He hoped she liked it. Not that dinner was the point, of course, but he wanted to impress her.
The bedroom was also full of flowers. Jacob had considered having the florist strew rose petals across the bed but he decided against it. No point in trying too hard.
If last week was any indication, Rose Fiorello was a done deal.
Something about that whole thing had made him uneasy. Not touching her; she had been a fantasy of his since he first laid eyes on her in the lecture hall. Maybe the fact that she had quit.
Was she embarrassed by what she had let him do? Scared because White had shouted at her?
It wasn’t Fiorello’s way.
During the months she’d been there, he’d heard nothing from her. No ideas, no reports. Jake had half expected something every day; he had thought he might walk in to a folder on his desk containing some neatly typed, earth-shattering idea. Such as how to restructure his company from the ground up, a suggestion for a stock buy-back, or even a project proposal to buy some building or other.
He had always marked her down as that ambitious, and that bright.
And that cold.
Instead, what did he have? An intern who had made no waves until the last day. He knew the secretaries didn’t like her. But she was beautiful, so that was to be expected.
She had come upstairs naked under her skirt and flashed him.
The kiss had not surprised Jake. She wanted him, he knew that. Once he had her in his arms, her resistance was always going to crumble. And yeah, she had been hot. But one of the things he’d found most delicious about Rose was how she fought it. What happened to her hot contempt for him, her belligerence? One kiss and now she was ripping off her panties?
It didn’t fit.
He was, in fact, disappointed.
Ah, don’t be a dumb-ass. You’ve been wanting to get in there for years, Rothstein told himself. Tonight she was coming over and tonight he was gonna get laid. What the hell was he crying about it for?
The bell rang.
*
“Let me help you with that,” Jacob said.
Rose shrugged off her coat. Expensive, a cashmere blend. He saw that the label was Donna Karan. Underneath she had on a stunning dress in close-fitting silk, a delicate pale green color that picked out her startling eyes. The girl had curves everywhere, except that narrow waist. Rothstein smiled; he approved.
“Do you like the place?”
Her eyes swept over the fantastic windows, the ornate moldings, the portraits, the marble mantelpiece, the antique furniture, the view …
“I’ve seen better,” Rose said.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Where?”
“The Met,” Rose admitted. She grinned.
Jacob was charmed. “You look beautiful, you know.”
Rose shivered, even though he had a fire crackling in the grate and it was seventy degrees inside. “I need a drink.”
He poured her some champagne. “Cristal OK?”
“And there I was thinking you were going to offer me a Thunderbird,” Rose joked.
“The stuff that’s three bucks a liter?” He laughed. Most women were so keen to impress him with their sophistication, as though every date was a casting session and they were auditioning. “Maybe I should have. Just to make you comfortable.”
She could hardly look at him. He was wearing a tuxedo and black tie. Combined with the muscles, it made him look like James Bond.
Rose wished he would be foul to her. She couldn’t find anything to reproach him for, apart from being a Rothstein. Maybe, maybe she should give him a pass … some kind of out.
“I think we should talk…”
Jake enjoyed her awkwardness.
“Before dinner? It ruins my appetite.” He indicated the dining room. “Shall we?”
*
“Mmm.” Rose sipped at her champagne, her fourth glass. The meal had been exquisite; his conversation light, about nothing, really, just banter. And Jacob was very good at banter. He deflected any probing comment, he held her gaze until she was forced to drop her eyes, and he ate his meal as though he wasn’t nervous, not even slightly.
Goddamn confident bastard.
She needed the alcohol. As delicious as everything was, Rose found it hard to eat. She had no appetite. She was torn between wanting Rothstein and loathing him. Every expensive bite was a reminder of how his family had built the wealth to pay for all this.
How many other Paul Fiorellos were out there? Men who didn’t have a smart Italian daughter to come and take their revenge for them. Maybe thousands, she thought. And how many women had wanted to get ahead at Rothstein and been fired, shunted aside? In his company discrimination was a way of life.
She also felt defensive. She wanted this. The oak-paneled walls, the furnishings that looked like a page from a Sotheby’s catalog. Her modern apartment in the old factory was nice, and a good investment. But this place would cost twenty times more. Jacob had not earned this. It had been handed to him on a plate, and it wasn’t even the best his family had. This was nothing but a pied-à-terre for the Rothstein boys. Rose knew this because the bimbos in the office talked up their wealth, creaming their little lace panties over every unmarried Rothstein in the place.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Jake said. “Are you done? I could have got a butler to clear the plates away, but I didn’t want us to be disturbed. Just leave it; I have coffee and a digestif in the drawing room.”
Rose nodded and walked into the room next door. Her heart sped up a little. Oh shit. Now she was going to be expected to put out.
“Digestif? I think you’re trying to get me drunk.”
Jacob poured an espresso into an exquisite, tiny royal-blue bone china cup from a silver pot and handed it to her.
“Drunk’s no fun. I just want you to relax.”
If only you knew, she thought.
“Do you normally make this much of an effort?”
She indicated the flowers, the crystal.
