“Oh boy.” Kissy’s gaze flicked from one to the other. “Should I play some organ music or something?”
Michel shoved one hand into the pocket of his trousers and leaned against the door. “How about a few notes on the kazoo?”
He carried himself with the languid grace of old money and the assurance of someone born with an aristocratic bloodline. Just like Alexi. But as he gazed at her, she saw eyes as blue as spring hyacinths.
She curled stiff fingers around her purse. “Did you know I was in New York?”
“I knew.”
She couldn’t stand there with him any longer. “I have to go.” She gave Kissy a quick peck on the cheek and left the dressing room without so much as a nod in his direction.
Kissy caught up with her on the street. “Fleur! Wait! I had no idea.”
She faked a smile. “Don’t worry about it. It was just a shock, that’s all.”
“Michael is…He’s really a terrific guy.”
“That’s…great.” She spotted a cab and stepped out from the curb to hail it. “Go to your cast party, Magnolia, and make them all bow when you come in the room.”
“I think I’d better go home with you.”
“Not on your life. This is your big night, and you’re going to enjoy every minute.” She climbed into the cab, waved, and shut the door. As the taxi pulled away, she sagged back into the seat and let the old bitterness swamp her.
In the weeks that followed, Fleur tried to forget about Michel, but one evening she found herself walking along West Fifty-fifth Street studying the numbers painted above the shop doors, now closed for the night. She found the address she was looking for. The location was good, but the unimposing storefront had badly lit windows…and the most beautiful garments she’d ever seen.
Michel had bucked the tide of current fashion trends where women were dressing up in evening tuxedos and neckties so they could look like men. The small window held a quartet of outrageously feminine dresses that conjured up lavish Renaissance paintings. As she gazed at the silks, jerseys, and gracefully draped crepe de chine, she couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d spent money on decent clothes. These exquisite garments rebuked her.
Spring drifted into summer and then into fall. Kissy’s theater company folded, so she joined another group that performed almost exclusively in New Jersey. Fleur celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday by making Parker give her another raise. She bought cocoa beans with it.
She lost more often than she won, but when the wins came, they came big. She studied hard to learn from her mistakes, and her initial five thousand quadrupled, then quadrupled again. The more money she made, the harder it became for her to sink it back into risky speculations, but she forced herself to keep writing out the checks. Forty thousand dollars was as useless to her as five thousand had been.
Winter settled in. She developed an enchantment with copper and made almost thirty thousand dollars in six weeks, but the stress was giving her stomach pains. Beef went up, pork fell. She kept going—investing, reinvesting, and biting her fingernails to the quick.
By the first day of June, a year and a half after she’d jumped on her financial roller-coaster, she stared at her balance sheets, hardly able to believe what she saw. She’d done it. With nothing more than sheer nerve, she’d accumulated enough to start her business. The next day, she put everything into nice, safe, thirty-day certificates of deposit at Chase Manhattan.
A few evenings later as she was letting herself into the apartment, she heard the phone ring. She stepped over a pair of Kissy’s heels, crossed the room, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, enfant.”
It had been more than five years since she’d heard that familiar endearment. She tightened her grip on the telephone and made herself take a slow, steadying breath. “What do you want, Alexi?”
“No social amenities?”
“You have exactly one minute, and then I’m hanging up.”
He sighed, as if she’d wounded him. “Very well, chérie. I called to congratulate you on your recent financial gains. Rather foolhardy, but then one doesn’t argue with success. I understand you started looking for office space today.”
She felt a chill. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve told you, chérie. I make it my business to know everything that affects those I care about.”
“You don’t care about me,” she said, her throat tight. “Stop playing games.”
“On the contrary, I care very much about you. I’ve waited a long time for this, chérie. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
“A long time for what? What are you talking about?”
“Guard your dream, chérie. Guard it better than I guarded mine.”
Chapter 19
Fleur rested her elbows on the deck rail and watched the tawny dune grass bend against the breeze in the last of the evening light. The Long Island beach house, an angular structure of glass and weathered clapboard, blended with the sand and water. She was glad she’d been invited here for the Fourth of July weekend. She needed to get away from the city for a while, and she also needed a distraction from that mental tape recorder that wouldn’t stop replaying Alexi’s words. Guard your dream. Alexi hadn’t forgotten what she’d done to the Royale—not that she’d expected him to—and he still wanted his revenge. But other than keeping her eyes open, she didn’t know what she could do about it.
She pushed aside her worries and thought about the four-story Upper East Side townhouse she’d leased for her new offices. The renovations were under way, and she hoped to be able to move in by mid-August, but before then she had to hire a staff. If a few breaks came her way and she had no big emergencies, she had enough money to keep the agency afloat until spring. Unfortunately a business like hers needed at least a year to get established, so she was at risk from the start, but that just meant she’d have to work harder, something she’d discovered she was good at.
She’d hoped to keep her salary from Parker coming in a little longer, but when he found out what she was up to, he’d fired her. They’d had an acrimonious parting. Lynx had broken up, and Parker had delegated too much of his business to Fleur. Now he was blaming her for the desperate game of catch-up he had to play with resentful clients.
