BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense

by Nelle L’Amour

  Treading back to the couch, I impulsively pick up her butterfly tights from the coffee table. I put them to my nose, whiffing the cotton crotch. Still damp, they smell of her. The warm fire. And the gardenias. An intoxicating, sensual blend.

  I inhale again. And I’m inspired.

  I hurry to my office and turn on my computer. I want to know everything there is about butterflies.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sofi

  The rain subsides and I make it home, spending the rest of the day doing what I normally do on my day off. Laundry. Straightening my apartment. Paying bills. Stocking up on groceries at Trader Joe’s. Things take longer than usual as I’m in slo-mo from my mishap. My throbbing knee is a constant reminder of it. And of him. No matter how much I try, I can’t get Roman Hurst out of my head. His beautiful face lingers in my mind, his deep velvety voice echoes in my ears, and at the memory of his touch, butterflies of my own flit around my stomach. I couldn’t stop looking at his exquisite hands, the fingers long and tapered, as he bandaged my knee. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band on his ring finger and wondered if he’s married. Except for his age, there’s no personal information about him anywhere online. I had to battle the burning urge to ask him about his marital status—as if that’s any of my business. I give myself a mental kick. I’ve got to stop thinking about him. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Plus, I’m so not his type. I’m sure he goes after supermodels like that gorgeous woman in the framed photos.

  Trying to forget him, I indulge in my passion—painting. There’s an easel set up in the alcove of my cramped dwelling with a tray of paints and brushes; I’ve kind of made it my studio. Because the apartment is so small, I work in acrylics to avoid the toxicity of oils. I’ve been working on a painting of a rare butterfly. The Blue Morpho, one of the largest in the world with a wingspan of five to six inches. It is distinguished by its vivid blue wings and lacy black edges. Ironically, the very shade of blue as Roman’s eye. As I apply some blue paint to the canvas, I think of him again. If Roman were a butterfly, he’d be a Blue Morpho. Unique. Commanding. Bigger than life. Oh so beautiful! Only, if only, I could get him to fly out of my mind.

  A little before seven, my heart heavy, I put my paints away, change into a vintage butterfly-print dress, and head out to meet Harper at Cipriani. Though I’m not in the mood to go out, she’s dying to hear about my interview with Roman. Fingers crossed she’ll pick up the tab and come with a check from her father. After paying all my bills today, I need the six hundred dollars more than ever. My asshole landlord called me twice about my rent payment. He told me if I didn’t pay it by the end of the week, he was going to start eviction proceedings.

  The restaurant, located on West Broadway, is not far from my apartment, and I’m grateful for that as I’m tired and achy. I’m also grateful it hasn’t started raining again, the late April air now mild and muggy. I’m the first one to arrive, and the maître d’ escorts me to our table after I tell him I don’t want to have a drink at the bar. A twenty-dollar glass of wine I’ll have to pay for. Nope, pass. I can live without it.

  I take a seat at the white linen-covered table situated in the middle of the restaurant. It’s Harper’s favorite place to sit as it affords her a bird’s-eye view of all the action. The bustling restaurant is a favorite among the fashion crowd—filled with long-legged models, photographers, magazine editors, and designers. It’s a place to see and be seen. For sure, not a place you’d ever find the reclusive Roman Hurst.

  Still trying to shove him to the back of my mind, I stretch my bandaged leg out under the table, remembering what he told me, and peruse the menu. Everything here is delicious, though I don’t have much of an appetite. As I read over today’s specials, all which start at forty dollars, a familiar rasp drifts into my ears. I look up. It’s Harper, chicly dressed in perfectly ripped designer jeans, a sharp blazer, and spikey ankle boots. Her thick auburn hair is spooled high in a ponytail and she’s perfectly made up.

  “Hi,” she says, scooting into the chair across from me. “Did you order some wine?”

  “No, I was waiting for you.” She’s a half hour late. Make that only a half hour late. Time management is not one of Harper’s talents.

