And I’ve mentally added another clause to our contract . . . yet to be signed.
No fucking other men.
Nor seeing them.
Sofi cuts my Machiavellian machinations short. “Roman, I need some new clothes. You don’t have to go shopping with me.”
“Yes, I do.” The thought of some hunky sales guy helping her pick out a new wardrobe makes me sick. “Where to?” Bergdorf’s? Bloomingdale’s? Nordstrom’s?
“Goodwill,” she says brightly. “There’s one right around the corner.”
This girl is too much. But why should I be surprised by the girl who wears butterfly tights and lucky charms? While I now have all my clothes and shoes custom-made in Italy when I go on buying trips, my enterprising mother used to shop all the time at Goodwill when we were dirt poor. She had an incredible eye, and with her sewing skills, could mend or modify the most pathetic of garments. Turn them into gems. Making me the best-dressed kid in my class. The one girls adored with my head-turning looks. And jocks envied with my locker room–winning cock. A loner, I didn’t give a crap about any of them and dropped out of high school when my mother died.
One hour later we’re out the door of the thrift store with two Hefty bags full of clothes that include a butterfly-print romper that Sofi went gaga over and couldn’t live without. I tried my best to force black on her, but that didn’t quite work out as there was nothing appealing in her size. Okay, so I didn’t get my way. I did, however, make her model everything she picked out—hot damn, she looked cute in whatever she put on—and I swear I couldn’t help mentally undressing her, tearing off every piece of clothing from her petite body. Final tally: close to three dozen items for under a hundred bucks. I actually love the fact she’s so thrifty. Just like her. And to make things better, there were only little gray-haired ladies manning the store. Eyeing me.
In a good mood, with Blickdick banished to the back of my mind, we walk back to my atelier, each of us carrying a big black plastic bag.
Three blocks in, Sofi stops dead in her tracks. Panic revisits me.
“What’s the matter?”
“Roman, I need one more thing . . . ” Her voice trails off.
“What?” I am so done with shopping.
Her cheeks flush. “Um, uh, underwear.”
My breath hitches. Holy Jesus. She’s walking around the city with no panties? Suddenly, I have X-ray vision with both eyes, the good one and lame one. I can mentally see right under her skirt. In my mind’s eye, I can envision that sexy thigh gap and her sweet little pussy, preened and so perfect. My cock twitches at the thought that I can reach right under the skirt and caress it.
She breaks into my fantasy, unaware of what’s going through my dirty mind. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does this crazy girl affect me so much?
“I need to go to Target. There’s one on Broadway, a few blocks away.”
“We are not going to Target.” Just the thought of going into that pedestrian megastore gives me an instant anxiety attack. I feel sweat bead behind my knees and my blood pressure rising. Plus knowing this girl, she probably shops in the kids’ department and buys high-waisted cotton underwear in rainbow-bright colors. “I have a better idea.”
Forget “Hello Kitty.” I’m thinking “Hello Pussy.”
Ten minutes later we’re at the Gloria’s Secret outpost close to my atelier. It’s the largest lingerie emporium in the world; the billionaire founder and CEO, Gloria Zander, is one of my best clients. I suppose I could have asked her to ship me an assortment of sexy undergarments, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. It’s my turn to be a kid in a candy store.
Just as I thought, Sofi gravitates right away to the table of cheap cotton briefs and camisoles, all in hideous bright colors. I mentally snicker. Let her have her fun.
I, in the meantime, head straight to the pricey Paris-inspired bras, G-strings, and bikinis. I grab everything I can in black lace and silk in the smallest size they have and meet her at the cash register. At the sight of me carrying a basketful of sexy lingerie, her eyes grow round.
“You have a girlfriend?” she asks when we get to the front of the line. I detect a slight tinge of jealousy in her voice and get a rise.
“No.” One by one, I take the items out of my basket and pile them on the counter. I admire each lacy concoction.
“These are for you.” For me. “Now, put that dreck away.”
