Butterfly (9 page)

“See if he’s available at two.” He waved a hand, dismissing her. “That’s all.”

“What if he’s not available for that time?”

“That’s all,” Booth repeated. He waited until the annoying woman walked out of his office, closing the door behind her, then shook his head. The only reason he hadn’t given Joan her walking papers was because he’d promised his uncle that
he would never fire her. And despite being the son of a bitch he was, he never would go back on an oath he’d made to the man who’d become his surrogate father.

Picking up the cup, he took a deep swallow of the premium brew. Good coffee, beautiful women and gourmet food topped Booth Gordon’s favorite things list, but not necessarily in that order. His mind kept going back to his meeting with Seneca Houston. What he’d first interpreted as belligerence he now thought of as a banked fire that would serve her well once she waded into the treacherous and cutthroat world of international modeling. And, she would need the fire and everything she had to bring to stand out among women who were willing to sell an internal body part to make it big.

A soft chiming of the telephone claimed his attention. It was his private line. He depressed a button. “Yes?”

“There’s a Mr. William Jacobs on the line for you. He says it’s about Seneca Houston’s contract.”

“Put him through,” he told Joan.

“Mr. Gordon?”

Booth sat up straighter in his executive leather chair. The voice coming through the speaker was deep, authoritative. “Yes.”

“William Jacobs. I represent a potential client of yours, Seneca Houston. I’d like to talk to you about her contract. I need clarification as to the amount of your commission.”

“What do you want to know?” Booth questioned.

“It’s a little excessive.”

“The contract stipulates a breakdown as to the percentage.”

“It’s still excessive. I’ve advised Ms. Houston to select her own makeup and hairstylists.”

A muscle twitched nervously in Booth’s jaw when he
clenched his teeth. “Has she gone along with your recommendations?”

“She has,” the lawyer confirmed. “I’ve also recommended she sign the contract, but only if you’re willing to cut your commission to twenty percent.”

Booth’s fingers curled into tight fists. It looked as if his golden goose was going to play hard to get. He’d promised to turn her into a supermodel if she gave him complete control of her career. Well, it appeared that wasn’t going to happen.

What he couldn’t afford to do was not sign her when he recalled her retort:
If not you, then there will be someone else.
There wasn’t going to be someone else. BGM would represent Butterfly for ten percent. That was a fact no one other than Booth Wilkes Gordon needed to know.

“Twenty percent it is, Mr. Jacobs.”

“Can you please revise the contract and download it to me, and I’ll have Ms. Houston sign it. A courier will deliver it to you for your countersignature. I’ll instruct him to wait for an executed copy.”

A wry smile touched Booth’s mouth. “I’ll have my legal department make the revisions, and you have my word you will receive it today. Don’t forget to e-mail your bill. Your payment will be in the same envelope as the executed contracts.”

A deep chuckle came through the speaker. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gordon. Perhaps one of these days we can get together over cocktails.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Jacobs,” Booth lied. He’d rather face a rabid dog than share a drink with a man who’d just robbed him of five percent of Butterfly’s projected earnings.

He disconnected the call and then ordered Joan to connect him to the legal department, relaying his instructions before leaning back on his chair to study the financial statement on the agency’s television division. Booth detested meetings but
knew they were necessary. Whenever he sat at the head of the conference table in the boardroom it always solidified his position and power.

Power.

It was the only good thing he’d learned from his mother. Use it well and it would provide him with everything he’d ever want.

Misused or misguided power spelled certain disaster, and he would lose everything he’d sacrificed in order to make BGM into a full-service talent and literary agency. As head of a privately held company, Booth had established what he called his commandments: every employee had to be a team player, every client was deemed unique and irreplaceable, no one was to be placed on hold for more than a minute and whenever possible, telephone calls were returned promptly.

He’d achieved a pinnacle of success he hadn’t thought possible while his personal life was in the toilet. What good was a continuous string of nameless, faceless women who managed to fill up the empty hours until he tired of their shenanigans?

Perhaps it was time, he mused, to settle down with one woman and father a child—or two. “Maybe next year,” he whispered, smiling.

