Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket

by Lily Flowers

  She took in her breath as her lover fixed her with a warm eyed gaze of pure adoration.

  “It was all your idea, darling,” he reminded her, adding as he clasped his hands together before him, “And now the three of us are going to run with it. I’ve arranged for us to fly out to London next week, to shoot the cover of “Pride and Passion” at Kew Gardens.”

  “The Royal Botanic Gardens?” Helena gasped, exchanging shocked looks with an open-mouthed Blaine.

  Trey nodded.

  “We’ll be dressing Blaine here as Lord Trace—and you, of course, will be adorned in the period finery that would only befit the charming Lady Helen,” he declared, aiming a chivalrous bow in the direction of his stunned lady. “We’ll be shooting in the legendary rose garden, and also perhaps in the Palm House simulated rain forest.”

  Just not able to stand it anymore, a by now ecstatic Helena grabbed Blaine’s hands and engaged him in a spirited Do Si Do as she let loose with a joyous whoop.

  “Well hot damn!” she declared. “I always had wanted to be adorned in period finery while shooting in a legendary rose garden and—as an added perk—a simulated rain forest. Definitely on the bucket list, that particular happening.”

  Both Trey and Blaine laughed uproariously as a giddy Helena continued to dance and whoop, landing finally in the chair before Trey’s desk. A still smiling Blaine joined her seconds later, and the two signed contracts that pertained to the cover art and promotional tie ins associated with Helena’s work.

  “I seriously want to see this cover on coffee mugs, T-shirts, the business end of an adult toy, and mayhap even your garden variety toothpaste dispenser!” Helena declared, drawing vaguely horrified looks from her publisher and cover model.

  “Um, we’ll see Helena,” Trey nodded, adding as he pressed the talk button on his nearby intercom, “In the meantime, I think we really need to have Irving Birnbaum present for this meeting. He is, after all, the editor for this book.”

  Ignoring the strangulated moan of protest that arose from Helena’s lips, Trey said into the intercom, “Irving, could you come in here please?”

  Blaine smiled.

  “I always enjoy meeting editors,” he told Helena. “They tend to be very calm, quiet people—the consummate professionals.”

  Helena gritted her teeth.

  “Well I must admit that this description fits Irving to a T,” she agreed with a nod. “Just make sure that the T is crossed at all times, and capitalized if needed. Otherwise, your earthly existence might very well be at risk.”

  As if on cue Irving Birnbaum crossed the threshold into Trey’s office; fixing his employer with a cold stare as he asked in an annoyed tone, “Is this important, Boss? I was editing Marianne Morgan’s latest romantic epic, Fiery Flames of Fanning Desire, and I was just about to correct the last of her many dangling participles. I tell you, Trey, that woman just may be the bane of my existence.”

  Trey nodded.

  “Well I’m…sorry to hear that, Irving,” he allowed, suddenly grabbing the paperweight from his desk top and stuffing it inside his drawer. “I’d like to introduce you to Blaine Bennington, our cover model for Helena’s book Pride and Passion.”

  Immediately Blaine stood from his seat, offering his hand to a still seething Irving.

  “Very nice to meet you, Sir,” he nodded with a smile. “Don’t you just love Helena’s book? I had the pleasure of reading a preview copy…”

  He stopped short seconds later, as Irving’s eyes lit up with something akin to demonic intensity.

  “A PREVIEW copy?” he bellowed, fists balling as an angry shade of red illuminated his sallow complexion. “You read my work before it was completely edited, fact checked and proofread?”

  Blaine nodded.

  “Actually Irving,” he continued, his smile dissolving in the face of evident editorial ire, “I am of the opinion that Helena’s work is so good that she doesn’t need an editor.”

  Helena gasped, gaze shooting to Irving as she predicted the imminent destruction of her foxy cover model.

  Letting loose with an animal growl, the pickled proofreader dug deep into his pants pocket and withdrew a large oval paperweight; one emblazoned with the ironic phrase, “Be calm and edit.”

  “Criminy, he brought his own weapon,” Helena surged from her seat, ready to tackle her cuckoo co-worker as he charged in the direction of a stone faced Blaine.

