Xquisite (11 page)

She untied the ribbon and pulled away layers of rustling tissue—and gasped. In her hands was the painting that Ricardo had promised. In her father’s signature bold strokes and glorious colors, a perfect likeness of the little terns that had hopped around the tiny patio where he liked to work in the afternoons. And there: there was her father’s signature, “M Ryder, 1989” in the sure, sloping hand that she knew so well.

She clasped the painting to her chest, almost sobbing in shock and joy. Ricardo had made a gift of the work. She wouldn’t have to empty her savings or take out a loan. She wasn’t sure why he would do such a thing—but now that she had the new work in her hands, she wasn’t ever letting it go.

The driver chuckled softly as the car glided smoothly through the quiet neighborhood.

“What,” Chelsea said, embarrassed to have been overheard.

“Mr. de Santos said you would be pleased, Miss.”

CHAPTER NINE

As the elegant town car glided down the street, another car pulled away from the curb. It was nothing special, an ordinary sedan in a color no one was likely to remember. Nothing about the car could be traced to the man who had purchased it; the deal had taken place in another state and the broker translated both the driver’s Russian and the urgency of his request for anonymity. The outline of a gun under the driver’s jacket, as well as a mountain of cash, had convinced the seller to forget the details of the deal immediately.

Tonight, the car had been concealed under the overhanging boughs of a tree festooned with feathery red flowers. The driver of the car had waited, smoking occasionally, for a very long time. To amuse himself, he had memorized every feature of the red flowers. If called upon to describe them later, he would have been able to give a description that any competent botanist could use to identify the flower as a
callistemon pauciflorus
. But the driver was unlikely to come into contact with a botanist. That was not the nature of his job.

He followed the town car, staying several car lengths back but close enough that he wouldn’t be at risk of losing his quarry in traffic.

This was the sort of work for which Vlad Aksyonov was better suited.

CHAPTER TEN

By Monday of the following week, the painting that Ricardo had given Chelsea was hanging in a place of honor on the wall perpendicular to the other four Marcus Ryders. Chelsea’s favorite employee—a clever girl named Naomi, who she’d hired straight out of Stanford, encumbered with a philosophy degree and no other job prospects—asked immediately if it had been painted by her father.

Naomi had arrived without any formal art training other than trailing her mother around the galleries of her native Chicago, so her knowledge was deep in the Impressionists and otherwise rather thin, but she took to the job quickly and had been educating herself. It was no secret to Naomi and the other two members of Chelsea’s staff that she was trying to obtain as much of her father’s work as she could, even if they didn’t know any details of Chelsea’s background other than the version she used professionally: a private school education (it didn’t get much more private than the Fairy Godfathers’ salon) and an apprenticeship with Meredith Tipton. If Naomi and the others wondered what Chelsea did with her time when she wasn’t working, they were wise enough not to ask.

But in the days following the night she spent with Ricardo, Chelsea wished that she was close enough to someone that she could share at least a little of the thrill of her new lover. By now it was starting to feel like a dream. By the next morning, actually, it had seemed like something she’d imagined—except that she’d awakened with faint red marks on her wrists and legs and marvelously moist skin wherever the wax had fallen and an aching jaw from being pounded hard by Ricardo’s huge cock.

Not that she could tell that to even a close girlfriend, Chelsea thought, blushing as she worked at her desk. Even if she left it at “I met someone,” there wasn’t anyone to tell. The Fairy Godfathers—well, they were too much like her
dads
—and it would be much too weird. Meredith would be relentless, pressing her for details she could never bring herself share. Besides, even though they had made plans to see each other again, Chelsea had no way of knowing what she meant to Ricardo. Was she one of several lovers? A brief indulgence while he was in town?

She would have to come up with some sort of credible story, though, because she couldn’t wait to show Meredith the painting, and Meredith would know its value and the impossibility of Chelsea affording it.

Which led to her other problem.

