by Mara Purl
He ended the connection and glanced again at his luminous hands of his Rolex. A little over two hours until I’ll be getting ready to pick her up. What am I gonna do until then? We had the feeling time was about to stand still again.
Chapter 16
Zelda’s McIntyre’s plans were working out perfectly: Joseph Calvin had agreed to see her late this afternoon. She’d been spending the day making meticulous preparations.
This morning, she’d checked through the large black-leather portfolio she used to show reproductions of the paintings, prints and drawings of her artists. Opening the multi-ringed built-in binder, she pulled out all but the few pages that would show Miranda’s most appropriate pieces.
She’d spent the afternoon at the UCSB library, reading every microfiche that tracked the previous decades of his corporate life: his astounding rise through the ranks of fellow Harvard grads; his rapid-fire corporate acquisitions; the formation of Calvin Oil. She enjoyed doing research, especially since the local library stocked her favorite business resources: Standard & Poors, and Value Line, with its comprehensive updates.
The L.A. Times had done its share of covering the oil business in California. In particular the paper had detailed the 1969 Santa Barbara oil spill—still the second-largest oil spill in the U.S. after the Exxon Valdez—had generated plenty of ink at the time. Though Calvin Oil had not been involved—the blowout had occurred on a Union 76 offshore platform—still, the devastating spill had brought unwelcome attention to all the oil companies doing business in Southern California.
Of more interest to Zelda were two major pieces: the Wall Street Journal’s front page column chronicling Joseph and his rise to power; and The Financial Times’s corporate profile. She’d found it surprising that the British press had paid such attention to a relatively small U.S. oil firm, until they’d punctuated their coverage with details of the acquisition of West Wales Petroleum. It had not by any means been Joseph’s first foray into the international arena. But it’d been his son Zackery’s. I bet Joseph watched the development of that deal like a hawk.
She read some about the son as well: like his father, a Harvard man on a fast-track to success, now Vice President of the family firm. He’s obviously being groomed to take over the business at some future date, and it sounds like he’s actually earned his title.
To round out her picture of the Calvins, Zelda had also pored over the social pages of the Santa Barbara Register, where both father and son appeared with some regularity. The father was described as a widower who’d lost his wife many years earlier; the son listed as a bachelor. And the press sometimes referred to their home, an estate called Calma somewhere up in the Hope Ranch area.
Zelda carefully noted the name—and if possible the face and the wardrobe—of every woman seen on Joseph Calvin’s arm over the past five years. Mostly they were thin, wispy things, she decided, WASPish and pearled, well-heeled and-coifed. But they weren’t womanly.
Once or twice there seemed to be someone substantive—a female CEO or Ambassador—but they were always jowly and thick through the middle, vastly intelligent in conversation, she imagined, but probably too serious-minded to flirt.
I may not have their credentials, but I’d say my face and figure are better than anyone I see in the newspapers.
On her way home, she’d thought about how she and Joseph might look together. He’s tall compared to me, so I can wear my higher heels. Good. They sculpt the leg, adding drama and sex appeal to any outfit.
Picturing herself in photos with him in the Register, she allowed herself a moment to fantasize. If things went especially well today, and she and this interesting man ever did start to see each other, what kind of clothes would she need to wear?
Back at her apartment, she chose a few items and hung them together where they’d be easy to grab, in case of any future impromptu encounters. Then she laid out her clothes for today, remembering that whatever she wore, it’d have to coordinate with the portfolio. The Diane von Furstenberg black silk cross-over wrap dress I think. Something classic for our first meeting. This’ll work for cocktails or dinner too, in the event we get that far. But I do need a touch of color.
Sorting through her scarves, she chose the Hermes “Phoebus”: shimmering gold sun-faces and ribbons on a black field. When tied, it would just look like swirls of gold on black. The blouse was cut just a little too deep for the usual business meeting. I have a sense Joseph likes flirtation. I won’t have to wait long to test my theory.
