“Interesting photos,” my companion mused, his eyes lingering on a particularly sexy one of a D-cup model fondling her lace-encased breasts. A wry smile twisted his lips. “Hmm. I think I fucked her once.” He picked up another. “She looks familiar too.”
“Give me those!” I snatched the photos from him and slipped them into my briefcase.
“Are you a photographer?” he asked, not the least bit intimidated by me.
“Hardly.”
“So, you’re some kind of pervert who collects photos of beautiful semi-naked women with big tits.”
“And you’re some kind of pervert who sleeps with them.” I shot him my dirtiest look and continued collecting the scattered photos. We both reached for the last one, and my hand brushed up against his. God, his hand was beautiful! Large, long-fingered, and so, so soft. Even the violet veins that splayed across them were works of art.
Caught in the moment, I suddenly realized we weren’t moving. The elevator doors were still open. In my flustered state, I’d forgotten to hit the “Close” button.
“Would you mind hitting the “Close” button?” My voice was edgy.
“Good idea. Places to go; people to meet.” He rose to his feet. My eyes roamed up his long, athletic legs. He was easily six foot three. A magnificent pillar of leanness and muscle.
With his elegant forefinger, he pushed the button, and the doors glided together. The elevator descended, but before I could stand up, it came to a jolting halt. I felt the onset of a mini panic attack. My heart raced and sweat pooled behind my knees. I hated being out of control.
“Are you okay?” asked the mysterious stranger, crouching down again.
I gulped. Unable to find my voice, I nodded like one of those bobble head dolls. The truth: I was losing it, and I wasn’t sure if it was the effect his gorgeousness was having on me or that of the erratic elevator.
He brushed my chin with the wispy tip of my long platinum braid. “Don’t worry. This happens all the time with this elevator.”
Without warning, the elevator jerked and began to free fall. I gasped while the breathtaking man beside me grinned smugly as if he was enjoying every minute of this situation.
“Hey, we’re moving again. This is an express elevator, so we’ll be down in no time.”
My heart dropped to my stomach even faster. This man was having a very uncomfortable effect on me. I felt my cheeks heat and my heart tick like a metronome.
In no time, the elevator reached our destination, and the doors opened wide. My companion lifted me to my feet. His firm grip around my shoulders sent a parade of goosebumps down my arms. We stood face-to-face. My five foot nine frame in six-inch heels confirmed his estimated height. Standing erect, his body was even more imposing than I’d imagined. His shoulders were square, his hips narrow, and his legs long and solid.
“Ladies, first,” he said with a sexy wink.
With my briefcase in hand, I shot out of the elevator and walked briskly through the bustling mid-century themed lobby to the entrance of the hotel. The clickety-clack of my heels across the marble floor echoed in my ears. Mr. Infuriating strode next to me, keeping up with my pace with ease.
Outside the tall steel and glass building, we stood side by side. The early morning rush of New York pedestrians and cabs passed us by. The weather was picture-postcard perfect and surprisingly mild for a mid-February day. I was glad that I didn’t wear a coat.
“Can I give you a ride?” he asked. “My driver will be here any minute.”
“I have my own driver,” I replied without looking his way.
“Impressive.” I didn’t miss the playful sarcasm in his voice.
His driver, in a sleek black Ranger Rover, pulled up first. A hotel valet raced to open the back door for my companion.
“See ya.” He winked at me again.
Bastard!
With an irritating smirk, he slid into the Rover. His eyes lingered on mine before the passenger door closed. My deadpan face didn’t move a muscle as the SUV pulled away.
Two minutes later, my black Town Car pulled up. My driver stepped out and escorted me into the back seat.
“Good morning, Miss Long.”
“Good morning, Nigel,” I said brightly as I sidled gracefully into the car. Trusty Nigel was always my driver when I came to New York for business. I could always count on the jovial, silver-haired Brit to get me anywhere. And there on time.
“Where to this morning?”
I gave him the address of ZAP! It was located in the heart of Soho.
