Pleasure Seekers (31 page)

B
art walked into the second-floor formal conference room, smiling. He’d called a meeting of the entire staff to apprise them of the changes he’d put into place during his three-week absence. Those who were standing and talking quietly to one another claimed an empty chair.

He tapped Hakim Wheeler on the shoulder, and leaned over the urban planner. “Please sit in the chair at the head of the table.”

It took all of three seconds for Hakim to process what he’d been told. Rising to his feet, all eyes in the room following him, he sat in the chair Bartholomew Houghton occupied whenever he chaired a meeting. Gazes shifted to Bart when he took the chair Hakim had vacated.

Bart glanced around the large mahogany table, meeting the curious gazes of the men and women who were responsible for DHG’s ongoing success and profitability.

Lacing his fingers together, Bart paused for effect. He knew everyone was curious as to why he’d called the impromptu meeting, but after a restless night tossing and turning he’d gotten out of bed and spent the next two hours in his office-study drafting a number of documents.
His existence had changed dramatically since he’d become involved with Faye, and for the first time in his life he planned to execute a number of legal measures.

“I’d like to thank all of you for being prompt,” he began in a quiet tone. “I know you’re wondering why I called this meeting.” There were nods from everyone. “I could’ve put this in a memo but thought that would be too impersonal.” He paused again for effect as he heard intakes of breaths.

“I’m going to be out of the country for the next three weeks.”

“Where are you going?” asked a paralegal whose latest biannual evaluation indicated she had boundary issues. It was apparent her supervisor was right. A secretary on her left punched her softly on the arm. “Oops. Sorry about that.”

Bart stared at her as if she’d temporarily lost her mind, then shook his head in amazement. “Hakim Wheeler will stand in for me in my absence.” He ignored the loud gasps and the undercurrent of whispers floating around the table. “Anyone wishing contact with Hakim will have to go through Mrs. Urquhart.” A rolling of eyes and suppressed moans followed this announcement. Most employees preferred facing a rabid dog than interacting with Geraldine Urquhart.

The chief financial officer raised his hand. “Are there any other changes?”

Bart shook his head. “No. The table of organization remains the same with the exception of Hakim.” He looked
at Hakim, noting his stunned expression. The seconds ticked off until Bart said, “Thank you for your time.” Pushing back his chair, he stood up, the others rising and filing out of the conference room. Only Hakim remained.

Slipping his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he stared at Bart. “You could’ve given me prior notice,” he chided softly.

Shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest, Bart laughed under his breath. “Why, Hakim? I’d expected you to say something when I made the announcement. You’re now in a VP position, which means you’ll have to make split-second decisions.”

A muscle twitched in the chiseled jaw of the tall, dark and extremely handsome urban planner, but he did not drop his gaze as he stared directly at his boss. “Point taken, Mr. H.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Why me?”

“Why not you, Hakim?”

Hakim took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms over the front of his stark white shirt. “Why didn’t you pick Frank or Curtis?” The urban planners were senior VPs with a staff of ten between them.

“I didn’t select them because they’re not ambitious enough. Neither of them are risk takers. We never would’ve ventured into Harlem if not for you. So, I hope that answers your question.”

Hakim smiled, nodding. “Yes, it does.”

Bart patted Hakim’s shoulder. “Come upstairs with me. I’ll show you what I’ve been working on, and it’s time you become better acquainted with Mrs. Urquhart. She barks a lot, but she doesn’t bite.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Hakim countered.

“She likes you.”

Hakim walked with Bart out of the conference room. “How do you know that?”

“When I told her that I was promoting you to VP, she said it was about time I picked someone who didn’t have a face for radio.”

“She didn’t,” Hakim said, stopping in midstride as they approached the elevator.

Bart stepped in and held the door. “No shit.”

Laughing, Hakim joined Bart in the elevator as it took them to the fourth floor. This was a side of Bartholomew Houghton he’d never seen, a side he liked and could get used to.

The doors opened and he stepped out to a carpeted area where Mrs. Urquhart sat behind a massive oak desk. Her face lit up when she saw Bart with Hakim.

“Good morning, Mr. Wheeler.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Urquhart.”

She waved a delicate blue-veined hand. “You can call me Geraldine.”

Bart’s expression mirrored his shock. His executive assistant was flirting with the urban planner.

