Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  Three minutes later Mrs. Urquhart escorted the nattily dressed man into Bart’s office. Glenwood was short and slender with a receding hairline, yet presented an attractive figure in a tailored tan suit, close-cropped hair and neatly barbered mustache and goatee. A sprinkle of freckles across his nose and cheeks gave his henna-brown face a youthful look.

  Forcing a smile he didn’t feel, Bart extended his hand. “Good morning, Glen.”

  Glenwood grasped Bart’s hand, squeezing and shaking it harder than necessary. “Good morning, Bartholomew. You’ve got quite a setup here.”

  Bart smiled. “It’ll do.”

  Glenwood strolled around the expansive space, taking note of the furnishings. He stopped and stared at a framed black-and-white photograph of a high-rise office building; the year 1961 was engraved on an attached brass plate. He turned and met Bart’s gaze. “Is this your building?”

  “No. It was my father-in-law’s first construction project.”

  The politician’s spare mouth thinned. “So, you married the boss’s daughter. Nice move, Houghton.”

  Ignoring the snide insinuation, Bart said, “If you haven’t had breakfast I can have my chef prepare something for you.”

  Glenwood waved a delicate manicured hand. “No, thank you. I’m scheduled to have brunch with the mayor.”

  Bart gestured to the white club chair. “Please have a seat.” Waiting until the younger man sat down, he took his favored Louis Quinze–style armchair. Looping one leg over the other, he stared at the toe of his polished slip-on.

  Bart studied the brash, very ambitious young politician. There was no doubt he was on the fast track to make a name for himself in the New York political arena, and rumors abounded that he had set his sights on a U.S. congressional seat. The investigator had uncovered something else about the assemblyman, something Bart was certain Glenwood wouldn’t want to be made public.

  Glenwood Collins had gotten a taste of power, and he was intoxicated with it. Each meeting Collins had called the shots—where and when they’d meet; however, this time Bart had taken control of the game when he told Glenwood they’d either meet at DHG’s offices or the discussion was moot.

  Bart took a quick glance at the timepiece strapped to his wrist. “I’d like to thank you for coming, and because you’ll be meeting with the mayor I won’t take up too much of your valuable time.” He successfully bit back a smile when Glenwood sat up straighter. It was apparent he’d just stroked the pompous man’s ego. His investigator had confirmed the rumor that the mayor was throwing his support behind Collins’s reelection bid.

  “So, I’m going to get to the point. I can’t go along with your latest request to up the number of low-income units. It stands at fifteen.”

  Glenwood Collins jumped as if he’d been impaled with a sharp object, glaring at Bartholomew Houghton with intimidating repudiation. His secret admiration for the slender, silver-haired man who wore hand-tailored suits, imported footwear and a timepiece that cost more than some people earned in six months of backbreaking work dissipated like a drop of water on a heated surface.

  Glenwood gritted his teeth. “I thought you were different, Bartholomew.”

  Pressing his palms together, Bart lifted a dark eyebrow. “How is that, Glen?”

  “I thought you were a cut above the greedy white developers who prey on the poor, weak, disadvantaged and, lately, the disenfranchised. You come to my ’hood like a vulture with a beakful of dollars, scavenging and feeding on prime Harlem real estate like carrion. My constituents elected me to stop the foraging, and I intend to make good on my campaign promise.”

  Bart did not visibly react to the acerbic rant. “I’d like you to answer one question for me, Glen. Is it about my company improving the look of Harlem and the living conditions of those who live there, or is this about race?”

  A rush of blood to Glen’s face made his freckles more visible. He leaned forward, his hands fisting. “What do you think?” he sneered. “Of course it’s about race. There isn’t a day when I walk out of my apartment building to see another strange white person greeting me as if they were a friend or relative. And who the fuck do they think they are to speak to me as if they know me like that?”

