R Is for Rebel (5 page)

On the other hand, the brand was intensely feminine, light, delicate. She needed to exude a soft, accessible sexiness.

Eliot watched from the door as Dina transformed her expressions with the slightest twitch of her eye, a flexing of her jaw, a softening of her brow. He had to hand it to her.

She caught a glimpse of him and waved her hands in front of her face to let Willard know to stop shooting, and she grabbed at the flimsy, chiffon fabric that was coiled around her body, barely concealing her (real) breasts and her fantastic curves. She had offered herself to Eliot so many times that it had become an ongoing joke between them. She ran barefoot across the crowded studio, skipping over heavy black extension cords and lighting equipment, then threw herself into Eliot's arms.

Eliot marveled at the way such a full-formed woman could feel so weightless in his arms. It was as if she was all smooth skin and curves… and air.

“Oh, my darling Eliot! You came to see me!”

After she kissed him on both cheeks, her light hands still caressing the back of his neck, Eliot held her a few inches away. He looked at her immaculate skin, her perfectly twinkling eyes, but with the detachment of a connoisseur judging a piece of art.

She pouted up at him, her Russian accent a seductive purr. “You are no fun, Eliot. I can see you are judging me, like you would judge a fabric or a dress.”

He smiled to let her know she was right. “You're one of my best investments, Dina. Of course I must reassess your value every now and then.”

“You're a cruel man. If you didn't pay me so much, I would quit, then you wouldn't be my boss and I could show you my best work. This silly rule of not sleeping with your colleagues.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It is so small-minded and American of you…”

Eliot knew that Dina had probably had to sleep with half the men in her small, dismal hometown outside of Samara in order to make her way to the runways of Milan, and that she was ultimately grateful that Eliot was not one more sexual line item on her to-do list, but he kept up the charade nonetheless. She had an ego that needed massaging as much as the next girl, despite (or because of) the hard won confidence and ambition she had built up around herself.

“You know I welcome the expiration of your contract as much as you do.” He winked. “But since, thanks to your fierce legal wrangling, it is still over ten years away, perhaps you will release me into the arms of other women?”

She smiled and let her arms fall away from his neck. “I suppose I must throw you back, then.”

Benjamin Willard had snapped a few random shots of the two of them in their embrace. From the artist's aesthetic perspective, Dina and Eliot were almost too beautiful to be interesting. Willard had made his place in the art world by seeing the obscure, by teasing out the nearly grotesque, and showing the transformative beauty of the human face. Eliot and Dina were both over six feet tall, exuding an almost palpable health, vitality, and confidence. Willard mused that they were too magnificent together… Olympian gods who would only instill jealousy in the rest of the mere mortals. Willard tilted his hand and looked at the digital screen on the back of his camera, scrolling back to the first image of Dina and Eliot, and paused to contemplate the gleam in Eliot's eye. Willard zoomed in on the small screen, taking a closer look at the particular expression that played across the man's face, then he looked up from the image to the man himself.

Well, well, well. The usually transparent Eliot seemed to have a new secret.

Willard walked across the cluttered studio and reached out to shake Eliot's hand. Dina was making her way back to the white backdrop to resume the photo shoot.

“How's it going, Cranbrook?”

Eliot smiled at Ben's use of his last name in greeting and then replied, “Very well, sir.”

Ben Willard was well into his sixties, and Eliot had had to kiss his ass for months to get him to take on the Fauchard campaign. All that crap about being an artist and not wanting to sully his reputation with all that dirty commercial work. Eliot offered him complete artistic license, final approval of Dina, and enough cash over the next ten years to ensure the financial security of generations of Willards to come. The artist finally caved—or rose to the occasion, depending on your perspective—and a solid professional relationship had easily grown into a friendship built on mutual respect and humor. But Eliot continued to treat him like the old, demanding, pain in the ass that he was, just for the hell of it. “How are you holding up under the strain, old man?”

“Maybe better than you, I think.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a little something around the eyes is giving you away.” The older man's hand gestured toward Eliot's face, as if considering the angles.

