Most of the businesses—restaurants, book and video stores, specialty shops and coffeehouses and a theater—were casual spots. Dining al fresco was the norm. And the Starbucks on the corner had a parklike setting right outside its front door.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he made a U-turn and drove back up the business district, this time hunting for a parking space.
“That’s not good,” he murmured when he couldn’t readily find one.
On-street parking seemed to be at a premium. Making a right, he cut down the side street nearest Guilty Pleasures and found a decent-sized lot behind the store.
This section of Colley Avenue had obviously been developed with the surrounding neighborhood in mind. The houses and apartment buildings were close together, but green space was also plentiful.
Detouring around a sidewalk construction zone, it took Lance about two minutes to get to the front of the shop. He noted no back entrance. Good for avoiding crime, not necessarily best for customer convenience.
Yellow and purple pansies, left over from the winter, bloomed in two large urns at the front of the store. It was warm enough for summer flowers, maybe geraniums, to be planted and blooming. Lance wondered if it was oversight or deliberate. Did Vivienne use a landscaper or did she do that work herself? She hardly seemed the type to be digging around in the dirt. So Lance came to one possible conclusion: Guilty Pleasures was pinching pennies.
It that were, indeed, the case, he needed to know why. Was it deliberate economizing or did she put all of her resources into the well-appointed interior? Then again, maybe the landscaper just hadn’t come by yet.
When he walked into the shop, he was again struck by the sensuality of the place. It hadn’t just been the fog of sexual desire clouding his mind. The store maintained its appeal without the undercurrent of passion.
Two customers, both women in their mid-thirties, browsed the shop. They looked like schoolteachers on break.
Lance glanced around, taking in details he’d missed. He paused at a rack of soft coverall scarves. Maybe his mom would like one. He fingered a pale pink one. She’d moved to Florida to get away from both the Hearts and the unpredictable weather in Virginia.
“May I help you?”
He turned at the tiny voice. A short woman of about twenty with Betty Boop eyes and the figure to match batted her eyes up at him.
He let the scarf fall back into place. “Hello. Is Ms. la Fontaine available?”
The woman eyed him with unabashed interest. “She’s in the office. Who should I say is inquiring?”
“Lance. Lance Heart Smith.”
The woman smiled and headed toward a door Lance hadn’t noticed the day before.
“Mr. Smith.”
He turned. And his breath caught. Guilty Pleasures apparently crawled with beauties. The shop inched up another notch in his estimation and Lance wondered how he’d missed it before. This woman was tall, almost as tall as Viv, but with a lush, fuller figure. Her eyes were arresting, gold-flecked, almost like a lion’s. Her hair flowed everywhere and the black-and-white capri pants set hugged her body, leaving everything covered but little to the imagination. High-heeled black-and-white mules finished the look. She looked like sin on holiday and Lance got a brief vision of a threesome, himself flanked by Viv and this woman. He could die happy. With effort he squelched the fantasy and tried to focus on her face.
“My name’s Dakota. Vivienne told me you might stop by. I have some information for you.”
Lance glanced back in the direction the other clerk had taken, then turned his attention to the woman who appeared as wild as the plains for which she was named. Dakota handed him a large folder with the Guilty Pleasures insignia embossed on the cover.
“A prospectus?”
She nodded.
“Vivienne said to tell you you’ll find the business plan along with some press information. Are you familiar with our merchandise?”
“Yes. I am,” Lance said. “Is Vivienne here?”
“She’s unavailable.” Dakota said the words point-blank, letting him know there’d be no getting to Vivienne without going through her. Despite the other clerk’s helpfulness the access door was closed.
Dakota might be a beauty, but she clearly knew how to protect her turf with the ferociousness of a lioness. “But she did say to tell you thanks for the flowers.” She pointed toward an exuberant display at the service counter.
Lance had to give it to his florist. The man knew how to make plants sing. It wasn’t often, if ever, that Lance got to see an arrangement of the flowers he sent. This one definitely said: Yeah, baby.
“It’s important that I speak with Vivienne.”
Dakota smiled, but Lance wasn’t charmed. “She’s not available at the moment.”
This was going nowhere fast. “All right.” Lance smacked the folder on his leg. “Well, would you leave a message for her?”
“Surely.” Dakota reached for a cream-colored pad and a pen. She held both at the ready. “Yes?”
“Tell her I’m interested.”
“My God, Viv. He is fabulous.”
Dakota and Viv sat in the office off the showroom floor, Viv behind her desk and Dakota with her bare feet carefully propped on a stool stacked with catalogs.
“Looks aren’t everything,” Viv said, her tone dry.
“Well, in his case, they make up for any other deficiency. Is he a Heart, like in the Heart Department Stores?”
“Um-hmm.” Distracted, Viv chewed on a nail.
Dakota decided to go fishing. “I’m sensing some history.”
Viv looked up. “Huh? With Lance? No.”
“Then what’s up? You’ve been acting weird all day.”
Viv didn’t want to get into it. Not with Vicki. Not with Dakota. And not with Lance. She shook her head. “I’m just a little out of sorts today.”
