Glamour (45 page)

“Stop it,” she protested, smiling a little. Was it possible he could have her again? Three times, in rapid succession; he had the vitality of a teenager.

“I’m done,” he said, sighing. “At least, I think I am. You’re dangerous. It’s a good job I keep in shape.” He pulled away from her. “Let’s shower.Together.”

But Jane looked down, knotting her fingers together in the bed linen.

“Am I going to see you again?”

She was miserable now; her body felt good, but her heart was sick. This was it, exactly what she had feared. She’d wanted him, craved him, for months, and as soon as he touched her, she’d fallen into his hand like a ripe peach.

And he had made her body leap, and dance, and finally satisfied her, made her yield herself so completely that she was now helplessly and hopelessly in love with him.

But the chase was over; he’d got what he wanted. Now she was just another conquest.

Yet when she looked up at him, Craig Levin was looking right back at her. Disturbed, even upset.

“Do you think I’m that kind of man?” he asked. “Jane, I respect you. Hell, I think I’m even a little obsessed with you. I wouldn’t use you like that.”

“I don’t know,” she said.“That’s the point. I hardly know anything about you.”

Just that I want you,
she did not say.
Just that I have to have you. Just that I think about you all the time.

“So get in that shower by yourself,” Levin said, his eyes flickering across her naked body, dappled by the moonlight, still warm from his touch. “And then get dressed. And come with me.”

“What do you mean?” Jane asked, embarrassed to show that she was crying.

“You want to see me again? Because I want to see you, Jane.”

She nodded; he knew her intimately, knew the intensity of her response to him; there was no point trying to hide anything now.

“Then why wait? See me again now. Come home with me. Spend the night at my place.”

“We didn’t even date,” Jane said.

“So this will be our first. Dinner. I could eat. Couldn’t you? Then breakfast. And I’ll pick you up for lunch.That makes three dates in, what, eighteen hours?” He smiled at her. “I know how to play catch-up.”

She slid her long legs off the bed. Even now, when she was trying not to hope, not to get overexcited, he was leaving her no choice. Jane tried to come to terms with it; where there were two people, she could not have total control; and she was afraid of how much she liked that.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

“And you want me again. Like I want you, gorgeous.”

Levin came and sat down on the bed, and stretched his hand out; she gasped again, pressed against him.

“You’re hotter than hell,” he said. “Hotter than I’d ever imagined. And I’d imagined plenty.”

Levin gave her his hand. “Come on, Jane. Let me earn your trust.”

It was strange how shy she was. After all that passion, after all her athleticism. Levin wore the marks of her nails raked across his inner thigh, the small of his back; her own skin was covered in small, delicate bruises from his lips and teeth. Yet they were now dressed, and sitting in his dining room—or one of his dining rooms. Over the dinner table. It was a romantic setting: candlelight, Sèvres porcelain dishes, fresh flowers. But Jane felt as nervous as a teenager.

“Come on. Eat something.” Levin gestured at the slices of roast partridge, delicately fanned out in front of her, next to buttery parsnips and spinach.“If you don’t like that, the chefs can get you something else.”

“You’ve got more than one?” Jane joked.

“I’ve got five. But they rotate shifts.”

Damn. She moistened her lips.

“I’m not hungry.”

“After that, you must be.” He forked up a floury roast potato, crisp and browned around the edges, and wolfed it. “I chose this because I thought it was British. But they can get you anything you like.”

“I’m . . . I’m embarrassed,” she murmured, and lowered her head. Levin watched her and, to his amazement, found himself stirring again.What a woman.Why was she like this? So reserved, and so beautiful?

“Because you don’t know me? Other than in the biblical sense?”

“And the pages of
Fortune
,” Jane admitted.

“Ah, yes. I recall you saying you ‘admired’ me.” He grinned.“I hear that a lot. From you, it was a turn-on, though.Tell you what, I’ll make a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Eat your food. Drink some water, some juice. A glass of champagne. I don’t want you passing out on me later.”

“Later?”

“If you’re good; no promises.” She had to smile at that. “You eat, and I’ll talk. The unofficial version of my life. Then you’ll know me. Anything to get you to relax.”

“Alright,” Jane said softly.

