The only slightly enjoyable date was with Martina, who was nice, blond, the type who wore a lot of black. Not in the goth sense, but in the twiglike New York female sense who only know one color. Black.
They met at an outdoor café on 52nd, crowded with springtime traffic, and for forty-five minutes he listened to her talk about Barney, the ex, until David felt solely responsible for the sins of the entire male gender.
“You must hate listening to me like this,” she told him over dessert.
“I don’t mind. Honest,” he said, because as long as she monopolized the chatter, he didn’t have to say a word.
“Sometimes I think I still love him. He liked to flirt, and sometimes he carried it too far. That makes me stupid, doesn’t it?”
David’s first instincts were to agree, that infidelity could never be forgotten, but that wasn’t the way to carry on normal human relations. Besides, he knew what love could do to people. “Not stupid. Love isn’t easy. You think it should be perfect. That if two people are together, they stay loyal, they stay together. If you can’t do that, is it really love?”
“I think it could be.”
“Your ex was weak.”
“Not true. He was very strong, but sometimes Barney…” Martina’s voice trailed off with a sigh and David understood that an argument over her ex’s flaws was pointless. She had her heart set to stupid and he wasn’t going to talk her out of it.
“He works on Wall Street, too. Chase, in investment banking. I shouldn’t have called you. I should be out looking at cops, or firemen, or cabbies. Some other type. Instead all I want to do is call him back, say I want to try again.”
“Don’t do that.”
She looked at him confused, not getting the big picture. “Why not?”
“’Cause he’s a pig. You told me he was a pig. You don’t want to be in love with a pig.”
“You’re right.”
“I know I’m right.” When people got soft, they got stupid. Here was Martina, proving his theory and he’d only known her for an hour.
She twirled her fork on her plate, making circles in the raspberry sauce. “Do you know any guys from Chase?”
“You’re thinking of hooking up with one of his colleagues? That’s pretty cold. Clever, but still cold.”
“And betray him? God, no. I wanted to see how he was doing.”
David felt like banging his head on the table. She was turning soft. Martina would call this prick, take him back and get screwed all over again. Sad story. Why did people do this to themselves?
But who was he to judge? “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” he promised. Inside he told himself that she should be running from this clown, far and fast. She was a nice kid. Too bad he couldn’t help her.
Hmm, maybe he could.
FOR DAVID, Ashley couldn’t get to New York fast enough. Three days and counting, and already his nights were getting better. Two nights before, he’d dreamed about her e-mailing him a photo, not safe for work. And then last night, she’d been there in his private Lear jet, dressed in a flight attendant’s uniform. She came toward him, then sat on his lap in the best sort of way. In between triple-X fantasies, he’d been researching the fashion biz, even reading the top magazines, not that it helped. David still hadn’t developed a clear understanding of the business side of the industry, but he had developed a clear understanding that he didn’t know shit about fashion.
Women were odd.
His ex had understood fashion. Christine was always meticulously dressed, down to the perfectly matching shoes and earrings, and David hadn’t bothered with the details of what women wore. There were two states. Clothed and unclothed, and honestly, as a man, he preferred the latter.
But this time, he perused the pages of Vogue as a man on a mission. He could help Ashley. He didn’t know how, but he knew he could, and he knew he would. He was an analyst. It was in his blood.
Eventually, Tuesday arrived. David told himself it was no big deal. Of course, he did so after he dug out a tie that he hadn’t worn in seven years—not since his first lunch at Brooks Capital. In the back of his mind, after two weeks of dealing with samples of New York’s single women—strange e-mails, stranger propositions, and more personal questions than he’d ever known existed—he’d been worried about seeing Ashley in person again. Wondering if the reality lived up to the Ashley-memory hype in his brain. After Brittany, Pam, Ashley and Ashley, he was now a lot more doubtful about his own judgment.
