by Sienna Mynx
Sydney swallowed her nervousness and headed toward the host outside the restaurant. “My name is Sydney Allen. I’m here to meet Nolen Adams.”
The man’s face brightened at the name. Evidently Mr. Adams was a favored patron. “Right this way, Ms. Allen. Mr. Adams is expecting you in his private dining area.” The view from any of the tables was spectacular. Couples scattered throughout the restaurant were seated under a drop ceiling, its crosshatch of light fixtures illuminating the atmosphere romantically. Sydney remained steady on her feet; she walked through the restaurant and avoided eye contact with the diners. The host veered to the left toward a corner separated from the other tables by a wall-high divider made of frosted cubes.
A waiter dressed in white slid the divider open and they approached. And there he was. He rose out of his seat. Her eyes froze on his form. She took in his tailored dark suit, accentuated by a black shirt and tie. She wondered if his broad shoulders ever tired of carrying the weight of his ego. He smiled charmingly at her, and it was a little disarming. He had beautiful, observant eyes that captured hers. They were so intense that she was the first to break the stare.
“Ms. Allen, at last we meet,” he said, extending his hand.
Unable to speak, she sucked in the right side of her jaw nervously, then transferred her purse to her other hand to accept the handshake. She was halted by the iron grip of his shake, then soothed by the soft stroke her palm received when their hands parted. He stepped around the table behind her. Placing his hands on her shoulder, he was gallant in his assistance with removing her coat. When he handed her coat to the waiter, Sydney moved instinctively to the side to put some distance between them.
Nolen pulled out her chair, and her temporary shock and shyness finally began to wear off as she accepted the seat. She looked up to see him smooth his tie before taking a seat across from her. Then his eyes focused directly on hers. His every move seemed to be part of a scripted production.
Sydney cleared her throat to speak first. “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Adams.”
“Call me Nolen.”
“I’d rather call you Mr. Adams,” she said coolly.
He smiled with a raised brow. This would not be easy. He liked the challenge. “I see. Well Mr. Adams is my father. So what about a compromise? You can simply call me Adams?” Sydney frowned. “Ok, whatever. As I was starting to say, your dinner invitation and gifts were very generous, but completely unnecessary.”
“Something wrong with the dress?” he asked, noting she wore a dress that he wouldn’t have chosen. Red was always the color he sent. Annemarie knew better than to deviate from his wishes.
“Yes. It was inappropriate.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t know you and I don’t get thrills over gifts from strangers.” This was a first.
Nolen nodded, but said nothing. Sydney expected some disingenuous remark about wanting to know her better, but instead he just stared at her. His golden brown eyes never left hers for a second. She sat back in her chair, trying to understand his intentions. He seemed too well put together to be this easily bored. Why would he even bother to send for her?
“Do I make you nervous?” he asked.
“Why did you invite me here? Is it because of the audition? Are you some rich pervert that gets off on screwing dancers?”
Nolen laughed softly. A deep, seductive laugh that she found contagious. She fought against smiling herself. Placing his elbows on the table, he leaned over. A wry but indulgent glint appeared in his eyes. “No, Sydney, I’m no pervert, and actually I’ve never had a dancer make the list of the kind of women I screw. I saw your audition and heard it was your birthday. You pleased me, so I decided to spend it with you.” She wanted to throw her glass of water in his face. “You––you decided?” she stammered. “Who are you to decide how I should spend my birthday?”
“I’m Nolen Adams, or didn’t you know that before you came?”
“Ok, that’s it!” she snapped. “Let’s get something straight. I came here because I want my shot at the ballet, a fair shot, and I wanted to tell you to your face that I wouldn’t screw you to get it!” Nolen blinked. Sitting back, she saw frown lines deepen between his brow. “Careful, Ms. Allen, I’m beginning to think you don’t like me.”
Sydney laughed. “How could anybody like you more than you like yourself? Yes, Mr. Adams, I know who you are—some rich guy who buys and sells companies for a living.” Nolen smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”
“My daddy had a name for men like you.”
“Your daddy?” he asked, frowning.
