Finally a taxi detached from the flow of traffic to pick us up. After a ten minute ride, I slapped a twenty into Nat’s hand as the taxi pulled up to her school. “Make it last, honey. See ya at three.”
My amazing corps of designers and seamstresses was already hard at work when I arrived at five minutes after nine. Only Ella and I worked in the loft that day, so it seemed peculiarly empty and dull. Already mid-October, the bulk of my design responsibilities were over, so I worked on picking models and helping everyone else.
Dinner without Fletch was also quiet, the kitchen again taking on an air of mystery. I didn’t know where anything was, so I ordered pizza. Natalie didn’t stop whining and complaining. She’d had a hard time getting a cab after school. Her hair was horrible and she wanted to shave her head. Her math instructor was a stupid witch who couldn’t teach her way out of a wet paper bag.
The grumbling went on and on until I wanted to scream. After settling her at Fletcher’s desk to do homework, I took a long bath by candlelight.
I sat in the warm water, trying not to grumble to myself about his many sins. But after leaving without any advance warning, he hadn’t phoned all day long. He was rude and inconsiderate. The situation had grossly inconvenienced me, and he’d said he’d take care of everything. Where was he, anyway? How could he just up and leave without a word? Was he angry? He’d seemed to be fine, even cheerful when we’d last shared our modest good night kiss.
Actually, it had been a pretty hot kiss.
I brooded some more, then realized:
Life with Fletch was smooth and easy.
Life without Fletch sucked.
Everything, from breakfast to dinner and all the moments in between, had been more difficult. How had I managed before? Dammit, why had I become so dependent upon him?
Huh. I bet that had been his plot all along. He’d schemed to get me to agree to this joint venture and then taken over my life.
Mom had been right.
I remembered yesterday’s conversation. Hmmm. He’d left, no doubt to drive home the point that I needed him.
I swore to myself that he wouldn’t win. No way was I going to become a weak-willed little princess dependent upon her prince.
The next day, I was prepared. At seven o’clock, I phoned a cab company so a taxi awaited us outside Trump Tower precisely at seven-forty-five. “Your cab should meet you at three,” I told Nat as we approached her school. “Do you need more cash today?”
With Natalie at school, I headed to the atelier for a nice, uninterrupted day at work. However, the phone rang at ten o’clock, just when I’d become pleasantly absorbed in the task at hand.
Ella took the call. “It’s Fletcher.”
I looked up from the silk drawstring pants I’d pinned around the fitting model. Damn. Why should my heart stutter as though it needed a pacemaker just because he was on the phone? “I’ll be a couple of minutes, Martine,” I said to the model. Martine smiled and settled down to wait. The slender, pretty brunette was one of an elite cadre of perfect bodies whose main job was just that: to be perfect. I doubted that the poor woman had ever eaten a doughnut or a candy bar.
Ella handed me a portable. “Hello?”
Fletcher’s deep bass rumbled in my ear. “Cara?”
“Yes, it’s me. What’s up?” I hoped my businesslike tone would hide my annoyance.
A pause. “I just called to see how you’re doing.”
Uh-oh. He sounded hurt. Maybe I’d sounded too snappish. “Oh, Nat and I are hanging in there.”
“Miss me, honey?”
Oh, God. What could I say? Of course, I missed him. Without Fletch, both condo and loft seemed too big. I missed our good night kiss and cuddle. Natalie was cranky and difficult. But should I show weakness?
Hell, no. “Umm...the condo feels nice and roomy.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. And we only had to order one pizza last night for supper, since the carnivore was out of town.”
“Is that right?” Fletch drawled out his vowels, a sign of—of—what?
“I slept really well. The pictures on my wall aren’t vibrating from the snores coming from the bedroom next door.”
Silence.
“Natalie misses Sam.”
“I guess we’d better hurry back,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “It’ll never do for Natalie to be unhappy.”
Oops. He sounded pissed. Still... “Natalie doesn’t like change in her life. I try to keep things stable for her. Ummm, by the way. When are you coming back? I need to fit your suit.”
