Work for Hire (7 page)

“Quentin Tarantino,” he said, whispering the name with almost God-like reverence. “He’s my favorite. The man’s a genius, and I want to make movies just like his. I’ve
never
met an older chick who actually
wanted
to see his films. They’re usually too squeamish. So is
Maman
; she makes me turn them off whenever I try to show her.”

“Yeah, well,” I said with a grin—even though he had called me old—as I prepared to lie through my teeth.
All for a good cause
, I reminded myself. I could not, under any circumstances, go back to living with my parents. “I recognize genius when I see it. Even when it’s bloody.” When he said nothing more, I mentally buffed my nails. Score. Success.

CHAPTER 4

T
HE TAXI CAME
to a grinding halt smack in the middle of downtown traffic.

Brakes screeched. Horns blared. The driver cursed and gestured with his middle finger at the yellow cab that cut in front of us to make a sudden exit into a side street.

My body lurched forward and almost flew out of its seat. There was barely enough time to brace with my palm before my face connected with the Plexiglas divider that separated the backseat from the cab driver.

I groaned.
Not again.

The taxi had jerked and lurched like a bucking bronco for the past half hour. First, because of a stalled bus; then, crosstown traffic congestion. Finally, two closed lanes had obstructed all downtown traffic for what seemed like miles.

We were stuck in a stampede of cabs, city buses, and passenger cars determined to make their way through the tiny island of Manhattan.

The exhaust from all those idling engines crept into the cab like snaking smoke, slowly overpowering in its pungency. I slipped back in the seat, scrunched my nose and rolled down a window—maybe air would ventilate the stench—but rolled it back up almost immediately. Now the cab was smelly, loud
and
hot.

Not too bright.

I stared out the closed window at all the commuter madness and wanted to cry.

Mrs. Lamont had made things sound so simple.

“The kids like you,” she had proclaimed when Xander, Gemma and I finally returned to the house from our lunch. “So now you meet my husband. He approves all people who work with the children.”

Oh God
, I had to stop myself from cringing.
Please not another meeting … not today.

“I schedule a 3:30 appointment for you, in his office,” Mrs. Lamont had said. “You share taxi with my assistant. He has papers to give my husband, so he show you where to go, no?”

Assistant? I had perked up at the word. As in, Mr. GQ? If Gemma was right, Mr.
straight
and
available
GQ? Suddenly, the situation had whole new possibilities. And 3:30 was doable. If I met with Mr. Lamont promptly at 3:30 p.m., I would probably be out of his office by four at the latest. Undoubtedly a busy man, he should have little time for small talk. That would give me a solid hour to get back to school.

But it was already 3:30 p.m., and we had barely traversed four blocks since leaving Mrs. Lamont’s residence. According to Mr. GQ—Julian—we were twenty blocks away from our destination. At this rate, that would equal another two hours of stop-and-go traffic. And two hours meant I would definitely miss Constitutional Law.

Bye-bye, any hope of getting an A.

Not to mention that my appointment with Mr. Lamont was to have started
now
, at 3:30 exactly. Showing up late would not garner points in my favor, despite the fact that it was Mrs. Lamont who had insisted on the taxi. I would’ve preferred the far more reliable subway. And somehow I had the uneasy feeling that Mr. Lamont wouldn’t be interested in any excuses. He didn’t become a billionaire by waiting for his minions, even if his wife sent them. I could be out of an A
and
a job.

The possibility had me fidgeting. I crossed my right leg, uncrossed it and, when the taxi still failed to move, crossed it again, my foot jiggling like Jell-O.

“Come on, come on, change to green,” I chanted and drummed my fingernails on the cab’s upholstery. The tap-tap of my fingers or the whispered prayer must have carried because Julian, sprawled next to me, turned his head to look in my direction. He arched an eyebrow in question.

Well, well, now—finally—he’s noticed me.

