her condo in lieu of his spending the night at an airport hotel he’d quickly turned her down. Now he wanted her to go to L.A. with him.

  Seneca shook her head. “I don’t understand something.”

  “What is it?” Eliot said, leading her to their car as the driver got out and opened the rear d
oor.

  Waiting until they were seated on the leather seat, Seneca turned to face him. “You rejected my invitation to spend the night at my condo, because you said it was best we said goodbye tonight. Now you talk about not letting me go. It’s just not adding up, Eliot.”

  “Don’t women change their minds?”

  She smiled. “Yes, but—”

  “Well, men change their minds, too. I have a confession to make.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The real reason I want you to come with me is that I don’t think you should be alone.”

  Stretching out and crossing her legs at the ankles, Seneca stared straight ahead. “If you’re worried about me harming myself, then you’re wrong. I don’t take pills and—”

  “It’s not about you harming yourself,” he said, cutting her off. “Instead of sharing your grief with your relatives, you’re running away—”

  “I’m not running away, Eliot!” she snapped angrily.

  “Then please tell me exactly what are you doing?”

  “I’m going home.”

  “To do what? To do what?” he repeated, taunting her. “You’re going to wind up staying in bed and not eating. Then you’re going to start crying and won’t be able to stop. No, Seneca. That’s not going to happen, because I care about you. In fact, I find myself caring a little too much, and I’d promised myself that I never wanted to feel that way again about any woman.”

  Eliot realized as soon as he’d finished his rant that his wanting Seneca to come with him had little to do with Booth Gordon asking him to take care of her and everything to do with what he’d felt and was beginning to feel for Seneca Houston.

  He didn’t see her as the beautiful woman everyone sought to have a piece of but a young woman who’d been forced to grow up too early. The first time they’d gone dancing she was like a child in a candy shop. She hadn’t sat out a dance for as long as they’d remained at the club. She presented herself as elegant and stylish, but whenever he scratched her surface she emerged as naive and childlike.

  Seneca shook her head. “I can’t do this again.”

  Moving closer, Eliot reached for her hands and removed her gloves. “Do what, baby?”

  “Get involved again.”

  He smiled. “Did I ask you to become involved with me?”

  Turning her head, she gave him a shy smile. “No, you didn’t.”

  Eliot winked at her. “Come hang out with me, Seneca. My place is large enough for you to have your space when you feel you want to be alone. And there will be no pressure to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  Seneca sobered as she pressed her lips together. “Does that include not sleeping with you?”

  Eliot’s lids came down, hiding his innermost feelings from her. He’d thought about sleeping with Seneca, yet he knew that would ruin their easygoing friendship. It had been six years since his divorce, and he hadn’t lived a monastic lifestyle. However, there was something about Seneca Houston that kept him from crossing the line, physically and emotionally. He was more than content to remain friends—unless she communicated she wanted more. “Especially not sleeping with me.”

  Looking at him through lowered lashes, Seneca said, “Eliot Rollins, it looks as if you have yourself a houseguest.”

  Seneca lay sprawled over Eliot like a sinewy cat, watching the large wall-mounted television. Footage of her walking the runway filled the screen as the voice of the cable channel’s fashion editor added the commentary.

  “Butterfly has taken her final walk. At the age of thirty-three, supermodel Seneca Houston has retired from modeling after a career that spanned fifteen years. Beginning tomorrow we’ll cover the metamorphosis of Butterfly from a young girl from upstate New York to print model and queen of the runway.”

  “Where did they find that picture?” Seneca whispered. It was a photograph of her at her tenth-birthday party.

  Eliot chuckled. “I think you look rather cute.”

  “Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m going to set it to TiVo so we won’t miss it tomorrow.”

  Seneca combed her fingers through her hair, holding it off her face. “I’m never comfortable watching myself.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll watch for both of us.”

  Glancing up at Eliot over her shoulder, she gave him the smile photographers had captured for an eternity. The past three days had been nothing short of perfection. Eliot, who always took a month off during the winter and another month over the summer, was scheduled to return to his practice next week.

  Eliot had admitted to caring a little too much for her, while she was too much of a coward to let him know how she felt about him. Her emotions went deeper than liking or caring. It was different, exciting, and of all of the men who’d passed in and out of her life it was Eliot Rollins who’d gotten her to fall in love with him.