“Didn’t you take measurements?”
“Yeah, but this is gonna be a custom made suit. Fit you better than O.J.’s glove.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of days. See you later, Cara.”
The phone clicked off. I stared at the handset, dumbfounded. He hadn’t given me a chance to say goodbye. He’d hung up on me.
On the other hand, I’d deserved it. I wondered if I should bother thinking of a way to redeem myself.
Heck, no. Veronica had asked me to bring her son to heel. That might be fun. The fastest way I knew to do that, given Fletcher’s predatory nature, was to pretend indifference. But I didn’t like to play silly games with men. I never had before. Never had needed to, really. And here I was playing the oldest of entrapment games: hard to get. Hopefully it wouldn’t backfire.
I returned to Martine, who asked, “What’s so funny?”
Then I realized I’d been chuckling.
~*~
In the workshop’s loft three days later, I found myself in a position I thought unwise under the circumstances: kneeling in front of Fletcher. However, I was armed with a pincushion on my wrist. Despite my weapons, I could feel smug satisfaction emanating from my would-be lover. I tried to ignore the sexually charged situation, professionally tugging at his cuff before running a hand up the inseam of his trousers to check the smoothness of the fit.
“Hey, cut that out!” I poked the rising ridge in the crotch of his pants.
“Your mouth is just three inches from me,” Fletch said through gritted teeth. “I’m only human.”
“You’re tenting the fabric. It spoils the line of the trouser.”
“Don’t act as though it’s my fault.”
“Can’t Mr. Happy be...less happy?” I pinned the waistline for a closer fit.
“Ow!” Fletcher jerked. “I think you’ve solved the problem of the, er, tenting. Can’t you be a little more careful? I don’t like those pins near, er, my vital parts.”
“I’ve never stuck a professional model. Hold still.” I finished adjusting the waist, then pinned the inseam. Slipping behind him, I could see his firm ass beautifully framed by the fine wool of the trousers. I couldn’t resist, and passed an admiring hand over his buttocks. “Perfect.”
He turned his head to raise a brow. “Is that right?”
I felt myself heat. “The fit, I mean.”
“Modest, aren’t we?”
“It’s a nicely cut pair of pants, if I do say so myself. And the, um, fabric is beautiful.” I stroked him again, then smacked him lightly. “Okay, that’s all for now.”
He spun around and hauled me up, stretching me tight against his length and kissed me. This kiss was demanding and frustrated, accompanied by a thrusting tongue and a nice squeeze on my butt. I couldn’t help a moan. Hell, I was pretty frustrated myself.
Dammit, he stopped. Manipulative jerk.
“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart. Make sure you don’t get burned.”
I pulled away, lips tingling and mind blank with desire.
He said, “If you’re done, I guess I’ll change out of these pants.” Pinning me with his gaze, he unbuttoned the waistband. He wiggled his hips a little as he unzipped.
I’d jump his bones right there and then if I didn’t get out of that loft. I leaped down the stairs, hearing his mocking laughter chase me out of the studio.
Chapter 22
Spotl
ights glinted on the silver streaking Fletcher’s hair as he stood before the assembled shareholders of Fletcher Tool and Gear. Attired in his new Fletcher’s Gear suit, he looked great. Seated with other speakers in the front row of the vast auditorium in his corporate headquarters, I gave myself a mental pat on the back for a job well done, then turned my attention back to his speech. He’d droned endlessly about profit and loss, dividend and growth, but now he seemed to be getting to a subject near and dear to my heart: Cara Fletcher Couture.
“A new millennium has brought new challenges and new opportunities. In response, we will expand out of our traditional niche into other, time-tested areas. Thus, we have engaged in a joint venture with Cara Fletcher Couture, a young but strong contender in the upscale ready-to-wear and designer clothing markets. Its founder, Cara Linda Fletcher, hails from upstate New York. A graduate of prestigious Parsons School of Design, she received the Azzedine Alaia Gold Thimble Award upon her graduation. She then worked for Alaia, Anna Sui and Bill Blass as a designer.”