  A waiter comes by, pleased to see her. She’s a regular here. Without looking at the wine list, she orders a Sancerre. I’m sure the bottle costs over a hundred dollars. Unlike me who’s on a tight budget, my best friend has none. She has a bottomless trust fund. And an equally endless expense account.

  The wine comes quickly, and after Harper approves it, the waiter pours us each a glass before setting the bottle in an ice-filled wine bucket.

  “Salut,” she says brightly, clinking her goblet against mine. We each take a sip. The chilled wine is crisp and refreshing, nothing like the cheap stuff I buy.

  “How was your weekend?” I ask.

  “Same old same old. Derek and I discussed the wedding with his parents. I can’t believe it’s only a month away. Gah!”

  I’ve heard about this fairy-tale wedding ad nauseam. For over a year. Taking place over Memorial Day weekend, it’s going to be the wedding of all weddings, complete with a horse-driven carriage for the bride and groom. I’m going to be her maid of honor, wearing a demure yellow dress she picked out for me at Bergdorf’s. At twelve hundred dollars, thank goodness she offered to pay for it after I told her I couldn’t afford to.

  My bestie takes another drink of her wine. Her three-carat engagement ring catches the candlelight and glimmers in my eyes.

  “The rehearsal dinner is on the Friday night before the wedding. Don’t forget about it. You need to be there.”

  “I’m not sure if I can. I may have to work late,” I say glumly. Her head swivels to the left and she gawks.

  “Ooh, look! There’s Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, and the designer Michael Kors.” She’s so busy people-watching, I don’t think she’s heard a word I’ve said. Plus, she’s admittedly got ADHD. After spotting a top fashion model, she returns her attention to me.

  “I can’t thank you enough for covering my interview with Roman Hurst today. I want to hear everything! But before I forget, here’s the check my father promised you.” She reaches into her designer purse and hands me an envelope. I gratefully take it from her and sneak a peek at it. I silently breathe a sigh of relief; I’m paid in full.

  She reaches back into her bag. “Oh, and here’s the forty dollars I owe you from last week. I scrounged up another hundred and was able to Uber to Derek’s parents’ house.”

  Two twenties. I snatch the bills from her and stuff them into my backpack along with the check. I’m glad for once I didn’t have to ask her for the money I lent her . . . that almost made my checking account balance go negative. I’ve lost track of how much she owes me, another manifestation of her attention deficit disorder and complete disregard for time.

  “Okay, now with that out of the way, tell me everything! What was he like?”

  Tall. Gorgeous. Mysterious. Complex. Protective. Controlling. Caring. Sexy as sin.

  I take a long sip of my wine to quell the sensations erupting all over my body. Heart palps. Flutters. Tightening. Tingles. I swallow hard past the bubble of emotion that’s swelling in my chest.

  “He was very accommodating. He served tea and answered all your questions.”

  “Even the one I threw in? I hope you didn’t mind that.”

  “Actually, he didn’t give me the chance to ask it.” Well, that’s the truth. “He had to take a very important phone call and politely asked me to leave.”

  Harper frowns. “That’s too bad. What do you think?”

  “He’s not gay.” The words spill out of my mouth. Leaving little room for my bestie to challenge me.

  “I was positive he was. What does he look like?”

  “Kind of ordinary and unassuming.” That’s the understatement of the century. The man is breathtaking. Formidable. In a league of his own.

  My companion t
wists her glossy red lips. “Oh, I kind of imagined him to be short and boyish. With horn-rimmed glasses. Did he let you take a photo?”

  “No. Plus, I had to sign a confidentiality agreement.” Then, after another long sip of the wine, I break the news to her. “He found out that I was pretending to be you.”

  Mid sip, Harper chokes. After a few coughs, she swallows and her eyes grow wide. “He did?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. You can publish the interview with your name. I’ll type it up tonight and send it to you.”

  Relief washes over my BFF. “Thank God! That’s awesome! It’s going to be the talk of the fashion world. Thanks to you, I’m one step closer to becoming the next Anna Wintour.”