Levin was unlike any man she’d ever known; he didn’t buckle to her, or crumple in the face of her coldness. He stood firm. But he encouraged her.

She took a bite of the partridge; it was good, after all.

Craig poured himself some champagne, settled back in his chair. Smiled at her, and she felt herself unstiffen, open up to him.

He meant it. He was really going to woo her.

Starting with letting her in on his secrets.

“I don’t have a rags-to-riches story. I grew up an only child, and that’s about the only bad thing you can say of my early life. Dad worked in the Sanitation Department as an administrator; Mom was a court reporter.We had a little tract house in a decent part of Queens, back in New York, a nice car, took a vacation to the Jersey shore most summers. I had two working parents and a big extended Jewish family; we weren’t religious, but there were still plenty of weddings, bar mitzvahs, you know. Most of my friends were Jews, too.” He grinned.“I hated it, my life. Does that sound awful? Loved my folks, hated my life. It was so suburban. I felt so trapped. And at school, I was the weeny little Jew.There were bigger kids there who used to kick my ass on a regular basis. Dad wouldn’t let me quit, said I had to be tough. Good girl—now drink some wine.”

Jane took a sip. Warmth started to spread through her again, and she didn’t think it was just the alcohol.

“There had to be more. I knew it. Every time I took a subway into the city—it was the seventies, it was full of crime, and dirty, but it was so exciting. Those skyscrapers—electric. Wall Street. The big theaters,Times Square, Fifth Avenue. Manhattan was life and Queens was nothing. It was like you had your nose permanently pressed up against life’s shop window, and they wanted me to get a good union job. At the most, to get into real estate or become a school principal. I was brighter than most kids, they knew. Partly because of my memory; with a photographic memory you ace most multichoice tests. But mainly because I was good at math. Better than good. School bored the hell out of me.”

“So what did you do?”

Now she had started eating, she was ravenous; Jane devoured her vegetables and helped herself to a slice of the raspberry cheesecake set on a silver platter in front of her.

“First, I joined the Y and started lifting weights. I waited till I was big enough to kick a little ass myself.They say violence never solved anything. Bullshit.”

Jane grinned.

“Next I sat down and figured it out. If I wanted to get into Wall Street other than on the subway, I’d need to be a broker. So I started buying the
Wall Street Journal
with my allowance. Next I started figuring out the numbers, and the charts. Seeing patterns. Looking at stocks. I quit school early and my parents cut me off, but by that time I had a job as a gofer in a brokerage house. I used to give them tips—and they worked.They thought I had insider info.” He smiled.“Nothing they couldn’t have figured out if they were paying attention. But at eighteen I was a trader. Before I could drink, I owned my own apartment. Sound familiar?”

“So far,” Jane said, inclining her head. “But I’ll never be as successful as you.”

“That’s true,” he said, cool as you like, and she thrilled to it. “You never will.”

“Your parents forgave you?”

“Soon as they knew I’d be okay. I was a senior broker at twenty, VP at twenty-one. Had a nice little brownstone in the Village at twenty-three, drove a Ferrari. At twenty-four I quit. Started to put together a fund.You know most of the rest.”

“I heard you were a workaholic.”

“I don’t see it as work.” His eyes lit up, and she responded to his passion. “I love business, I love numbers. I can just . . . I
see
stocks. I don’t know how else to explain it. For me, trading is like a computer game. Winning is fun. Money is fun. Five chefs—I always wanted this, I wanted to live like my house was a hotel. Got lots of staff and I pay them outrageous wages. Give lots to charity. My parents are in Florida now, in a mansion with a private beach. I keep my head down, I don’t talk to the press, I just play the game. And I win, nineteen times out of twenty.”

“And the twentieth?”

“Maybe I sabotage myself sometimes. Just to make it interesting.”

“So.” She spooned up the last of the cheesecake, meltingly sweet, the tartness of the raspberries a perfect contrast. “Tell me about your personal life.”

“I thought I just did. Oh—you mean women?”

“I mean women,” Jane said, her eyes narrowing.

Levin smiled. “There have been a few girls. I like beautiful women. I never promised any of them anything serious, unless I meant it. I’ve had three proper girlfriends—one for six months, one for two years, another for a year. It just didn’t work out in those cases.”