I squirmed as Fletch continued to heap praise on me.
“Immensely talented, Cara Fletcher founded her own company five years ago. This firm rapidly expanded to a gross income of ten million dollars in those few, short years.
“Decorating the body is one of the oldest human instincts. This tendency crosses cultural barriers and will forever be a source of profit.”
I grinned as I remembered what I’d told him at that first, disastrous dinner at Morton’s. He smiled back at me from the podium’s height, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing out loud at our private, shared joke.
“This acquisition ensures that our products will appeal to a wider consumer mix.”
Acquisition—ha. I thought. He’d better change his tune if he wants a happy, helpful corporate asset.
“In honor of this joint venture, and in recognition of this significant expansion, the majority shareholders and your Board of Directors have voted to rename this corporation ‘The Fletcher Group.’ Now, I introduce to you our joint venturer, Cara Linda Fletcher.”
The thunderous applause made the response I’d received at my runway shows pale into insignificance. Surprised and delighted, I joined him at the podium. After he adjusted the microphone for me, he gave my fanny a discreet pat before he let me take center stage alone.
Thank God the harsh lights would wash my face clean of color, so no one in the packed house would see me blush. The last two weeks had been a test of my will in so many different ways. Faced with a task which would daunt the most dedicated workaholics, my staff and I had worked night and day to finish on time for the two shows scheduled in November.
Fletch had worked as hard as anyone else, maybe harder. At the same time, he never stopped flirting. He’d stare at me, gaze laden with intent, at the most unexpected times. He’d occasionally step over to my drafting table or mannequin to look at my work, which seemed to fascinate him. He continued to touch me constantly, while he helped me in or out of the limo or when he escorted me into the workshop in the morning or into a restaurant for lunch…and at every other conceivable time.
I’d gotten spoiled and had come to expect the small courtesies and attentions he lavished. On those days when he left Manhattan for Wilmington, the condo and the atelier seemed too empty. Just as he’d planned, that wretch.
He was the most distracting man I’d ever met. This fall show was a minor miracle. How had I managed to work at all?
His physical presence was an unbearable temptation, morning, noon and night—especially at night, when I longed to be held and loved. But he’d respected my privacy, never invading my bedroom. His surface docility reminded me of a timber wolf masquerading as a compliant collie. All the while, he watched and waited. For what?
I tore my mind away from Fletcher-the-lover and acknowledged Fletcher, the C.F.O, and said: “Thank you for your warm introduction. Cara Fletcher Couture is proud to engage in a joint venture with The Fletcher Group. Many of you have seen our winter line of clothing in stores, but this afternoon we are pleased to preview a few selections from the forthcoming spring line, including the popular Fletcher’s Gear sportswear. Lights, please!”
The overhead lamps in the hall dimmed, while a runway lined with lights leaped into vivid illumination.
“And our first model is your C.F.O., Fletcher Wolf, attired in a tailored navy gabardine suit. The jacket is double breasted and double vented. The trousers feature front pleating for comfort.”
I glanced behind me to the giant video screens, which contained multiple images: Fletcher from three angles as well as li’l ol’ me. The Fletcher Group spared no expense to make its annual meeting a success.
“Next, your Vice President of Marketing, Damon Wolf, shows Fletcher Gear’s safari-style suit with a silk-linen blend shirt with a subtle jacquard weave.”
Ella’s idea to use the Wolf brothers as models was a hit with the shareholders, who seemed to eat up the spectacle of their corporate officers showing off couture clothing. The crowd clapped louder and louder.
“Here’s the family matriarch, the co-chair of your Board of Directors, Veronica Fletcher Wolf.”
A roar of acclaim greeted Fletcher’s mother, who modeled the leaf-green, bias-cut silk gown she’d selected
~*~
“Everyone’s heart went out to Mom after Dad died,” Fletcher explained as he ushered me into his quiet office later in the evening.