“He’d call you horn dogs.”
“Wasn’t that Elvis?”
“Not hound dog! I said horn dog! Men like you preying on women just to dog them around. If you are as rich and successful as those articles say you are, why don’t you find a better use of your time?” The waiter came over with the wine choice, but Sydney shook her head. “I’ll be going now,” she said, pushing back her chair.
Nolen frowned, waving off the waiter. “Wait. I owe you an apology. Don’t go.”
“I said what I came to say. It’s my birthday, and I plan to celebrate it with people I like.” He smiled at the way she spoke to him. He hadn’t had someone disagree with his wishes in quite some time. “Ms. Allen, I do owe you an apology.”
Rising, she turned and asked for her coat. “Thank you again, Mr. Adams. It was nice meeting you.”
“At least have a glass of wine with me.”
She reached for her purse, meeting his eyes. “Why?”
“Because it’s polite. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you all day. Dinner and a drink won’t delay your birthday celebration. Besides, I’d hate for us to part this way.”
“You know, I don’t get you. It can’t be this hard for you to find a date in Manhattan.” Nolen smirked. “One as beautiful and talented as you? Yes, it can be quite difficult.” She shook her head, one hand firmly placed on the curve of her hip. “Like I said, thanks, but no thanks.” She flashed him an I’m-not-for-sale-you-asshole smile before turning to leave.
“Sydney,” he said in a smoky voice that gave her pause.
Sighing, she looked over her shoulder at him. “What is it?”
“How’s the foot?”
Her heart surged at the question and she froze. He leaned forward and she saw a devilish gleam tint his eyes, and the corners of his mouth tipped in a mischievous smile. “I must warn you, Sydney, that I’m used to getting what I want. Now you have my attention, so what I want is you.” In dazed exasperation she stammered out a reply. “I . . . I . . . don’t care what you want. What I have to offer isn’t something you can hang a price tag on, Mr. Adams.”
“Understood.” He gave a curt nod. “Then I’ll find another way. Money is just one of my assets, not my talent. You’ll see that soon.”
Picking up his whiskey glass, he drank a shot and lifted his eyes back to hers. “You have a happy birthday, butterfly.”
She stepped back into the waiter. He had her coat in his arms. Taking it, she rolled her eyes. “You enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said.
Nolen did suffer a tinge of disappointed anger over her rejection. His gaze lowered to his now empty whiskey glass.
“Mr. Adams, can I suggest sir—”
“Leave.”
The waiter nodded and walked off. He fished his phone from his pocket, dialing his assistant.
“Mr. Adams?”
“I want you to find out where Ms. Sydney Allen works, sleeps, and eats. I want to know everything about her before sunrise,” he said and closed the phone. Rising, he walked over to the large tinted window. Looking down into the street, he saw her tiny image running out of the hotel, her hair blowing out behind her as she flagged down a cab. Though his elevated position made it impossible for her to see him, he noticed when she turned and looked up in his direction one last time before disappearing. Smiling, he walked away.
Sydney
let go of a heavy sigh as she entered her apartment. Portia immediately rose with her hands on her hips. “No, you didn’t! I just know you didn’t stand him up, did you?” Sydney tossed her purse to the side. “No, of course not,” she said, pulling off Portia’s coat.
“Then why are you back so early?”
“I went, like you said. I even tried to thank him.”
Portia stepped forward. “And?”
“I told him that I’m not some hoochie-mama up for his fancy little booty call.” Portia slapped her forehead. “Sydney, please don’t tell me you did that. Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed!”
“Why are you embarrassed?” Trish asked Portia with a frown. “Leave her alone. If she wasn’t comfortable, then she was right to leave.”
“What’s not to be comfortable with?” Portia snapped. “The man was offering her a fairytale!”
“He wanted an easy lay,” Sydney said, “and these trinkets he sent were supposed to lure me into his bed.
The man’s a pompous jerk!” She threw off the coat, tossing it to Portia, and headed to her room.
Both Trish and Portia followed her. “I know that you’re from South Carolina and all, but in New York, real men date women!” Portia snapped.