He was supposed to meet Ashley after she finished her meeting at a small studio in Brooklyn, because to pick her up at the airport would seem ordinary—her word, not his. However, a cab ride across the Brooklyn Bridge was no big deal, and with the late afternoon sun at his back, he now found himself on an artsy street that looked like Soho-cum-late ’80s. Up and coming, trendy, yet not quite brain-exploding expensive.
The front of the building was a large plate-glass window with sleek black mannequins in the window. Some were dressed, some undressed, and he suspected that was intentional, although it did defeat the primary purpose of a large display window, which was to advertise one’s wares. David wasn’t interested in mannequins though, dressed or otherwise, instead his hungry gaze sought out Ashley, nearly buried beneath a rack of dresses.
She didn’t see him; she was too engrossed in the clothes to notice. For a second, one greedy second, he stopped to stare, comparing reality to the hype. Three weeks vanished into nothing. His mouth grew dry.
He shook his head, his brain, lungs and libido all running amok.
Why her? What was it about her that drew his eye? Her hair? It wasn’t long; it wasn’t short. It hung right at her shoulders, curving under on the ends. She wore what seemed to be the requisite Ashley Larsen skirt and tank. Her curves weren’t model-thin, nor Playboy-lush, just neat and cushiony, and exactly right for his hands…for his cock.
David told himself not to go there because he was not a randy dog. They had several hours of polite conversation before he could go there. No point in killing his self-control before he even started.
Then she pushed back the dark of her hair, starting a conversation with the designer, and he could feel that hair, remembered that hair brushing against his chest, and oh, yeah…
Hell.
There he was, killing his self-control, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
She turned, met his eyes. He couldn’t look away. He wanted to take her right there. His cock pressed forward, exactly as if that was the plan. It wasn’t memory or hype.
Sex. The great decider.
He focused on the concrete sidewalk, shaking off the lust that he knew was in his eyes, and when he walked through the door, he was completely in control once again.
6
CONTROL LASTED about seven minutes because it took David seven minutes to decide he hated Enrique’s guts. The man-boy was stab-you-in-the-back ambitious, with a Latin glo-tan, and the biggest sin of all, he kept dismissing Ashley with his eyes, as if she were intruding on his personal space at this tiny, most probably rat-infested workshop.
“I like what you’re doing with prints,” she gushed, while David stood there, silently seething.
The little twit swept toward the green flower print in the window, his arms wide, as if he were about to burst into song. “People shy away from big, but if it wraps the body, captures the spirit in a sensual embrace of fabric, it’s fantabulous. There is no other word.”
“I’d like to sell some of your designs in Chicago,” Ashley told him, nodding politely.
“My work belongs here in New York. Next to the latest Polly Sue’s Fashions, my clothes cannot breathe.” He took a deep breath, drawing circles of air with his hand. “They need to breathe.”
“Ashley…” David started, but then she flashed him a nervous smile. No, he was not here to interfere, he was not here to smash a fist in Enrique’s smarmy little face.
“Give me a second here,” she told him, completely
not understanding the dynamics of the room. People got one shot, and if they weren’t in one hundred percent, you walked away, no mess, no fuss.
Ashley turned back to Enrique. “It’s a very good opportunity. I don’t carry a lot of stock. I’m more interested in quality than quantity. Ashley’s Closet—the unique, exclusive, shopping experience.”
Enrique smiled tightly. “No, Enrique does not think so.”
David didn’t think so, either. He stepped beside Ashley because now it was time to interfere. “If Enrique doesn’t see the opportunity, he’s not the visionary you want. You need designs that cry out above the masses.” David looked around the store, hiding his anger, his eyes carefully bored. “This isn’t it.”
Enrique turned four shades of red, and Ashley punched him in the arm.
“My designs are miles above the masses,” the designer snapped. “Who are you?”
Now, there were certain times when Wall Street had a cachet, when David knew he’d picked a job in high finance for a reason. This was one of those times. He pulled out his card and handed it to Enrique. “We’re backing Miss Larsen on this. A retail play on America’s Next Top Designer. Finding only the best designs, letting judges and her clientele see who is most deserving of Chicago’s Next Big Look.”
