Beauty (21 page)

Hector Green – success, opportunity . . . then another man she’d trusted turning against her.

And nobody in her life – nobody since Edward.
No wonder you’re getting a crush. A stupid, infantile crush. If you don’t stop pushing yourself, you’ll crack up . . .

Dina tried to be logical. There must be guys out there, guys her own age, marriage material, guys who weren’t Edward Johnson. She needed to date, find a nice guy, get married, have some kids. Make that real family her momma had denied her.

People do that
, she thought.
They meet at college – or socially.

Only Dina Kane had no social life.

Then there’s the job . . .

The obvious thought occurred to her, out of the blue: it was time to give up on the dream of being some kind of mogul. If this apartment sold, she could be comfortable. Time to get an enjoyable job, one she’d be good at, but where she could leave work at five p.m., make friends, have a life. Have a chance to meet guys. Catch up on her sleep.

Slowly, as she sipped, Dina thought it through.

Hector hadn’t sued – Joel Gaines changed all that. So all that really happened was she’d sold her half of Meadow. The companies who’d been buying it all knew her. Her reputation was good.

Dina loved beauty. But, right now, the only person that appreciated it was herself. She wanted to run a boutique, to run it successfully – but for somebody else, for a big salary. Maybe she’d have to work her way up, but Meadow’s success should get her through the door. Meadow was her reference, her college degree.
The University of Gorgeous
.

Dina laughed to herself. Saks, Glamour, Bloomingdales . . . She’d go to work in one of these places, and she’d show the store what the beauty business was all about. And after the job, she’d pick up a lover. And stop thinking about Joel Gaines.

Definitely stop thinking about him . . .

The punching bag reeled from the force of the blow.

‘Man!’ Shamek Ahmed, his trainer, stumbled back a little. ‘That’s good. That’s real good. Something got into you?’

Joel Gaines was stripped to the waist. Beads of sweat dewed the muscles of his back and legs. Outside the walls of his office, the sun was low in the sky as it rose.

New York City was just waking up. Gaines had been working for nearly an hour.

Shamek liked Joel better than most of his celebrity clients. They said he was a son of a bitch, and he didn’t tolerate lateness. Or softness. But he worked himself harder than he worked the staff. By seven thirty a.m., this workout would be done and he would have showered and changed into one of those limey-cut suits and be kicking Wall Street ass.

‘Nah.’ Another flurry of blows – like the punchbag insulted his mother. ‘Same old shit, different day.’

‘I hear ya,’ Shamek said. He didn’t do
Yes, sir
and Gaines didn’t ask him to. When you bellowed at guys all day long, deference didn’t come natural.

For the last month, Joel Gaines had been coming to the city earlier. Working harder – much harder. There was a gym set up in one corner of this cavernous office, better than many professional places Shamek worked. And it wasn’t just for show, either. Gaines went for it. This morning he had piled on the weights, grunting, pushing, hefting everything up; thirty minutes fast on the treadmill – six, seven miles an hour; a hundred push ups; working the barbells, now the bag. He was like a man ten, fifteen years younger. Or like somebody very angry, very frustrated.

None of Shamek’s business. He admired the dorsal muscles in Gaines’ back, knotting, releasing.

His timer buzzed. ‘OK. You’re done. Make that shower hot, and get some aspirin. You’re going to be pretty sore.’

A dark smile. ‘That’s how we know we’re still alive, right?’

‘Right.’ Shamek grinned. ‘Stretch.’

‘No time.’

‘At least five minutes or I’m cancelling tomorrow’s session.’

‘Fuck you!’ grunted Joel, but he started stretching.

Shamek slapped his client on the back. If only they were all that way . . . ‘Well done, Joel.’

Bob Goldstein looked at the spreadsheets projected on the wall in front of them. ‘This was really first rate.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Leo Tsardis, L’Audace’s interim chairman, spoke up. He had the face of a drowning man who’s just been thrown a lifejacket. ‘Meadow is a lead product already. Our early production run is sold out. The new factory is going to ship fifty thousand units for spring. We have a team of chemists taking the formula and working on a range.’

‘It’s rebranded Meadow – Audace,’ chimed in his colleague, Tamara Miller. She ran the company PR, and that haunted look was gone from her face. ‘The industry loves it; they’re saying it’s an extraordinary acquisition. Really, the business pages are full of it.’