Eliot shook his head. “Am I so transparent?”

“Aaah, so there is something… or, I daresay, someone?”

“I should know better than to show my face around you… much better to catch up by phone and avoid these probing interrogations.”

“That bad, eh?”

“I haven't been this distracted by a woman since, well, since ever, I suppose.”

Willard turned to one of his studio assistants and told her to get the lighting back up and prepare Dina to continue shooting, then returned his attention to Eliot. “Six months ago, I thought you were finding the shoe maven distracting…”

“I might have, but she was immune to my charms… thankfully, as it turns out. This one is something else altogether.” Eliot shook his head and unconsciously rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers, refeeling the texture of her hair.

Willard's smile was broad and knowing. “Let me guess… she's… unusual?”

“Oh, Ben, it's going to be such a battle.”

“You of all people can ply her with luxurious inducements, no?”

“Alas, I think I'm falling for the only woman on the planet who has an ingrained resentment of the entire luxury goods market.”

Ben Willard slapped his young friend on the arm and barked a laugh. “Oh, this is rich!” Then he turned back to his craft.

Eliot spent the morning and part of the afternoon hanging around the studio, enjoying the buzz and whir of creative energy that fueled everyone there. The young studio assistant, a lovely redhead who couldn't have been more than twenty-two, tried to catch his eye more than once. He shook his head to let her know his answer was no, as much as to laugh at this crazy world of his. He certainly wasn't above the casual sexual encounter, but suddenly he seemed to have lost his taste for it.

Things were going to go very badly for him if he failed to bring Abigail to her knees… the metaphor led immediately to the delectable possibility of Abigail on her knees, and loving being there, wanting to be there as much as he would adore her being there. He tried to resent the rapidity with which the mere thought of her burned right through him, but it was unavoidable.

At best, he could stifle it.

He pushed himself roughly from the edge of the work table he'd been leaning against, called a farewell salute to Ben and Dina, and headed back out to the hallway. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon and the heat assaulted him as soon as he exited onto the street; his cell phone vibrated and buzzed about seventeen times. Apparently he had been in a no-cell-reception zone up there in the ether. He paused on the sidewalk to glance at several emails from his assistant in Geneva and others from the negotiators in Milan, then switched over to his texts and felt an involuntary flush of pleasure at what he saw from Abigail. Two little words.

can't sleep

He rechecked the time and tried to weigh his options. He was scheduled to take the nonstop from Miami to Milan later that night, but he knew there was also a British Airways flight to London. He could have a quick layover in the UK and postpone his meetings in Milan until Wednesday morning. He could even get to Milan for dinner on Tuesday, he tried to rationalize. He had lots of clients in London. Lots of clients who would wonder what the hell he was doing in London when he had one of the biggest deals of the year sitting on the table in Milan.

Eliot ground his teeth together as he repressed the urge to change his flight plan. He could go a week without her. He'd go to London in a few weeks to touch base.

He tried to think of something quick and light to text back:

sweet dreams…

or…

dream of me…

or…

rest up…

or…

neither can I…

or…

meet me in Milan…

Definitely not
meet
me
in
Milan
. He opted for practical:

where will u be next week & may I meet you there?

His thumb hovered over the send button for many long seconds… then he deleted the
may
I
meet
you
there
… but then it seemed too interrogatory, just
where
will
you
be
next
week?
A non sequitur.

Damn it.

He spent less time drafting an IPO, for chrissake. He erased it all and stared at the blinking cursor.

am standing on a sweltering street corner in miami picturing you not falling asleep… sweet misery

He hit send, shoved his phone into his pocket, and then got into his waiting limousine. He returned to the hotel and swam laps for an hour until his arms and legs and psyche were mercifully benumbed. He showered, changed into a pair of jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, packed his small bag, took the limo to the airport, and boarded the 6:45 p.m. Alitalia flight to Milan. Eliot was asleep before they were airborne.