Zelda’s Charles Jourdan pumps—black, gold-buckled and three inches high—clacked across the marble then sank into the plush carpet as she traversed the geometrically designed upper foyer of Calvin Oil. Outside the CEO’s office, a fashionable, silver-haired secretary stood behind her desk to greet her. “Ms. McIntyre?”
“Yes.”
“If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let Mr. Calvin know you’re here.”
I’m not about to wrinkle my skirt before I meet him. “Thank you, but I’ll stand.” She moved to the small waiting area across from the secretary’s desk, bent to lean the large leather portfolio against a chair, and pick up a magazine she didn’t intend to read.
Behind her, she overheard the secretary lift her telephone receiver and speak softly. A moment later, the secretary said “You may go in now.”
Zelda dropped the magazine, lifted the portfolio and spun on her heels. With a quick “Thank you,” she headed toward the leaded-glass doors and pushed through.
An attractive man in a charcoal Armani suit stood behind his desk. “Ah, Ms. McIntyre.” He walked around toward her. “How nice to meet you.”
To shake his hand, she shifted the portfolio to her left. Dashing—there’s no other way to describe him: the hair steel gray, the face clean shaven, the voice smooth and rich, the handshake firm. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Calvin. It’s very good of you to see me, especially on short notice.”
He ushered her in.
Flawless, she thought. Classic Art Deco: circa 1915 I’d say for the doors; 1930 sideboard with its Eugene Printz signature folding panels; and a newly constructed desk to match. Why, it even makes the fax machine look stylish. “My, this is a stunning office. Art Deco is one of my favorite periods.”
“Glad you approve. We do like to work in a pleasant environment.” Joseph motioned her to be seated and walked around behind his desk. “I understand you’ve met my son Zackery.”
“Is that what your secretary told you? I’m sorry. Actually it was an artist I represent who met Zackery.”
Joseph Calvin stood behind his desk, assessing this woman with her confident stride and unflinching eye contact. What color are they? Could they be violet? A sweep of gleaming black hair set them off. And as she lowered herself to the chair he’d offered, he watched her slim skirt rise against sheer black stockings.
He drew his attention away from her appearance and thought back to what she’d said a moment earlier—that Mary had misreported his son’s meeting with her. But after all these years, he knew his secretary’s patterns. Mary wouldn’t make a mistake like that. So Zelda McIntyre has more than one agenda at this meeting. His eyes followed the fold of her wrap dress, the two sides of which didn’t overlap until they met at her gold-buckled belt.
Her expression flickered, as though allowing his appraisal. The light shadowed her contours in golden-red and glinted off a dazzling scarf—he thought he recognized it as an Hermes design.
She couldn’t have chosen more ideal lighting. Maybe she planned it that way—in which case she thinks strategically. She strikes me as someone who would. What could’ve been her plan, asking to meet at the end of the workday? First, that flattering glow would hold just until their meeting concluded. Then the sun would slip below the horizon, and perhaps she hoped to find herself having an unexpected dinner invitation. Yes, that would make sense, if she’s in the habit of using her looks to get what she wants. It’d be one way to foil my home court advantage.
But he mig
ht be getting ahead of himself.
Zelda slid the scarf away from her throat, draped it on the back of the chair and smiled. “I thought since your son discovered my client’s work—and he seems very interested—that perhaps some of her pieces would be appropriate for Calvin Oil.”
“I see.” And he did see, missing no details as he sat in his office chair and lifted his gaze to her face. “And why appropriate here?”
“Mr. Calvin, as divinely tasteful as your offices are, don’t you feel there’s something missing?”
Keeping a steady gaze on her, he replied, “I’m sure you’ll tell me if so, Ms. McIntyre.”
“Works of art, Mr. Calvin. You could enhance this room with, well—depending upon your taste—anything from Picasso to Tamara de Lampika.”
