Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  We spent the day in the suite—the Pitti Palace be damned. I couldn’t get enough of Fletch, and he seemed to feel the same way. We finally ventured out at night to find more food. Besides, both beds were a mess and we’d used every towel—we had to get out to let the hotel staff clean up. At dinner, I was more cautious with ordering, and ate something I knew I liked, pasta alla matriciana while Fletch tried a mysterious dish called carciofi, which turned out to be roasted artichokes.

  We walked for hours in Florence after dark, enjoying the mystery of the exotic streets. Missing the churches and museums, closed at night, we instead explored the outdoor beauties of the city: the Michelangelo Gardens, the Neptune statue, the Arno River.

  On Monday morning, Fletcher’s mood had changed. He was all business, I thought, watching him emerge from the shower and reach for his suit without a single caress of my breasts. So I put on a hat, dress and sandals, getting ready for the drive to Prato.

  When we got there, I saw that the factory seemed old and shabby by American standards. “O.S.H.A. would have fits,” I said to Fletch.

  He grinned. “From what you’ve told me, this place wove cloth worn by Michelangelo and Raphael.” He peered into a dim room, reeking of chemicals.

  I could see a dyer at work, her stained hands dripping measured pigments into beakers of solution. “I wonder where they’re expecting to meet us.”

  “Signor Fabrizio—perfect name, huh?—said to find our way to the office in the back. The swatches and the paperwork will be there.”

  As Fletch predicted, we found Signor Fabrizio Conti in a tiny, cluttered space in the very back of the factory.

  “Ah, Signorina Cara e Signor Wolf, ’allo, ’allo, buon giorno. It is so nice to see the long-awaited Cara Fletcher, so brilliant, so lovely.” He bowed to me while kissing my fingers with extravagant flourishes. He even winked at me while shaking Fletcher’s hand. “Here are your swatches, Signorina. We were so surprised to receive your fax six weeks ago.”

  “Fax? What fax?” I asked.

  “Eccola.” Signor Conti went behind his desk to open a file labeled with my company’s name. He removed a sheet signed with my name.

  “That’s not my signature,” I said, dismayed. “Fletch, look at this. It’s a cancellation order on my letterhead, but someone forged my name.”

  “Sí. But we noticed this was not your signature from the prior correspondence. So we phoned, and your Signorina Andersen said the future of your company is in doubt. So we waited.”

  I exchanged a glance with Fletch. “Maggie and I never discussed this. Did she recontact you?” I asked Conti.

  “No, but we close in August, as you probably know.”

  “I’ll take these samples back to New York with me, and I’ll fax or call later this week,” I said. “We’ll have to work fast to put the show on by November fifth.”

  “We can do it,” the small Italian said confidently. “The delay, it does not matter. Because our other orders have been shipped, it is quiet, and we can, ah, how would you say? Focus on your job.” He beamed at me.

  I was relieved. Sort of. Who had forged my signature? Maggie?

  “And now, Signor Wolf, would you like to check the papers?”

  While the males looked through the file, I took the swatches over to the window to look at them in sunlight. I’d selected “ice cream colors” for the spring line: lime, peach, lemon, vanilla. They looked every bit as tasty as I’d planned. The men’s fabrics were similar but with touches of olive and tan to masculinize the line. The linens, silks, cottons and feather-light gabardines were all superb.

  “Cara, come look at this.” Fletch had spread a sheaf of print-outs on the desk, comparing them to Conti’s documentation. “Do you have a highlighter pen, Signor?”

  “Sí.” Conti produced a thick yellow tube.

  Fletch marked two lines on one print-out and three on another. “See, here’s the record of checks paid to Fabrizio,” he told me. “They total $189,549.00 American, correct?”

  I scanned the figures. The man must have an adding machine in his brain. “Do you have a calculator?” I totaled the numbers, then nodded.

  Fletch reached for a small sheaf of papers from Conti’s file. “Here’s photocopies of the checks paid.”

  “These numbers are completely different.” I added the amounts hastily, then rechecked my math. “Fletch, Fabrizio was only paid ninety-three thousand dollars. Signor, I’m sorry. We owe you quite a lot of money, don’t we?”