  She stopped stock still seconds later, as Blaine pulled back his arm and threw a single hard punch that cracked the jaw of a stunned Irving; sending the wacky wordsman careening toward the floor with a low, anguished groan.

  Surging forward to retrieve the paperweight that fell useless from Blaine’s hand, Helena stood over Irving as he squirmed on the floor; shaking his head to clear it of its shocked haze as a thin trail of blood fell free from his lip.

  “Irving,” she summoned, tone hard and unyielding. “Meds. Now.”

  Immediately sitting up on the floor, Irving wiped the dust from his clothes and stood to his feet.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding as he turned toward the door. “I do believe I forgot those this morning. Nice meeting you, Blaine. Later, Trey and Helena.”

  Nodding in his direction, Blaine took his seat at Trey’s desk and said, “So now then, about those contracts?”

  “Um, absolutely!” Trey assented with wide eyes, reaching for their contract papers with frantic hands. “Any chance you’d like a greater percentage of the royalties, Mr. Bennington sir?”

  An hour later, and much to Helena’s dire concentration (indeed, she sat motionless and defenseless as her worst nightmare came true before her very eyes), Blaine Bennington left. It seems that he had a jet to catch to some exotic location for a sure to be glamorous shoot—something that she suspected happened almost daily during the course of his existence.

  “Well biggeth dealeth,” she told Trey, now lounging back in her office chair and resting her feet on the edge of his desk. “I get my photo snapped every time I go to the DMV—and whenever the family goes on vacation to a major amusement park. And you know what? The last time I went to see the Va Va Voom Male Revue, the lead dancer practically begged to have his picture taken with me—of course, the $5.50 tip I slipped in his G-string may have hastened that request, just a bit.” She paused here, adding as she bit her lip, “Though I fear those two quarters may have brushed against one of his most vital external organs—drastically reducing his chances of starting a family in the future. I live in regret.”

  Trey laughed.

  “Well speaking of such things,” he arched his eyebrows, regarding her with assessing eyes, “I have to admit that I’m just a bit jealous of our friend Mr. Bennington. Between your drool and Irving’s blood, I’m now going to have to have my carpet shampooed.”

  Helena shook her head.

  “No need to be jealous, sweetheart,” she assured him with a smile. “Believe me when I say that you are every bit as hot as Blaine—just in a different way.”

  Trey cringed.

  “Oh Helena,” he buried his head in his hands. “Please, please don’t tell me I’m pretty on the inside.”

  Helena chuckled.

  “Well I’ve never taken an X-ray of you, but I seriously believe that you are possessing of both inner and outer beauty,” she assured him, adding with a shrug, “It’s just that, while Blaine is a walking fantasy, wild and animal like, you’re the handsome, charming gent a gal could take home to her mama—and, if she didn’t fear for his virtue in the face of an imminent ravishing (because I have the distinct suspicion that they, too, snuck clandestine glances at Skinemax After Dark from time to time), her six sisters as well.”

  Trey nodded.

  “So I’m handsome, and Blaine’s sexy,” he surmised, pursing his lips in what looked suspiciously like an offended pout.

  Helena sighed.

  “I sure hope my lavender pumps taste good with ketchup or another light seasoning,” she shook her head, “becaus
e I sure have put my foot in my mouth.”

  Trey shook his head.

  “No Helena, that’s fine,” he allowed, turning his attention to the papers on his desk. “I’ll sign these contracts and send them off to legal—then we’ll be all set to start production on the book. I’ll also book our tickets to London today—and don’t forget our staff meeting at 4 p.m.”

  Freezing in her seat, Helena folded her hands before her as she felt a sudden, inexplicable need for the fresh polished floor to open up beneath her and swallow her whole; or, at the very least, to change the proverbial subject—and, as her ma back in Indiana says, and right quick.

  “Listen, Trey,” she began with a shrug, “Why don’t we go over some edits for my book?”

  Trey shook his head.

  “That’s Irving’s job,” he reminded her, adding as his gaze lowered to the desk beneath him, “I have other books to edit right now—if you will excuse me.”

