Longing is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Jamie K. Schmidt
Excerpt from Control by Laura Marie Altom copyright © 2014 by Laura Marie Altom
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Control by Laura Marie Altom. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9780345549778
Cover design: Caroline Teagle
Cover photo: Shutterstock
www.readloveswept.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Dedication
By Jamie K. Schmidt
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Control
Chapter One
Anya Litton was in the back of Couture’s lending closet, which was larger than her first apartment. She was sorting the designer dresses by color, even though it wasn’t her job. Some people called it OCD; Anya liked to think she was doing a public service. While she got her head on straight, the closets got organized. Win-win situation.
Because no one was supposed to be in the cavernous storage room, the creak of the door opening startled her. She could have sworn she’d locked it. Giggles echoed back to where she was standing. Before she could shout out that she was in here, the conversation she heard tightened her throat, so the words couldn’t come out.
“Thank you for keeping that bitch Nefertiti busy while I got the key. It’s shopping time.”
Anya ducked below the rack of little black dresses to hide in the ball gown section. It was closer to the front, and she had better coverage between the voluminous gowns. She didn’t recognize the voice of the speaker, and she wanted to get a look at her.
“Oh, Desiree. It’s a Hermies scarf.”
“It’s pronounced ‘Air-mays,’ ” Desiree said with a haughty sniff.
“Well, whatever, it’s silk and expensive, and I’m taking it.”
Oh no, you’re not.
Anya turned off the volume on her phone and texted Istvahn, Couture’s head of security.
Hey, I’m in the LC. 2 chicks stole T’s key & r looting the place. I’m in the back.
He immediately texted back.
Do Not Engage. I will be right there.
Engage, yeah right. She wasn’t paid to stop thieves. Technically, she wasn’t paid to sort through clothes either, but it beat slurping down a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for stress release. Anya shook her head, disgusted at her own waffling. Most women would be thrilled to be considered for an off-Broadway play. It was what she wanted, too—a chance to step off the runway and onto the stage.
“There’s one small glitch, doll,” her agent, Trey, had said. “You need to lose some weight before the auditions.”
“How much weight are we talking here?” she had asked Trey, sliding a self-conscious hand down her midsection.
“Do what you can,” Trey said. “But do it fast, and make it count.”
Asshole.
She just wished she could stop letting stupid people bug her. That had to be the key to happiness. Although, that Cartier watch on the floor came close. Oh man, if she went to pick it up and put it back where it belonged, the thieves might catch her, and she just didn’t want another confrontation today.
“Don’t get too greedy,” Desiree said, high heels clicking on the hard floor.
Anya scooted in between two Vera Wang wedding gowns that hadn’t been put back in their dress bags and pulled the lace around herself. This might be the closest she got to a wedding gown, although she was holding out hope that her friend Mallory would ask her to be a bridesmaid.
“We want to take only what we can stuff in our purses. Nothing that will be noticeably missed.”
Where was Istvahn anyway? Anya wanted to get back to her boring Friday evening so she wouldn’t have to go to the staff development session. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend the evening flirting and drinking, and maybe even hooking up with a hot designer or stripper. She sighed. It was just that the stripper she wanted didn’t even know she existed. And combined with Trey’s oh-so-flattering opinion of her audition chances, she’d rather hide out among the Wangs.
Anya ran her fingers over the rhinestone bodice of one of the wedding dresses. Outfits danced in her head like sugarplums with designer labels. If Istvahn ever got here, maybe she could see if Colleen had any of her concepts from their Fierocity line made up yet. Anya would really rock that corset dress they were planning.
“I can’t believe that fat-ass has access to all of this stuff. She can’t even fit into most of this.”
Anya’s jaw clenched and she placed who the “Hermies” chick was. Couture was an interesting dichotomy. For the normal people it was the newest “it” resort to go to if you were one of the fashionista royalty. But it was really a members-only sex club: Club Inferno. Anya’s dear friend Colleen was the wizard behind both fronts. Always looking for new talent, Colleen had heard Anya was between modeling jobs and wanted to know if she wanted to hang out, earn some extra cash, and play around with some designs—and with some designers if they got lucky enough. So Anya had agreed to teach a “How to Accessorize” class for the fashion side of Couture and a “How to Talk Dirty” class from her phone-sex operator days for the X-rated side.
The X-rated side was a lot of fun. The “How to Accessorize” crowd could use some time in Club Inferno, maybe on the Saint Andrew’s cross, getting a few whips. Little Miss “Hermies” over there had spent the entire accessories class this morning passing notes with a friend and snickering at Anya’s “cankles,” from what Anya had overheard.
“Excuse me,” Anya had said, tossing the scarf she was demonstrating with down on the desk.