“What??”
I can’t begin to imagine what she’s thinking. But if she’s reading my mind, she knows I’m fantasizing about her taut little body in these skimpy lace garments while she’s being fitted in one of my extravagant gowns. I’m feeling more inspired than ever and am eager to get back to my atelier. And spend quality time with my muse.
Five minutes later, we’re out the door, me carrying a large pink and white shopping bag filled with luscious lingerie in my other hand. Her clutching a smaller one, with two pairs of butterfly-print flannel pajamas she cajoled me into letting her have.
Next thing up on today’s agenda: Her contract.
I’m adding another clause: No cotton underwear. Ever!
CHAPTER 15
Roman
While Sofi puts all her new clothes away in her room and sets up her easel and paints in the atelier below, I spend time in my darkened study at my desk, the blackout curtains drawn, working on her contract. It’s something my business partner, Kendra, should be putting together, but she’s been out of town courting investors for our company. It’s not the first time I’ve had a muse, but Sofi is different. She was seductive and submissive. Sofi is wild and rebellious. Yet, there is a kindred free spirit they share, a lightness of being that’s infectious. Almost addictive. And that’s why I’m so obsessed with her. My butterfly.
In Greek mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses who symbolized the arts and sciences. Today, a muse is a person, particularly a woman, who serves as a source of artistic inspiration. Throughout the history of fashion, many legendary fashion designers have had muses—among the most famous, Givenchy’s Audrey Hepburn. I spent some time online trying to find out what they were paid, but nothing of value came up. While I offered Sofi ten thousand smackers a month, I truly don’t know her true worth. Maybe I’m overpaying. It doesn’t matter. I had to have her.
And now I must control her. Make her completely mine. There can be no Blickdicks or distractions in her life while she’s working for me. Having no template, I wing her contract, scribbling down clause after clause in a sketchbook, my Montblanc bleeding ink with the speed of my words. I read them over, make a couple of revisions, and then input them into an official Word doc on my computer. My typing skills are for shit; pecking the keyboard with only my index fingers, it takes me forever, and to my frustration, I keep making mistakes. Finally, I get it all down. While the contract prints out, I text Madame DuBois and ask her to send Sofi upstairs to my study.
“You wanted to see me?” comes her chirpy voice a few minutes later as I do a final read-through of her contract. Setting the document down on my desk, I swerve my head in her direction. She’s already wearing the Goodwill butterfly-print romper, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, my butterfly scarf wrapped around it. A street-look only she could pull off. Such an antithesis to the stark black gowns I design, yet so much the same. Whimsical. Original. Beautiful.
“Have a seat.” I jut my chin at the two chairs facing my desk. With a bounce to her step, she settles into one of them.
“This is your employment contract.” I slide the single sheet of paper toward her. She picks it up and reads it. Crossing my arms, I watch as she scrolls down the page.
EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT BETWEEN ROMAN HURST AND SOFI LOCKHART
1. Sofi Lockhart (aka “Employee”) promises to work exclusively for Roman Hurst/the House of Hurst (aka “Employer”) for three consecutive months or until she finds another job.
2. Employee will be paid weekly by Employer in the amount of $2500 and will be reimbursed for any additio
nal business-related expenses.
3. Employee promises to fulfill her role as Employer’s muse 24/7.
4. Employee agrees to do as she’s told by Employer with no questions asked.
5. Employee agrees to let Employer know of her whereabouts at all times.
6. Employee will never leave the premises of the House of Hurst unless pre-approved by Employer.
7. Employee agrees to accept all gifts given to her by Employer.
8. Employee will serve as Employer’s fitting model whenever required.
9. Employee agrees to have no sexual relationships with any men during her course of employment.
10. Employee agrees to never wear cotton undergarments.
At the bottom of the page, there is a line where she can sign and date it. With each passing second, her wiggly brows knit closer and closer together until she’s almost sporting a unibrow.
“Sign it,” I order. “And you can get to work.”