I leaned back against the comfy leather seat and let out a sigh. This was the tenth—and last ad agency—I was visiting. Since the beginning of the week, I had met with all of the top Madison Avenue agencies. It had been a draining, whirlwind tour.
Truthfully, none of them had impressed me. As CEO of Gloria’s Secret, the largest lingerie retail chain in the world, I was looking for a creative team to help me bring my empire to a new level of sensuality and sales. With the insane popularity of books like Fifty Shades of Grey, I was convinced women were looking for a new way to express themselves. A way that consensually communicated: Take me—I’m yours. If we were going to stay ahead of the competition, then I had to be the first to tap into this hot, new erotic trend. We were already developing a line of provocative products.
The car cruised down Fifth Avenue, Nigel expertly weaving in and out of the maddening mid-town traffic. In the back seat, I mused about my upcoming meeting.
Unlike the other ad agencies I’d visited, ZAP! was a relatively new kid on the block. What was called a “boutique agency.” My partner Kevin had heard about their cutting-edge work and had urged me to meet with them. My heart set on a big agency, I reluctantly agreed to his request, but after researching it a bit, I was glad I’d trusted Kevin’s instincts.
Several things I’d read online about the agency had impressed me. First, they had created a campaign for a new Japanese minivan that made the word “minivan” sexy. The campaign’s tagline: “And the mommy goes “mmmmmmm.” Anyone who could turn an oppressive minivan into a sexy beast scored points with me.
Secondly, the founder and CCO (Chief Creative Officer) of the agency was a woman. Jaime Zander. Our new ad campaign needed the touch of a woman. Someone who had insight into women’s sexual desires and fantasies. Someone who had read Fifty Shades of Grey and understood its phenomenal success. I, too, was drawn to the sexy, enigmatic Christian Grey and believed that our new BDSM-inspired undergarments would give a woman a better chance at landing her own Mr. Grey. Or, at least, let her fantasize she could.
Lastly, I was drawn to the ZAP! website. It was innovative and creative rather than corporate and boastful. I especially liked the key personnel profile photos—all adorable baby pictures, including CCO Jaime, with her head full of chestnut curls, sweet dimpled chin, and checkered overalls.
Nigel dropped me off in front of a brick townhouse on Prince Street. I double-checked the address on my cell phone, thinking that ZAP! might be housed in slightly more corporate headquarters. But sure enough, this was where the agency was located. My courteous driver opened the passenger door for me. Hopping out, I told him I would text him after the meeting was over.
Once inside the building, I stepped into the reception area. Unlike the stark, leather and chrome waiting areas of the Madison Avenue Madmen agencies I’d met with, this one was warm and funky, filled with eccentric mid-century furnishings and a shag carpet that reminded me a little of the hotel I was staying at. The blazing orange letters—ZAP!—were hung like giant puzzle pieces on the bright yellow wall behind the receptionist’s console. She was an artsy-looking girl in her early twenties who sported a graphic Jim Morrison tee and several tattoos on her arms. She was a far cry from the impeccably groomed young women who manned the front desk at those other ad agencies I’d visited.
“I have a ten o’clock meeting with Jaime Zander,” I told her.
She glanced at her computer screen and asked m
e if I was Gloria Long.
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
She dialed an extension, announcing my arrival to whomever was on the receiving end. I assumed it was Jaime’s assistant. “Someone will be right out to bring you back to Jaime’s office. Make yourself comfy.”
Before I could take a seat on the curvy couch, a twenty-something man with inky blue hair and an earring sashayed into the reception area to fetch me. He was very attractive, very stylish, and very gay. He smiled brightly at me, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. “I’m Ray, Jaime’s assistant. Jaime is so looking forward to meeting you. Follow me.”