She had to thank Ricardo for the gift. Actually, what she really ought to do was return it—it was much too grand a gesture—but she could never bring herself to do that. Still, its provenance was a problem. If she ever hoped to show it or lend it, she would have to be able to prove it wasn’t stolen. And since Ricardo was an authenticator, that shouldn’t be a problem. Unless…

She pushed away the unwelcome thought. If Ricardo had come by the painting dishonestly, she was pretty sure that she would rather not know. If he
wasn’t who he appeared to be, it wouldn’t change the fact that she’d spent the night with a virtual stranger—but it might complicate things in other ways.

“I’m back.” Naomi appeared in front of Chelsea’s desk, paper deli sack in hand. Chelsea glanced at her clock—she hadn’t even noticed that her employee had left to get lunch, and the bell hadn’t rung. Another slow day for the gallery, which unfortunately wasn’t unusual.

“Oh good, I’m famished,” Chelsea lied. The truth was that she was too nervous to eat. “And I’ve got a few errands—I might be back late.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” Naomi said. “Take your time.”

#

The Fairy Godfathers were expecting her. She’d texted to let them know she needed a “consultation,” their shorthand for making sure to leave time between bookings to talk.

When she pushed through the salon’s front door, Donny had just put a color client under the dryer to process, and Rufus sent an elderly, bald gentleman out the door with a fresh shave and a green tea facial that he swore would reduce fine lines. The three of them snuck to the back room that had been converted to a sunny lounge—a far cry from the dark storeroom in their prior salon where Chelsea had once taken shelter. Donny put a chilled vitamin water in her hand while Rufus set out snacks.

“Okay, here goes,” Chelsea said, her palms clammy with nervous perspiration, taking a big gulp of her drink. “I need…help. With this,” she added hastily before they could start offering her money again, tugging at her split ends.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Donny gasped while Rufus feigned a heart attack. “You
never
let us touch your hair.”

“Well, I was…having independence issues. It would have been too, um, weird.”

“No, no, that’s fine, honey. We’re thrilled. Just…surprised.”

Chelsea felt the most unwelcome sensation—tears threatening to fall. Tears of relief? Fear?

No, that wouldn’t do; if she gave in to the feelings, the Fairy Godfathers would sense them like bloodhounds on a scent and smother her with their good intentions. Much better just to plow forward.

“And I need you to recommend a good waxer.”

“Donny can do your brows, Mei Mei,” Rufus protested. “You know he’s magic with a Tweezerman.”

“No, no—” Chelsea shut her eyes and grimaced. “Not that kind of wax. The, um…other.
Brazilian
,” she whispered, so there could be no doubt.

A shocked silence ensued. When Chelsea couldn’t bear the tension and peeked, the men were gaping at her, open-mouthed.

Rufus recovered first. “Well that’s fine honey, we know just the gal. Two blocks from here, I’ll give her a call. And whatever…new, um, friendship has prompted this, well, I’m sure we’re both delighted for you.”

“Rufus!” she protested.

“What!! We were just worried you were still a virgin,” Donny said.

“Please, guys, if you love me at all, shut up and cut my hair.”

#

She arrived home two hours later with her hair falling in smooth waves, a stinging between her legs, and a falafel sandwich from her favorite Mediterranean dive. Since she was probably going to be too nervous again tomorrow to eat, she had decided to lay in sustenance now—like a bear larding up for winter.

“Ugh,” she moaned, setting the carryout bag on the table. Such an unfortunate analogy. And not very fitting, either, since bears were furry and she—well, she was now as slick and smooth as a cue ball. Despite the pain, the sensation of her clothes moving against the waxed skin was…more than interesting. It was frankly erotic—unless it was just the anticipation of being with Ricardo in twenty-four hours.

So caught up in the new sensations was Chelsea that she almost stumbled over the large white box on her porch. It was tied with a plain gray grosgrain ribbon, and once she dragged it inside the apartment, she eagerly untied it.

She knew. From the glossy white surface of the box, the fine, bound ends of the ribbon. The lack of a card or return address. All of it the work of a private man, a careful man, a man whose standards were exceptionally high.

Inside, nestled in a bed of pale pink tissue, was a midnight blue dress. At least Chelsea thought it was a dress, though there was so little of it, she’d be forgiven for thinking it a…blouse, perhaps. The straps and cutouts and complicated, almost origami-like, folds of the fabric made it hard to tell.

And there: a familiar rectangle of creamy white, his name engraved in the stark black ink. She grabbed it eagerly, turned it over.