Stephanie—that was her name—didn’t take too keenly to being called out on her rudeness. She had pretended not to notice Anya, or the rest of the class, which was now looking at her.
“You with the fake Fendi purse.”
Stephanie’s head had snapped up straight as if Anya had cracked her one. “Fake?”
“Why are you here?”
Stephanie stuttered. “M-my agency sent me. They thought I could be a liaison between them and Couture.”
“Not if I can help it. Now, get the hell out of my class.”
“What? Why? You have no right!” Stephanie had half risen out of her chair, not sure what to do. She looked around for support, but even her friend wasn’t meeting her eyes. That probably had be
en Desiree.
Anya had wiggled her thumb toward the door. “Hit the road, jackass.”
She most likely should have kept that last bit to herself, but the laugh the class got out of it, and Stephanie’s mortified glare, had been worth it.
Of course, now Stephanie and her friend Desiree were trying to get even.
“What bothers me,” Desiree said, sliding hangers down the rack, from the sound of it, “is she has the nerve to call herself a model. Double-digit britches should just stick to the husky section of the Sears catalog and be thankful her pretty face has kept her out of working behind a fast-food counter.”
“Apparently, she’s more than comfortable in front of one,” Stephanie said, guffawing.
So that’s how they want to play it.
Anya risked a good look out. Desiree was in her bra and panties, shimmying into a $600 Versace slip. Stephanie was stuffing scarves, watches, and sunglasses into that big, fake Fendi purse, oblivious to everything else.
She texted to Istvahn: OMG they have guns!
—
“It was like being back in high school,” Anya said, her feet on Colleen’s desk. She was showing off her new Louboutins.
Colleen was a die-hard Blahnik devotee, but they met on common ground with Jimmy Choo.
“In high school, you don’t call in SWAT for the mean girls,” Colleen said, trying not to smile. “Stephanie was making ‘excessive use of force’ noises. I might actually have to pay her off.” Colleen took out a marker and made as if to write on the soles of Anya’s shoes.
“Hey.” Anya grinned, slamming her feet down to the ground. “Put me on a payment plan. It was worth it to see Istvahn tackle her. He must outweigh her by a good hundred pounds. How did he not break her in half?”
“He’s a professional. Unlike some people I could name.”
“It’s not my fault she shoved her hand in her purse when he and his team kicked the damn door in.” Anya shoved a finger in her ear. “I’m still half-deaf from Desiree screaming.”
“It’s hard to look innocent when you’re wearing stolen underwear.” Colleen doodled an X-rated cartoon of Desiree with boobs larger than her head—which was actually accurate now that Anya thought about it.
“I’m glad they didn’t have guns. It took forever for Istvahn to respond to my SOS call.”
“He had to round up women guards for the pat-down. Besides, as soon as you said ‘gun’ he was there.”
“I saw a flash of silver. I thought it was a gun. I panicked.”
Colleen gave her an “Oh bullshit” look but didn’t say anything. Looking down at her drawing, she rolled her eyes and crumpled it up, tossing it in the trash. “I can’t draw anything lately.” She flipped through the concept art for Fierocity, showing the new pieces to Anya.
They wanted their line to be edgy and fun, but with enough mainstream appeal that normal people could wear the clothes to work or clubbing. Anya pulled a pink, tailored dress out of the pack and was about to toss it in the trash when she looked at it again.
“It’s got nice lines. Can we put a skull and crossbones on the lapel? Maybe line it with black silk?”
Colleen looked at it and nodded. “I want to darken the pink a bit.”
“Are we selling to Mary Kay ladies?” Anya asked in a sweet singsong.
“Maybe,” Colleen said through her teeth.
“Exclusively?”
“No.”
“Leave it Hello Kitty pink then.”
“Fine.” Colleen made a few notes on the sheet.
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Anya liked how the line was shaping up. It had something for everyone. But her guilty conscience nudged her.
“Is he pissed at me?”
Colleen knew her well enough to know whom she was asking about. “Istvahn doesn’t get pissed. But I wouldn’t cry wolf again, if I were you. I’d stay off his radar for a few weeks too.”
“Are you going to press charges against those two little snots who were robbing you blind?”
“I’m going to have my lawyers rattle their sabers and negotiate that everyone will drop all charges for no prosecution and a permanent ban from all my establishments.”
“Quelle horreur.” Anya put the back of her hand to her forehead in a pretend swoon. “Banned from the Bryant properties. Does that include all of Alfie’s hotels too?”
Colleen’s smile grew a little wistful at the mention of her dead husband’s name. “It depends on how ornery I’m feeling. Speaking of which, are you going to the staff development party next Friday?”
Anya cringed. “There’s another one?”
“You missed the body paint demonstration last night. It was starting to get really creative when they pulled out the finger paints. I, of course, had to leave to attend to other matters.” She raised her eyebrow at Anya.