Ashley’s mouth gaped, only slightly. David kept his features carefully schooled in arrogant boredom.
“You’re going to create a reality show?” asked Enrique, his eyes now resting on Ashley with the appropriate amount of respect. Yeah, buddy, don’t mess with my girl.
No. Ashley mouthed the word to David. He ignored her, and waved what he hoped was an artistic hand. Now that the words were out of his mouth, honestly, it was a brilliant idea.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. We’re going to create exclusivity. As you said, above the masses, not mingling with the masses. There will be exposure, of course. The press, possibly some morning-show type coverage, but we want the experience to focus on the designs themselves, rather than a three-ring circus surrounding the designers.”
Ashley only stared.
“Why not New York?” Enrique asked, dollar signs now reflected in his eyes.
“Why not New York?” repeated Ashley, and there were no dollar signs in her eyes, but now she was curious, and he could see her working through the details.
David nearly smiled.
“New York has been done. L.A. has been done. This is a very boutique experience, not something for the tabloids. We felt Ashley’s Closet had the right mix of both fresh and élan. Image is all.”
“Can I think about it?” asked Enrique, and Ashley nodded her head.
David clenched his hands, not happy to be working with Enrique. The dimwit would have to learn to treat Ashley with respect, but that would come eventually. “You have twelve hours to decide. We have other designers to look at. There is no time to waste.”
Enrique looked at the clock on the wall. “I’ll do it,” he said.
David nodded once. He’d never had a doubt. “We’ll messenger the contracts.”
Ashley turned to David, her smile nervous. “Contracts? What contracts?”
DAVID SLUNG HER carry-on over his shoulder and Ashley scurried out the door after him onto the busy Brooklyn sidewalk.
“You are in so much trouble,” she started, as soon as Enrique was out of visual range. “I can’t believe you just made all that up.”
He stopped, and looked at her with complete seriousness, no twinkle of mischief at all. “No. I think you can do it. Do you?”
He’d been serious? Seriously serious?
“Of course I think I can do it,” she lied. Her mind flipped through all the pros, and the cons, and then more cons, and then the biggest con of all, that she could actually get anyone in the fashion universe to care.
“You shouldn’t doubt yourself, Ashley,” he told her, because she’d never been a good liar. A double-barreled baby carriage zoomed past, and Ashley moved aside, only after the mother glared meaningfully.
Hesitantly she took a step closer to the safety of the brick wall behind her. “David, I was looking to get some interesting designs in the stores, to sell more stock, not make the evening news.”
The light turned, cars began to move and David moved dangerously close to the curb, signaling for a cab, handling her luggage and still managing to carry on a conversation at the same time.
“You won’t make the evening news. It’s the morning show circuit you’re after. Good Morning, Chicago. Maybe Oprah. Nothing too much because you want people to come into the stores to see the designs. Just a taste. That’s all you need.”
Oprah—oh, God, he was tossing out Oprah like they were discussing last season’s overstocks. Ashley watched as the line of cabs moved past, and there was no one stopping. “Are there no empty cabs in Brooklyn?”
“It’s a bad time of day. Everybody is leaving Manhattan, not going in,” he explained, his arm still patiently outstretched.
“How long are we going to have to wait?”
“Not that long.”
Ashley took a hard look at the line of unlighted cabs, took a harder look at the weight of her carry-on and then took a hard, hard, hard look at the bridge. The choices were narrowing exponentially. Again, she glanced toward David, so capable, so confident, so sure.
He actually thought she could do this. He actually thought that she could bribe/blackmail/arm-twist almost-famous designers to bring their newest and best looks into her boutiques.
Maybe she could. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. So why did it feel like a big, big deal? She looked at the bridge, looked at her heels.
No, Ash, don’t be a fruitcake. You’ll only embarrass yourself.
David doesn’t think I’ll be embarrassed.