“I can see that the shareholders think a lot of her.” I dropped my satchel on one end of the leather sofa, sighed with relief and massaged my shoulder where the strap had bitten into me, thinking that I really ought to clean out that bag some day. But I’d been so busy lately that I’d had to shove such mundane tasks to the back burner.
“They think a lot of you. You and your clothes were the stars of the show, honey.”
I shook my head. “No way. They liked me, but they revere you.”
“Maybe. For these folks, the bottom line is just that—the bottom line. I make money for them. If I’d lost the company they wouldn’t vote for me to be dogcatcher. Hey, let’s toast our success.”
“With what?”
“Come with me to the casbah, my princess.”
The casbah turned out to be a kitchen down the hall from Fletcher’s office. Opening a refrigerator, he removed a bottle of Dom Perignon. “Glasses are in the cupboard to your right.”
“Any munchies?” I took two flutes from their place, then found some paper napkins nearby.
“Mmm. I’ll take you to dinner later, but sure, we could use some appetizers. Aha. Here’s some cheese, and I know that Miranda keeps Saltines in her desk. With her morning sickness, they’re the only food she says she can keep down.”
I trailed him back to the cushy sofa, where he popped the champy and filled the two flutes. “To our joint venture, Carissima mia.”
“To us.” I sipped. “And thank you, Fletch.”
“For what?” He put his arm along the back of the couch behind my head and ruffled my hair.
I gulped, searching for the right words. Why should expressing gratitude feel so difficult? Maybe because I wanted to say much, much more to him, but didn’t dare without knowing what he really wanted. How deep did his desire run?
“You could have destroyed me and you chose not to,” I said.
He laughed. “Baby, hurting you was never my intention—at least, not for long. Oh, I’ll admit that I was madder than a hornet’s nest when I saw that T.V. commercial. But I realized very soon after we met that wrecking your company would have been stupid. You’re an extraordinary woman. Don’t thank me. Everything I’ve done has been out of self-interest, I assure you.” He lifted his glass. “To you, my beautiful Cara. Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?”
“Are you flirting with me?” I tried not to preen.
He sipped and smiled, his eyes glimmering over the rim of his glass. “Of course. I’ll never stop. By the way, that dress is gorgeous. I’m gla
d Esme could reconstruct it.” Fletcher ran one finger down the v-neckline of the embroidered yellow silk.
My skin rippled in response to his nearness, his touch, and I drew in a steadying breath. “She worked eighteen hours every day to finish on time.”
“It was a big hit. With those spotlights on you and your red hair, you shone like the sun walking down that runway.” His voice took on a tender note. “They adored you.”
Yeah, but what about you? I wanted to ask. Lacking the guts, I kept my mouth shut. Fraidy-cat, I thought.
“I’m surprised you changed your hair color,” he went on. “You’ve stayed with brown hair and glasses for a long time.”
“I went red just for the show. The canary yellow is so overwhelming that I had to balance the color. Otherwise, the dress would wear me, not vice-versa. What’s in here?” I reached for a wooden box that sat on the table.
“It’s a humidor. Keeps cigars fresh.” Setting down his glass, Fletch flipped open the lid and took out a cigar. He ran it through his fingers, then sniffed appreciatively.
I rolled my eyes and avoided saying “ick”. I took my Swiss Army knife out of the satchel and used it to spread cheese onto a cracker, and offered it to Fletch.
“Thank you.” He washed the munchie down with more Champagne, then used some sort of small tool to clip the end of the cigar. “Do you have matches in there?”
“Yep.” I pawed through the mess, removing a variety of items before locating matches. “Here.”
I ate more cheese and crackers while Fletcher lit, puffed and smoked. I didn’t understand the point of ruining great champagne with a stinky cigar, but each to his own.
“Nice office. Was your desk near that wall before you moved it to New York?” I pointed to the left, where a plastic chair mat partially covered the forest-green carpeting.
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 174