S
eneca closed and locked the door behind the messenger, counting slowly to ten before opening the clasp on the envelope he’d given her. She removed a sheaf of papers with an envelope addressed to her bearing BMG Agency’s return address. Flipping through the document, she fixed her gaze on the signatures on the last page, unable to decipher Booth Gordon’s scrawl. It wouldn’t matter if he’d signed
Barracuda
because the document was legally binding.

What she’d found surprising was that the length of the contract was only two years, containing a option clause for another two years if agreed upon by both parties. Seneca knew it would take her at least two years to become accustomed to the fast-paced, highly competitive world of high-fashion modeling, and no doubt she wouldn’t be looked upon favorably by those who thought of any newcomer as direct competition. Not only did she have Booth Gordon as her agent but also a designer who’d called her his muse. Never would’ve she imagined that a tall, skinny girl from upstate New York
would one day walk the runways wearing haute couture of world-famous designers. She wasn’t lucky—she was blessed.

Removing the envelope, she opened it, her heart slamming against her ribs. There were two checks, payable to her in the amount of five thousand dollars each. The notation in the memo read
signing bonus.

Walking on shaky knees, Seneca made it to her bedroom, closed the door and collapsed into the chair. There was no mention of a signing bonus in the contract, nor had Booth mentioned it during their lunch meeting. A ten-thousand-dollar windfall was more than a surprise—it was a shock. Now she would be able to repay Electra for the cost of the limo sooner than later.

Plucking the cordless phone off the cradle, she punched in a familiar number. The call was answered after the third ring. “This is Luis.”

Heavy breathing came through the earpiece. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no,” he repeated. “I was just walking in the door when I heard the phone. What’s up, Butterfly?”

“I’m in, Luis. Booth Gordon signed me.”

“Congratulations, darling. Did you believe he wouldn’t sign you?”

“There was no guarantee he would. I don’t think he liked it when I told him I wasn’t going to put up with him talking down to me.”

“Gordon is a megalomaniac who is also a genius. His instincts to recognize talent are so finely honed that people believe he’s clairvoyant. If he signed you, then he’s knows he can sell you. Speaking of selling, I just got back from a meeting with Rhys Calhoun. He wants me to design a Butterfly collection of evening wear with a focus on gowns for Barcelona Fashion Week.”

Seneca was glad she was sitting when she slumped back against the chair. Her meeting Booth Gordon, being signed to BGM, the unexpected signing bonus and Luis designing a collection for Rhys Calhoun with her as his inspiration was too much for her to process.

Her eyes filled with tears at the same time she pulled her lip between her teeth. “Congratulations, Luis.”

“Butterfly?”

“What?” The word came out in a trembling whisper.

“Are you crying?”

“Yes-s-s.”

“Dry it up, girl! You can’t afford to end up with red, swollen eyes. What if you get a call for a shoot tomorrow?”

Wiping away her tears with her fingers, Seneca nodded before she remembered Luis couldn’t see her. He was right. Not only did she make certain to get enough sleep, but she also made certain to drink enough water to keep her skin hydrated to offset dark circles under her eyes.

“You’re right,” she said. Her face and body were commodities—her moneymakers. Neglect one or both and her modeling career would come to a crashing end even before the ravages of age became a factor.

“Now, if you ate, I’d suggest taking you out for a congratulatory dinner,” Luis teased.

“I eat as much as you do,” she countered.

“Yeah, Butterfly. Just enough to stay alive. You know when I’m sketching or piecing garments I forget to eat.”

“I never forget to eat, Luis.”

“One of these days I’m going to take you to Puerto Rico, where my relatives will ply you delicious dishes ranging from carne guisada, empanadas to sancocho.”

Seneca laughed softly. “If they cook like your mother and aunts, then I’ll wait until I’m pregnant, when I have a good
reason to eat.” Every time she accompanied Luis to visit his relatives, she’d had to go on a weeklong fast.

“I hope that’s a long way off.”

“It is,” she concurred. She chatted with Luis for another three minutes before ringing off.

Seneca didn’t know why she’d mentioned becoming pregnant. At twenty she was much too young to become a mother when she was barely able to support herself. What she hadn’t wanted was to end up like her mother. She’d wanted to believe that Dahlia’s ongoing discontent had stemmed from the stigma she’d faced as a teenage mother and high school dropout.