  A nodding Helena rose from her seat, biting her lip so hard that it now bore a close resemblance to Irving Birnbaum’s.

  “I’ll be back here at 4 p.m. sharp,” she told him, adding weakly, “I’ll bring you a Pepsi or something. Ice cold, straight from the vending machine.”

  And with this she cleared the office. As. Quickly. As. Possible.

  Immediately after emerging in the main hallway of Elmhurst Publishing, Helena came face to face with Irving Birnbaum; the editor that greeted her with a bright smile as he said, “Good morning, Helena! Hope you’re having a great day. Care to go over some edits this morning?”

  Her body struck a defensive stance that bore a suspicious resemblance to a martial arts pose.

  “Have you taken your pill, Irving?” she queried, pinning him with a suspicious stare.

  Irving nodded.

  “I took two,” he affirmed.

  “Right on,” Helena announced, flashing him a spirited thumbs up sign as she lead him into her office.

  Chapter Twelve

  After a rigorous—but, fates be thanked—sane and peaceful round of preliminary edits, Helena went to lunch alone—venturing by herself to a favorite downtown café; a place she went to enjoy a hearty serving of cheesy lasagna along with her favorite beverage, especially on tough days.

  Yet today, alas, even an economy sized bottle of Sugar Shock cola couldn’t allay her worries; not when she worried that she’d squandered her chances with a terrific guy.

  “I mean, isn’t he being just a mite sensitive?” she asked her stainless steel napkin holder, which turned out to be her only luncheon companion that day. “All I did was drool openly over another man while in his presence, then imply openly that said man is sexier than he is. Is that really so bad?”

  She paused here, suddenly very grateful that—as a general rule—stainless steel napkin holders did not possess the power of speech. Then, giving up on any and all attempts to enjoy her lunch, she bought an ice cold Pepsi from the grave looking, downright stricken woman at the counter (“She no doubt caught me attempting a reasonable conversation with her stainless steel napkin holder,” she thought with a cringe.) and headed back to the office.

  After doing her level best to concentrate on the edits that lined her inbox, Helena surrendered the cause at a quarter til 4 and grabbed her conciliatory cola from her office mini fridge; shutting down her computer before she headed for Trey’s office; determined to make some sort of an apology before their co-workers arrived for their scheduled staff meeting.

  “Helena Vance does not beg, grovel or whine,” she reminded herself, holding her head up high, “She is not however, overly averse to the concept of conciliation by cola.”

  When she arrived at Trey’s office moments later, she found the door open and the room empty; and as she cleared the threshold and shut the door behind her, she felt a chill course the length of her spine as she called, “Trey?”

  Sinking down in a cushy chair at the center of the room, Helena frowned as she cast a stray glance toward his built-in office restroom; where the door was closed and she could hear some movement within.

  “Helena, is that you?” She jumped as she heard Trey’s loud, booming voice make itself heard from behind the restroom door. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes,” she replied, adding silently as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “All the better so you can fire me and break up with me, all in one flail swoop. Wow, he really took my estimation of his perceived sexiness altogether too seriously. Damn.”

  Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the opening notes of a jazzy, bluesy tune; one that seemed to emanate from the overhead stereo system newly installed in Trey’s office.

  “Must be nice to be an exec,” she sniffed quietly, adding as she rolled her eyes heavenward, “If I want to listen to music at work, all I can do is hum real loud. If Irving is in a biddable (read: stable) mood that day, he’ll do beat box or croon a chorus in the background.”

  Still, she had to admit that she really enjoyed this particular ditty, which was soulful, melodic, and oddly familiar.

  “It’s Joe Cocker, but it’s not ‘You Are So Beautiful,’ or ‘I Love LA,’” she pursed her lips, adding as she shifted in her seat, “It seems like I’ve heard this ditty at a night club I’ve visited a couple of times. Maybe even at the…Oh. Shit.”