“So, is Lance Heart Smith the investor you’ve been looking for?”
“Maybe.”
“Viv?” Dakota got up and came around the side of the desk. “What’s wrong?”
Viv rubbed her temples. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Crowding out all other thoughts was Lance Heart Smith. She’d managed to placate Julian, but Lance was the one who’d been on her mind.
Had she blown the deal by sleeping with him and then bolting the way she’d done?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Once again, she’d let hormones get the best of her . . . and this time her business was at stake.
“Did you give him the packet?”
“Yeah. He didn’t even look at it.”
“I’m sure he will.” Viv reached for her appointment book. “I think I have a program tonight.”
“I placed the order with Lucia Allen today. She’s excited about the response we’ve had to her jewelry. Hey, is she any relation to Lance Heart Smith?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Dakota shrugged. “I thought her middle name was Heart, too. Where did I see that?” She shrugged again. “I may have her mixed up with someone else.”
Wouldn’t that be destiny? She’d heard about a boutique one of them opened in Virginia Beach, but she hadn’t checked it out. Maybe she should get to know that shop owner if she was seriously considering a financial connection with Lance. She made a note in her book to get the owner’s name and a second one to ask Lucia if she was related to Lance. Later she’d work out how to fit that into a conversation without tipping her hand.
“Do you want to work on the pajama party? We still need a theme.”
“Is Leticia still on the floor?”
Dakota nodded. “She’ll ring back here if she needs any help.”
“Okay,” Viv said. She pulled a legal pad from a drawer and wrote PJ Party across the top. “Themes?”
“Arabian Nights.”
“Done to death.”
“What about a masquerade?” Dakota offered.
“We don’t want people to get the impression they
should hide behind anything.”
“Mardi Gras.”
Viv tilted her head. “That works.” She wrote it down. “What else?”
“How about if we get a bunch of guys who look like Lance Heart Smith to be the waiters? They could wear loincloths or G-strings. The women could take pictures with them.”
“Fantasy night, huh?”
Dakota grinned. “Exactly.”
Viv wrote it down. “Raggedy pj’s.”
“Huh?”
“We tell the women to come in their raggedy pj’s and we do makeovers. When they leave—with their new purchases—they’re transformed into sirens.”
“I like it. But I like the idea of a naked Lance Heart Smith even better.”
Viv did, too, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She had a healthy, active sex life, yet Lance had managed to teach her a thing or two. The main lesson being that she was weak-willed.
Dakota snapped her fingers.
“Huh?”
“You were gone again,” Dakota said. “Are you sure everything’s all right. Vicki’s okay?”
“Yes. I . . .” She shook her head. “What about a patriotic theme?”
Dakota frowned. “With lingerie?”
“You’re right. That one sucks.” She tapped her pen on the desktop, reluctant to admit that the idea featuring the men had some merit, if only because it sent her thoughts roaming back to Lance.
Tonight she’d take something from the shop home to Vicki; maybe a gift would help eliminate some of the “I told you so’s” she was bound to hear.
“It should be about pampering,” Dakota said.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
Dakota leaned forward, propping her arms on the desk front and solemnly regarding Viv. “I volunteer to see if Lance Heart Smith lives up to his looks. He said to tell you he’s interested.”
Yeah, Viv thought, that was the problem. Despite knowing better, she, too, was interested. The difference was she wanted his money more than she wanted what he did to her in bed.
7
“It’s your fault I have these pangs.”
Vivienne and her twin sister, Vicki, were in their large kitchen preparing the evening meal. Vicki made quick work of slicing marinated chicken breasts.
“Turn the broiler off,” she said. “And those pangs are good for you.”
Viv watched her sister navigate the kitchen. “You missed your calling as a chef.”
“Nope,” Vicki said. “I’m happy doing what I do.” She grated mozzarella.
Viv filched a piece of romaine and considered that for a moment. “Why don’t you come with me tonight? I think you’ll enjoy the author’s presentation. It’s on self-actualization.”
“No thanks. I’m as actualized as I’m going to get. Besides, I have some work to do.”
This was a sore point between them. Viv always invited; Vicki always declined. Usually with work as an excuse. For a long moment Viv didn’t say anything, then, “All right. I should be home by eleven.”
Vicki waved a hand, shooing Viv out of the way. “I’ll leave some salad for you.”
When Viv left, Vicki halted her busy work and slumped into a chair, closing her eyes. It was so hard pretending. Each day seemed harder than the last. And each day Vicki just wanted to give up. She wouldn’t, however, let Viv see her weakness. Viv was the strong one, though she’d readily deny it, ceding that attribute to Vicki. Vicki knew that her twin looked at her and saw strength, resolve and a determination to succeed despite the odds. Vicki, however, knew how much a sham that was. She rarely, if ever, let Viv see how hard it was to walk in her shadow. Viv had fought so hard for both of them, even when Vicki thought the cause lost.
So Vicki owed it to her sister—and herself—to fight back the darkness and to rise each day, though it be a new struggle, out of the abyss of her misery.