He doesn’t know you’re thinking of hoofing it across a huge-ass bridge in heels. Do you know what those little rebars do to heels?
I can do this.
Go ahead, don’t listen to me. But if you get stuck…I’ll be laughing.
Ashley lifted her chin, grabbed her carry-on from David. “Let’s walk.”
“There will be cabs, Ashley. We can wait.”
He didn’t think she could do it.
“No,” she said, taking off for the span as if it were Everest.
She was about to walk to Manhattan. Frankly, it didn’t seem that far. And they had a nice walkway specifically for pedestrians to walk safely across, high above the traffic. Of course, the walkway was very high. Very, very high. Very, very above-the-clouds high.
Okay, Ash. One step at a time. Not hard at all.
“Ashley!”
She turned and looked, hefted her bag an inch higher. “Are you going to come, or not?”
“This is not a good idea,” he told her, but he was walking. Progress.
“And yours is?” she drawled with more than a little sarcasm. Yes, it was sarcasm because he was probably right, and she didn’t want to admit it; however, he didn’t think she could do this, she didn’t think she could do this, but the only way to overcome a fear was to do it. So, while there might not be intelligence in this decision, there was value, and sometimes that made it smart.
David tugged the carry-on from her hand and continued onward. She didn’t fight much. Any. “The show is a great idea.”
Sadly, he was right, and she took two steps to catch up. “Are you actually considering backing this?”
David shook his head—that was a big no—and she was both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because with money came lots of responsibility. Disappointed because, well, it would have been heady to know that David was behind her, and with money, she could do wondrous things.
“You don’t need any capital, Ashley. That’s the beauty of the idea. Maybe a few ads if you want. You should have some receptions for the showings, but mainly, it’s the idea. Do you like the idea?”
“Maybe,” she replied, trying to keep pace with him. He was fast, his legs a mile longer than hers, but she mana
ged and now they were up on the span, climbing higher and higher in the center lane, the going-home pedestrian traffic flowing against them. Still David kept on walking, not looking in her direction. On the level below them, the cars zoomed back and forth, and below that—far, far below that—lurked the black waters of the East River. She didn’t know how cold the East River was in May, probably not as cold as Lake Michigan, but it looked dangerous nonetheless. Ashley looked down, slowed down.
“If you don’t like it, don’t do it,” he stated, his voice laced with frustration.
“It’s brilliant,” she admitted. “What if no one cares?”
“Of course they’ll care,” he answered, starting up again, overtaking her, passing her, until she was nearly running to keep up.
“Can you stop for a minute?” she yelled, causing a biker to nearly tip over. She didn’t even care. Damn Yankees. Thought they owned everything.
“What?” He stopped and turned. His dark eyes focused on her, without a trace of comfortable green. His face looked pinched, flushed, and not from the heat. At ten thousand feet in the air, there was no heat, or at least, not that sort of heat.
He was aroused.
Oh. My. God.
Well, maybe mad and aroused, a strange combination that piqued both her curiosity and her nipples. Why was he mad? She was the one who should be mad. What right did he have to steal her hard-earned anger?
“I’m talking here,” she said, determined not to be intimidated—or seduced—out of her own self-righteous indignation. “Couldn’t you have discussed this with me first, instead of throwing it out there?”
“It just came to me, Ashley. If I had thought of it earlier, I would have discussed it with you, but honestly, it’s the perfect solution, and you got Enrique—the prick—but okay, you got him locked in, so what’s the problem?”
It would have helped if they weren’t standing on a bridge with a gazillion New Yorkers walking home from work. It would have helped if there wasn’t a large body of water way too close beneath her. It would help if he didn’t look so Davidly. He stood there, feet wide, her carry-on slung on his shoulder, letting the sea of people wash around him, ignoring the cabbies a thousand miles below them, cars honking, bikes whizzing past, the barges schlubbing through the water, all the noises, the bigness of the city, and simply stood there, staring at her.
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