“Hold up! I’ve been here for almost two years!” Sydney shouted.
Portia rolled her eyes. “And you’ve only gone out with that broke-ass saxophone player down the hall!
Who you keep teasing and won’t sleep with.”
Trish grabbed Portia’s arm. “Hey, back off. Why are you attacking her? Because she didn’t want to spend time with a man you don’t even know?”
Portia shook her head and snatched away. “What’s with you two, damn it? We’re all in here struggling.
Trish, you sleep on the sofa, for Christ’s sake. For months, we’ve struggled, looking for a break, only to have to eat damn ramen noodles every night. Then Sydney goes and meets the richest man in this city, a man paying for her little Broadway show, and she leaves on principle? Principle doesn’t get your ass discovered!” Sydney narrowed her eyes. “Exactly what did you expect me to do tonight? Did you expect me to prostitute myself for a lead role, and then give him some more so you can get into the Ford Agency, or maybe fall to my knees and suck him off so Trish can get her paintings hanging in a gallery?”
“Whoa, guys, please don’t fight,” Trish stepped between them. She put up her hands.
Portia pressed her lips together in a thin, angry line, shooting daggers with her eyes. “I never said that!” she ground out with clenched teeth. “If you’d get your head out of your country ass, you would know how to work a man like that!”
“What did you say to me, you Tyra Banks wannabe? Exactly what has screwing every greasy photographer in Manhattan gotten you?” Sydney snapped, advancing on her.
Portia’s eyes bulged. She shook with fury.
Turning on Portia, Trish shouted over them both, “Listen to me! Today is her birthday. You stop this and be a friend. That date had nothing to do with you. It’s insulting, Portia, that you actually think it did!”
“Forget her, Trish. I don’t need this crap.” Sydney slammed the bathroom door. She stripped off her dress, hearing them arguing in the hallway.
“Portia, apologize to her. Now!”
“For what? Did you hear what she said to me?”
“You hurt her. You know you did. Do you know why she went on the date?” Sydney sat on the edge of the tub and listened to them.
“No, why?”
“Because of this. You. She knew if she didn’t, you’d make fun of her. Calling her ‘country’ and other hurtful names. Saying she doesn’t know how things are in New York. You’ve been doing it for months, and it’s getting old!”
“I love her. She knows that.”
“Then be a friend. You jumped all over her without knowing what happened. We don’t know that man or what he tried to do when she was with him. Good grief, Portia, think for once!” The temptation to tell them what happened with Mr. Mendoza made her chest tight and breathing shallow, but when she rose, her courage died. She never wanted to share that story. It was her fault anyway.
Instead she went to the mirror and picked up her damp rag. She faced a woman she didn’t know. A woman she didn’t want to be. Scrubbing at the makeup, she smeared it across her cheeks. She turned on the water and scrubbed harder as tears sprung from her eyes.
“Sydney, let’s talk,” Portia said from behind the door. Sydney covered her face with the rag and sucked up her tears of shame.
“I’m not in the mood to talk to you,” she said through the rag.
“Please.”
Sydney tossed the rag in the sink. She began to undress. Then opened the door and stepped out in nothing but her panties and bra. She shouldered past Portia to retrieve the dress box from the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Portia said softly.
“Whatever,” Sydney mumbled. Picking up the discarded gift from Mr. Adams, she packed it neatly back inside the dress box. She intended to have it sent back to his office.
“Sydney.”
“No!” Sydney yelled, pulling on her favorite jeans. “You don’t get off that easy. I didn’t deserve you attacking me like that, and I’m not stupid. That man didn’t want to help me dance or you model or Trish paint.
He wanted to screw my brains out, toss me a trinket, and go on with his shallow life. Forgive me if I don’t find that exciting.”
“Where are you going?” Portia asked.
“Uptown. I wanna hear Ricky play,” Sydney said, yanking her shirt over her head.
“Can I come?” Portia asked weakly.
“Suit yourself.”
Portia smiled. “I’ll tell Trish. We got some birthday celebrating to do!” she said, rushing out.