“Huh! Seriously?”
She grabs my expensive French pen and starts slashing the clauses, beginning with the third one. One nasty X after another. Tossing the Montblanc onto my desk, she gazes up at me, her bright green eyes on fire.
“I’m not signing this ridiculousness; all I will agree to are the first two clauses—the duration of my employment and my salary. In case you don’t know it, I’m not some butterfly you can capture and keep in a jar. I need my freedom.”
My blood bubbles. She’s so fucking stubborn and feisty. About to blow a fuse, I pick up the contract and tear it in half. What’s the point?
“Fine!” I stab at her. “But give me your phone.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, she reluctantly hands it over to me. I open her apps. At least I’ve got iPhone skills.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m installing an app.”
“What kind?”
“A tracking one. A locator so I know where you are at all times.”
“Fine.” She fires the word back at me, folding her arms across her chest, half in defiance, half in defeat.
“But there is one thing I do need you to sign.” I slide my bottom desk drawer open and slip out the form from a folder. “An NDA. It’s not any different than the one you signed before when you pretended to be that bogus blogger. I need to know that my secrets and designs are safe with you. There’s a lot of theft in the fashion world. Copycat designers everywhere.”
“You don’t trust me?” She looks wounded.
“I don’t trust anyone.” Except Madame DuBois, whom I’d trust with my life.
I hand her the form and she reads it over. Silently, she signs it with my pen.
“Will that be it?” Her tone is insolent. Closer to indignant.
“Yes.” I take the NDA from her and file it. “Now, please feel free to get back to work.”
I watch as she rises, making a face at me before exiting. Damn! She’s so cute!
My cock flexes beneath my desk. She may think we’re done, but we’ve only just begun.
CHAPTER 16
Sofi
The locator app wasn’t necessary. From the get-go, I haven’t had time to leave Roman’s atelier. My days are filled, sitting at one of the drafting tables and hand-painting butterflies on yards and yards of sumptuous black fabric. Silk. Satin. Moiré. Taffeta. It took a little bit of work to get the art of painting on fabric down. It’s harder than painting on a canvas, and the consistency of the liquid paints is different than acrylics or oils. Using a circular loom, I have to stretch the fabric tightly and wait for each color to dry before I can move on to the next. Once I nailed a few, it got easier, but each one is so time consuming because of their intricacy. Painting a small butterfly on fabric is much more challenging than painting a large one on a canvas. At most, I can complete three in a single day. At this rate and for what Roman has in mind—based on the extravagant gowns he’s sketched and pinned to a huge bulletin board (his inspiration board)—I may have to create hundreds. It’ll take months! I may be working here longer than the three months I agreed to. But to be honest, I’m happy. So happy! For the first time since I graduated Parsons, I love what I’m doing. I feel creative, inspired, and fulfilled.
I rarely see Roman—which I suppose is a blessing because his presence would be a major distraction. The last thing I need, next to the sensations he arouses in me, is to have him breathing down my neck. Watching my every move, every stroke, every breath. Thankfully or not, he spends most of his time upstairs in his quarters while I paint, and Madame DuBois and her lovely, hard-working team, which she calls the Romanoffs, make patterns and cut them out. When not supervising her staff, Roman’s talented chief of staff embellishes the wings of my butterflies with brilliant gem-colored crystals and hand-stitches their antennae with real silver and gold thread. Since my arrival, there’s been a sparkle in her eyes that wasn’t there before.
The butterflies look dazzling. One afternoon, Roman makes a surprise visit downstairs and watches while I touch up a shimmering butterfly. Hovering over me, I feel his warm breath, smell his scent. That crazy feeling I get inside distracts me, and it takes all I have to concentrate on the butterfly.
“What kind of butterfly is this?” he asks.
“A Peacock butterfly,” I reply, my voice shaky. “It’s very popular in England.” I finish working on the butterfly, adding a little bronze paint to its lacy wings. When I’m done, Roman calls over his chief of staff.