Max was not kidding when he said Bronte would bombard Abby with ideas, suggestions, contacts, and leads to aid in her search for a meaningful next step in her life plan. They had arrived back into the private airfield at Crawley just before midnight on Sunday, Max and his brood returning to Dunlear Castle, Abby and her mother to London, and by eleven o'clock Monday morning, Abby had received fourteen emails from her sister-in-law. She called Bronte from her mother's house in Mayfair with a laughing order to call off the cavalry.

“Bronte! You're too much!”

“So I've heard.”

“Stop! This is more than enough to get me started. In fact, before I speak with anyone, I think I'm going to begin at the bank. I need to have a clear idea of my resources, and I've been woefully irresponsible in that department. I just trusted my dad and then Max and Devon to keep an eye on the big picture while I used my Coutts cash card when I needed it. Pathetic really.”

“All good problems to have, Abby. Don't forget that.”

“I know. I'm certainly not complaining, just trying to be clearheaded. I really appreciate all these contacts, Bron. Is there anyone in particular I should start with?” Abby wasn't sure whether or not to mention Eliot's idea to speak with the corporate communications department at Danieli-Fauchard to inquire about some of their charitable contacts. Bronte's boutique advertising agency specialized in the luxury goods market, so for all Abby knew, some of the names she'd given her were the very same ones Eliot would have suggested.

“You know, you might want to talk to Eliot Cranbrook about Melanie Grey and Stephen Knickerbocker. They're pretty heavy hitters.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that he might have some ideas…”

“He did?” There was a hint of keen curiosity in Bronte's voice, but Abby chose to ignore it. “Well, not to be overly mercenary,” Bronte forged ahead into the silence, “but an introductory call from a major CEO might be more, how shall we say, expeditious, than a friend-of-a-friend in New York. What else did Eliot have to say? Did you talk to him today? Is he in London? I'd love to get that little Amelia leather goods account, and he's so totally impossible and unaccommodating when I see him socially.” Bronte had clearly switched gears to business mode, but caught herself. “I mean, he's fabulous, of course.”

“Good lord, Bronte! You are worse than Devon with your run-on thoughts. I think Eliot's in Miami.” Then a touch more seriously than she had intended, she said, “He is kind of fabulous, isn't he?”

“Oh my god, you like him!”

Thank god they were on the phone and not with each other in person or Bronte would have tortured Abby endlessly to extract every incipient emotion. “Bron! Stop! Of course I like him—”

“Oh, you stop! You know what I mean. This is too perfect. I saw you guys together at the wedding and over the past few months and all that, but, you know, you just seemed like such, I don't know, best buddies. All that arm patting and back slapping.” Bronte laughed, “Hilarious! It must have been driving you crazy—all that
fraternizing
!”

“Berserk.”

“Well. What do you know?” Bronte's voice was warm and kind, then serious. “He's intense in his way, isn't he?”

“Yeah, I got that. I'm not sure we're pulling into the same station.”

“Why? What the hell happened?” Bronte's voice switched gears from laughing friend to protective lioness so quickly that Abby almost didn't recognize the sound of her.

Since Abby's only sister Claire was many years older and had been holed up in northern Scotland for the past twenty years, the big sister inquisition from Bronte was not entirely unwelcome. Despite Abby's newfound détente with her mother, there were obvious topics that she would never in a million years broach with her. Topics like wanting sex on the beach.

“That's the problem!” Abby laughed to break the tension. “Nothing happened. I mean, after you and Max and I were having drinks on the deck Saturday night, and then you and Max went back inside, I saw Eliot down on the beach and I went down and hung out with him for a little while, and then he walked me back to the villa and that was pretty much it.”

“Mm-hmm. Pretty much it, huh?” Bronte sounded theatrically skeptical. “I'm waiting.”

“Well, I mean, I wanted to kiss him… I pretty much
asked
him… oh, this is mortifying…”

“Oh no! Was it disappointing? What a nightmare? Do you think he's ambivalent? Were you not into it? Was it a turnoff because he was a guy? Do you miss Tully?”