‘Stores are taking everything we can ship. We estimate five million in sales in the first six months.’

Goldstein thumped the table. ‘Anchor product. Bought for peanuts.’

‘The initial marketer made good contacts. Very young kid: Dina Kane was her name. Knew how to sell. We had an easy time going in.’

‘Maybe we should hire her,’ Bob Goldstein said.

‘No.’ Gaines spoke up. ‘Definitely not. She’s far too young.’

Goldstein arched a brow. ‘I remember when they said that about you.’

Gaines shrugged. Dina Kane had been on his mind far too much. Nothing he did could erase her image. Not sex with his wife, beautiful and mundane as she was. Not work. Not the way Meadow was flying off the shelves. Everything brought her back, reminded him of her. If she came to work for the company, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. And Joel Gaines was always in control.

‘She’s not the corporate type. She got more money than she ever dreamed of with Meadow. Leave it at that.’

‘Maybe she needs a job,’ Tamara volunteered. ‘It would be a great story.’

Gaines’ fingers curled into a fist. ‘Drop it.’

She dropped it.

‘We need some more products to sell – maybe not another Meadow, but still higher quality. The brand was pimping itself out; it lost its reputation for high-end. Do you have any more tricks up your sleeve, Joel?’

‘L’Audace is our major focus for the year,’ Goldstein said. ‘You guys concentrate on cutting costs, making Meadow, growing the line. Other products will be joining it.’ He looked at his partner. ‘Joel will make that happen. We want to have the company healthy for sale by the end of the year.’

‘Sure. No problem,’ Gaines said. ‘Let’s wrap this up. I’m seeing our bankers in forty minutes on the airline deal. Car’s waiting.’

The limousine purred through the traffic.

Gaines glanced out of his tinted windows. He enjoyed these rides, the cavernous seats, the buttery leather, not having to think. It was a small vacation from the chaos of his day. His habit was to switch the cellphone off and stare at the traffic flowing silently past his soundproofed car.

It was hypnotic. Meditation.

Maybe he shouldn’t have done that – stopped the girl from getting a job. She was a good kid; ballsy as hell, hard working, inventive. And he’d spiked her just because he found it uncomfortable thinking about her. Because he, Gaines, feared a lack of control.

He winced at the thought.

There were all kinds of good reasons to call Dina Kane. He would find her a job – someplace else. That was the solution: get her work, but not too near him. Salve his conscience.

And then, products . . . The chemist had ducked out, headed back to Europe and a comfortable retirement. Gaines Goldstein wasn’t interested in developing new products itself – the company had no research labs. He wanted to buy other little brands, ones like Meadow that worked out of the gate, that would make L’Audace a cosmetics house. And then he could dump it.

At Gaines Goldstein level, you moved forward or stepped aside. That was it.

Dina Kane knew where he could find the good stuff. Gaines much preferred to work that way, rather than through intermediaries.

Yeah. That was a perfect reason. In fact, he had to do it.

He pulled out his cellphone and turned it on.

Dina was running. The East River, to her left, was grey and cold, but the sight of the water still soothed her. She was dressed warmly – gloves, a hat – music pumping through her earphones; she would never swap the street for the gym. There would have to be a blizzard. You got the light here, the street, the people, skyscrapers, traffic, streetcars: all Manhattan’s variety, pace and power.

It drove Dina. It pushed her. She felt like she was going somewhere, seeing something. There was a point. That’s what made it so good.

Her music stopped. Incoming call. Her heart flipped in her chest. She prayed it wasn’t the rehab centre calling to say Johnny was sick, or in hospital. Or worse.

‘Hello?’

‘Joel Gaines.’

She slowed to a halt, feeling the cool air on her face, calming the immediate blush. ‘Mr Gaines. Yes, sir.’

‘Joel.’

‘OK.’

‘You sound busy.’

‘No! No, I’m just running. It’s fine; I mean, I’d love to talk to you.’ She winced, bit her lip.
I’d love to talk to you? Jesus.

‘I want some recommendations from you. The products you sourced at your little store. Do you still have access to a list?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You want to buy them?’

‘Small producers.’ Dina could almost hear the shrug at the end of the line. ‘You told me you went into this because they worked. That’s what I’m looking for. Will you send me the list?’