Dahlia had been the only one among her peers who hadn’t graduated from high school and gone on to college. Years later she’d earned a GED, but her dream to go to college to become a nurse had remained just that—a dream. The closest she got to a career in medicine was to become a medical secretary. Although Seneca had encouraged her mother to apply to nursing school, the older woman claimed there were times when she found it difficult to concentrate.

Moving off the chair, Seneca sat down at a computer workstation. She’d been forced to buy the unit because typing on her laptop while in bed had become a daunting task causing discomfort in her neck and back. The workstation with a hutch had taken three days to assemble, but in the end it was worth it. Textbooks that had been stacked on the floor were now filed on the hutch and papers and magazines were stored in a two-drawer file cabinet. There was enough space on the desk for her laptop and an all-in-one printer. After filing away the contract and checks, she thumbed through the directory at the back of her planner for the number of her cousin’s salon.

She’d picked up the phone to dial the salon when her cell rang. Her heart kicked into a faster pace when she saw the display. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” crooned the deep voice she’d come to look for. “Can I interest you in an early dinner?”

Seneca sat up straighter. “Where are you, Phillip?”

“I’m in New York. My current contract is going to expire in a couple of months, so when I spoke to the owner of the team and told him I was coming back to the East Coast, he offered me a ride on his jet.”

“That’s what I call an accommodating boss,” she teased.

“How about it, gorgeous?” Phillip asked.

“How about what?”

“Dinner.”

“Okay. But…”

“But what, Seneca?”

“What if I cook dinner for you?”

“You cook?” he teased, laughing.

“Yeah, I cook. What makes you think I couldn’t?”

“I don’t know. Most young women I’ve met only know how to make reservations.”

“You’ve hooked up with the wrong women, King Phillip.”

“Don’t ever call me that, Seneca!”

She recoiled as if he’d struck her. “I’m sorry, Phillip.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t do it again.”

There was something in his tone that sent a shiver down her spine. It was more than a warning. It was a threat. A pregnant, uncomfortable silence followed his retort, giving Seneca the time she needed to compose herself.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked. The hard edge in his voice was missing.

“What do you want?”

“Steak and potatoes.”

Seneca smiled. She knew he would say that. “What about vegetables?”

“I really like asparagus.”

“I’m certain I can pick up some from the greengrocer. Hang up, Phillip. I have to go shopping.”

“I’ll bring wine and dessert,” he volunteered. “What time should I come over?”

Seneca noted the time on her cell. It was after three. “Six-thirty.” She ended the call and then called the butcher where she bought her meat to order an aged, bone-in, cowboy rib eye steak for Phillip and a New York strip steak for herself.

She hadn’t expected to see Phillip until the weekend. However, his return to New York was somewhat propitious, because he would celebrate her signing with BGM with her.

The planner, opened to the page with her cousin’s number, reminded Seneca to call the Harlem-based salon. It took all of sixty seconds to inform Stefani that she wanted to hire her as her personal stylist. Stefani, who was either too choked up or stunned to respond, said she would call her back when she got home, because her boss was giving her a “screw face.”

Kicking off her slippers, Seneca pushed her feet into a pair of mules, grabbed her wristlet, keys and a large canvas bag for her purchases and left for her shopping excursion. It would be the first time she would entertain a man since moving into the brownstone. She’d invited Phillip over because it was Thursday. Electra worked late on Thursdays, and instead of coming back to the Upper West Side she took a taxi to the East Village to spend the weekend with Jayson.

Seneca knew she could never have a relationship with a man like Electra had with Jayson. Even though Electra complained that it was emotionally draining, she seemed to wallow in the drama. The more drama the better.

Thanks, but no thanks, she mused. She’d grown up with drama every day of her life with Dahlia Houston, aka Drama Queen. If her father had had a different temperament he either
would’ve left Dahlia a long time ago or not gotten involved with her.

Forty minutes later, Seneca returned home with the sail bag filled with prime cuts of meat, fresh white asparagus, small gold potatoes, salad fixings, a packet of quick-rising yeast for focaccia bread and a large bouquet of fresh flowers.