Sydney grinned up at the three-hundred-pound bouncer with a shaven head in front of Club Nirvana.
She wanted to dance until her feet gave out. He ran his security wand across her before allowing her passage.
Ricky’s band was playing an urban tune, and the singer, a young blonde she hadn’t seen before, belted out the blues with a smoky voice that had the whole place grooving. Ricky, once again, proved that there was soul in just about anyone. He picked up the saxophone and began to blow. Sydney smiled. There was a freedom in his music that only she and he understood.
“Ricky’s getting off!” Portia said, having made it past security.
“He sure is!” Trish shouted over the loud music.
Sydney nodded. She headed through the crowded club toward the few tables opposite the dance floor, trying to find a spot for them. “Over there, Sydney,” Portia yelled above the blaring music.
Sydney looked up to see Syl, a part owner of the club, waving to them. She grinned and walked toward him.
“’Bout time you ladies dragged your sexy asses down here. Ricky has a spot for you,” he said, picking up the reserved sign on a table next to the stage. Syl reminded the girls of Sylvester Stallone, and he did the best rendition of Rocky’s “Yo, Adrienne” that they’d ever seen.
Sydney’s eyes grew wide. “Thanks, Silvio!”
“Yo, it’s your birthday. Gotta do it up right! Enjoy the night,” he yelled back.
The three sat down, and Sydney caught Ricky’s eye. He grinned at her from the stage. She blew him a kiss as her friends ordered drinks.
When the waitress said that the drinks were on the house for Sydney’s birthday, Portia and Trish gave each other high fives.
“Hell yeah!” Portia exclaimed. She laughed. “I’ve only got enough for cab fare home.” Trish chuckled. “Ha! You’ve got more than me!”
Sydney swayed from side to side, watching the performance. A couple of men came over, asking the girls to dance. Portia quickly jumped up to “shake her thang,” but Sydney and Trish hung back.
Trish looked at Sydney, now sipping a martini. “You know Portia doesn’t mean any harm.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sydney said over the music.
“Was it really that bad?”
Sydney put down the drink. “No, just weird. It was as if he expected me to be flattered. He wasn’t trying to force me. He just acted like it was something I wanted. I don’t know. I can’t understand what his deal is.”
“Did you like him? Were you attracted to him?”
Sydney blushed. “Attracted to him, yes. Like him? The jury’s still out on that one.”
“Well, I must say, you’ve had one interesting twenty-third birthday,” Trish said, as she raised her glass in a mock toast.
Sydney raised her martini and clinked glasses with her friend. “That I have.” The singer ended the song, and everyone clapped. Sydney grinned at the stage, watching the woman speak to Ricky and then come back to the mic.
“Tonight’s a special lady’s birthday! Sydney, stand up and let everyone see you,” she said.
Sydney blushed as everyone cheered, and Trish pushed her arm to make her stand. Portia came back to the table, grinning.
“Get your ass up, girl. They cheering for ya!”
Sydney rose and waved to the club crowd, then sat down. The singer announced that her next number was dedicated to Sydney from Ricky. As the woman started singing, Sydney shook her head, and both her friends leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“Happy birthday, girl!” Portia grinned.
“Happy birthday, Sydney,” Trish sang.
Sydney raised her glass of club soda. “Happy birthday to me!” Ricky winked as he gave her his saxophone solo. Sydney smiled, knowing that the night was the best one she could have planned for her birthday, although the strangeness of Nolen Adams had not yet been forgotten.
Chapter 4
The Price of Fame
“Hello, Portia.”
His voice held a smooth yet distinct flavor common amongst high-end photographers. Todd Ellison stood almost equal to her five-foot ten height at about six-foot tall. She took in his attractive physique. He had thick tawny gold hair and tanned skin that made him more like a California surfer than the man with the magical lens. Portia was no fool. The real turn on is the fact he’s made every unknown he’s worked with a star. To add to his sexy, he had the most captivating liquid eyes, a firm but sensual mouth and a ruggedly handsome face in need of a shave. And his attire was simple but rich, dark slacks and a loose fitted dark grey button up shirt.