‘Certainly, as soon as you send me two hundred thousand dollars.’

He laughed, and she could hear the shock. ‘What?’

‘Come on, Joel.’ Dina paced, gripping the phone. ‘You got a deal on Meadow. And now you want to save maybe six months of research by taking my list and making offers to European boutiques. If you say yes right away, I won’t raise the price to two fifty.’

‘My God,’ he said. ‘That’s it. I give up.’ There was a pause, then he added, ‘Come to lunch. Come today. I’ll cancel my appointment.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll book somewhere.’

‘If you come to my apartment, I’ll cook for you. I can also print you the full list, and you can hand me a cheque for the two hundred grand.’

‘That’s a deal, kid. One p.m. Give me your address.’

Dina returned home early. She was far too excited for anything else. Quickly, she peeled off her workout clothes, headed to the wet room, showered and washed her hair.

She towelled off frantically and selected an outfit: a simple, sleeveless woollen shift, scarlet red – bold, like she wanted to be with him – sheer Wolford hose and ballet flats. She was trying to look casual, when she felt anything but. Her make-up had to be perfect, in case he had second thoughts about buying her list. She dived into her old stock from the Green Apothecary, applying feather-light mousse foundation, putting bronze lipstick against olive-green shadow, a touch of ochre blush, high on the cheekbones, and then solid, Egyptian mascara, so her eyes popped like Cleopatra.

She applied fast – five minutes – then she set the table; thank God there was yesterday’s chilli still in the fridge. Dina was no gourmet, but she’d learned to cook to save money – dishes that could last and be warmed through were a favourite. Chilli, a salad, sparkling water and she set the coffee grinds into her pot: done.

There was nothing fancy. She wasn’t worried. Gaines wasn’t that kind of guy.

Dina ran back into the dressing room and got out the hairdryer. It was super-pro; one of the Green Apothecary’s clients, a girl who owned a salon, had lent it to her and it was ideal at a time like this, when she wanted to nuke herself.

She blasted the air, aiming the nozzle right at her English Mason Pearson brush . . .

The buzzer went.

Dina jumped out of her skin. Her hair was still damp and tousled against the chic little dress.

It buzzed again. She glanced at her watch. Twelve thirty.
Damn it
.

‘Go away!’ she called out. ‘I have somebody coming round in half an hour.’

‘You have somebody round now,’ Gaines replied through the door.

She shuddered and hurried to open the door.

He was standing there in a light blue shirt and navy suit. Almost six foot, he loomed over her, the strong body looking even more developed than before. The dark eyes glittered with amusement.

Dina squirmed. ‘Joel . . . I’m not . . . not ready.’

‘You look ready to me. Can I come in?’

She surrendered. ‘Yes. Of course.’

He stepped inside, glanced around her place. ‘Stylish. Who’s the designer?’

‘Me. I buy tired apartments, put in a little cosmetic work . . .’

‘I should have known.’

‘It’s on the market for one and a half, if you want a pied-à-terre,’ she said boldly.

‘I think you’ve taken quite enough of my money for now.’

He took her in: the sexy, nervous length of her; that stunning face and slender body framed by damp hair; the way she was looking at him – the challenge, the admiration. The desire. The obvious desire.

Susan never looked at him like that. Not anymore. Gaines didn’t know that she ever had. There was fun once, mutual affection, friendship . . . But love? He wasn’t so sure. And never passion. Susan was willing, welcoming, accommodating. When he was younger, with his eyes on the prize, achieving great things in business, it was more than enough. She made a great home, was an elegant hostess, a good mom. And that was marriage.

Passion was for the movies. Rich men’s wives were a certain breed. Elegant, educated, active on their school boards, they played tennis in the Hamptons, remembered to send gifts on friends’ birthdays; they remodelled their kitchens and maybe had some small job. What they did was a social enterprise, war on a thousand fronts that men didn’t bother with.

Dina Kane was not that kind of girl.

And he was fascinated.

‘What’s for lunch?’ he asked, to distract himself.

‘Chilli and rice,’ she said, still blushing.

‘Really?’ He smiled again. Nobody had served him a bowl of plain chilli in years. ‘Goddamn, that sounds good.’

‘Take a seat.’