“Wear this tomorrow night. We are going out. The driver will arrive at the gallery at six to pick you up.”

She laid the garment gently back into the box, but her hand brushed against something hard, hidden among the layers of tissue.

She pushed the papers aside. And there they were: the most shockingly high heels of her life, thin silver bands all that would bind them to her feet, along with the long gossamer strands of ribbon that were meant to wrap around her ankle.

Just like the scarlet silk had bound her just a few days ago.

She went weak with the memory, her traitorous blood rushing headlong to all the places she was too weak to control.

#

At five forty-five the following evening, Chelsea stood, stretching her arms and yawning in an exaggerated attempt at nonchalance. “Ugh, those shipping documents,” she said. “They’ll be the death of me.”

“Mmm,” Leonore said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger as she swept a cloth along the stone counter, wiping away the fingerprints of the last customer. Leonore was Chelsea’s least favorite employee; her Ivy League education and connections were impeccable, however, and the friends-of-the-family clients she’d brought to the gallery more than made up for her maddening, entitled bitchiness.

“So, I’m just going to duck into the bathroom and change. I’ve got an—an event tonight.” She grabbed the box from under the desk where she’d stowed it earlier.

“Mmm.”

One of these days, Chelsea was going to throw a stapler at the woman in an effort to shake that chilly Park Avenue attitude, but today wasn’t the day. Inside the bathroom, she regretted not taking the dress for a trial run sooner, but she’d frankly been afraid that if she got all the straps on wrong, she might damage the thin, shimmering silk.

When Chelsea had emerged from the salon Rufus had recommended, she was fully denuded and one hundred forty dollars more broke, having treated herself to a manicure and pedicure in addition to the Brazilian wax.

Next door to the salon, on a street that was rapidly becoming trendy, was the sort of shop that Chelsea had never entered before. The mannequin in the window wore a bra made of violet silk trimmed with black lace—and a matching thong that could easily have been stuffed into an Altoids box, it was so tiny. The tag hanging from the bra said $125 in lovely flowery handwriting, but it wasn’t the price that put Chelsea off: it was the fact that she’d have to
talk
to the salesgirl, to admit her ignorance, the fact that her underwear still came from Macy’s, where a very embarrassed Donny had taken her for her first bra when she was fifteen.

So she’d turned away. Now, standing in the tiny bathroom in her gallery, in her serviceable bra and panties, she made a daring decision: she removed them both and rolled them into a ball which she stuffed in the bottom of her purse. She hoped it was the sort of gesture Ricardo might like, and then she felt impatient with herself for the thought. It wasn’t like her to go through these mental gymnastics before a date.

Which was the point, of course, she realized as she pulled the dress up over her hips, the silk lining gliding over her skin. Ricardo was unlike any other man. The night she’d spent with him was unlike any other night. And today, with any luck, the relationship (she shuddered at the word; it was so inadequate to hold all the complicated feelings she had about him) would go further into new territory.

For all its confusing straps, the dress went on easily, everything falling into place as she pulled the bodice up. A single ruched, narrow strap wound over one shoulder, plunging to the band that covered her breasts—barely—before joining a crisscrossing star of fabric that allowed triangles of her midriff to show through before joining the skirt that started just below her hipbones, so low that if she hadn’t visited the salon, she might have worried about its coverage.

The back was completely bare, with the exception of two twined straps that would never have covered an undergarment, so it was a good thing she’d ditched the bra.

And a good thing she’d been keeping up with her running routine, she thought as she turned in front of the mirror. She knew her body was taut and firm—all of her lovers had assured her of that. But in this dress, it was also…
feminine
, that was the word, in a way that Chelsea never thought of herself. The lines of her muscles were softened, her curves highlighted. Her breasts swelled gently, her hips curved in a way she didn’t recognize.

She slipped the shoes on, sitting on the tiny chair that had never before served any purpose other than being a place for customers to set a purse. They were, surprisingly, not terribly uncomfortable after she’d figured out how to tie them. She took a couple of experimental steps, all she could manage in the confined
space, and then dropped her boots and all of her clothes in the box and retied it. She took a deep breath and opened the door.