She unpacked her bag, washing and patting the steaks dry with a paper towel before sprinkling Oscar’s special steak seasoning on them. Placing the steaks on a plate, she stored it on a lower shelf in the refrigerator. Working quickly, she mixed the yeast with warm water and added a leavening agent, then flour. Kneading the dough until it was smooth and elastic, she placed it in a small bowl coated with olive oil and covered it with a damp towel. The bowl went on the stove where the warmth from the pilot light would hasten the rising action.

It was six when Seneca had set the table, punched the dough down and kneaded it so it could rise a second time; she’d drained the water from the salad greens with a salad spinner. The asparagus were on a cookie sheet drizzled with virgin olive oil and a sprinkling of garlic powder and Parmesan cheese. The potatoes were washed, peeled and soaking in salted water. Two cruets, one with vinaigrette and the other with seasonings for what would become glazed rosemary and garlic potatoes, were on a shelf in the refrigerator.

She surveyed her handiwork. The bouquet of white baby roses, blue and green hydrangeas and yellow mini mums added a festive touch to the table with white china with a cobalt trim. Satisfied with the results, Seneca headed for the bathroom to shower.

Phillip mounted the steps to the brownstone, cradling a shopping bag with a bottle of champagne to his chest and another with a box filled with delicate Italian pastries. He
rang the bell to Seneca’s apartment and waited as the seconds ticked off.

“Who is it?” Seneca’s slightly husky voice came through the small speaker on the intercom.

“Phillip.”

A soft buzzing disengaged the locks. He opened the doors and walked into the foyer. He climbed the staircase to the top floor, and when he stepped off onto the fourth-floor landing he saw Seneca waiting for him outside her apartment. Phillip did not want to believe she could improve on perfection. Whether wearing haute couture or cropped pants and a white blouse, she was stunning.

He winked at her. “Like your shoes.”

Seneca glanced down at her feet. The gray snakeskin Michael Kors “Famous” sandal was a favorite and the most comfortable in her shoe collection. A four-and-a-half-inch heel, half-inch platform and adjustable ankle strap with a buckle closure permitted her to stand for hours without discomfort.

Her head popped up and she stared up at Phillip through her lashes. “Thank you.” She extended her arms. “Let me take one of those bags.”

Phillip handed her the one with the pastries. “Do you always wear stilettos?”

“Every chance I get,” she answered. “A lot of men feel intimidated when I tower over them, but I think of it as their problem, not mine.”

Phillip followed Seneca into the apartment, pausing to close and lock the door behind them. “Do they complain about it?”

“Some do.”

“How tall are you?” he asked, walking through the living room decorated with functional furniture seen in most moderately priced hotels: a beige-and-brown patterned sofa, love
seat, mahogany coffee and end tables and ginger-jar lamps with white pleated shades. Shutters covered the tall, narrow windows instead of blinds or shades. The only item that made the space seem like home were plants—lots of potted plants.

“Five-ten in my bare feet.”

“I don’t have a problem with your height.”

Seneca stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. “That’s because you’re what—six-seven?”

“Six-six.”

She smiled up at the man who literally took her breath away. Today he was dressed in gray: a blue-gray silk shirt and a lightweight charcoal-gray suit. “Even with five-inch heels you still have three inches on me.”

“Three inches and probably outweigh you by a buck fifty.”

Seneca entered the kitchen and set the bag on the countertop. “I will reveal my age, but not my weight.”

Phillip removed the bottle of champagne from the box and placed it in the refrigerator. “What about dress size?”

“That, too.” Crossing her arms under her breasts, she gave him a long, penetrating stare. “All a designer is concerned about is whether I can fit into the garment. It doesn’t matter whether I’m a zero, two or a four. The bottom line is whether it fits.”

Phillip’s gaze roved lazily over her incredibly slender body. The stretch pants fit her body like a second skin, while the simple man-tailored white blouse with turned-back cuffs was in direct contrast to the sexy shoes. His gaze moved up to her face and hair. She wore little or no discernible makeup, and her hair was brushed back and secured in a knot on the nape of her long neck.