Butterfly (18 page)

“Are you finished?”

Seneca recoiled as if he’d struck her across the face. Not only was his voice cold, but it was cutting. “Yes, I am.”

Phillip stood up. “Good. As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go back to the hotel, call the carrier and hopefully book a flight out today.” Booth hadn’t booked a return flight because he didn’t know how long it would take to shoot the commercial. Fortunately, it had taken only one day.

Seneca stood up and walked out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. Red-hot rage made it almost impossible for her to think clearly. She didn’t need a clairvoyant to tell her that her marriage was in trouble, although she hadn’t been married a week.

When she’d called to tell Booth that she had married Phillip, his advice was to keep their marriage a secret until he met with the agency’s publicity department. The news of her marrying one of the country’s most eligible bachelors was cause to sell millions of supermarket tabloids and entertainment magazines. He would also arrange for them to be interviewed by all of the television entertainment journalists individually and as a couple. He’d predicted the hype would thrust her into the spotlight where she and Phillip would become another beautiful, high-profile celebrity couple.

She entered her dressing room, closed the door and sat down at the vanity to begin removing the makeup that always had a tendency to make her face feel heavy. However, wearing makeup had its advantages. It forced her into a daily regimen of caring for her skin. For Seneca, cleansing facial lotions,
eye-makeup remover and moisturizers were as essential as food, water, deodorant and toothpaste.

Using a tissue, she removed the last of the makeup, dabbed her face with a deep-cleaning astringent for sensitive skin, making certain to avoid the eye area, then applied an oil-free moisturizer. It had been a while, but she never knew when a pimple would remind her that she still hadn’t reached the stage where adolescent acne was a thing of the past.

Seneca changed out of the dress and into a pair of jeans, an oversize T-shirt and running shoes. Removing the pins from her hair, she swept it up in a ponytail, securing it with a red elastic band, then pulled a worn denim baseball cap over her head. When she walked out of the dressing room no one would recognize her as the actress who’d silently seduced basketball phenom Phillip Kingston into letting her drive his prized vehicle.

Phillip, who’d also changed, was waiting for her in the parking lot. He opened the rear door to the limo and waited for her to get in before he slid onto the leather seat next to her. Reaching for her hand, he laced their fingers together as the driver maneuvered out of the lot and onto the road that led to their hotel. It was as if they were reliving the commercial. No words were exchanged, but that was a good thing, because the last thing Phillip wanted to do was argue with his wife.

“W
hy aren’t you dressed?” Seneca asked Phillip when she walked into the bedroom at the Ritz-Carlton. He lay on the bed, eyes closed. Although he’d covered his lower body with the sheet, it couldn’t conceal his erection.

When they’d returned to New York they’d stopped at her apartment, where she’d packed enough clothes to last a week. She’d also left a note for Electra with the arrangements for their weekend in Southampton. Booth had reserved a car for her and Phillip. The driver was scheduled to arrive at the hotel at eleven, then pick up Electra and Jayson in the Village before taking the Queens Midtown Tunnel to the Long Island Expressway.

Although Electra had asked her a thousand and one questions about PK, Seneca still hadn’t revealed his name, or that she’d married him. In fact, no one knew she was married except Booth. She hadn’t called her parents again, deciding when she did tell them it would be in person.

“I’m not going to Southampton this weekend with you.”

“What! Why?”

Phillip opened his eyes and glared at his
wife.
He’d had a problem thinking of her as his wife because she wasn’t performing her wifely duties. They hadn’t had sex since returning from California. Reaching for his erection, he waved it back and forth like a baton.

“I’ll go with you if you give me
some.
”

Seneca blinked, stunned, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Rising and supporting himself on an elbow, Phillip continued to massage the hardened flesh. “I know exactly what I’m saying, Mrs. Kingston. I need you to come and fuck me.” He pulled back the sheet to show her his swollen member. “I need some relief, Seneca. Don’t make me take care of myself.”