“No. I usually don’t have to. Women tend to come to me.” He said this flatly, as though it was a statement of fact. Which Rose knew it was.
“Fortune hunters,” Rose said, with contempt. The alcohol was starting to work its magic; she felt less small in his presence.
“Yes,” he agreed without rancor. “We have a lot of money. Most women find that very attractive.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
A shrug. “That’s been the way of the world for as long as it’s been spinning. Back when we lived in caves, women sought out the guy with the biggest kills. It’s instinctual in a female. Why should I resent it?”
Small red spots of outrage colored her cheeks.
“Because you should want somebody to want you for yourself.”
“Ah. But this”—he indicated the apartment—“is me. I come from a high-achieving family, and I’m going to make more money.”
“It isn’t just women. Men hang out with rich women too. And men also hang out with rich men. How many people do you know who hang around your family because of their wealth? There are plenty of male hangers-on too,” Rose said.
“True, up to a point.”
“What do you mean?” Rose demanded. God, he was arrogant!
“I mean that while that is true—men do hang-on, as you put it, and some men try to marry women for money—the vast majority of cases of fortune hunting are women chasing men. Because society accepts a woman who does not work, but condemns a man for trying to do the same.”
Jacob flipped open the antique cigar box in front of him. “I usually smoke after dinner, but I won’t, if it bothers you?”
“Go right ahead,” Rose said. She wasn’t interested in his damn cigar. She went back on the attack. “You sound like you think less of women.”
He considered it for a second. “Depends how you define it.”
“How do you define it is the question,” Rose said.
“I think men and women are equal in that they are equal
souls before God. But if you are asking me about levels of achievement, then men are clearly superior. The history of the world is the history of men.” He cut the end of the cigar deftly and lit it. “Modern-day history teaching is a joke, quite frankly. Women’s historical studies … Marie Curie and whoever else they can dredge up … but the odd female achiever here and there cannot wipe out the fact that almost every great advance in every field has been made, built, or discovered by males.”
Rose seethed.
“Because women are physically inferior, and that meant men could control them. The technological age has leveled the playing field.”
“Then today we should see equality. And we don’t. Because many women prefer to be kept by their man.”
“Some women regard motherhood as a full-time occupation.”
“Do you?”
Rose shook her head. “I regard it as a relationship, not a job description.”
Jacob smiled. “You’re one of these ‘having it all’ types?”
“Yes. I intend to strap my babies on my back and go right back to work. I’ll have a playpen in the office. Whatever it takes not to cheat my children or my career.”
“And what employer do you think will allow you to do that?”
Rose shook her head. “Good office day care should be mandatory. A happy worker is a productive worker. But I won’t be one of those poor women scouring the streets for an understanding employer, because I intend to work for myself.” She glared at him. “I don’t know how you can talk that way.”
“Because, quite simply, I am not afraid of the truth.” Rothstein moved toward her, so their knees were almost touching; Rose half shrank in her chair. “Not all women are like you.”
“And not all men are like you.”
“Women are not interested in equals. They are interested in superiors.”
“Then I suppose I shouldn’t be interested in you,” Rose snapped.
“You seemed pretty interested last week. When I kissed you.”
“Maybe it was all an act.”
Jacob shook his head. “Part of it may have been, Rose, but not all of it.”
She felt her skin prickle. Part of it may have been … Could she have underestimated him? Had he not bought in to her act?
“Not all of it,” Rose admitted.
“Why don’t we conduct a little field experiment?”
Jacob moved closer to her on the couch, put his two strong hands on her knees, leaned in toward her, and kissed her.
Rose felt the fires start again. They licked along her skin, up her belly, across her breasts, making her light-headed. His mouth on hers was gentle, but relentless; his teeth lightly raking her lips, his tongue probing, not too deep, feeling her lips part and open to him, her head tilt, the stiff aggression in her body release, until all her bones were liquid and she wanted to melt …
Jacob loved it. She was a slow conquest, not clawing back at him like he was used to. A girl usually had one hand in his buttons, the other in his hair, if she was that modest. Fiorello was awkward, nervous, old-fashioned. Even inexperienced, he thought. It was startling. And charming.
And sexy. He loved to master women. The longer the seduction, the better he liked it. Sex could sometimes leave Jake feeling empty, a little sordid. He had waited for Rose, and now he was going to have her. It felt all the more delicious.
She’d be very hot. He couldn’t wait.
“Stop.”
He felt a small, manicured hand against his chest, pushing him back.
“What?” Rothstein blinked, stunned. “What the hell is it now?”
“I can’t do this,” Rose said.
“You—you what? You can’t do this? You came up to my office naked. You peeled off those little panties for me right in public.” He knew he was being cruel, but he was frustrated and furious. “And now you want to be modest, act like a lady? A little late for that, don’t you think?”
“You goddamn bastard. Nobody could see.”
Jacob got to his feet. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”
“Yes,” Rose stammered. “Actually.”
“Bullshit,” Rothstein said coldly.
Rose stood up, walked out to the hall, grabbed her coat and purse, and fled.
Thirty-Seven
“You like it?” Joel Stein asked.