  “But no, Signorina. Cara Fletcher Couture is an excellent customer. We have been paid in advance, as always. See, here are the transaction records. The deal was for ninety thousand dollars American.”

  “But…but…” I stuttered, turning to my C.F.O. for help. “Fletch, what does this mean?”

  “Signor, excuse us for a moment.” Taking my arm, Fletch led me to a corner of Fabrizio’s office while the Italian tactfully withdrew.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What the hell is going on here?”

  His face looked carved out of stone. “Cara, those entries were made by Maggie Andersen. I think she’s been skimming.”

  “Skimming! But how? Why?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but since she had total control over the company’s finances, there are a variety of ways she could have ripped you off. All your records were destroyed in the vandalism, so untangling this mess isn’t going to be easy.”

  The ground seemed to crumble beneath my feet, as though one of the foundations of my little world had turned out to be infested with dry rot. Maggie had been my mainstay for years. I found it hard to believe that she’d been systematically stealing from the company. She seemed to work so hard, putting in long hours, coming through for the runway shows season after season. I hated to think of her as a thief, and surely Fletch understood that. “How long have you known about this?” I asked, trying to read the expression in his eyes.

  Hesitating, he evaded her gaze. “I didn’t really know until just now. I’d guessed a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You didn’t say anything to me.” I can’t believe this, I thought. This man owns half my company. I’ve opened myself to him body and heart, and he doesn’t trust me.

  His response was only somewhat reassuring. “I can’t accuse anyone without proof. I suspected, but I didn’t know.”

  Well, that was reasonable. Kinda. “You should have said something. Please don’t withhold information like this from me in the future, okay?”

  Stepping away from Fletch, I turned to Signor Conti, who fiddled with an elaborate-looking espresso maker which sat on a nearby table. “Fabrizio, thank you for helping us. Would it be too much to ask for a copy of your entire file on my company?” I wanted to check every transaction. My stomach churned when I realized that every deal made with every company would have to be checked. When on earth would I find the time and energy to deal with this?

  My thoughts remained chaotic throughout the drive back to the hotel. It was a miracle that I didn’t fall apart, given that I hadn’t taken a tranquilizer for days. My food remained in my stomach, also, which was good, but I still had huge worries. Maggie a thief! “No wonder I can’t make any money,” I said to Fletch.

  He nodded. “I wondered why you weren’t in the black. The product is excellent and priced appropriately for an upscale market. I’m not entirely surprised, though. Rip-offs are common in any business. Her attitude—”

  “Yeah, she was really upset by the joint venture deal,” I said, remembering the conversation with my assistant. “She said, ‘he’ll spoil everything.’ Now I know what she meant. I—I just can’t believe this. I thought she was my friend.”

  “Your co-workers and employees are just that, and nothing more. They’re not your friends.”

  My heart contracted. “What about us?”

  He slipped his arm around me. “We’re special, honey, and you know that. Damon works with me, also. Obviously he’s more than a co-worker, too.”

  I eyed
him, unsure what to believe. If Maggie could betray me, couldn’t Fletcher? I mentally reviewed my entire association with Fletcher Wolf. Both predator and prey, he operated in a world in which I was as alien as a werewolf on Mars. I recalled the tête-à-tête I’d overheard in the restroom at Morton’s about Fletcher’s thirty-page prenuptial agreement. Although Fletch had murmured sweet nothings to me, talked dirty to me, moaned his release into my ears, he’d made no commitments and said no words of love, even though we’d scarcely gotten out of bed in two days.

  What had I done? He’d turned my world upside down with the lawsuit and the joint venture. He made love to me until I could hardly walk, let alone think straight. Now he was accusing my closest associate of embezzlement. Had he seduced me to tighten his hold on me and the company, already knowing he’d force Maggie out? What if the print-outs had been fabricated by Fletch himself?

  “I don’t want to fire Maggie.”