  “They are your constituents, Glen,” Bart countered. “They are citizens of this city and state. They pay the taxes that support our schools, fire, police and sanitation departments. They spend money in their neighborhood, which also adds to Harlem’s tax base. They’re the ones who will vote for you to stay in Albany to represent their interests, and if you start alienating them they’ll be the ones who’ll vote you out of office.”

  Glen moved to the edge of his chair. “Are you threatening me, muthafucka?” Within seconds he’d reverted to the arrogant, fearless gang member who’d do anything to prove his manhood. “Because if you are then you’d better be careful because—”

  “Because what?” Bart asked, interrupting him. His voice was cold, filled with contempt for the man who’d believe he would submit to his intimidation. “Do you really think you scare me? You clean up real nice but you’re nothing but a project punk all dressed up in a fuckin’ fancy suit.”

  A swift shadow of anger swept across Glenwood’s face before it disappeared. “Now, what do we have here? A white boy who’s got some thug in him?”

  Bart’s face and eyes paled as rage singed his lungs. Uncrossing his legs, he placed both feet on the carpeted floor. “Let me clear up a few things for you,” he said softly. “The year I turned eighteen I became a man. And as for thug, you just don’t want to know how much I have. Please don’t let my fancy suit fool you, because I haven’t moved that far from the Liberty Trailer Park. I had relatives who shot people because they didn’t like the way they looked at them. I lost count of the uncles who used to write my mother with return addresses from Attica, Elmira and Coxsackie. And Mr. Albany Lawmaker, I don’t have to tell you that they’re maximum-security prisons. If you want thug, then I’ll show you thug. It’ll be just the two of us. It can be public housing versus trailer park. I have about six or seven inches on you, but you have age on your side. What do you say we go downstairs to the gym, put on some gloves and go a few rounds?”

  Glenwood couldn’t believe that billionaire real estate mogul Bartholomew Houghton had taunted him with a boxing match. He had at least twenty years on the man, but there was no doubt Bartholomew was in excellent shape, because there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his tall, lean body.

  “I came to talk, not fight.”

  “No, you didn’t, Glen. You came to tell me what I should do with my construction project. You’ve been leaning on me ever since I got the approval to build in your district, and I’ve tried to compromise with you. I’ve gone from five to ten, and now to fifteen units for low-income families.” He shook his head. “I will not go one unit higher, and if you start shit with me I’ll just have to let it leak out that your secretary, in addition to her secretarial duties, is also performing wifely duties. And don’t ask me how I know this because money talks and bullshit walks. You’re full of shit, Assemblyman Glenwood Collins, and I’d like you to walk out of here and not come back again unless I invite you.”

  Bart came to his feet. He almost felt sorry for the younger man when he saw his crestfallen expression. “I want you to remember one thing about me. I’m a businessman, which means I’m in this to make money. And I also want you to remember that I will never compromise my morals by hurting or cheating those who have nothing. I’m not my father-in-law, so forget about what you’ve heard or read about the Dunn-Houghton Group, because the day I took control I swore an oath to try and do the right thing.

  “You and I are more alike than dissimilar, because the projects and trailer parks share the same social stigma. I got out like you got out, and my only regret is, unlike yours, my parents didn’t live long enough to see my accomplishments.”

  Glenwood stood up. “What did your folks do?”

  A faraway look softened Bart’s gaze.
“My mother worked in a factory and on the weekends she waited tables in a diner. My father was what the kids called a mop jockey. They worked themselves into an early grave because they refused to accept a handout from the state. They likened welfare payments to a terminal disease.”

  “They were proud, Bartholomew,” Glen said reverently.

  “It was false pride,” Bart spat out contemptuously.

  Glen angled his head and smiled. “My folks were better off than yours. My dad was a butcher in a supermarket and my mother worked for the public library.”

  Bart’s expression softened considerably. “You’ve done well, Glen. I’m sure your parents are proud of you.”

  “They are,” he confirmed.

  “I’m not going to change my decision to increase the low-income units on this project, but I’m willing to compromise on the others.”