I slowed my fingers and stared right back at him. Despite his sloppy pose, he still looked stunningly handsome. His head reclined against the cab’s backseat and his right arm lounged on the door’s armrest. Well-honed biceps peeped out from underneath the sleeve of his designer tee shirt. His hair looked just as thick, his jaw just as square and his eyes just as mesmerizing as before. Somehow, though, his cover-boy good looks were far less impressive now because, while I wanted to jump out of my own skin, he seemed wholly unconcerned with the traffic, the passing time—
and
me.

He hadn’t even had the decency to flirt. There had been no crooked smiles, winking creases or charged banter during this ride.
Nothing
. Not even an occasional nod of acknowledgement. He hadn’t said a word to me since we got into the taxi. Instead, he had spent
all
of the past half hour with a cell phone glued to his ear, taking phone calls from and making calls to a never-ending list of people.

His side of the conversation offered a never-ending litany of: Yes, Monique. No, Monique … Hired new guy, Monique. Don’t worry, pro in the field, Monique. Flight out 6:30 tomorrow morning, Monique. Bye, Monique.

And then: Hey James. Big shoot, man. First
Vogue
cover, man. Later, man.

And so the song went, non-stop, with only minor variations. He spoke to Monique at least ten times—as if we hadn’t just left her house—and some guy at
Vogue
who was supposed to be an art director. After the fourth person, I lost count and interest. Granted, his calls were all business, but, really, it seemed like he spoke to everybody.

Except me. And I was right there, under his nose. No phone necessary.

Foolishly, I had hoped our taxi ride would be the start of something. That it would build up to an eventual exchange of numbers. Perhaps, with luck and time, we could’ve even gone on a real date. But no. Apparently I had completely misread his prior attention. He was only interested in business. I should’ve known better. I
never
had luck with hot men.

I was going to miss out on Con Law and a job—and not even get the guy as compensation.

Julian dropped his phone in his lap.

“Something bothering you, Tekla?”

Uhh … I averted my eyes. He had said my name. He was actually talking to
me
again, his voice smooth, his dark brown eyes completely riveted on me.

Maybe I had been making too much out of the delay and just taking it out on him. After all, he was still technically working, and we were only a few minutes late.

I pulled a strand of hair away from my shoulder and twirled it. The traffic light finally changed to green and the cab revved to life. One more block down. Eighteen to go.

“I was just a little concerned about all this congestion, and that it’s already past 3:30. Maybe it would be better if I got out and caught the subway. I wouldn’t want Mr. Lamont to wait.”

Julian smiled, and out came his creases. I sighed. He was one beautiful man—in a totally masculine way.

“Don’t worry.” He leaned over to pat my leg. His hand lingered, its heat seeping through the linen of my pants. “Everything’s fine. We’ll be there shortly.”

The phone in his lap jingled to life. He pulled his hand away.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Yes, Monique … ”

“H
EY
R
HONDA
, these are for Mr. Lamont.”

Julian pulled manila envelopes out of a mailbag he had slung over his shoulder and placed them on the counter of a concierge desk. Then he winked at the heavyset woman in a velvet brocade uniform manning the downstairs lobby of Mr. Lamont’s grand office building. It was 3:50 exactly, and we had just arrived, twenty minutes late for my appointment.

Rhonda grunted in response, obviously immune to Julian’s charm.

“And this is Miss Tekla Reznar,” he continued, still smiling.

My mouth dropped open. Julian knew my last name. Mrs. Lamont must have told him, obviously, yet somehow his knowing felt rather personal. I blushed.

“She has an appointment with Mr. Lamont,” he advised Rhonda.

Rhonda swiveled her head, gave me the once-over, then punched some letters on her computer keyboard and grunted again. A nametag magically appeared in front of me; apparently I now had permission to go to the executive suite on the twenty-ninth floor.

“Got some ID?” Rhonda barked at me.

I dug my license out of my wallet.

After Rhonda looked at it, she grunted for a third time. “The elevator’s on your left.”

We were dismissed.

I grabbed the nametag and followed Julian to the elevators. He pressed the up button and faced me.

“I’ll leave you here.”

Was he going so soon?
My heart jerked.