“Madame DuBois, I’d like you to cut out this butterfly.”
“D’accord.” She walks briskly over to the table where several Romanoffs are cutting out a pattern and returns with a pair of large, sharp, shiny scissors. My eyes stay riveted on her as does Roman’s gaze. She cuts slowly and with precision, freeing the butterfly. Roman carefully picks it up between his thumb and forefinger, much like the way one might pluck a real butterfly from a leaf. He studies it with his good eye, then sets it back on the black fabric so it looks like it’s flying off it. He smiles.
“Madame, I’d like to create butterfly appliqués and randomly scatter them on the gowns. To give them some whimsy. To give them flight.”
My imagination goes wild. I can already picture the magnificent hand-painted gowns. He’s so brilliant!
“That will look amazing!”
Without acknowledging my compliment, he gently lifts the butterfly from the fabric and asks if Madame DuBois has a hairpin. Wordlessly, she removes one from her tight chignon and hands it to him. He clips the butterfly in my hair and studies me. My cheeks heat under his intense gaze.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if he’s referring to the butterfly or to me. “And we’ll use some for headpieces and ornaments.” His gaze stays on me.
“Sofi, I want you to keep this butterfly and wear it. It becomes you.” He pauses, his eye flitting to another butterfly I’ve completed. It’s mostly orange with pale brown accents and touches of white.
“Ah! An Australian Painted Lady.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Wow! I’m blown away by how knowledgeable he’s become about butterflies in such a short time. But I don’t let him know it. Mr. Full of Himself doesn’t need to have his head swell further.
“Very well. Continue on.”
With that he disappears, taking the elevator back up to his quarters.
I feel all hot and bothered. Breathless and bereft. Be still my rebel heart. Except my heart is deaf.
Over the next few weeks, I get into a routine. I wake up at seven, shower, come downstairs for breakfast with Madame DuBois, who’s always in the kitchen adjacent to the atelier before me and ready with aromatic French press coffee, some delectable French pastries, and assorted fresh fruit. Then I get to work before the Romanoffs arrive at eight, breaking for a half-hour lunch that Madame DuBois always orders in. Then, it’s back to work until six and sometimes later as we’re behind and all working overtime to get the collection do
ne in time for New York Fashion Week. I rarely leave the studio. I don’t have the time during the day, and by night, I’m just too tired. Pooped! Harper, who nags me constantly to have dinner with her, is not too pleased. Especially with her wedding around the corner.
I grow close with Madame DuBois. She’s warm and lovely though rather reticent about herself and her relationship with Roman. I do, however, learn she’s been with Roman from the beginning and find out how he started his business. Self-taught, he had a big stroke of luck when he bought a lottery ticket and won three million dollars. With the money, he bought this building, an old abandoned but still majestic bank, which he got in a fire sale during the recession. He gutted the bottom floor to create an atelier and converted the upstairs former offices of the bank’s directors into his living quarters. There’s also a third floor that houses a home gym and a climate-controlled basement where he stores fabrics and samples from previous collections.
One morning over breakfast, I work up the courage to ask her a personal question.
“Why is Roman so arrogant? So closed off?”
“It’s a defense mechanism. To cover up his sorrow.”
I recall one of my father’s favorite quotes. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not. And often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
Sitting across from me at the table, Madame DuBois cups my hands, her eyes growing forlorn. “You should know that a man who has so much sorrow is capable of great love. Different sides of the same coin. To grieve someone is to love them.”
There is beauty in sadness, Roman told me. I ponder her words, but she doesn’t give me the chance to ask more questions.
Hastily, the French seamstress rises and cleans up, then excuses herself to let the Romanoffs inside the atelier. I don’t learn much more. There’s something she is hiding about herself and about the brooding, mysterious, complex, and brilliant man she works for and worships. Maybe in time, I’ll find out.
BUTTERFLY: A Standalone Romantic Suspense Page 8