Though younger, he reminded me a lot of my best friend and head of Public Relations, Kevin Riley, who was at the Lexington Avenue Armory preparing for the highly anticipated pre-Valentine’s Day Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show. My assistant, Vivien Holden, was there too. Right after this meeting, I would be rushing uptown to join them. As always on one of these business trips to New York, we had a hell of a lot going on. In fact, too much. The sooner I got out of New York, the better. Boris Borofsky was lurking out there somewhere. Inwardly, I shuddered.
With my briefcase in hand, I followed Ray through a gutted space to the end office. I liked the way everyone sat in the open and was immersed in their work. My eyes took in the posters for various ad campaigns that lined the walls. Most of them were familiar and indeed quite memorable.
“Jaime had to run down the hall to check out a spot we just produced for one of our clients and will be right back. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, surveying my surroundings and deciding where to sit. I chose a Scandinavian armchair over the couch. Sitting tall and cross-legged in a chair was always more empowering than sinking into a cushion. I liked to be in control of a meeting, especially when it was with someone I didn’t know.
My eyes toured the expansive office. Like the reception area, it was warm and funky, filled with eccentric, colorful, artsy furnishings. Intriguing abstract portraits and landscapes dotted the walls, all signed PAZ; one of the portraits was of a blue-eyed baby girl that looked a lot like the photo I’d seen online. My favorite piece of furniture was Jaime’s desk which was shaped like a large kidney bean. For a busy CCO, she had few things on it. Just a stack of neatly arranged bright-colored files, a state-of-the-art Apple computer, and a single framed photo. Behind the desk was a credenza that displayed the many awards the small advertising agency had garnered. From what I’d gleaned of Jaime’s taste so far, she must be quite a creative and interesting woman. I was looking forward to meeting her and getting down to business.
With a few minutes to spare, I used the time to my advantage. Pulling out my phone from my handbag, I checked my emails. There were easily a hundred new ones from people who reported to me around the world. From store managers to subcontractors. Why did everyone have to bother me with their silly problems? But that was my job. To run the company. There were only two that I urgently needed to read. The first, from Kevin, who was likely updating me about the status of this afternoon’s annual Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show. I opened it and sucked in a deep breath. So far everything was on schedule and moving forward. The other one was good news too. It was from one of my product managers informing me that the first prototype of the sex toys we were developing had been shipped to our Los Angeles headquarters. A smile spread across my face. We were about to expand our business, which now included intimate apparel, active wear, and beauty products with a collection of BDSM-inspired lingerie and a complementary line of fun, innovative sex toys. Our consumer research with focus groups had strongly indicated that this could be a breakout piece of business for us—women believed that vibrators, dildoes, and bondage accessories like lace masks and silk handcuffs were a natural extension of our already sexy product line. And that Gloria’s Secret was a store where they would feel comfortable purchasing these provocative items. We had indeed evolved into a major “lifestyle” brand. As I was about to hit reply, an email marked with the word “Update” in the subject line came in from Kevin.
G~
The run-through was HOT! Except the lead model tripped on her heels and sprained her ankle. Looking for a replacement. Challenging as all models are working Fashion Week. Will keep you posted.
~xoK
I replied to his email with a smiley-faced emoticon. Among the many things I loved about Kevin was that he was a problem solver. He had once saved my life. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be who I am; there would be no Gloria’s Secret. I was confident he would find a replacement, and the show would go on.
As I began to reply to the remaining emails, the sound of sprite footsteps diverted my attention. I swiveled my head to the doorway. Before I could take my next breath, my jaw dropped to the floor and my cell slipped out of my hand. Oh. My. God. It was him! That pompous asshole who had caused me to drop my briefcase in the elevator and then played head games with me. What the hell was he doing here? Maybe he worked for Ms. Zander?
He took long confident steps in my direction. I hesitantly stood up. He took my hand in his and shook it. His grip was firm, the touch warm. My body stiffened and my heartbeat quickened.
“Ms. Long, a pleasure to meet you officially.”
My mouth frozen open, I was speechless. Finally, I found my voice. “And you’re . . . ”
“Jaime Zander.”
Fuck! Holy, holy, fuck!