Is she testing to see how art-savvy I am? “I don’t think nudes quite fit the corporate image, do you?” The fleeting mention of a nude flashed through the room like heat lightning, charging the atmosphere.
“I see you’re extremely well-informed.” She crossed her legs and sunlight played on the sheen of her stockings. “I’ve been giving some thought to your needs as an oil corporation, and it occurs to me that your public image would be greatly enhanced by environmental works of art, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stroking his chin, he considered her remark. “I do agree with you there.”
Zelda lifted the portfolio to her lap and began to unzip its edge. “I took the liberty of bringing some reproductions with me.” She stood to heft the portfolio, then leaned forward, the gape of her neckline revealing even more of her rounded breasts. Never mind the paintings. I’ve got a terrific view right now.
He watched, mesmerized for a moment as she tried to work the stuck zipper while wrestling the heavy, awkward case onto the desk.
He popped up from his chair. “Let me help you.” He reached across the desk to spread the pages of the portfolio. But as it opened, his hand caught, instead, the edge of her neckline, grazing her half-exposed breast.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
“Pardon me!” he cried. “I didn’t mean to—”
“—No, of course not—”
“I do apologize.”
“No need.”
He saw the sudden flush on her cheeks begin to fade, noticed that her breathing was returning to normal. More than I can say for my own.
”So,” she began in a surprisingly steady voice. “Here’s one of Ms. Jones’s recent pieces, now hanging in the Finders Gallery in Milford-Haven.”
He read the title, Pacific Laps, then his eyes swept across the printed landscape. Though the scene was a simple one—waves lapping a scalloped coastline of mountains that trailed away to haze—still, the artist had captured the detail of California’s Central Coast so specifically, anyone could almost hear waves and smell pines. And this is only a reproduction.
Joseph’s eyes returned to Zelda’s. “That’s a gorgeous piece.”
“I’m glad you agree. Would you like to see more?”
Careful how you answer this. “I would. However, I’m out of time for today.”
“What would you say to allowing me to look around for you, and bring one or two more samples for you to see in a few days?”
Joseph studied her for a moment longer. This is it—the closer. This is my cue to initiate a business deal. Or … I could invite her to have a drink. But as he considered that unexpectedly pleasant prospect, he realized he was having an even more unexpected response to this woman. Right when he needed to think clearly, his pecker decided to have a mind of its own. Damn! I can’t even move from behind my desk!
To cover his discomfiture, he shut the portfolio and began to zip it—as clear a signal of closure as he could muster, under the circumstances. “Thanks for coming, Ms. McIntyre.”
“Let’s make that Zelda.” She pushed herself away from his desk. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed, Mr. Calvin.”
“Joseph.”
She turned, reaching for her scarf and, sliding it off the chair, draped it expertly into the fold of her dress—which struck him as her own signal of closure. She picked up the portfolio, then extended her hand. “Many thanks for our meeting. I’ll be calling you soon.”
Joseph remained standing behind his desk. I can’t walk her to the door. “Very good,” he said. He saw a flicker of irritation cross her features before she turned away, and he watched her shapely behind as she sashayed out of his office.
Zelda McIntyre exited his office quickly. I may be vexed, but he’s damn well not going to see it. Does he think he can flirt through our whole meeting, then just dismiss me? Her heels hitting the marble, she pressed the down button, and, suddenly hot, yanked her scarf from her cleavage.
I mean, he did touch my breast. I thought that was accidental, but then again he did take advantage of the moment. Oh, where the hell is the elevator? The wait was interminable, but she forced herself into professional composure until she could clear the building. To distract herself from her rising anger, she tried concentrating on the new business opportunity. By the time the elevator doors opened, she’d already made her preliminary choices of what paintings to bring to Joseph Calvin, and whether they should hang in conference rooms, public foyers, or private offices.
I’ll also have to postpone as long as possible Miranda finding out her paintings will soon grace the walls of an oil company! These ideas filed themselves with practiced discipline into their appropriate categories, to be remembered in perfect detail when she needed them.