  She had heard the song “You Can Leave Your Hat On” during a select number of red hot numbers at the Va Va Voom Male Revue Show, a spectacle presented every three months at Club Sandwich in downtown Indianapolis, Indiana. A tune that, with its salacious lyrics and seductive beat, was far from being the type of quiet, reflective song you enjoyed as you sat on the shores of a picturesque lake, painting a portrait or contemplating the true meaning of life.

  Rather, it was the song that people played in the background when they take all or most of their clothes off—and not for purposes of a medical exam or a cleansing and refreshing shower, but instead in the service of something very dirty.

  “Criminy,” Helena bit her lip. “Am I about to see a bonafide, no holds barred striptease?”

  “Bingo.”

  Suddenly appearing from behind the door of his top secret private lavatory (“Gawd knows what goes on in there,” Helena mused, cringing at the very thought), Trey strutted into the room with a pronounced stride; hips shifting ever so slightly as he squared his broad shoulders and puffed out his massive chest to most appealing effect.

  Although still dressed to the proverbial nines in his very proper business suit, Trey also was wearing a downright stylish smile that Helena knew meant trouble. Big time. At least.

  “Trey, did somebody royally spike your Shasta at lunchtime?” she queried, arching her eyebrows to curious effect.

  Trey shrugged.

  “Not at all, babe,” he shook his head—and his hips, moving them back and forth in a slow, smooth motion that looked suspiciously like a gyration. “I just got to thinking this morning—on our first date I promised you a lap dance. And to this day I’ve never delivered on that particular promise.”

  Helena sighed.

  “Trey, you really don’t have to do this,” she began, holding her hands up before her—even as her rebellious gaze remained peeled on those ever lovin’ tight, taut hips.

  “Oh, but I do,” Trey interrupted her, stretching and straining his impressive form before her to most impressive effect. “Somehow, Helena, I have to prove to you that I can be every bit as sexy, alluring, and out and out seductive as What’s His Ridiculously Handsome Face.”

  “Blaine Bennington,” Helena supplied through gritted teeth.

  Trey rolled his eyes—and his hips, performing the first of what Helena suspected would be a multitude of expertly executed body rolls.

  “Yeah, him,” he sniffed, adding as he drew closer to her, “I swear I can excite you just as much as he does—even more so, I can rock your world baby.”

  Helena jumped in her seat; suddenly pondering if she’d actually heard the words “I can rock your world, baby,” pass the ever
sophisticated lips of one Trey Lawrence.

  “Um, Trey,” she began, eyes flying wide in a show of sheer wonder if not blatant and outright shock, “As much as I do sincerely appreciate any and all well-intentioned efforts on your behalf to—um—‘rock my world,’ I believe that these efforts should be confined to your or my bedrooms, respectively. The office seems like a mighty strange setting for a lap dance, no matter how tasteful or well-executed.”

  Trey chuckled.

  “I’m still trying to get into your bedroom, Helena,” he reminded her, tone low and sultry. “And I swear I’ll do anything to get you into bed—even if it means seducing you right here, and right now.”

  With these words he held her gaze as he loosened the fabric of his confining tie; exposing as he did a golden flash of bare, exposed skin.

  “Just relax and enjoy this, Helena,” he urged on a whisper, “I’m giving you permission to be naughty—to indulge yourself in your own wildest fantasy. Just let go of your inhibitions and allow yourself to feel—and to enjoy. I could make you feel like you’ve never felt before, if you’d just relax and allow me to bring you pleasure. You’re allowed to feel good, Helena—forget about anything and everything you’ve been taught before, I’m saying it’s OK.”

  Abruptly Trey fell silent as Helena rose from her seat; her face blank and unreadable as she turned for the door.

  “I don’t need your permission to do anything, Trey Lawrence,” she sniffed over her shoulder, leaving the desk with sharp, pronounced steps. “I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions—when it comes to career goals, personal choices, and getting my freak on—so to speak.”

  Trey sighed.

  “Helena, I’m so sorry if I’ve offended you. I’m sorry if I just crossed a boundary here, I was only trying to turn you on,” he told her, hanging his head as he slouched before his desk. “Please don’t leave.”

  He started as Helena met his words with a sly, full-toothed grin.