Poppy looked over her office. It was small, but functional. It even had a window looking out toward the gleaming Mercedes and BMWs that drove down the Sunset Strip, sparkling in the sunlight. Stein had provided her with a computer, a phone, a printer, a fax, and even her own couch, a funky kidney-shaped thing in burgundy velvet.
Poppy grinned. “I love it.”
Joel handed her a business card. “And how about this?”
Her heart skipped a beat. It had her name in neat black ink on it, very grown-up, very businesslike: “Poppy Allen, Dream Management.” Then it had her direct phone and fax number next to the Dream logo, a cloud picked out in embossed gold.
“No job title,” Stein said. “Nobody has titles here but me.”
“And what’s yours?”
“Boss,” he said simply. “Now listen, toots. You did good. Better than good. Which is why you’re not a tour accountant anymore. I’m going to see what you can do. I’m giving you a band to handle.”
“Green Dragon?” Poppy asked hopefully.
Stein laughed. “Yeah, right. What are you, crazy? You get to handle Silver Bullet. You brought them to me, let’s see what you can do with them. You’ll find people will take your phone calls when you’re calling from Dream.”
“OK,” said Poppy. It wasn’t a big band, it wasn’t even a real band yet. But it was her band. “OK.”
“There are people who don’t like you,” Stein said.
“What? Why?”
“Because they’ve been working here longer than you have. Years, in some cases. And who still aren’t getting a shot like this. Plus, you’ve got a serious enemy in Mike Rich. And you’re going to get others. This business is not for shrinking violets.”
Poppy squared her shoulders and looked her boss in the eye.
“I got in to see you. That shows initiative. I found a great band for you. That shows talent. I survived a road trip. That shows stamina. And I stopped a crooked guy ripping off your client. That shows smarts. I’m in this office because you think I deserve to be. And the fact is, you’re right.”
“Hmm.” Stein crooked an eyebrow. “Chutzpah, yet. Let’s see if you can back it up with action.”
He made to leave the room. Poppy let him go. She wanted to ask, “Now what?” but she didn’t. She knew that was up to her.
*
“You’re going to manage us?” Kate said.
Poppy sat in her office behind the desk, with the girls on the couch. They looked somewhat underwhelmed. She knew they were disappointed, that they thought Joel Stein would be handling them personally. And now they were right back with Poppy; a kid from a failed band, a kid their own age.
She had to inspire confidence.
“That’s correct. Me for Dream Management. The first thing Dream is going to do is get you signed. I have a showcase gig booked in two weeks, girls. Reps from all the major labels will be attending.”
Now they sat up. Poppy watched the band exchange glances.
“What I want you to do is two things: rehearse till you can perform the songs in your sleep, and get even prettier. Molly,” Poppy turned to the plump brunette, “you’re going on a diet. I know it’s sexist and it sucks, but these are men, all men, and they’ll be looking at you guys. No White Castle this week. You’re strictly on Slim-Fast.”
Molly looked as though she were about to argue the toss, but Poppy plowed on. “I’ve got a stylist booked for tomorrow afternoon. She worked wardrobe on the Green Dragon tour last fall.”
“Wow, Green Dragon,” Claire muttered.
“Just think of this as a makeover.” Poppy leaned forward. “I’m gonna get you guys signed, I’m
gonna get you on the radio. I’m gonna make you stars. And all you have to do is listen to me.”
“How long is the showcase going to be?”
“Half an hour. You’re only going to do five songs.” Poppy passed them the set list.
“I think we should do everything we’ve got,” Kate argued.
“No. Just the best stuff. These are your best, wouldn’t you agree?”
Reluctant nods. “Then we hit them with this. All killer, no filler.”
*
The next day Poppy called the stylist. She told her it was a personal favor for Joel Stein. She called the record companies and told them this was Joel’s hottest new act and she was just able to slip them in before a general submission went out. Then she called the lighting director from the tour and asked him for the name of a friend, and the same for the sound guy …
*
It was a buzz. It was even better than the road. Poppy felt as though her phone had been permanently welded to her ear. She lied, she dissembled, she pleaded, she got things done. She didn’t sleep all that much. When she finally got to go home at night, she instead went straight out to the broken-down warehouse where the band was rehearsing, and stayed up with them, making sure everything was perfect.
It wasn’t just sound. That had to be slick, but so did the moves. Even the way Lisa twirled her drumsticks.
Most every new act was rough, unpolished. Not her babies. Poppy wanted them to be groomed, to look like pros.
“Manicures?” Molly groaned.
“Manicures. Eyebrow waxes. Get your teeth whitened.” Poppy spun her bassist around to look in the mirror. “You’ve dropped about eight pounds.”
“My clothes don’t fit,” Molly grumbled, but she looked pleased.
“I don’t see why we have to do all this work,” Kate said petulantly. “We’ll be playing in the middle of the day. There’ll be no atmosphere…”
“Actually,” Poppy said quietly, “I got a pro lighting guy and a sound mixer coming. It’ll be dark and you’ll be spot-lit, multiple colors, big sound, everything perfect.”
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