Eye Candy (City Chicks) (8 page)

"Yes," I said, tugging the belt of my French terry cover-up tighter around my waist. "But first we need to have a little talk about rules of conduct."

"Rules of conduct?"

I had been mentally reliving the interchange with Gavin for the past twenty minutes. And while I gloried at the flustered look on his pretty face, my behavior had been less than professional.

"Remember that the primary reason for this weekend—and your presence here—is my job." I grabbed my Havaiana flip flops and dropped them to the floor. "As much as I will always adore you for that brilliant shut down of my late-fiancé, we have to keep the rest of the weekend on a more mature level."

Phelps casually tugged his waistband into place. "You want me to act like a grown-up, then?"

"If you please."

He tossed a towel my direction, which I caught with a scowl. Nothing in his demeanor to this point suggested a capacity to act like an adult.

I dug my hands into my pockets, seriously wondering whether he could rise to the occasion. Oooh, my fingers curled around a paper-wrapped square. A mango tropical Starburst. Fumbling with the waxy paper, I unwrapped the treat and slipped it between my lips. But even mango sugar couldn't dispel my concerns.

"Relax, Chicken Little. I can do adult."

And he managed to say it with a straight face.

I stepped into my flip flops and headed for the door. As I passed in front of Phelps, he pinched my backside.

Before I could turn to argue, he grabbed my shoulders and pushed me out into the hall.

"Just getting it out of my system."

As I lowered my bathing suit-clad body into the bubbling water of Jawbreaker's hot tub, I felt one step closer to heaven. Even in the humid August air, the enveloping heat felt blissful.

Unfortunately, Phelps and I were not the only guests Ferrero had invited into the bubble tub.

I sat wedged between Geoffrey Hildebrandt, retired men's accessories designer at Fendi, and Brant something-or-other, one of Jawbreaker's Southampton neighbors.

Geoff, whom I had met at several cocktail mixers, was gayer than the whole gang on that gay makeover show put together. He was a sweet man with an eye for leather goods and handsome young men.

Brant, on the other hand, was one of those old money, lacrosse-playing, sailing types. He was too tan, too smiley, and too blonde. He also happened to be too handsy. Before I could even settle into the bench seat, his hand slipped beneath my swimsuit-clad ass and wiggled. Rather than draw attention to his appalling-but-not-unexpected behavior, I smiled sweetly.

"Such a tight squeeze in here," I said as I gouged a set of crescents into the flesh of his palm. "Good thing I'm surrounded by such polite gentlemen."

My subtlety had no effect. Brant openly drooled over my breasts, thrust into deceptively lush cleavage by a simple black Anne Cole suit with a silver buckle across the chest.

Removing his hand from my bottom, I forcibly placed it in his lap before grabbing an inch of tender flesh on his inner thigh and pinching with all my heart.

No one else even noticed his silent scream.

"Ah-hem, excuse me," he sputtered as he climbed out onto the teak deck. "Just remembered, um, have to get, er, something in my room."

He turned and ran for the house. I could see the darkening smudge of a delightfully placed bruise forming.

"Hurry back, Brant," I called after his retreating form.

Relaxing into the now ample space, I spread my arms along the edge and surveyed the rest of the tub. Phelps, directly across from me between a pair of exec's wives, winked.

And I was in such a state of bliss I couldn't even scowl.

"I hope there's room for us in there."

I cringed at the high-pitched squeal. My bliss shattered. Without looking, I knew Kelly stood behind me on the deck, sporting some teeny bikini as concealing as a trio of Necco Wafers, with Gavin in tow.

What was up with my run of luck this past week? All my fortune had fled to Palm Beach for the winter.

Maybe if I kept my eyes closed tightly enough, it would all go away.

"Always room for two more," Phelps boomed.

I briefly pondered the penalty for homicide of an infuriating hire-a-date. Surely with my family connections and money I could get off with probation. And there are extenuating circumstances.

Mental Post-it: put criminal attorney on retainer.

Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me forcibly through the water. As Phelps turned me and plunked me on his lap, he said, "Lyd and I can share."

Grrr
, I growled.

Only Phelps heard me.

"Thought you wouldn't want to cause a scene," he whispered. "Besides, now you can schmooze the boss."

I turned, scowling, and found Ferrero sitting to my right. Maybe Phelps was a little more business savvy than I—or Fiona—gave him credit for.

Kelly and Gavin made their way into the spots Brant and I had occupied. I was right, Kelly wore a barely-there, cherry red bikini I had seen in the last Victoria's Secret catalog. Gavin handed her down, following in his matching red swimming briefs. He eyed me warily, as if expecting me to do something outrageous and emotional and totally deserved.

I was above such petty behavior. Especially when he was getting everything he deserved with Kelly. If he thought he could cheat on her without becoming the next John Wayne Bobbitt, then he was dearly mistaken.

Letting all the other nonsense fade into the background, I tapped Ferrero on the arm. "Fe— Franco, you wished to discuss more about my designs today." I pinched my earlobes, tugging the pearl-dotted spirals into view. "These are my latest."

Franco leaned in to examine the silver pieces, and I could almost hear the steam shooting out of Kelly's ears from across the Jacuzzi.

When Jawbreaker came to inform us of a sightseeing trip into the thriving metropolis of Southampton, nearly everyone in the tub clamored to go. Only Ferrero appeared uninterested. Even Phelps decided to go, swiftly whispering that I should "take a golden opportunity when it punches me in the face" before lifting me off his lap and following everyone else into the house.

Left alone with Ferrero and his rapt interest in my jewelry designs, I knew this was my chance to make the most important impression of all.

"Franco," I started.