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Urquhart.”

“Hakim, please go into my office. I’ll be in as soon as I discuss something with Mrs. Urquhart.”

Waiting until the younger man was out of earshot, Bart leaned over the desk and glared at the older woman. “Hakim’s going to have enough to deal with adjusting to running this place, so I don’t want you starting up with him.”

Geraldine affected an expression of innocence. “What did I do?”

Bracing his hands on the desk, he leaned closer. “Don’t play with me, Geraldine.”

The hardness in the gray eyes and the cold, no-nonsense tone told Geraldine Urquhart that her boss was not in a teasing mood. “Okay, Bartholomew.”

Straightening, he smiled at her. “Please call A Voce and make luncheon reservations for a party of three.”

“What time?”

He glanced at the brass clock on the wall behind the desk. “One o’clock. Call Giuseppe and have him pick us up downstairs at twelve forty-five. I hope whatever it is you’re working on will be completed by that time because you’ll be joining Hakim and me.”

He made his way into his office, leaving Geraldine Urquhart with her mouth gaping. This time she had no comeback.

E
nid picked up the head shot of a very pretty Asian woman, studying her stoic expression. Although she wasn’t smiling, there was something behind the eyes that spoke to her. She pushed the photograph across the table to Astrid.

“What do you think about her?”

The booker stared at the photograph before she turned it over to read the printed information on the back. The classically trained former ballet dancer spoke English, Mandarin, Cantonese and French.

“She’s good.”

Enid and Astrid went over the more than a dozen head shots, deciding half would not be suitable for P.S., Inc. They’d selected two African-Americans, three Latinos and one Asian.

“Set up interviews for them,” Enid instructed Astrid.

“What do you want me to do with the other photos?”

“File them away. We may need one or two in the future.”

Astrid put the photos into separate folders with the corresponding labeled tabs. She opened her large cloth-covered notebook. “I want to give you an update on your fund-raiser. To date we have ninety affirmatives, twenty-
two declinations and twelve maybes. All of the declinations sent checks totaling close to two million. Bartholomew Houghton won’t be able to make it because he’ll be out of the country, but he sent a corporate donation of seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

Enid couldn’t smile. She’d gotten her Botox treatment the day before, and her face was stiff as dried cement. “Is that figure included in the two million?”

“No. A messenger just delivered his check.”

“Do you think we’ll get our five million, Astrid?”

“I don’t see why not. Senators Bruce and Kent still haven’t replied, and there’s no doubt they will be generous with their donations.” Both men were self-made multimillionaires before they decided on a career in politics. “I’ll wait until California wakes up before I start calling your Hollywood contacts.” Astrid found the three-hour time difference bothersome at times.

“Thank you, Astrid.”

The booker smiled and gathered her files. “The stationer called before you came in to say that your wedding invitations are in. They plan to deliver them this afternoon.”

A rush of color darkened Enid’s face. Anytime someone made reference to her marrying Marcus she became the proverbial blushing bride and the two-and-a-half-carat emerald ring surrounded by diamonds on her left hand was a constant reminder that she would change her name from Enid Richards to Enid Hampton before the end of the year.

And despite reminding her fiancé of their age difference
and that she would never give him a child, Marcus was insistent that he wanted her as his wife and life partner.

A week following their official engagement she was introduced to Marcus’s parents for the first time. If they were surprised to discover that their son was marrying a woman old enough to be his mother or that they would never become grandparents, they didn’t show it. Both were happy that their son had found happiness with a woman he loved enough to marry. It had taken Enid less than five minutes to see that the elder Hamptons adored their only child.

She’d planned a simple ceremony at a private villa on Saint Barts with a few close friends and business associates. The first time she’d married it was for financial security; this time she was marrying for love.

F
aye sat on a sleeper-sofa in the private jet, staring out the window. They’d been in the air for more than four hours. Bart had arranged to leave New York at 7:00 a.m. in order to arrive in France at night. Within an hour of takeoff they were served a sumptuous breakfast prepared by an onboard chef.

Their travel itinerary included three days in Paris before venturing southward to Saint-Tropez and Monaco. From there they would go to Ibiza, then over to the Italian Riviera before jetting back to the States.