  And thanks to you, I’m a hot mess. One step closer to becoming an emotional train wreck. Everything in Harper’s life is so perfect. She doesn’t have to worry about money; she’s on her career path and is marrying a mega-rich guy who dotes on her. I, on the other hand, can barely pay my rent, have to worry about my aging parents, and seem to be going nowhere. And there’s no one in my life that’s close to putting a ring on my finger. Let alone care for me. Tears begin to well in the back of my eyes, but Harper is too busy checking out the who’s who of the fashion world to notice. She takes a break to peruse the menu. Half-heartedly, I do the same.

  The waiter comes by and we each order. Endive salads, then a truffle pasta for her and a grilled salmon for me.

  Another bottle of wine later, I’ve hardly touched my salmon.

  It’s a shame this three-hundred-dollar meal has gone to waste. I don’t even want to take it home.

  An hour later, I’m back in my studio typing up the interview on my laptop.

  When I hit send, I know Roman Hurst is out of my life forever.

  CHAPTER 7

  Roman

  With a container of hot wonton soup next to me, I spend the next couple hours in my study hunched over my desktop computer, researching butterflies on the Internet. There are over 250,000 species, each of them distinct and many of them indigenous to certain regions of the world. For many people and cultures, they are symbolic and powerful representations of life. Many associate the butterfly with our souls, and the Christian religion sees the butterfly as a symbol of resurrection. Others view the butterfly as representing endurance, change, hope, and life. A symbol of renewal. And for some, it’s magical—like for Sofi. Between sips of the soup, I go on to read heartfelt stories of people whose lives have been touched and magically transformed by their encounters with the beautiful creatures.

  Today, I met a butterfly, and for the first time in years, I feel alive. Renewed. Inspired. Finishing the now cold soup, I reach into a drawer of my desk and pull out a brand-new sketchbook. Taking it along with my pen, I move back to the adjacent great room and sink into the couch. I stretch out my legs on the coffee table. And start sketching frantically. One design after another. Pages and pages of gorgeous gowns layered like the wings of a butterfly. The models I draw look nothing like my usual elongated, chignoned women, but rather like the butterfly of my dreams. The one etched on my brain. Sofi.

  I begin imagining other patterns and designs—voluminous ballroom skirts with hand-painted butterflies strewn all over them, matching shoes with butterflies flying off the heels, and satin minaudières shaped like the winged insects. For the first time since the accident that robbed me of my vision in one eye and shattered my heart, I begin to see things in color. Vibrant pinks, violets, oranges, greens, yellows, indigoes, and blues. The coruscating colors intermingling.

  So engrossed in my sketching, I lose track of time and don’t hear the elevator door slide open. The sharp clickety-clack of heels across the wood floor startles me. I drop my pen and look up. A tart, familiar voice assaults me.

  “Roman, where the hell were you?”

  It’s my longtime business partner, Kendra Clark. Chic as ever in all black—leather leggings, a cashmere sweater, and a belted trench coat that grazes her shapely calves. Large diamond studs dot her earlobes and a huge Birken bag dangles from her arm. When she goes to black-tie events in my place, she only wears my couture gowns, but on a day-to-day basis, she wears every top designer known to mankind. The more expensive the better.

  Facing me, she loosens her coat belt and throws her manicured hands on her jutting hips. While now almost forty, she still has the body of a high-fashion model, which she was. Mile-high legs, which look even longer in her Louboutins, a cinched waist, broad shoulders, and a swan-like neck that contributes several inches to her five-ten frame. Her chiseled face, preserved by the magic of Botox and other fillers, doesn’t betray her age nor do the platinum hair extensions that cascade down her back in a loose braid. She is in a word: stunning.

  Her steely blue eyes narrow at me like razors. “You missed our lunch with Bernard Altman.”

  “Shit,” I mumble.

  The nostrils of her slender nose flare. “Do you know how long I worked on getting him to meet you? Doesn’t that frumpy housekeeper of yours keep your schedule?”

  My blood bubbles. She’s referring to Madame DuBois, whom she makes no secret of despising. The feeling is mutual.