Fleur had made the decision to expand the clients of her “caviar agency” beyond musicians and actors to include a select group of writers, maybe even artists—whoever she thought had the potential to rise to the top. She’d already signed Rough Harbor, the rock group Simon Kale was founding, and she’d stolen Olivia Creighton out from under Bud Sharpe’s greedy fingers. Then there was Kissy. All three offered the earnings potential she was looking for, but three clients weren’t enough to keep her aloft after her start-up money ran out.
She slipped her sunglasses on top of her head and thought about Kissy. Other than a hypnotically restrained performance as Irena in a workshop production of The Cherry Orchard and a one-liner Fleur had gotten her on a CBS soap opera, nothing much had happened for her since Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and Kissy had stopped going to auditions again. Recently too many men had been passing through her bedroom door, each one a little more muscle-bound and a little stupider than the last. Kissy needed a showcase, and Fleur hadn’t figured out how to find one for her, which wasn’t the best omen for someone who only had until spring to prove herself.
Through the glass doors, she spotted Charlie Kincannon, their host for the weekend. Charlie had backed Kissy’s workshop production of The Cherry Orchard, which was how Fleur had met him. It was painfully obvious that he’d fallen for Kissy, but since he was smart, sensitive, and successful, Kissy was ignoring him. She preferred beefcake losers.
The patio doors slid open behind her, and Kissy stepped out onto the deck. She’d dressed for the party in a one-piece pink and blue candy-striped romper, big silver heart-shaped earrings, and flat-soled pink sandals with beaded straps across her toes. She looked like a seven-year-old with breasts. “It’s g
etting late, Fleurinda, and what’s-his-name’s guests are starting to show up. Aren’t you going to change your clothes?” She took a sip of her piña colada from a lipstick-tipped straw.
“In a minute.” The white shorts Fleur had pulled over her black tank suit had a mustard stain on the front, and her hair was stiff from salt water. Since Charlie Kincannon had backed several off-Broadway plays, she hoped to make some contacts at tonight’s party, and she needed to look decent. First, though, she reached for Kissy’s piña colada and took a sip. “I wish you’d stop calling him what’s-his-name. Charlie Kincannon is a very nice man, not to mention rich.”
Kissy wrinkled her nose. “Then you date him.”
“I just might. I like him, Kissy. I really do. He’s the first man you’ve hung around with who doesn’t eat bananas and gaze longingly at the Empire State Building.”
“Cute. I give him to you with my blessings.” Kissy reclaimed her piña colada. “He reminds me of a Baptist minister I used to know. He wanted to save me, but he was afraid I wouldn’t put out if he did.”
“You’re not ‘putting out’ for Charlie Kincannon. If you have such an overpowering need to play the sexpot, do it onstage, where you can make us both some money.”
“Spoken like a true bloodsucker. You’re going to make a great agent. By the way, did you notice those guys on the beach this afternoon tripping over themselves trying to catch your attention?”
“The one with the sippy cup or the kid with the Star Wars light saber?” If she listened to Kissy, she’d believe every man in the world wanted her. She brushed the sand from her legs and headed inside. “I’d better get in the shower.”
“Put something decent on. Never mind. I’m wasting my breath.”
“I’m a business tycoon now. I have to look serious.”
“That stupid black dress you brought makes you look dead, not serious.”
Fleur ignored her and headed inside. The house had angular ceilings, slate floors, and minimalist Japanese furniture. She spotted the owner sitting on a sand-colored couch, staring mournfully into what looked like a double shot of bourbon. “Could I talk to you for a minute, Fleur?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He pushed aside his copy of Rabbit Redux so she could sit next to him. Charlie Kincannon reminded her of a character Dustin Hoffman might play—the kind of man who, despite all his money, manages to look a little out of step with the rest of the world. He had short dark hair and pleasant, slightly irregular features, with a set of serious brown eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He swirled the liquor in his glass. “It embarrasses me to sound like an adolescent, but how do you assess my chances with Kissy?”
She hedged. “It’s sort of hard to tell.”
“In other words, no chance at all.”
He looked so sad and sweet that her heart went out to him. “It isn’t your fault. Kissy’s a little self-destructive right now, and that means she’s doing an even worse job than normal of seeing men as people.”
He thought it over, his brown eyes growing even more serious. “Our situation is an interesting role reversal for me. I’m used to women being the aggressors. I know I’m not a sex object, but they usually overlook that because I’m rich.”
Fleur smiled and liked him even more. Still, she had a friend to protect. “Exactly what do you want from her?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Do you want a real relationship or is this just about sex?”
“Of course I want a real relationship. I can get sex anywhere.”
He looked so offended she was satisfied. She thought it over. “I don’t know if it will work or not, but except for Simon, you’re the only man who’s figured out how intelligent Kissy is. Maybe you’d catch her attention if you ignored her body and concentrated on her brain.”
He gave her a reproachful look. “I don’t mean to sound like a chauvinist, but it’s difficult to ignore Kissy’s body, especially for someone like myself who has such a strong sex drive.”
She smiled sympathetically. “That’s my best shot.”