She glanced across the aisle at Bart. He’d reclined his sofa into a bed and was sound asleep. She studied his composed face, feature by feature. His close-cropped silver hair was now flecked with white. He’d disclosed that he had begun graying at twenty-five, and by age forty he was salt-and-pepper.

Faye felt that if it wasn’t for his remarkable eyes, Bartholomew Houghton would’ve been thought of as nondescript. Other than the penetrating gray eyes, eyes that darkened in passion, softened in tenderness and paled in anger, he claimed no distinguishing features.

She’d asked herself over and over why she’d fallen in love with him. Why Bart and not some other man closer to her age and the same race? And each time she asked the question the answer was the same: because he is who he is. Once she extracted the most obvious variables it’d become just the man.

Bart had become her protector, someone she’d learned to trust, and a gentle, passionate and considerate lover. There was never a time when she didn’t enjoy making love with him. And when she compared him to Norman she found they were more similar than dissimilar except that Norman had shattered the trust she’d had in him. She believed it was trust and not love that reinforced relationships and marriages.

A cheeky attendant came into the cabin. She glanced at Bart. “Can I get you anything to drink, Ms. Ogden?”

She gave the woman a warm smile. “No, thank you.”

“Just ring me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Reaching for a cashmere blanket, Faye pressed a button on the armrest, reclining the back. She lowered the window shade, lay down and covered herself with the blanket. The incessant hum of the aircraft’s engines and the rising and falling motion all contributed to her relaxing enough to fall asleep.

Bart shook Faye gently. “Baby, wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “What?”

“We’re landing.”

Faye sat up. Her window shade was up and the City of Light sparkled like diamonds on dark blue velvet beneath the descending aircraft. She raised her seat back and fastened her seat belt.

Bart took the seat facing her, buckling his belt. “You slept through dinner.”

Faye covered a yawn with her hand. “Did you eat?”

“I had a salad. We’ll eat dinner at the hotel.”

She stared out the window as the jet came in for a smooth landing on a private airstrip at Orly Airport. The pilot’s voice came through the speaker announcing the local time and temperature. It was 9:03 p.m., 27 degrees Celsius.

Faye was wide awake by the time they’d deplaned and cleared Customs. A handler carried their bags out of the terminal to a parking lot where a driver had awaited their arrival. Within thirty minutes of touching down they were motoring toward the Right Bank and the Four Seasons Hotel George V Paris.

Bart assisted Faye out of the spacious sedan and escorted her into a hotel lobby filled with light, space and an impressive collection of objets d’art. Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a leather case, placing a credit card on the counter.

The desk clerk glanced up and smiled.
“Accueillir au Quatre George d’Hôtel de Saisons le Cinquième, Monsieur Houghton. Comment long cet a été?”

Bart returned the clerk’s friendly smile.
“A petit plus qu’une année, Pierre.”

Pierre swiped the card, returning it to Bart with a card
key.
“Vous et votre invitée sant au huitième étage. Est-ce que vous aimeriez manger le dîner dans votre suite?”

Bart looped an arm around Faye’s waist.
“Nous mangerons dans notre suite.”

“Quelqu’un vous apportera le bagage en haut momentanément. Encore, le dos d’accueil à Paris.”

“Merci, Pierre.”

“Will you kindly translate what you just said to the desk clerk,” Faye asked as they entered the glass-enclosed elevator. She had no idea Bart spoke fluent French.

He pulled her closer. “The clerk welcomed me back to Paris and asked how long I had been away.”

“How long has it been?”

“About fourteen months. He also asked whether we would be dining in our suite, and I said yes.”

Tilting her chin, Faye stared up at Bart staring down at her. “Where did you learn to speak French so well?”

The elevator stopped at their floor, and he led her down the hallway to their room. Inserting the card key in the slot, Bart pushed open the door. He bent slightly and swept Faye up into his arms. Lowering his head, he kissed the end of her nose. “Why are you so full of questions?”

“Why are you always so mysterious?” she asked, tightening her grip around his neck.

“You know more about me than most people.”

“I’m not most people, Bart. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the woman who has been living and sleeping with you.”

“And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the man who loves you, Faye Anne Ogden.”

Faye went completely still, her breath stopping and congealing in her lungs. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his shoulder. She’d admitted to Alana and Ilene that she’d fallen in love with Bartholomew Houghton, but she didn’t want to tell him what lay in her heart because it would make her vulnerable, vulnerable to the pain and loss when they’d eventually part.