“No!” Abby nearly shrieked, then laughed.

“Oka-a-a-ay,” Bronte smiled through her voice as she let the word string out a bit.

“I mean, no.” Abby tried to keep her tone light. “He wanted to, you know, whatever—this is a ridiculous conversation.”

“No, it's not! It's fun! Don't you ever squeal to your girlfriends about crushes?”

“To be perfectly honest, Eliot is sort of my first… real… crush…”

“Oh, sweet Abigail. You make me feel like such a harlot. First crush… just the words. You're doomed, of course.” The lioness was gone and the brass-tacks businesswoman was back.

“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, Bron.”

“You know what I mean; they don't call it a crush for nothing. Someone usually ends up crushed, you know, like a bug.”

“I get it.” Abby gave a small laugh, but her gut turned a bit at the very real possibility that she would be the one who needed to be scraped off the rolled-up newspaper. Or worse, that she would do that to Eliot incidentally; did she really need a boatload of emotional ballast or just a light, sexual novelty?

“You might have started a little bit closer to the shallow end, Abby. He's kind of all that and a bag of crisps, isn't he?”

“Jesus, Bronte. Are you trying to make me feel better or terrify me?”

“Right! Right. Um, do you have plans to see him anytime soon? How did you leave it in Bequia? Has he been in touch with you since Saturday night? Oh my god, you don't even have a cell phone! This is hilarious. It's like
A Connecticut Yankee
in King Arthur's Court
!” Bronte was now totally amusing herself.

“Whenever you're ready to come back to this conversation, just let me know, Bron.”

“Oh, but Abby, admit it! It's amusing.”

“It's not totally without humor. He gave me a cell phone.”

“Max!!! Abby got a cell phone—”

“Bronte! Stop! You're an infant.”

“I know, but it's just so prime. You and your siblings must just wake up one morning and think,
Hmm, today I shall go forth and fall head over heels for someone completely
antipodal!”

Abby heard Max join Bronte in the background. “Please, Bron. Please don't say all that beach stuff to Max. I know you tell him everything, but please, just a little privacy on that point.”

“Of course, and I don't tell him everything.” Abby could envision Bronte winking at Max across the room. “Just the good parts.”

“Well, none of my good parts, please.”

“Since you haven't given me any, I don't think you're in danger. So did you kiss him or not?”

“Bron! I can hear Max shuffling around in the background.” Abby tried to be peeved, but Bronte's silly humor was contagious. “All right, so no, we didn't kiss because… damn if I even know why. I think Eliot didn't want it to be some tawdry little sex-on-the-beach scenario and then he started joking about me living in Geneva…”

“Hmm.” Bronte was taking a sip of something as she listened. “That sounds promising… I mean, I've heard his house in Geneva is fabulous. I saw it in some shelter magazine a few months ago.”

Abby laughed. “I'm not moving to Geneva, Bron! He did invite me to go to Miami with him.”

“Oh! How much fun! I love Miami! When are you going?”

“I said no… it was yesterday… or today… or whatever…”

“So let me get this straight. Like the hottest single guy on the planet invited you to go to Miami with him and you said no because… why?”

“I know!” Abby laughed again. “I don't know what to make of any of it—especially when I start thinking of him as the hottest single guy on the planet, so let's ignore that whole part for now, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Bronte said, then lowered her voice to a whisper, “but he is so fucking hot, isn't he?”

With her heart hammering in her chest, Abby tried to sound normal, lowering her voice to match Bronte's. “I think yes.”

“You are so buttoned up, just listen to you, poor thing. Anyway, so what's next? No Miami. When will you see him?”

“I don't know. He texted me. On my little private Eliot Phone.”

“Oooh, I love that! How borderline creepy!”

“I know it. But I have to admit, I think it's sort of James Bond adorable. Am I an idiot?”

“Stick with adorable. Everything about falling for someone is idiotic. Get used to it. I've never been more of an idiot than when I met your brother, right Max?”