  “Madame DuBois is not my housekeeper,” I remind her for the umpteenth time. “And she’s not my secretary.”

  “You should fire her sorry ass. She makes way more than she should, and our finances are tight.”

  Madame DuBois has been with me forever. We’re connected for life, tethered by an unbreakable bond. She knows all of me. All of my secrets. All of my sorrows. There’s no way I’ll ever fire her. Even if I was on my last dollar.

  “Maybe I can meet him tomorrow.”

  Kendra scoffs at me. “There is no tomorrow. He’s flying back to Paris on his private jet tonight.” She saunters to the bar and pours herself a drink. A vodka straight up. Her usual. Then flips around.

  Taking a sip of the clear, viscous liquid, she heads back to me and settles into one of the leather armchairs. Another sip.

  “Roman, you’re damn lucky I was able to keep him entertained at my apartment. The fat fuck wasn’t worth a rim job, but he’s still interested in investing in the House of Hurst.”

  “That’s good.” My voice is lackluster.

  “It’s more than good.” Another gulp of the vodka. “If you don’t already know, we’re operating in the red. Big-time. If we don’t get some fucking money, we’re going to go under. The couture market is shrinking at an exponential rate. We will not survive.” She pauses to take another swig of her drink. “Let me rephrase: I will, you won’t.”

  She drains the vodka. “And one more thing . . . our current backers are concerned about your next collection. As is Bernard. They haven’t heard a peep about it. What the hell is going on?”

  De-stressing, I smile. “I had a breakthrough today. I’m working on it. It’s going to be breakout.” I don’t tell her that I’m going to scrap all the gowns in progress and start over from scratch. And that I may go mainstream. Create my first ready-to-wear line.

  “I look forward to hearing about it.” She gathers her bag and rises. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

  Most likely, another round of Botox. One day her forehead will be so tight it will snap like a rubber band.

  She struts toward the elevator and looks over her shoulder. “I’ll work on getting another meeting with Bernard.” Her lips purse. “And just for the record, you owe me.”

  I don’t respond.

  I’m not going to fuck her.

  Not now. Not ever.

  My relationship with her is strictly business.

  She has other ideas.

  CHAPTER 8

  Roman

  She was all I could think about last night.

  Today, I can’t think. Can’t focus.

  Yesterday, she was an inspiration.

  A beautiful inspiration.

  Today she’s a distraction.

  A fucking distraction.

  I need to see her again.<
br />
  Plain and simple.

  Why didn’t I take down her phone number? Or email? Stupid, stupid me.

  What was her address? I can’t fucking remember.

  She said she worked as a manicurist. There are a shitload of nail salons in this city. It could be any one.

  Then, suddenly in the middle of my morning coffee, it hits me. I can contact her friend Harper. I have both her phone number and email address. Grabbing my phone, I text her.

  Hi, Harper. I need a favor. I hit send and wait for a response with baited breath.

  Nada. Fucking nada.

  I stare at the screen. Thirty long minutes go by. My coffee is cold. And I’m so antsy I could jump out of my skin.

  I need to dispel this frenetic energy. My frustration.

  For the next hour, I work out in my home gym, located on the top floor of my dwelling. Running a seven-minute mile on the treadmill and pumping weights until every muscle in my body aches. But the muscle that aches the most is my heart. And that’s not all that aches. Still no response from Harper, I’m about to hop into my steam shower to relieve myself when my phone pings. A text. Stark naked, I grab my cell from the double sink counter. It’s Harper!

  Hi! What’s up?

  Before I can type a letter, she texts me again.

  Sorry for the late response. I was in a staff meeting.

  And then yet another text. This girl’s fingers move at the speed of lightning.

  BTW, everyone loved your interview.

  Great. Hey, can you tell me where your friend Sofi works?

  Some nail place.

  Jesus.

  Do you know the name of it?

  I think it’s called Pink Lady or something like that.

  Progress.

  Where’s it located?

  No clue. She moves around a lot.

  Shit.