“You’re changing the rules,” she said instead.

Bart carried her through the living room and into the bedroom suite with a direct view of the Eiffel Tower. “There are no rules when it comes to matters of the heart,” he said, placing her gently on the silk-covered duvet. He lay beside her and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. “I hadn’t planned on falling in love with you, but there was something about you, Faye Ogden, that changed my life.”

Shifting slightly, Faye stared directly at Bart. The light from the table lamps flattered the lean contours of his face. “How, Bart?”

His firm mouth softened as he smiled. “You’re fun. You make me laugh, and because you’re sexy as hell I can’t stay away from you.”

Her lashes came down, concealing her innermost thoughts. “Is this the part where I tell you that I love you, too?”

“No, Faye. You don’t have to say anything.”

She glanced up. “You don’t mind being in a one-sided relationship?”

“It’s not that one-sided, darling. I’ve been with enough
women to know when they’re faking and when they aren’t. The first time I made love with you I knew you were for real. You had to feel something to offer that much of yourself.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You would continue to see me even if I never told you that I loved you?”

Bart nodded. “I would because I’d hope and pray that one day you’d come to love me as much as I love you.”

Her heart turned over with his passionate entreaty. “I can’t love you,” she lied.

“You can’t or you’re afraid, Faye?”

Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “I’m afraid.”

“Are you afraid I’ll be unfaithful to you?”

“Yes,” she said truthfully. Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

“I’d never cheat on you, darling.”

“That’s what my first boyfriend said, and not only was he sleeping with me but also with the girl who lived next door. I managed to protect my heart until I met Norman, and he told me that same thing when he asked me to marry him. I’m sorry. I can’t go through that again.” She’d confessed to Alana and Ilene that she’d fallen in love with Bart, but that would remain their secret.

His eyes caught and held hers. “Perhaps you can explain something to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where does all of your passion come from?”

For a long moment Faye looked back at him. “I enjoy sleeping with you.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?”

“Why do you sleep with me?”

“I like you.”

“Do you sleep with every man you like?”

She frowned. “No.”

“So it goes a little deeper than liking?”

Her temper exploded. “Why are you goading me?”

His temper rose to match hers. “I want to know where I stand with you before we go any further.”

“How much further are you talking about?”

“I want you to marry me.”

Faye felt as if someone had reached into her chest to squeeze her heart. She moved off the bed as if she’d been struck with a bolt of electricity. She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the bedroom, wanting and needing to escape Bart, but she’d miscalculated his reflexes because he’d sprung off the bed, caught her arm and spun her around to face him.

“Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk. I need to clear my head.”

“If you want to leave the hotel, then we’ll go together.”

She pounded his chest with a fist. “You set me up. You wait until we’re six thousand miles from home, then you spill your guts. Why didn’t you tell me this last week? Or even last night?”

Bart held her hand to keep her from hitting him again. “Would you have come with me if I’d told you that I loved you?”

“I don’t know. Besides, it’s not the loving me that bothers me.”

He angled his head, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “It’s my wanting to marry you?” His statement had come out like a query.

“Yes.”

Even as she’d signed the documents to dissolve her marriage, Faye believed she would marry again and have a child. Bartholomew Houghton was presenting her with the opportunity, but she was unable to accept his proposal because she didn’t want to have a child with a man old enough to be her father; a man who might not live long enough to see their child to maturity.

Releasing her wrist, he cradled her face between his hands. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want you to be truthful with me. Do you love me?”

Faye compressed her lips as tears filled her eyes. “Yes.”

Bart pulled her against his body. “I—” A soft tapping on the door preempted whatever he was going to say. He pressed a kiss to Faye’s forehead. “It’s probably our luggage.”

She was grateful for the intrusion because it would give her time to recover her thoughts. She was thirty-two years old, supposedly a mature woman, but right now she was as gauche as a teenager leaving home for the first time. And for the first time since she’d contracted to be a social companion for Bartholomew Houghton, Faye felt as if she was in over her head.

Enid Richards had hired her to provide companionship to wealthy men. However, it was apparent that she was
very good at what she’d been hired to do because not only had she gotten her client to fall in love with her, but he also wanted to marry her.

Anna Nicole Smith had nothing on Faye Anne Ogden.