  Seneca shuttered her gaze against the stare that seemed to penetrate the wall she’d put up to keep all men since her decision to end her marriage to Phillip Kingston, at a distance. She hadn’t come to California with Eliot because he’d coerced her, but because she had wanted what had begun the night he’d given her the memory card bearing photographs of her sunbathing partially nude to continue. Booth had paid the man to take pictures of her as a publicity ploy, but his Caribbean island neighbor had foiled the scheme. It was apparent the Barracuda hadn’t lost any of his edge. He was still wheeling and dealing.

  “What are you smiling about?” Eliot asked Seneca.

  “I was thinking about Booth.”

  “What about him?”

  “The man is still a barracuda.”

  Eliot had wrestled with his conscience since Seneca had moved in under his roof as to whether he should tell her about Booth Gordon. After all, he was her agent and she deserved to know what the government had accused him of.

  Reaching for the remote device, he switched to an all-news channel, muting the sound. “I need to tell you something.”

  Seneca heard dread in Eliot’s voice. “If it’s something that’s going to make me sad, Eliot, then I don’t want to hear it.” She closed her eyes for several seconds. “I’ve finally found what I hadn’t realized I’d been looking for, and that’s an inner peace that can’t be bartered for or negotiated. And for that I thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Seneca. I had nothing to do with it.”

  She shifted, straddling his lap. “If you don’t want to take credit for it, then consider you’re a conduit in my journey to discover who I am and what I need to do to make Seneca Houston happy. You were right when you said I was unable to care for my mother when I couldn’t take care of myself.”

  Cradling her face, Eliot kissed the end of her nose. “Are you happy, Seneca?”

  “Delirious.”

  He angled his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her parted lips. “Good.”

  Seneca knew she was wading into dangerous territory sitting on Eliot’s lap; she could feel his erection pressing against her hips and making it virtually impossible for her not to move. Her celibate body screamed in frustration; she’d spent over ten years denying her femininity because she hadn’t wanted a repeat of what she’d had with Phillip Kingston.

  However, her body betrayed her shamelessly when the pulsing between her legs grew stronger and stronger, her moaning when the orgasm that held her captive finally released her, leaving her shaking like a fragile leaf in the wind.

  Eliot felt Seneca breathe the last of her passion into his mouth. He’d convinced himself that he didn’t want or need a woman except for sex. But Seneca Houston had proven him wrong. He moved off the chaise, bringing her up with him.

  “Seneca?”

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

  Eliot had his answer. He carried her out of the den and into his bedroom. He’d drawn the drapes, shutting out the millions of lights coming from the valley, but had left the lamp on the bedside table on its lowest setting.

&nb
sp; He placed Seneca on the turned-down bed as if she were a piece of fragile crystal. Eliot took his time undressing her, because all they had was time. Time to discover each other and time to uncover whether she would become the last woman in his life.

  Tank top, shorts and panties lay at the foot of the large bed. His gaze never left hers when he divested himself of his T-shirt, briefs and shorts. With wide eyes she watched as he removed a condom from the drawer of the table and slipped it on to protect her from an unplanned pregnancy.

  The mattress dipped slightly when he got into bed beside her. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

  Seneca felt hot tears prick the backs of her eyes. It was the first time a man had asked her what she wanted. It was always what he’d wanted. “I want you to make love to me, Eliot.” She’d asked him to make love to her when she’d wanted him to fall in love with her. She wanted and needed him to love her as much as she was beginning to love him.

  Eliot took his time arousing her again, his mouth charting a sensual path from her lips to her feet. His hands and mouth left no part of her body untouched, and when he’d reached the point when he was afraid he wasn’t able to hold off ejaculating, he eased his sex into her body, both of them groaning in exquisite pleasure.

  I’ve come home! That was all Seneca could think when Eliot moved inside her, taking her to sensual heights that left her gasping for her next breath. She came again, the orgasms overlapping one another as she surrendered to an ecstasy that took her beyond herself, screaming and crying when she and Eliot climaxed together.

  Eliot waited for his heart to slow to a normal rate. He buried his face in the curly hair fanning out on his pillow. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered.