Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) (2 page)

Armand sat at his hand-carved desk reading a Spanish translation of “Treasure Island.” Lenore curled up in a large, well-worn, brown leather reading chair in the far corner, next to the bookshelves. She remained in her riding clothes after a countryside race with Alessandra (which Lenore won, of course), breezing through an English translation of “1984.”

The phone at Armand’s desk rang. He glanced at his watch.

“8 o’clock? Who would
dare
call at such an ungodly hour?”

Armand lifted the receiver. Lenore continued reading, engrossed with her book.

“Hello… Who is this?”

“Señor De La Fuente?”

“Yes… This is he. Who are you and how did you get this number?”

“Señor De La Fuente, my name is Elena Machado. I work for a fashion designer named Raquel Shalamar here in Madrid. I obtained your number from a friend of a friend.”

Armand fumed. “Well, your friend of a friend has done you a grave disservice. This is my private line and I do
not
appreciate being disturbed at home. Now, if you will call my office tomorrow…”

“Señor! I do not wish to offend you, but this matter is of the utmost importance. It involves your daughter.”

Forever protective of his beloved only child, Armand’s suspicion peaked. “My daughter? What about my daughter? What is this about?”

On the other side of the room, Lenore’s perfect hearing detected a single word. “Daughter.” Her head snapped to attention. She tilted it to the side and peered at her father.

“Señor, my supervisor, Raquel Shalamar, is an internationally famous designer. You can see her work in all the major fashion magazines and she has won multiple awards these past several years. Raquel saw your daughter’s photograph in a recent magazine article, and… Señor… Raquel believes your daughter is a goddess, sent down from heaven to bless this world with her beauty. Raquel believes your daughter could be a star in the world of fashion.”

Armand rolled his eyes, groaning at the word, “goddess.”

“Señorita Shalamar wants you to consider something, sir, on behalf of Lenore. She believes that once you hear her offer, you will let her speak to Lenore regarding becoming Shalamar’s featured model.”

Armand glanced across the room at Lenore. Their eyes met. She smiled broadly. The call was about her!

“Dear God… It is already too late. I will lose her. Yet… Lenore is indeed so beautiful. And so gifted. And so wise. She may be ready for something like this.”

The curious teen noticed a hint of concern on Armand’s face as he looked in her direction. Daddy De La Fuente averted his eyes, swiveling away from Lenore, speaking in a whisper.

“I hear what you say. I agree my daughter is a gift sent down from heaven. I also do not believe she is old enough for such activities.”

The 14-year-old’s perfect hearing picked up the statement. “Old enough for what, Papa?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Armand attempted a deflection. “Nothing, mi linda. Why don’t you take your book and go relax in the garden while I finish this call?”

Lenore placed her bookmark and prowled toward her father’s desk, a teenage girl hot on the scent of adventure. Armand hesitated. His conniving daughter offered a “melt daddy’s heart” smile.

“And for precisely
what
do you believe I am too young, Papa?”

Armand sighed. Even the most powerful men had their fatal weaknesses. Armand De La Fuente’s Achilles heels went by the names Alessandra and Lenore. “Some designer wants you to model her fashions.”

Lenore electrified. “Someone wants
me
to be a fashion model? That is
amazing
! Who? Who is it, Papa?”

“I don’t know. I have never heard of her. ‘Shalamar’ is her name.”

“SHALAMAR! Is that the truth? Really?” Lenore leapt and spun, gushing with joy. “Raquel Shalamar? Raquel Shalamar of Madrid? Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Armand sighed. “I am quite certain. Her name is Raquel Shalamar. Of Madrid. I am on the phone with her assistant. Someone gave them our home number. When I find out who gave out this number….”

“YES! YES Papa, tell her YES! Shalamar is a famous designer! TELL HER YES!” Lenore bounced up and down, giddy and glowing.

“But Lenore… You are far too young for something like this.”

A pronounced pout assailed Armand’s eyes. “Papa! I am
not
too young! I am 14! I am almost a woman!” Lenore twirled and did an exaggerated catwalk to the door of the study. She turned, giggled, and ran back to her father. Launching her long-legged body into Armand’s lap, Lenore wrapped her arms around his neck and gushed into his free ear.

“Pleeeeeze, Papa!
Please
! This is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

Armand returned to the assistant on the other end of the call. “Excuse me, señorita. Please give me a moment to confer with my daughter. I will place you on hold.”

Armand placed the receiver in the cradle, freeing his arms to embrace his precocious protégé. Smiling with hopeless love, Armand brushed a few loose hairs behind her right ear. “Lenore… This is not a game. Yes, it is a flattering request. It is also very dangerous. Something like this is not a small commitment. It could mean extensive travel, with private tutors, chaperones, and hard work. This kind of work also means leaving behind many friends. You will miss many opportunities at school. And if you do this, you must work even harder to prepare for your future. Who knows how long something like this will last? It could be over in a few months if another fresh face comes along and the public tires of you! You will also not be a model forever, Lenore. If you do this I will insist that you prepare for a future career. You must prepare for college and study for a career with long term prospects.”

“But Papa…
Please!
” Lenore kissed Armand on the cheek, hammering another crack into his granite façade. “Pleeeeeze! I promise you! I will maintain perfect grades! I will prepare for college! I will prepare for another career! I will make you and mother proud! I will make
Spain
proud! I promise!”

Armand gently pushed Lenore back and understood what Shalamar saw in the photo. Lenore’s years registered barely 14, but her body proudly proclaimed 18. He could not deny the truth. Generations of captivating Spanish beauty overflowed from his daughter’s still-developing body.

Armand kissed Lenore on the cheek and sighed as she half-pouted, half-smiled.

