Pleasure Seekers (23 page)

M
arcus shook his head as he walked into the kitchen after spending the night waging a campaign with Enid for sexual dominance. She’d been insatiable, her ardor surpassing his, and in the end he’d left the bed and slept on the divan on the veranda. Something had to change or they would physically annihilate each other.

Enid sat at the table in the dining area, papers strewn over the table. A silk dressing gown hung open, displaying the rose-colored love bites he’d inflicted on her neck and breasts.

She glanced up, smiling. “June’s figures are phenomenal.”

Closing the distance between them, Marcus dropped a kiss on her hair. “Good morning, darling. They’re good because of Bartholomew Houghton.”

Enid offered her lips for his kiss. “Good morning, love. Yes, but let’s not forget Faye Ogden.”

Marcus moved over to the counter and pressed a button on the coffeemaker. “Yes,” he said in a quiet voice, “Miss Ogden.”

Leaning against the counter, he stared at the pale hair grazing the neck of the woman he loved without reserva
tion. Their agreement to live together for the summer worked well. They enjoyed a comfortable camaraderie that made him believe being married to Enid would become a positive and lasting union.

Shifting on her chair, Enid turned to stare at her lover. He was breathtakingly virile in a pair of low-rise jeans. The stubble on his chin darkened his face, offsetting his normally urbane appearance. His strangely colored gold eyes reminded her of a cat—not a domesticated feline but a jungle cat.

“Why would you say her name like that, Marcus?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of Faye Ogden,” he teased without smiling.

Enid watched Marcus with a critical squint. “Of course not,” she crooned seductively. “Faye Ogden would be no match for you, darling.”

Her assessment of Bart Houghton’s latest obsession elicited a smile from Marcus. “You are such a supercilious bitch, Enid.”

“Isn’t that why you love me?”

Lifting one eyebrow, he nodded. “Yes.” Sitting down on a stool to wait for the coffee to finish brewing, he stared at the wall clock. “How are you getting along with Ilene Fairchild?”

Marcus usually did not get involved with the booking of clients or social companions, preferring instead to handle the financial component of the business, but Astrid’s inability to contact the model had sent Enid into a rage he’d never witnessed during their relationship.

“I sanctioned her for two weeks. I’m not as concerned about Ilene as I am with Alana Gardner.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Alana refused to go out with Derrick Warren. I’d thought they were getting along well.”

“Did she give you a reason why she won’t see him?”

Combing her fingers through her hair and holding it off her forehead, Enid gave him a long, penetrating stare. “No.”

Swiveling on the stool, Marcus reached for a wall phone, dialed a number, listening for a break in the connection. He counted four rings.

“Hello,” said a sleepy-sounding male voice.

“This is Marcus Hampton and I’d like to speak to Derrick Warren.”

“He’s sleepin’”

“Wake him up!”

“Who’s callin’?”

“Mar—cus Hamp—ton.” He’d enunciated each syllable.

The sweep hand on the wall clock had made four revolutions by the time Derrick came to the phone. “Hey, Mark.”

“Hey, man. I need to know what happened between you and Alana Gardner.”

“Nothing, Mark. It’s all good.”

“It can’t be all good if she’s refusing to see you again.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Other than she got too much sun the last time we were together, she seemed okay. I always send her home with my driver, so if anything
happened between the time she left my place and made it home, then I have to ask my driver.”

“Ask him, then call me back on my cell.”

Marcus hung up and checked the coffeemaker. It’d completed its brewing cycle and he reached for two cups with matching saucers. He filled the cups and added a teaspoon of sugar to each. Balancing the cups, he set one down in front of Enid, and then sat down next to her.

His left hand went to her neck, gently kneading the muscles as she sipped her coffee. “You’re going to have to stop fighting me in bed, sweetheart.”

Enid affected an expression of unadulterated innocence. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

“I thought you liked it when I’m aggressive.”

“I don’t mind you being aggressive. What I can’t deal with is you trying to control me in bed. We’re partners not combatants.” He took a swallow of the fresh brew.

Leaning to her right, Enid rested her head on Marcus’s shoulder, kissing the warm flesh. “I’m sorry, darling.”

He breathed a kiss in her hair. “And I’m sorry I marked you.”

A mysterious smile touched her mouth and found its way up to her eyes. “I really don’t mind you biting me because every time I see them I get excited all over again.”

Marcus chuckled. “You’re a freak, Enid.”

“I know. And you love this freak, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” He traced the outline of her ear with his tongue. “Are you ready to go back to bed?”

Enid flashed an attractive moue. “Now who’s a freak?”