“Why not?”

“If I knew that, I never would have asked them out,” he said, reasonably.

“And me?”

“You’re different. Incredibly so.”

“Tell me why.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“Before bed.”

“Don’t trust yourself, in my arms, to be objective?” Levin grinned.“Very well.You are more intelligent and more independent. I never dated fluff—maybe when I was younger, there were a couple of trophy dates, cheerleaders for the New York Giants, that sort of girl. Later on, models, but always smart ones. One of my long-term girlfriends was a lecturer at Vassar.” His eyes flickered across her. “None of them were like you. In business, a self-made woman. One who came back from a tragedy—an orphan. What you did with Shop Smart was amazing. And leaving your job was pretty great, too. Maybe it’s vanity; I saw something of myself in you.You didn’t want that comfort trap. A house in the suburbs or a vice president’s salary, it’s all bull if you know you can do better. And of course, there just aren’t that many women who do well in business.”

“Sexist pig.”

“Come on.” He defended himself against the accusation. “I respect you too much to bullshit you. It’s the truth, and you know it.You and your girlfriends have something here. A good model. Excitement. Achievement. You’re more than beautiful, and sexy, with that British accent—”

“English.”

“Whatever. You’re like me. You’re in this game. You’re”—he paused, then smiled—“not a civilian.”

She smiled back, and stood up from the table.

“Not to mention that you’re breathtakingly lovely,” Levin added.

Jane held out her hands to him. She sensed she was in great danger, that he already had her heart, and she had surrendered every part of herself. Because she wanted so badly to believe that she was the one, she was the woman who could take him out of this life.

But her body was a traitor; it wanted him. Now.

He came over to her, leaving the rest of his food untouched.

“I thought you just wanted to sleep,” he murmured, whispering into her neck, kissing it, his tongue tracing the line of the caress.

“That was then,” Jane said. “And at least now we’ve had the first date.”

The next day, he drove her home himself. Then called and asked her to lunch. And dinner.

Craig Levin was perfect. He talked with her, he made her laugh, he dissected some of his business deals with her, asked her advice.

They relished each other’s company. He complimented her all the time. Made Jane feel seven feet tall.

Soon, he became one of her best friends, as well as her lover. And that was fatal. It didn’t matter what barriers she tried to keep up. He was great in bed, he made her laugh, and he appreciated everything about her.

Jane Morgan fell more in love as every day passed.

“You can trust me.” Mrs. Wilkins—Emily—was firm. “She’ll be fine.Won’t you, princess?
Who’s
a clever girl?”

Noor waved her little clenched fist and gurgled happily. She gave a gummy smile to her mother and her nanny.

“Do you know about warming the baby food? And don’t use those commercial wipes. Just tissues in warm water, or she gets a rash . . .”

“Ma’am, I’ve brought up four of my own.” The Irishwoman shook her head. “Now get in the cab.The sooner you go and do your trading, or whatever it is, the sooner you can come back to her.” She gave Haya a shove. “They need you at work, too. Now go.”

The limo driver honked his horn, and Noor scrunched up her face. She started to wail, and Haya wanted to, as well.

“Go,” Emily Wilkins insisted.

Haya did as she was told, and as the limo door shut behind her, she watched the nanny put her baby comfortingly over her shoulder.

“LAX?”

“Just drive,” Haya snapped. She turned her face to the window, so that he would not see the tears splashing out of her lashes.

Being a single mom and a businesswoman could be hard sometimes.Whenever she had to leave Noor, she hated it.

Everybody in L.A. knew who Haya al-Yanna was now. He said a quick “Yes, ma’am,” and stepped on it. Suited her fine.

The last year, she had been there for all Noor’s important milestones. When she sat up, her fat chin wobbling. When she was weaned.The glorious moment when she crawled. But combining it with buying for the store, then the stores, was exhausting. Haya inspected, ordered, and arranged as best she could from Los Angeles, either from the GLAMOUR headquarters or her home office. And Noor sat and crawled with her.

But the business was expanding so rapidly, Haya knew she’d have to let her nanny take a little bit more of the slack. She wanted to keep her place at the top table, by right. Noor was older now, a confident and happy toddler. And Haya felt the old tug, the challenge, of her career pulling at her.