“Best of luck. And listen, if all goes well, we should get together for dinner sometime. You know, just the two of us,” he said softly.

Stunned, I nodded in absolute agreement.

Was he asking me out? He was!
Man, oh man, I
had
to get this job, regardless of the money or my rent.

I was still nodding when Julian strutted away and I got into the elevator.

My mind screamed the statement over and over. Okay, okay, correction; he had asked me out
on the condition of my gainful employment
. But still, it
was
a potential date, and I hadn’t had one in months. Not that Markus hadn’t been asking.

I marched out of the elevator, shoulders squared. I still faced one last hurdle before I could reap a host of financial and social benefits.

Failure is not an option
, I told myself over and over again.
I survived Ms. Jacobs. I survived Mrs. Lamont. I even survived the twins from hell. I cannot bomb now.

So I located a receptionist and announced my arrival. The perfectly coiffed blonde sat at a dainty rococo desk surrounded by what appeared to be rare eighteenth century art. This pale, model-thin woman could’ve been a painter’s muse herself. And with its Italian marble, gilded mahogany, rare Persian rugs and rich velvets, Mr. Lamont’s suite was the polar opposite of his wife’s minimalist work and home space. It was the Louvre to Mrs. Lamont’s Guggenheim.

“You are very late,” the blonde scowled up from her discreetly disguised computer, the machine’s faux-antique veneer clearly meant to obliterate any traces of modernity. “Mr. Lamont left for another meeting five minutes ago. He was
not
impressed by your tardiness. Please take a seat in the waiting area and I will check if his assistant is still available to see you.”

My heart and confidence plummeted. I wanted to explain about Mrs. Lamont, the taxi, the horrible congestion, and my Constitutional Law class.

“But … ” I began.

The receptionist rudely interrupted. “Over there,” she ordered me, and pointed to a flower print settee.

I slumped over and did her bidding.

This was bad.
Goodbye, $150 per hour and goodbye, Julian.

I stared straight ahead. A long-case grandfather clock stood in my line of vision. Its bronze pendulum mocked me with its every swing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time slipped away as I sat immobilized. But then, why was
I
feeling responsible? None of this was my fault. Mrs. Lamont had scheduled the appointment without consulting me. And the receptionist? Who was she to be haughty with me anyway? I should just march right up to the desk and demand she schedule another appointment and leave. After all, I did have a class to get to.

Still, I remained seated. No point rocking the boat. Yet. I would just wait a little bit longer—five minutes, tops—and if no one came to see me by then I would definitely leave.

But five minutes stretched to ten, and then to fifteen, and twenty.

Finally, at well past four, a woman glided into the waiting room.

“Tekla Reznar?” she demanded.

This woman was in her mid-twenties and short, with a riot of red curly hair and the biggest chest I had
ever
seen. Her chest’s sheer size should have toppled her over, especially when combined with her short stature. Yet, defying all laws of gravity, she stood upright. Her chin was pointy and her eyes brown; together with her red hair, she resembled a fox, one in a skintight mini—a little short for work, if you asked me—and four-inch stilettos that did little to supplement her height.

“Please follow me.”

I got up from the settee and collected my bag. Whatever happened, I had to impress and keep this meeting under fifteen minutes. Maybe then I could still make my class.

We walked into an oversized office adorned with an uninterrupted view of the East River. Unlike the reception area, with its frilly French antiques, this room screamed
nineteenth-century man
. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases dominated the walls, and a massive Federal desk sat in its center. Two leather club chairs stood side by side in front of the desk, and an executive chair sat behind it. A subtle aroma of smoked cigars and old leather bound books lingered in the air.

The redhead slipped into one of the club chairs and gestured to the other.

“Please, join me,” she said. “I realize you had some trouble getting here. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Monique has,” she paused, as if searching for the right words, “difficulties calculating time and distance. She can be very absent-minded at times, you know. We all learn to deal with it.”

Monique?
I sat and frowned, my relief at not getting the blame dissipating. Whoever this redhead was—I had guessed she was Mr. Lamont’s assistant—she seemed extremely familiar with his wife as well.