  Glenwood smiled and offered his hand. “I can live with that.”

  Bart shook his hand, then pulled him close in a rough embrace. “After trying to put the muscle on me, you could’ve at least sent me an invitation to your fund-raiser tomorrow tonight.”

  “You want to come?” There was no mistaking the surprise in Glenwood’s query.

  Pulling back, Bart smiled down at the assemblyman who hadn’t learned to conceal his emotions. His expressive face was an open book. “Of course I do.” He’d learned to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. “How much are the tickets?”

  “I believe to a man of your means, a thousand dollars a plate shouldn’t set you back too far.”

  “Put me down for two. Where and at what time?”

  “It’s in a town house on 138th and Striver’s Row. Cocktails are at six, speeches at seven, dinner at eight and dancing and bullshitting at nine-thirty.”

  Bart threw back his head and laughed, Glenwood’s laughter joining his. They were still laughing when Bart personally escorted him out of his office to the elevator and down to the street, where a driver waited outside the town house for the assemblyman.

  The two men shook hands again. Bart stood on the sidewalk watching the car as it drove away. He hadn’t wanted to threaten the elected official, but there was no way he was going to become a party to coercion and intimidation. He’d endured enough of that as a boy.

  At fifty years of age he knew who he was, what he wanted, and he was aware of the power he wielded because of his name and wealth. But he would give it all up for a woman with hair and skin the color of burnished gold, a woman whom he loved enough to forfeit his life.

  CHAPTER 82

  “Hurry and open the card,” Gina urged Faye as she plucked the small envelope attached to a profusion of pale blue cellophane off the enormous bouquet of white flowers that had been delivered to her office.

  Someone had sent her a vase filled with calla lilies, white violets, magnolias, peonies and roses. Others had gathered in Faye’s office by the time she’d taken the card out of the envelope. A delivery of flowers always elicited excitement and curiosity for the employees of Bentley, Pope and Oliviera.

  Her eyes widened as she read the message on the vellum: Congratulations on landing the Stembridge account. BLH. “How did he know?” she whispered aloud.

  “How did who know?” Gina asked, seeing her shocked expression. “Are you pregnant, Faye?”

  Faye recovered quickly, staring at the many pairs of eyes staring at her. “No!”

  Jessica, pushing past the others, leaned over to sniff the fragrant flowers. “What’s the big occasion?”

  “That’s for me to know and for you to try and find out,” she whispered for Jessica’s ears only.

  Jessica flushed a deep red. “You don’t have to be such a bitch,” she spat out.

  Rising to her feet, Faye dropped the card and moved toward Jessica, who had the sense to back away. “I remember warning you once before about calling me a bitch.”

  Gina grabbed Jessica’s arm and pushed her toward the door, the others stepping back as if they’d choreographed the move beforehand. “I suggest you take your fake ass outta here while you can.”

  Jessica tried pulling away, but Gina had dug her nails into her skin. “Take your hand off me!”

  Gina’s dark eyes flashed fire. “Get loud with me and I’ll wait for you after work and give you a Brooklyn beatdown that your grandchildren will remember.”

  Jessica stopped struggling. “How can I have grandchildren when I don’t have children?”

  A wicked grin curved Gina’s generous mouth. “You really are an empty-headed ho.”

  “I am not a whore.”

  “Yeah, you are if you shit where you have to eat.”

  Gina left Jessica pondering her statement and returned to Faye’s office where the others were filing out one by one, and mumbling under their breath about Faye. It was apparent she hadn’t told them the reason for the flowers.

  Faye smiled at Gina. “I got the Stembridge account.”

  “Dang, Faye. That was fast.”

  “It was apparent Mr. Morris liked what I presented.” What Faye couldn’t tell her assistant was that Geoffrey Morris probably would’ve approved anything she’d said because Bart had followed through on his promise to “take care of everything,” and “if I told you then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  He had taken care of everything and he’d surprised her by indirectly giving her a DHG account. A smile softened her expression. She would thank him for looking out for her when she saw him later that evening.