Pushing back his chair, he came to his feet. Waiting until she put down her coffee cup, he pulled back her chair and picked her up. “You’re the freak and I’m the addict.” She pushed the tip of her tongue into his ear, causing him to stumble. “Keep that up and I’ll have you on the table.”

Enid tightened her hold on his neck and laughed until she found herself on her back, Marcus inside her, and she arching to meet his strong thrusts.

Her passion rose quickly and she forgot everything that existed except the man whose lovemaking never failed to take her to heaven and back with an ecstasy that lingered long after he withdrew from her body.

B
right sunlight came through the walls of glass in the triplex, rush-hour traffic had come to a complete stop along FDR Drive because of a three-car fender bender, barges moved slowly on the East River, their pilots ever aware of the river’s dangerous currents, and workers were streaming into office buildings on the last day of the workweek, when Faye woke up.

She was alone in the king-size bed, but when she turned over she realized she wasn’t the only one in the room. Bart sat in a club chair reading the
Wall Street Journal.
Resting her head on a folded arm, she stared at the man with whom she’d shared a bed but hadn’t made love. Aside from his mussed hair, he looked different, and she realized it was the first time she hadn’t seen him clean shaven. This morning he wore a pair of khakis, a black T-shirt and black running shoes.

“So, Sleeping Beauty finally woke up,” he drawled with a hint of laughter in his voice. “And she did so without a prince waking her.”

Smiling, Faye watched him fold the paper and place it
on a rosewood table next to the chair. “Are you that prince you speak of?”

Rising from the chair and closing the distance between them, Bart sat down on the bed. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Faye’s forehead. “Do you want me to be your prince?”

Gold and gray eyes regarded each other as the seconds ticked. “Aren’t you, Bart?” Faye asked softly.

“I may be a lot of things, but presumptuous I’m not. I would never presume to think or feel for you.”

Sitting up and pulling the hem of the sheet over her chest, Faye supported her back against the black leather headboard. “You want to know what I feel for you.” The statement came out like a question. Bart inclined his head, his gaze fusing with hers. “I like you,” she admitted, deciding it would be best if she was completely honest with him.

“If I hadn’t signed on with Pleasure Seekers I never would’ve given you a passing glance or a second thought. First, because I would’ve felt that you were too old for me, and second because I’ve never found myself attracted to white men.” His eyes widened. “White people don’t have the monopoly on racism and bigotry, and I’m not going to apologize for the way I felt.”

“Felt or feel?”

“Felt, Bart. After being with you I’m not going to change my racial preference from black to white, but I do see things differently now. I’ve always dated black men. Some were good and some not so good. And when I married Dr. Norman Burgess I believed I’d gotten one of the best. The trouble was, women loved Norman and he loved them back.

“I came home one afternoon and found him in my bed with another woman. I left and called him from the street, telling him that I was taking a walk and when I got back he and his whore had better be gone or the bedroom would become a crime scene.”

“Did he leave?”

“Yes. The next time he came back it was to get his clothes. We had a quickie divorce and I accepted the apartment in lieu of alimony. Thankfully there were no children, so we had a clean break.”

Resting a hand alongside her cheek, Bart closed his eyes. “A man would be a fool to cheat on you.”

Faye laughed softly. “You are so good for a woman’s ego, Bart Houghton.”

He dropped his hand. “I’m not in this to boost your ego.”

She met his challenging stare with one of her own. “Now that we’re into baring our souls, why don’t you tell me why you’re truly in this. Why you paid Enid Richards a million dollars for me to jaunt around the world with you. Why you’d rather see me prance around in La Perla lingerie than Victoria’s Secret.”

Bart’s face was a mask of stone. Faye was asking questions, questions he couldn’t answer because he didn’t have the answers. He knew he’d given her things, material things, but not himself. He’d feared giving her all of Bart because he wasn’t prepared for her rejection.

When he’d told Enid he wanted to contract for Faye, it was to assuage his curiosity as to why he’d found himself so drawn to her. He’d thought himself a corporate raider
looking to take over a smaller company to make it fit into his larger schematic. However, Faye did not play the game as he’d expected her to play.

She’d signed on with Pleasure Seekers to make money; her desire to set up her own business had taken a back seat to reversing her brother’s rape conviction.

“I’m in it because I like you, Faye. Why does there have to be more? Would it make it easier for you if I had an ulterior motive?”

She closed her eyes and chuckled softly. When she opened them she saw Bart staring at her with an expression that registered bewilderment. “You like me,” she said in a voice so low he had to strain to hear. “What would you do if you were in love with me?”