A few guests had begun to arrive, and a man’s voice, lightly accented, drifted toward her. “The house is amazing. Look at that view.”
She stiffened and turned her head in time to see Michel step into the living room. He was part of Kissy’s workshop group, so she should have realized he’d be invited. Her pleasure in the weekend vanished.
They’d run into each other twice in the year since they’d met, and both times they’d exchanged the barest minimum of conversation. Michel’s companion was a muscular young man with dark hair that fell over his eyes. A dancer, she decided, as his feet automatically came to rest in first position.
The glass doors were her closest escape. She gave him a brief nod, excused herself from Charlie, and slipped back outside.
The moon had come out, Kissy had disappeared, and the beach was deserted. Fleur needed a few minutes to put her armor on before she went back inside to get cleaned up. She walked down to the water, then wandered along the cool, wet sand away from the house. She had to stop letting herself get thrown off stride so easily, but every time she saw Michel, she felt as if she’d been thrust back into her childhood.
She stubbed her toe on a rock she hadn’t seen sticking out of the sand. She’d walked farther than she’d intended, and she turned to go back, but just then, a man stepped out from the dunes fifty yards ahead of her. Something about his stillness, combined with being alone on a deserted beach, made her instantly alert. He stood darkly silhouetted against the night, a tall man, bigger than anyone she wanted to tangle with, and he wasn’t trying to disguise his interest in her. She automatically glanced toward the distant lights of the beach house, but it was too far away for anyone to hear if she yelled for help.
Living in New York had made her paranoid. He was probably one of Charlie’s guests who’d drifted away from the party just as she had. In the moonlight, she dimly made out a shaggy head of Charles Manson hair and an even shaggier mustache. The words to “Helter Skelter” skimmed through her brain. She picked up her stride and edged closer to the water.
Abruptly he tossed down his beer can and began coming toward her. He covered the sand in long, swift strides, and every cell in her body went on full alert. Paranoid or not, she had no intention of waiting around to see what he wanted. She dug in her feet and began to run.
At first, she could only hear the sound of her own breathing, but she soon grew aware of the soft pounding of feet on the sand behind her. Her heart thudded. He was coming after her, and she had to outrun him. She told herself she could do it. She ran all the time now. Her muscles were strong. All she had to do was pick up the pace.
She stayed in the hard-packed sand near the water. She extended her legs, pumped her arms. As she ran, she kept her eyes on the beach house, but it was still agonizingly far ahead. If she headed for the dunes, she’d sink into deeper sand, but so would he. She grabbed more air. He couldn’t keep up with her forever. She could do this, and she pushed herself harder.
He stayed with her.
Her lungs burned, and she lost her rhythm. She sucked in ragged gasps of air. The word “rape” rattled around in her head. Why didn’t he fall back?
“Leave me alone,” she screamed. The words were garbled, barely comprehensible, and she’d lost more precious air.
He shouted something. Near. Almost in her ear. Her chest was on fire. He touched her shoulder, and she screamed. The next thing she knew, the ground rushed up, and he was falling with her. As they hit the sand, he shouted the word again, and this time she heard.
“Flower!”
He fell on top of her. She gasped for air beneath his weight and tasted grit. With the last of her strength, she clenched her hand into a fist and swung hard. She heard a sharp exclamation. His weight eased, and the ends of his hair brushed her cheek as he raised himself on his arms above her. His breath
fanned her face, and she hit him again.
He pulled back, and she went after him. Scrambling to her knees, she hit him again and again with her fists. She didn’t bother aiming, but caught whatever she could reach—an arm, his neck, his chest, every blow punctuated with a sob.
Finally he made a vise of his arms and squeezed. “Stop it, Flower! It’s me. It’s Jake.”
“I know it’s you, you bastard! Let me go!”
“Not till you’ve calmed down.”
She gasped for air against the soft fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m calm.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am!” She slowed her breathing, quieted her voice. “I’m calm. Really.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Gradually he released her. “All right, then. I was—”
She slugged him in the head. “You son of a bitch!”
“Ouch!” He threw up his arm.
She caught him in the shoulder with her next blow. “You arrogant, hateful—”
“Stop it!” He snagged her wrist. “If you hit me again, I swear, I’ll deck you.”
She seriously doubted he’d follow through, but her adrenaline rush was beginning to fade, her hands hurt, and she was so wobbly she was afraid she’d throw up if she took another swing.
He crouched in the sand before her. His tangled, unkempt hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and his mustache obscured all of his mouth except for that impossible, sulky bottom lip. With a Nike T-shirt that didn’t make it to his waist, faded maroon shorts, and his long, outlaw’s hair, he looked like he should be carrying a cardboard sign that read, WILL KILL FOR FOOD.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” she managed on a thin stream of air.
“I thought you recognized me.”
“How could I recognize you? It’s dark, and you look like a wanted poster.”
He released her wrist, and she struggled to her feet. It shouldn’t have happened this way, with her wearing mustard-stained white shorts and a ponytail slipping out of its rubber band. She’d imagined herself dripping in diamonds when she met him again. She wanted to be standing on the steps of the casino at Monte Carlo with a European prince on one arm and Lee Iacocca on the other.