  Faye was two blocks from the Olympic Towers when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the display. “Yes, Lana.”

  “Where you at?” she quipped.

  “I’m on my way to Bart’s. What’s up?”

  “I just got notification from my bank that a bank check for the sale of my apartment was deposited into my account. I have an appointment to see my boss in about ten minutes. I’m going to tell her that I’m out at the end of August.”

  Faye bit down on her lower lip. It had become a reality, one which she hadn’t wanted to accept. Her best friend was leaving the city to move upstate to care for her mother and await the birth of her own child.

  “When are you moving?”

  “Not until after Labor Day. It’s going to take me that long to decide what I’m going to take and what I plan to give away.”

  “If you move before I come back from Europe I’m going to hurt you, Alana Elizabeth Gardner.”

  “Damn! It must be critical when you call me by my full name. But I ain’t scared because you’d never beat up on a pregnant woman.”

  “You’re right about that, Lana.”

  “Ilene called me this weekend, and she wants to get together before she leaves for her private paradise. I know you’re scheduled to go away with Bart the end of the week, but can you spare some time to hang out with your girlfriends?”

  “When and where?”

  “Don’t you have to check in with your man?”

  “Don’t get funny, Lana.”

  Alana’s distinctive laugh came through the earpiece. “What about Thursday at my place? We can either cook or order in.”

  “I’m for cooking if you make potato salad.”

  “You’re on,” Alana confirmed, “only if you fry the chicken.”

  “Deal. What time should I come?”

  “I’m only working half a day, so after two is okay.”

  “I’ll see you Thursday.” That said she rang off.

  She had spent Sunday night at Bart’s penthouse packing for their European vacation. She’d also left notification with her local post office to hold her mail during that time. After leaving the post office, she stopped at a pharmacy to pick up a three-month supply of the Pill that was touted to give her four periods a year. When she’d called her gynecologist with a message for him to contact her pharmacist to fill a prescription for an oral contraceptive, he’d suggested this new method. She wasn’t about to go away with Bart for almost a month and rely solely on him to protect her from an unpl
anned pregnancy.

  Faye turned down the street leading to the building where she spent more time than she did at her own. The doormen were used to seeing her, and a few greeted her by name. Bart had given her the keys to his penthouse the night of Alana’s frantic call, and hadn’t asked that she return them.

  Entering the richly appointed lobby, she smiled and nodded to the doorman on duty, and made her way to the elevator that would take her directly to the penthouse. Inserting her key into the slot for PH2, she turned it to the right and removed it when the door closed, the car rising swiftly and silently upward. It came to a stop, the doors opening with a soft swoosh.

  Faye let out a gasp as she looked up to find Bart looming over her. Her heart was racing. He wore a pair of cutoffs but had left his chest and feet bare. And it wasn’t the first time she’d admired his body—a swimmer’s body with broad shoulders, long, ropey muscular arms, flat belly, slim hips and strong muscled legs. He’d admitted to swimming at the pool in his office building on a daily basis.

  “You’ve got to stop coming up on me like this.”

  Taking her arm, he led her out of the elevator. “I was just waiting for you.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Did Jacques tell you that I was coming up?”

  Bart shook his head. “No. Come with me.”

  Faye dropped her handbag on a chair, following Bart to the spacious sitting area that separated her suite of rooms from his. Grasping the frame on a landscape painting, he pulled it back to review a monitor that revealed the empty elevator car.

  “Anytime someone places a key in the elevator to this floor it sends a signal, and a bell chimes. I can see you coming up before you get here.” He settled the painting against the wall.

  Moving closer to Bart, Faye pressed her breasts to his back. “What other secrets do you have?”

  He went completely still. “What are you talking about?”

  Wrapping her arms around his waist, she placed light kisses over his shoulders. “What’s your connection to Geoffrey Morris?”