Anya considered helping herself to a nice big gin and tonic from the well-stocked bar in the corner, but she had her “Talk Dirty to Me” class in another hour. It was hard when she was sober to stop the giggles when forcing a sweet older lady to say the four-letter C words. It wouldn’t be pretty after a few drinks. And she’d have to replace the tonic with seltzer because of the calories. Bah, not worth it. She cracked open a diet cola and passed it to Colleen. Colleen should set up an IV at the rate she drank the stuff. Poking around the bar, Anya piled a fruit salad of maraschino cherries and lemon and lime wedges on a bar napkin and plunked back into her seat.
“Is Istvahn going to be there?” Anya tied a knot in the cherry stem with her tongue to stay in practice, but Colleen didn’t even look up. Colleen had been the one who taught her how to tie the stem when they were working the overnight shift at the call center. They would sneak in rum-and-Cokes while they took the 1-900 sex calls. But that was so many years ago, it could have been someone else. They had lived off ramen noodles and shared an apartment with two other girls. Come to think of it, Colleen’s office was bigger than that apartment had been.
“Yes, although he’ll probably remain a respectable distance from anyone enjoying themselves.”
Anya was having a hard time concentrating on the designs, so she paced around the swanky office. She could remember a time when they shared a bullpen back in Vegas. Instead of cream-colored shag carpet, it had been industrial-strength gray. The old place had faded porn pictures on the wall, whereas Colleen’s office had nude photographs of impossibly beautiful and well-endowed people. The old office had been a cave in the basement of a real business off the strip. Anya leaned her forehead against the floor-to-ceiling window and watched light flakes of snow fall. They were so far away from the desert here in Connecticut, but she still felt like that young girl sometimes, waiting for her life to start.
When it was slow, they would talk about their dreams. Anya would look through the paper for any and all casting calls, even though the crossword puzzle was more productive. Colleen would practice her showgirl dancing. She had almost kicked their manager in the head, so he stayed in his office, smoked cigars, and probably beat off to their phone calls. Stan was an okay boss. He never hit on them or made creepy suggestions. He was interested in dollars. Keep the marks talking and calling back. Time was absolutely money in the phone sex business.
“Is it a costume party?” Anya asked. Maybe she could hide in the back.
“No, but if you want to wear a mask no one will look twice.”
All Colleen had ever wanted to be was a showgirl. She’d tried stripping and it paid more than phone sex, so she spent her nights doing that. Anya had followed and was a cocktail waitress for a while before she got fired for dumping a pitcher of beer over a Japanese tourist who’d motorboated her. The bouncers threw him out, but her boss didn’t care. During the day they would hit the strip, trying to be noticed by anyone.
“I want to wear that corset dress we put together.” Anya shuffled through the artwork until she found it. She held it up. “If we’re making it for me, I want to lower the neckline.”
&nbs
p; “Lower?” Colleen raised an eyebrow. “Your nipples will show.”
“Not if the corset is doing its job.”
“Well, if you think it’s ready for the antigravity test, talk to Marisol. She’ll sew it up. You might want to switch from the Italian leather.”
“But it’s so soft.”
“You’ll need a lot of boning.” Colleen was frowning at the design.
“I hope to get a lot of boning.”
Colleen shook her head in exasperation. “Who’s on your radar?”
“No one,” Anya said. “Or anyone. It’s been a while.”
Her last big romance had been with an Italian count. He’d helped her get her modeling career started. Cesare had even gotten Colleen a job at the Double Diamond casino. It wasn’t a showgirl position but a slightly more respectable one in marketing. Colleen used her exquisite good taste to keep the high rollers and their glamorous arm candy interested in staying in the casino. That was where she met Alfred Granger, billionaire and dirty old man extraordinaire.
“You don’t have your cap set on Istvahn, do you?” Colleen asked.
“Oh dear lord, no. I mean, he’s hot in a Daniil Strakhov/Russian Vogue sort of way.”
“I don’t even know who that is.”
“You need to expand your horizons, girlfriend.”
“If my horizons get any more expanded, I’m going to need another house.”
“So buy one.”
Colleen seemed to consider it for a moment. Alfie had taken one look at Colleen and bought her contract from the Double Diamond. They were married a few months later. Anya and Cesare went to the wedding. When she caught the bouquet, Cesare crumpled like a used paper sack and told her his mama had arranged a marriage for him. Anya’s dreams of being a countess and of true love had died that day.
“But it’s obvious he’s got a thing for Nefertiti.” Anya dusted her hands off as if she could wipe away the melancholy memories. Her agent’s phone call shouldn’t have affected her like this. After Mama Cesare—who painted insults like she was Michelangelo—Anya’s skin was as thick as Istvahn’s head.
Longing: Club Inferno Page 1