Bart wanted to tell her that he would relate to her in the same manner because he
was
in love with her. Moving off the bed, he stood over her, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his slacks. “We’re scheduled to lift off from the heliport around one. I suggest you pack enough for four days. I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast.” Turning on his heel he walked out of the bedroom.

Faye sat staring at the space where Bart had been, berating herself for not enjoying what he’d so freely offered. Most women would’ve clawed her eyes out to live in a triplex penthouse, wear designer clothes and shoes, and priceless jewelry. She had access to Madame Fontaine, where there was a waiting list and an annual fee of twenty-five thousand for membership, and that did not include the exaggerated rates for their spa packages.

She’d found herself caught up in a world of unlimited luxuries she’d never known and would not have known if it hadn’t been for Bartholomew Houghton, a man who claimed he
liked
her. He
liked
her, and she had fallen in love with him.

I
lene sat up in bed, her back supported by several pillows, sipping freshly squeezed orange juice while watching
The View.
“Y’all are a bunch of crazy women,” she said to the television screen.

Since Enid had sanctioned her, she’d spent most nights at home. Not used to the inactivity, she stayed up late watching television and woke up even later. Most days she didn’t get out of bed until after one. Although she wasn’t making any money as a social companion, she also wasn’t spending any. Whenever she went out to party with the few people she could still call friends, there were times when she picked up the tab for their food and drinks.

There was a time when money had meant nothing to Ilene. She’d make it and spend it without a care. Whenever her mother, brother or sister called she’d reach for her checkbook and send them whatever they’d asked for. After all, they were family, and no matter what, family would always be there when she needed them—or so she’d believed.

When she’d finally returned to the States after a thirteen-year absence, she found her mother living in a
homeless shelter instead of the house she claimed she’d bought with the money Ilene had been sending her.

Her sister, the marrying fool she was, picked up men indiscriminately, and had a couple of babies from each. Whenever she bragged that she was the sister of supermodel Ilene Fairchild they proposed marriage, believing they were moving up because of their wife’s sister.

Ilene loathed thinking of her brother, who’d become his father’s clone. Not only did they look alike, but they also treated their wives and children the same. She didn’t know why they found it so difficult to take care of their children. Whenever her brother met a new woman he left his wife. But whenever the relationship soured he moved back. This time her sister-in-law wasn’t having it, slapping his lazy ass with a restraining order while suing him for delinquent child support payments.

She was only thirty and at times felt sixty. It was as if she’d lived two lifetimes simultaneously. She’d begun working at fifteen and hadn’t stopped. It was time she let someone take care of her, and in return she would play house. She’d cook, clean and give a man what he needed to make him feel like a real
man.
And she wanted a baby, a son or daughter she would raise differently than she’d been raised.

The telephone on the bedside table rang. Leaning over, Ilene peered at the display. It read Unavailable. She waited for another ring, then picked up the cordless instrument.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Ilene.”

Ilene set down her glass, smiling. The call hadn’t come from Astrid Marti, but the person on the other end of the line ran a close second in importance. “Amelia. How are you?”

“I’m well, Ilene. I’m calling you because of what you said before you left.”

“What’s that?”

“You said you wanted financial security, and I can give it to you.”

All of her senses on full alert, Ilene sat up straighter. What was the woman talking about? Amelia had been good to pass the time with, but she would never consider her as a life partner. Ilene Fairchild was bisexual, not a lesbian. But she wouldn’t blow Amelia off until she heard what she was offering.

“How, Amelia?”

“I own half the island and the hotel, and I’m willing to give you half my share if you come live with me. I’ve had my lawyer draw up the papers. He can fax them to you so you can look them over.”

Ilene swallowed a laugh when she bit down on her lower lip. Amelia Wells was offering more than any man had—and that included the Belgian industrialist who’d taken her in as his ward the year she turned seventeen.

“How much are you worth?”

“Approximately twenty-two million in American dollars. And don’t forget I’m my father’s only heir.”

“Look, Amelia, it wouldn’t work. I want a baby, and you can’t give me one.”

“Please don’t say it won’t work until you see the agreement. There is a provision set aside for
our
children.”

Ilene grabbed her forehead, unable to believe what Amelia was telling her. “I can’t—”

“Don’t say anything until you read the agreement. Do you have access to a fax machine?”

“No.”

“Give me your address and I’ll have a courier deliver the documents to you. Read it, have your lawyer look it over, then call me.”

Ilene knew Amelia would call and haunt her unless she agreed to look at what she was proposing. “Okay, Amelia.” She gave her the address and rang off.

“Ain’t that a bitch,” she whispered. A woman was offering her what she hadn’t been able to get from a man. She wouldn’t write the beautiful island woman off until she saw the agreement.