Viv had no idea. No way to grasp even an iota of what it was like to be the other sister. Clayton was the only person who seemed to truly understand her. He was the highlight of her day. Every night she could shed the mantle of her self-loathing and desolation to become a beautiful woman who lived life to its fullest, free of inhibitions, free of . . .
She touched her face and sighed.
Dwelling in self-pity never accomplished much, and wouldn’t change tonight. Besides, Clayton waited for her. She completed her salad, snagged a wineglass and a bottle of Chardonnay and carefully made her way to the room she’d claimed as her workspace. A few minutes later, with the glass topped off and the salad next to her, she entered the world where she was free and unencumbered.
VAVAVOOM: Hey there. Rough day here. What’s going on with you?
CLAYPLAY: Same thing. If I’d had an Uzi I’d have shot the office up today.
VAVAVOOM: It’s not nice to say those sorts of things. 9-11 is still a factor in our world.
CLAYPLAY: 9-11 notwithstanding, I was pissed.
VAVAVOOM: So tell me about it.
CLAYPLAY : The bitch finally quit today.
VAVAVOOM : So that’s good. You hated her.
CLAYPLAY: Yeah, well she skipped town with all of the client records.
VAVAVOOM: Nasty girl.
CLAYPLAY: AND, guess who got delegated to go get them.
VAVAVOOM: So, like, where are you?
CLAYPLAY: Some godforsaken place called Peaceton, North Carolina. There is like nothing here. This place makes Ahoskie look like a booming metropolis.
Her breath caught and her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she stopped in mid-chew. He spoke of the small town in a familiar way. Was he from Ahoskie? That was just about an hour from her house. So close. She didn’t dare let him know. Though they’d been e-mailing for six months, Clayton Rollings—if that was his real name—was in the end, just a sig line in cyberspace. Vicki of all people should know not to trust anything anyone said online.
Her gaze darted to the time display on the monitor.
Six-thirty.
He is just an hour away.
Viv wouldn’t be back until eleven. Or even at all. She hadn’t come home last night. Vicki had the house to herself.
She took a deep breath.
VAVAVOOM: Clay, there’s something I need to tell you.
She stared at the flashing cursor. But she didn’t press Enter to send the instant message.
CLAYPLAY: I mean, if you’re gonna embezzle money and take client records you’d think you’d have sense enough to ditch the corporate credit card. It’s like following Hansel and Gretel.
Did she dare? It would be so liberating . . . and so foolhardy.
Vicki quickly deleted the line before she changed her mind. In its place, she typed,
VAVAVOOM: So what are you going to do?
CLAYPLAY: My work is done. I’ve already called the authorities.
Clayton worked in the security division of an undisclosed multinational company—or so he said. Vicki’s own work kept her chained to a computer all day. Monitoring chat sites and troubleshooting for list moderators kept her pretty busy.
That she’d even managed to get sucked into a cyber-pseudo relationship amazed her. She knew the pitfalls. Yet, his posts about vanity in a chat room debate so intrigued her that she’d sent a private message one night while the arguments raged over whether actress Halle Berry would have won an Oscar had she been an ugly woman. They’d kicked up an ongoing discussion on physical appearance, media and ad agency definitions of beauty, and the unrealistic expectations both created. And that was the beginning of their friendship.
Despite the odds, and the initial half-truths she’d written, Vicki did consider Clayton a friend.
VAVAVOOM: So, when do you head home?
CLAYPLAY: I am home.
Vicki frowned.
VAVAVOOM: You LIVE in Ahoskie, North Carolina?
It took him longer than normal to respond to the message. Vicki sat there, waiting. Wondering what game he played. Then...
CLAYPLAY : Are you changing the
rules? ;)
She looked at the question and the coy wink sign for a bit. He hadn’t answered the question. She smiled.
VAVAVOOM: Touché.
She’d established the ground rules. No last names—though the profile he’d filled out listed his name as Clayton Rollings of the USA.
No cities of residence. No physical contact. No phone numbers. No photos.
Was it time to rethink that?
CLAYPLAY : Well?
VAVAVOOM: I’m thinking already.
CLAYPLAY:
Vicki’s eyes widened. She typed in ?????
CLAYPLAY: I’m sending you a photo.
Her breath caught. A photo? He’d suggested as much before, but she’d always balked. A picture was so personal, so telling.
So truthful.
How many times had Viv said people saw her photo on a billboard or magazine cover and decided they knew her. Vicki didn’t want anyone having that sort of connection with her.
CLAYPLAY: And you can’t say no, because it’s already on its way to you.
Sure enough, a message popped up in her e-mail. She stared at it for a long time.
CLAYPLAY: Still there?
VAVAVOOM: I’m here.
CLAYPLAY: Open it.
VAVAVOOM: I will. Not now though. I have to go.
CLAYPLAY: Ah, come on, VaVa. We’ve been at this for six months.
Vicki stared at his message and then at the e-mail that carried the subject line Clayplay in color.jpg.
CLAYPLAY: VaVa?
Vicki clicked out of the instant messaging program.
He’d sent his photo and it was very possible he lived just a ways south of her.
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