  He stared at me as though I had announced that I wanted to sprout wings and fly to the moon. “Honey, she’s a thief. She ripped you off for nearly a hundred thousand dollars, then probably destroyed your studio to cover her tracks. That cost you nearly two hundred thousand. And I bet the Conti deal is just the tip of the iceberg. Who knows how much she’s stolen?”

  “You’re speculating. Nothing’s been proven to my satisfaction.”

  “Cara, I don’t want to pull rank, but I will if I have to.”

  “Are you telling me that I can’t select my own assistant?”

  “That’s not the issue. I won’t allow a thief access to your atelier. What if she sells your designs?”

  I gasped as though punched in the belly. That awful possibility hadn’t entered my mind. “But if we tip her off, we’ll never know, and we’ll never recover the money.”

  He paused. At least I’d made him stop and consider. “You’re right. How ’bout this? You’ll lose time, but let’s close the atelier for the week. When we get back tomorrow, we’ll go to the police and swear out a warrant. If we can get hold of her personal papers and her bank statements, maybe we can trace the stolen funds.”

  “Or prove her innocence,” I said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  I looked at him, raising my brows. “Oh, please.”

  “I really do, honey. I truly feel no animosity toward Maggie. In fact, I’m mystified. I know you’re not stupid, and I’m sure you checked her out.”

  “Oh, yeah. All her previous employers were very happy with her. She left Claiborne only because she wanted to work for a smaller firm and get more responsibility.”

  “She may have figured there’d be an opportunity to steal at a less structured company. Or maybe when she got to you she saw she had the chance.”

  “Especially when I got the loans,” I said thoughtfully. “All of a sudden, she had piles and piles of money to play with. I guess the temptation was too much.” Suddenly, I felt as though I was a million years old. Or that I carried the weight of worlds on my tired shoulders. I dropped my face into my hands. “I know we’d talked about sightseeing, but I, I can’t. Let’s go back to the hotel. I want to lie down for a while.”

  Chapter 15

  “How could Maggie do this to me?” I asked Fletch as he poked at buttons on his cellphone.

  “I don’t know, love. Some people are just selfish.” Fletcher frowned, and I could hear a gabble of Italian issue from the receiver. “I don’t know what’s going on here. I shouldn’t have trouble getting through on this phone.” He tried again, sighed, then put down his cellie before using the hotel’s old-fashioned rotary phone to ask the hotel personnel to put the call through.

  While he waited, he said to me, “Let’s not mention this to Natalie, please.”

  “Oh, no. I never discuss business with Nat. She doesn’t need to worry about money.”

  The phone rang and he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Oh, Damon,” Fletch said into the receiver, apparently surprised to hear Damon’s voice. “You sounded like Griffin. Hey, I thought you were in Wilmington.” He paused as though listening, then told me, “He’s visiting Darkrider Farm for the weekend.” He turned back to the phone and said, “Marvelous. Listen, Big D, I need a favor. We think there’s an internal problem with Cara’s operation in New York, and we want to close the workshop for the week. Can you go to Manhattan, change the security codes and the locks? And talk to Ramirez while you’re there.”

  A pause, then: “It looks as though one of Cara’s employees has been skimming. We want to check it out when we get back Tuesday before making any accusations. We’ll still fly back on time, but we want the employees locked out for the week. Tell them that they have a vacation at half-pay because Cara has decided to, umm, replace the air conditioning. Be very, very careful what you say to Maggie Andersen.”

  “Maggie?” Even though Fletcher held the receiver to his ear, I could nevertheless hear the shock in Damon’s raised voice. “Cara’s assistant?”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “She’s been handling the money. We’re not accusing her, but she’s definitely the focus.” Then he looked visibly startled. “He wants to talk to you.” He eyed me.

  I understood his surprise. In the past, Damon and I hadn’t gotten along, but this was different. “Sure,” I said, reaching for the phone. “Hi, Damon.”

  “Whaddaya think about all this?” he asked.

  I appreciated the fact that Damon was checking with me. It showed respect. “Fletch is right. Close the atelier for a week. Let’s boot out the bad guys and get to work. I have only eight weeks to put on a show, and I have to hit the ground running.” Another thought occurred to me. “Hey, can you do something else for me?”