Yet as the elevator finally descended, her thoughts kept returning to the floor above. I was right—he is flirtatious. He certainly responded to me. He was trying to keep it all business, but he just couldn’t resist me. She thought back to his friendly demeanor, his cordiality, and his obvious admiration of her décolletage. That moment when his hand brushed against me… now that I think about it, it was rather satisfying how his face flushed. I know mine did!
The elevator doors opened, and Zelda walked toward the parking structure. But what happened at the end there? What made him so stern all of a sudden? Why didn’t he walk me to the door? Up till then, he was a model of courtesy. Zelda unlocked her black Jaguar. The ‘95 X300 had four doors and all the special features the company offered, including leather interior trim which they listed as “oatmeal”—though she herself named it “champagne.” After stowing the portfolio in the back, she slid into the driver’s side, placing her purse on the passenger seat.
I wonder if… oh! He couldn’t do anything but stand behind his desk because…, She felt heat travel from her center and flush across her cleavage. Well, in case I was wondering whether or not I can get a rise out of him … now we both know!
Grinning, she started the motor, checked behind her to see a car waiting for her spot. Reversing carefully, she moved into the lane and wound slowly down toward ground level. I was getting to him more than he wanted to admit this early in our … dare I call it a relationship?
And how many other women might he be seeing at the moment? Anyone serious? Was his social life really as full as the newspapers suggested? Or did he rattle around alone in that mansion most nights?
I want to get back at him for all that flirting with no payoff. She smiled again. We’ll call it revenge—but it’ll be sweeter than crème brûlé and twice as smooth. I’ll have that dinner date soon. And with one corner of her Hermes, she soaked up the tiny beads of sweat that had collected between her breasts.
Joseph Calvin felt a certain relief at Zelda McIntyre’s departure. She’s like a motorized skiff zooming too fast through the harbor, unsettling all the docked boats with her wake. Not that he didn’t admire the flash of purpose, the sparkle of style. She creates a vivid impression; I’ll give her that. And I like that in a woman.
With a pang of guilt, he realized some of those same qualities had first drawn him to Chris Christian. But for all her honesty and directness, Chris had subtlety. Zelda was obvious. Perhaps it came with being voluptuou
s. That chest is heroic, and she knows exactly what to do with it. He found himself drifting into arousal again. The woman isn’t even here, and she still gets to me.
He felt suddenly disloyal, because he and Chris had an understanding. Neither of them wanted commitment, and there were few expectations. He knew she saw other men. He did his best to ignore that fact, and allowed himself, instead, to imagine that all her late dates were contacts with story sources. Against his better judgment, he found that he cared for her increasingly.
He thought back to Monday—two mornings ago. They’d spent the night at her place this time, and he’d wakened first while she still slept. He’d continued to lie by her side, enjoying her quiet breathing and the first rays of light as they filtered through slatted blinds to land softly on her blond hair.
A wave of tenderness swept over him then, a combination of protectiveness and desire. She’d looked so young. “Not that young!” she’d often chastise him. “What’s a fifteen-year age difference between friends? I’m thirty-five going on sixty,” she’d say. She was right, as usual, wise beyond her years.
In that quiet moment he’d stroked her hair and it wakened her. The usually wily eyes opened into a vulnerable and willing partner, and they clung to each other, submitting to a sudden passion as deep as need.
And right in the middle of things, her damn phone rang. She reached for it automatically, but he was on top, and from there it was easy for him to press her arms back into the bed. It turned into a playful arm-wrestling session while her machine broadcast her outgoing message. “You’ve almost reached Chris Christian with Satellite News, and if I’m not here, I’m covering a story. After the beep, you know what to do.”
While her prerecorded voice played, Chris grew more athletic. “Time for some real coverage, Calvin.” She giggled, slipped out from under him and rolled on top, pinning him down in turn.
“Nice move. Show me those muscles,” he teased.