"Dear Lyvia," he interrupted—I chose not to correct him since this was his closest guess by far—and placed his soft hand dramatically on my forearm, "I have been seeking for so long to find a woman of spirit, of imagination, of—" He paused dramatically. "—passion."

His pale blue eyes glowed and his grip on my arm tightened. A quick glance around told me the deck was deserted. We were alone.

And I was pretty sure I wouldn't like where this conversation was heading—although it had to be better than any conversation about Gavin.

"My creativity is, you see, a very fragile creature." He gazed wistfully at the sky above. "It requires much petting and great care. In short," he grabbed me by both shoulders and stared directly into my eyes, "it needs a muse."

"Muse?" I repeated.

Now that was not what I had expected him to say. And I can't say I was any relieved to hear it.

He nodded emphatically. "Yes, a muse. An inspiration, like the tales of Greek mythology. Like Jacqueline Bouvier. Like Princess Grace. And you shall be mine."

"But Mr. Ferrero," I argued, reverting to a polite distance, "I don't know anything about being a muse. I'm an account manager. I handle sales accounts, for Good&Plenty's sake. What do I know about being a muse?"

This whole thing was ridiculous.

"You already are, my dear." He smoothed his hand over my hair, along my ear, and cupped my earring. "You have creativity," he said. He dropped his hand beneath the water and lifted mine to his mouth. "You have spirit." He cupped my cheek. "You have passion." He grinned. "You are already my muse."

Whoa there, Twizzler.

This exciting, spirited, passionate woman he described was not me. "I have
some
 creativity, I'll grant you," I acceded, thinking of my jewelry designs. "But I'm not spirited."

I was so not spirited that when I found Gavin pressing flesh with another woman, all I thought was 
Guess I'll have to return the ring
.

"Nonsense." Ferrero waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "I have eyes to see the wildcat sharpen her claws."

Great Gobstoppers, did he mean on Gavin or that toad Brant? I had to admit I had been feeling a little spirited so far this weekend. But that wasn't the usual me.

"Fine, but I'm not passionate, either."

I was so not passionate that Gavin had to go to another woman—probably
several
 other women, in fact—to satisfy his, um, needs.

"Ah, 
chica
," he tsked, the Spanish endearment sounding peculiar with his Jersey-tinted Italian accent, "no one could fail to see the passion between you and your young man. Fireworks were not the only thing lighting up the dark last night."

Now there was no way I could tell him how fake that was. He had to see reason, to realize that I was not muse material. I had a promotion to garner, and I didn't think sitting around inspiring Ferrero or whatever being a muse entailed was going to accomplish that.

"But—"

"Enough," he commanded, rising from the tub and tugging me out behind him, "you will be my muse for next Spring's couture line. Your jewelry will accentuate every piece."

"M-my jewelry?"

He didn't acknowledge my stammering, instead held out both hands expectantly. In a daze, I grabbed a pair of towels from a nearby bench and handed him one. I wrapped the other around my waist as I pictured my jewelry accessorizing the Spring line on the Ferrero runway.

That was an opportunity I could not pass up.

Ferrero walked toward the house, toweling his snowy hair as he moved, and I blindly followed.

"And your young man," he decreed as he draped the towel around his neck rather than cover his wet, white—and obviously unlined—Speedo, "will be my muse for the menswear line."

I tripped over the negligible door jamb, righting myself just as Ferrero turned to say, "This will be my most inspired collection ever."

6

Q: Why didn't the leopard go on vacation?
A: It couldn't find the right spot.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #19

I was sitting on the front porch—fidgeting, worrying, hoping—when the sightseeing caravan returned.

After changing into a bright Lilly Pulitzer sundress, with bright yellow lemons on a white background and matching lemon yellow piping, my brain had calmed enough to realize the opportunities abounding. Not only would I be working in presumably close proximity to Ferrero, leading to many fabulous opportunities for great impressions wherein he might actually remember my name, but my jewelry designs would be thrust center stage in the fashion world.

This was marketing no advertising dollars could buy.

An advantage the KYs could never hope to obtain and Jawbreaker could never hope to thwart.

Now all I had to do was convince Phelps to join in.

The shopping-weary sightseers climbed out of a trio of elegant black limos Jawbreaker had hired for the weekend. They were a ragged bunch of wrinkled polo shirts and sweat-smudged foundation—on both men and women.

Kelly and Gavin emerged first, arm in arm and smiling falsely at each other. A perfectly matched pair of fakes.

They slinked past me without so much as a sideways glance, which suited me just fine. I wondered if Kelly took potential alimony into account in her TIP calculation. For the first time, I actually felt sorry for Gavin. He didn't stand a chance.

Three dozen or so other sightseers drifted into the house, worn out from an exhausting two hours of shopping and riding around in air-conditioned limos.

The chauffeurs closed the doors after the last of the passengers disembarked.

I frowned.

Where was Phelps?

I watched blankly as the three black vehicles pulled away and headed down the driveway.

A faint buzzing sound rang in my ears.

I shook my head but it didn't go away. In fact, it got louder. And I realized it wasn't in my head at all. Squinting down the long drive, I saw a streak of bright yellow heading my direction.

I blinked, watching in horror as Phelps flew up the drive and skidded to a stop right in front of me on a Vespa.

"What," I bit out, carefully swallowing the squeaky voice threatening to burst forth, "is that?"

"Hey, it matches your dress."

"What," I repeated calmly despite the overwhelming urge to launch myself at him, fists swinging, "is that?"

He looked at me like I was stupid—like I was the one roaring around Southampton on a child's toy. "This is a scooter." He revved the tiny rubber band engine. "See, vvroom, vvroom. Wanna ride?"