“Please, Papa… Please…”

The multi-millionaire pushover lifted the receiver and offered his reply. “Señorita Machado… If her mother consents… IF Alessandra consents…
Then
I will consent.
If
Alessandra says yes then
I alone
will dictate the terms of Lenore’s care. She will work for you on my terms and
my terms only
, do we understand each other?”

“Whatever you wish, Señor! We will do whatever we must to ensure that you are fully satisfied with our care of your daughter. We promise! The House of Shalamar will treat Lenore as if she were our own daughter.”

Armand groaned. The battle had already been lost. “Very well, then. I will speak with my wife and we will call you back tomorrow with our answer. Goodbye, Señorita Machado.”

Lenore screamed with delight and crushed her father with a hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you! I will not disappoint you!”

Armand embraced his daughter, willingly accepting a cloudburst of kisses to his cheeks. “Let us see if you thank me years from now, mi linda. This will be long, hard work. You may think you are almost a woman, but you have a very long journey ahead.”

Armand kissed Lenore’s forehead. He drowned in her bewitching, dark-amber eyes, perfect copies of Alessandra’s eyes, eyes he fell in love with 16 years earlier during a trade summit at the U.N.

“I will do everything I can to protect you, Lenore. But if you do this, the De La Fuente family name will be on your shoulders more so than my own. You must
never
bring shame to this family. Are you truly prepared for such an adult responsibility?”

Armand knew the answer before asking the question. Of course Lenore would bring honor to the family name. She always did.

“Papa… I will do everything you ask and more! I will make you proud! I promise! I will make you and mother proud! I will be perfect!”

With significant additional effort, including more pouting, some crying, and abundant pledging, Alessandra approved the deal later that night. A lengthy, detailed document arrived via courier at Raquel Shalamar’s offices the next morning. It outlined the full scope of Lenore’s availability (no more than 4 days a week), firm vacation requirements, requirements for a full-time tutor and body guard, and strict limits to the amount of flesh Armand would permit his precious daughter to expose. Armand knew European designers worked on canvases of flesh. Lenore’s flesh was to be respected. She would also be in bed by 9pm without fail and home in Madrid at least two consecutive days each week to spend time with her family and her horses.

With Raquel’s signature, the deal was sealed. Fourteen year old Lenore De La Fuente became the official, “Face of Shalamar.”

Within three months, Lenore’s schedule was booked a year in advance.

On the occasion of her fifteenth birthday, teen supermodel Lenore Consuela Maria De La Fuente had already banked her one millionth dollar.

Part 1

One Fine, Spring Day

One

The traveler glanced to the east, toward the Hoboken ridge. Miles in the distance, the Twin Towers played hide-and-seek, appearing and disappearing between the high-rises on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Brilliant flashes of the mid-day sun darted off the silvery exoskeletons of One and Two World Trade Center.

For a late-spring Thursday morning, the pace on the Garden State Parkway seemed unusually brisk. The traveler journeyed northward in a plush, hushed cocoon, the lone passenger in the rear seat of a jet black, 1979, Cadillac Fleetwood limousine. He rode in punishing silence, regrettably unhindered by the usual post-rush bottlenecks and breakdowns.

“When I can’t afford gridlock, I get gridlock. When I want gridlock, I get smooth sailing. Would a breakdown today be too much to ask?”

The traveler pulled a monogrammed white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, embroidered in blue with the initials “RLSC.” He gently mopped beads of nervous sweat from his forehead and lips. The putrid aftertaste of pre-dawn vomit tainted his palate. Two spritzes of spearmint-flavored spray freshened his pungent breath.

Two days shy of his 25
th
birthday, the executive in the charcoal bespoke suit drowned in conflict as he scanned the passing scenery.
“What the hell are you doing this for? What possible good can come out of this visit? Are you really such a heartless prick that you’d use Allie just to lock up the old man’s goddamned fortune…? Just to lock up the old man’s goddamned power seat with his goddamned ‘Society’?”

A blinding flash of sunlight shot through the untinted side window. The traveler squinted, lifting his forearm as a shield. The momentary distraction provided no relief from his struggle.
“And why do you even give a damn about the legacy anyway? You don’t even like the old man anymore! You hate him! Everybody hates him! Why are you trying so hard to impress that perverted prick? Why do you care more about making the old man happy than protecting Allie?”

Glancing at his watch, the traveler fidgeted with the diamond and gold cuff links of his crisply starched, custom-tailored shirt. He looked down and to his left, to the center of the black leather bench seat, to an open copy of the previous day’s paper. A black and white photo of a beaming 20-something in a hospital bed caught his attention.

June 11, 1980.

Wedding Bells Fill Hospital Halls in Long Distance Nuptials.

Sarah Tilden of Danbury, Conn. seen here in her Denver, Colo. Hospital bed saying, ‘I do!’ via shortwave radio link with her fiancé, Lt. Jack Dooley, currently stationed aboard the U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower in the South Pacific.

Ms. Tilden was one of 32 who survived the Sunday morning crash of Foothills Air Flight #873, in which 23 passengers and 2 crew perished. Ms. Tilden lost her right leg below the knee after being pinned in the wreckage for more than an hour.

The couple was to wed in December upon the Eisenhower’s scheduled return to port, but accelerated their plans after Tilden’s accident. According to Tilden, Dooley insisted on the change of date. Said Dooley of their tearful long-distance ‘I dos’, ‘Sarah has a long rehab ahead of her. Even if I can’t be there with her in person, I want her to know I’ll never leave her side.”

The traveler laughed, shaking his head at the irony.
“That poor bastard just moved heaven and earth… For damaged goods… For a woman without a goddamned leg. Must be love…”
He refolded the paper and tucked it into the center console.