  “Another favor? You and Fletch are the most demanding bosses on the eastern seaboard.”

  I smiled, again enjoying his acknowledgment of my authority. “Hire me another personal assistant. Check her very carefully.”

  “You can trust me, Cara, but listen. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I’m at the top of the heap,” I said grimly. “There’s no one else up here to take responsibility.”

  “Stuff like this happens in every business. Tony and I’ll fix it.” His voice was self-assured and confident, different from the angry man I’d known.

  “I’m glad I can count on you. Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, all right?”

  I must have sounded embarrassed or uncomfortable because Damon said, “Listen, it’s okay. You haven’t worked with me before. Don’t worry, I’m the soul of discretion. Not a peep to anyone. I’ll arrange to have the a.c. replaced this week so everyone has a little extra vacation.”

  “Great. Umm, is Natalie there?”

  “Mom will find her. Hold on. Natalie?” I could hear Damon yelling even though the sound seemed muffled, as though his hand covered the receiver. He returned. “She’s outside with Griffin. I declare, that little girl’s become my brother’s shadow. Hold on, here she is.”

  “Hi, Mom!” Natalie’s voice was cheerful.

  A weight lifted from my chest. I’d been afraid that she’d be unhappy or frightened. I should have known better. Knowing Kenney, her father probably left her alone or with virtual strangers for long stretches of time. “How are you, sweetie?”

  “Great. I love Darkrider Farm. Veronica’s really nice.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Griff gave me a horse to ride while I’m here and he showed me how to curry her and muck out her stall.”

  “Griffin has you cleaning out the horses’ stalls?” I eyeballed Fletch, who shrugged. “Okay, as long as you’re having fun. What time is it there?”

  “Breakfast. We just got up. How’s Italy?”

  “Fun.” I grinned at Fletcher, thinking about the kind of fun we were having together. “See you Tuesday night, sweetie.”

  “Love you, Mommy. Bye.”

  “Love you.”

  The phone clicked, and I turned to Fletch. “I hope you didn’t have to talk wit
h Veronica or Griff. She just hung up.”

  “It’s all right, honey. What do you want to do now?”

  I slumped, feeling defeated. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to absorb this. Maggie’s been with me for years. If she’d needed a raise, or a loan, I would have tried to get it for her.”

  “I can’t look into her mind.”

  “The detective said that the vandalism seemed personal, that someone wanted to hurt me. I never saw that in her. She must be the greatest actress in the world.”

  “Maybe she’s jealous. You’re beautiful and talented, everything she’s not.”

  “But it’s not as though she isn’t loved. She has a boyfriend,” I said. “A famous, rich one. Adam Covarrubia. You met him, remember?”

  Fletch’s brow furrowed as my thoughts raced. “Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Adam. Adam and Andrea. Oh, my God.”

  “What is it?”

  Outrage flooded my body. I lacked words, I was so angry.

  “You know something. What is it?”

  Trying to collect myself, I squeezed my eyes closed, then blinked. “Adam and Andrea Covarrubia are twins from Jersey. They’re models, way famous, at the Giselle-Kate Moss level. There have always been rumors about Adam and Andrea but they’re so good that everyone gives them the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What kind of rumors?” he asked. He looked tense. A small part of me was happy he was taking me seriously, but mostly, I was just pissed-off and suspicious.

  Not about him, of course, but I had formulated a theory that just might be correct. “That they’re heroin addicts.”

  “And you hired them?” His voice cracked with disbelief.

  “Hey, they were only rumors. I used them in my shows because they brought a lot of publicity and attention, and I’ve never seen any evidence of drug use. Shit.” Restless, I rose and began to pace. “But it makes sense. If they’re addicted to drugs, they’d need money no matter how much they earn.”

  “Is drug use common in the couture industry?”

  “I can’t speak for everyone, but the designers I know work so hard there’s no room in their lives for drugs. The models are another story. There’s a lot of gossip about the ways the models have to keep weight off—coke and meth as well as purging after meals.” I stared out the window at the Duomo, flaming orange in the afternoon light.