I collapsed back into my chair. He shot me a devilish smile. Damn him. He knew I was caught off guard. Big time.
Wordlessly, I gazed up at his face. The baby photo that I’d seen online flashed into my head. It was him all right. Though maybe thirty-five years older, he had the same baby blues with that thick fan of lashes, silky chestnut hair, and that distinct dimpled chin. He had been one of those babies that old ladies would look at and say, “Oh, he’s pretty enough to be a girl.”
Mortification struck me like a lightning bolt. I was not easily rattled, but Mr. Zander had succeeded. I suddenly didn’t want to do the meeting or give him my business.
Paralyzed, my eyes stayed locked on him as he lowered himself into the chair catty-cornered to mine. We were in such close proximity I could inhale the intoxicating scent of him and feel his warm breath on my cheeks.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something? A coffee? Water? Tea perhaps?”
A fan?
“No, thank you,” I said, nervously tugging on the thick, platinum braid that wrapped around my shoulder and cascaded over my breasts. The sooner we got down to business the better. His presence was making me bristle. Get a grip, Gloria. You’re one of Forbes’s One Hundred Most Powerful Women in the World!
Composing myself, I began by telling him that I was seeking an outside agency to bring my company, Gloria’s Secret, to a new level of sales and sensuality.
Listening, he folded one long, muscled leg over the other and relaxed back in his chair with his sculpted arms casually crossed over his crotch—I mean, lap. “Gloria’s Secret. The #1 lingerie retailer in the world. Two thousand forty-five stores worldwide. Estimated annual sales revenue: 6.2 billion dollars.”
He had indeed done his homework. But there was no way in hell I was going to let him know that I was impressed. My expression remained impassive while I responded.
“Yes. We’ve enjoyed phenomenal success. But we can’t stop here. Imitators are springing up. We’ve got to stay on the cutting edge, ahead of the competition.” I paused. Okay, now the test. “Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”
He grinned. “Of course.”
Ha! I didn’t believe him. He was bullshitting me. I could tell by the wry look on his face.
“Okay, then what’s the full name of Christian Grey’s adoptive mother?”
“Are you testing me, Gloria?”
“It’s Ms. Long, and yes, I am . . . Well?”
Without wasting a second, he blurted, “Grace Trevelyn Grey. And she’s a pediatrician.”
I
mentally screwed up my face. Score one for him. Except for one feminist copywriter who pooh-poohed the book for demeaning women, none of the Madison Avenue suits had read it. I had to hand it to him. But exam time wasn’t over yet. “Mr. Zander—”
“Please call me Jaime.”
Ironically, his first name was the same as the swoon-worthy actor who was playing Christian Grey in the movie version. Jamie Dornan, though they spelled it differently. But in terms of sex appeal, they were neck to neck. Muscle to muscle. Organ to organ?
“All right, Jai-me, tell me, what, in your opinion, has made the book so popular with women?”
He leaned into me, looking straight into my eyes. His gaze penetrated me. As much as I wanted to turn away, my vision stayed fixed on him.
“Truthfully, while the sex is hot, I believe women fall for the romance.”
“What do you mean?” I was all ears.
“Well, Ms. Long, wouldn’t you like me to scoop you up in my arms . . . tell you that ‘I want you, body and soul, forever’ and make insane love to you on the couch?”
Inwardly, I gasped. He had actually quoted Christian Grey. My eyes took in his mountainous biceps and then traveled down to his crotch. Holy shit. It was tented. My temperature instantly rose ten degrees. A hot flash. Confession: I had the burning urge to shrug off more than just my suit jacket.
He leaned in closer and growled in my ear. “Or would you prefer me to throw you over my desk . . . or perhaps carry you away and devour you on the conference room table down the hall?”
I squeezed my inner thighs together and could not stop my crossed leg from swinging like a pendulum—a behavior so not in my repertoire. I jerked away from him and found my voice. “You seem to know women rather well.”
Remember Me Page 30