Abby heard her brother corroborate Bronte's idiocy, but she also heard the sweet sound of a tender kiss through the receiver that Bronte must have been holding near her neck.

“Anyway, enough about me for now,” Abby continued. “While you've got Max there, may I have a quick word?”

“Sure. And please call me anytime about the nonprofit contacts and that other
beach
stuff. I may have been a moron with your brother at first, but I certainly know how to come through in the finish. Don't ever be afraid to pick up the phone and give me a call. Ciao, Abby!”

“Thanks, Bron. Bye.”

“Hey, Abs.” Max's voice was deep and sure.

“Hey, Max. I was going to make an appointment at Coutts this week to go over my accounts and investments, and I would love it, if you're in town, if you wouldn't mind going with me?”

“Of course. It's about time. Not that I minded… minding it for you, but I'm glad you're taking a proprietary interest. It's yours after all and you should do with it what you think best. I think Dad really believed that you would do something great, something more ambitious or risky than Claire, or Devon, or I would ever do.”

“Well, I don't know about that, but I won't be buying any Aston Martins, so there's that.” Max and Abby laughed together at their brother Devon's extravagances.

“I was planning on coming into town on Thursday, would that work?” Max offered.

“Thanks, Max. That would be perfect. What time shall I set up the appointment? Does nine o'clock work for you or is that too early?”

“Nine o'clock is perfect. That'll give us a couple of hours to go over everything with the private bankers, and I can set up my other meetings for after lunch.”

“A couple of hours? I thought it would just be… a half hour to look over a spreadsheet, or something.”

“Or something. Hold on a sec.” Max said something quiet and gentle to Bronte, then walked across the hall to his office. Abby heard his footsteps and the sound of the door closing and pictured Max sitting down behind their father's old desk, now his desk. “Listen, Abby, you need to prepare yourself. We all got the same five million pounds when we turned twenty-one, which was perfectly generous by any stretch of the imagination, but when father died, he split the remainder of his liquid assets equally five ways, between Mother and the four of us.” Max paused. “I know you know all of this, on some level, but you were so out of it at Father's funeral and you chose not to come to the reading of the will, and, well, I get it, you were devastated. But if you're serious about taking this on, as you should be, serious, I mean, then you need to face facts: You have a substantial fortune. The five million was the very tip of the iceberg, Abby. I'm not trying to be intimidating, but you're an extremely wealthy woman. Your expenses have been laughably small—at one point, the bank actually called me and implied that Devon and I had secretly cut you out of your share, and we had to convince them that you managed to live quite happily on two thousand pounds a month, and that you preferred to reinvest all of your dividends. It wasn't as if we were reaping any benefit from your monastic lifestyle.”

Abby laughed quietly, and didn't bother telling Max that she usually ended up giving away most of her monthly allowance also. Living frugally had started out as a game and had become a way of life. She enjoyed the freedom of knowing she could work on a farm or canvass for a charitable organization, that no matter what happened, she could be self-supporting. Especially when she was a teenager, she had nearly suffocated under the weight of her aversion to all that dirty money and the inherent perpetuation of the centuries-old elite patriarchy that defined her family, and by extension her country, and her world. The obvious fact that she was living proof that her father did not subscribe to the traditional ideas of primogeniture and male succession did not seem to enter her flawed adolescent reasoning. Her father was a lover of women: a lover of one woman in particular, and all women in general.

“So, give me a number, Max. What do I need to be prepared to hear?” Abby asked with trepidation.

“Your share is probably now worth around thirty million pounds. Not including the properties, of course.”

Abby's voice was dry and hollow. “Of course.”

“Abs?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't freak out.”

“I'm not freaking out.”

“Yes, you are. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Okay. I am freaking out a little.”

“Just take it one step at a time. See if you can make the appointment with both Roger Stanhope and Caroline Petrovich. Roger knows the whole family history, of course, but I think you'll be more comfortable with Caroline. Do you want me to make the call?”