“I’m not your whore, Phillip, and I’m not going to
fuck
you.” He slipped off the bed, and she took a step backward.

“If you’re not my wife, then you have to be my whore.”

Seneca knew Phillip was still harboring some hostility because Booth had negotiated for her to return to L.A. to audition for a role in the daytime soap opera. The character would appear in ten episodes, and based on ratings and Internet feedback, the role could possibly become a recurring one.

Resting her hands on her hips, she went on tiptoe and thrust her face close to his. “Do you want out of this marriage, Phillip? Because if you do, then I’m gone.”

The skin tightened over his high cheekbones when he pulled his lips back over straight teeth. “Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s not, Phillip. What I don’t want is for you to ever refer to me as a whore again. Because if you do, then whatever we have will be over. Don’t touch me,” she shouted when he reached out for her. “Please, don’t touch me.” Her voice had softened.

“Why don’t you want me to touch you, Seneca?”

“Because having sex isn’t going to solve our problem. We don’t talk.”

“What do we do?”

“We make love, and that’s not enough to hold a marriage together. Maybe I made a mistake when I fell into bed with you so quickly. And I know I made a mistake when I agreed to marry you knowing I wasn’t in love with you.”

His stoic expression did not change. “I need you to answer one question for me.”

Seneca nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you love me?”

She didn’t know why, but Seneca felt like crying. “No, Phillip, I don’t love you. I was beginning to fall in love with you until…” Her words trailed off.

His right eyebrow lifted. “Until you thought I wanted to sabotage your career,” he said, completing her statement. “It’s not that I don’t want you to be successful.”

“If it’s not that, then what is it, Phillip?”

“I don’t want to lose you.” He held up a hand when she opened her mouth. “Please, don’t interrupt me,” he warned softly. “I asked you to marry me not because I’m in love with you. It was lust and obsession. I didn’t want another man to have you. Don’t look at me like that, Seneca.”

With wide eyes, she asked, “How else can I look at you? You just made me feel like some…some object you just had to have.”

“I’m sorry, baby.”

“So am I, Phillip. I’m so sorry it didn’t work out between us.”

Phillip took a step, cradling her face between his palms. “Will you forgive me for deceiving you?”

Her eyes filling with tears, Seneca gave him a reassuring
smile. “Yes. And thank you for being honest.” She sniffled. “It looks as if keeping our marriage a secret turned out to be a good thing.”

Phillip gave her a sad smile. “I guess you can say it’s a blessing in disguise.”

“We’ll annul it,” she suggested. “I’ll have my attorney handle everything.”

Phillip angled his head, brushing his mouth over Seneca’s. His attempt at subterfuge had backfired. He’d accused her of not knowing him when it was she whom he hadn’t even tried to get to know. In fact, he hadn’t even scratched the surface. She was much more complex than she seemed.

“Do you think it’s possible for us to remain friends?” he asked.

The tears Seneca had struggled to hold back fell; they streamed down her face, wetting Phillip’s fingers. “Of course.”

His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Don’t run away. As soon as I shower and throw a few things in a bag I’ll be ready to go to Southampton with you.”

Seneca waited until Phillip had walked into the bathroom before slumping down on the unmade bed. Nothing had changed, yet at the same time everything had changed. She and Phillip would annul their marriage and no longer sleep together. But they would share a connection, because for a brief moment in time they’d come together as one.

“Do you mind if we continue this tomorrow?” Seneca asked Hans Lindquist. She’d talked throughout breakfast, while she’d cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, and had continued to talk after she and the photojournalist retired to the family room.

“Not at all. How’s your voice holding up?” he asked when she rested her hand over her throat.

“All I need is a cup of hot water with lemon and honey.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

Seneca returned to the kitchen, filled the electric kettle with water and plugged it in. Opening an overhead cabinet, she removed a mug. By the time the water had boiled, she’d added a tablespoon of honey and lemon juice to the mug. She lingered in the kitchen, recalling all she’d divulged to Hans. Her secret marriage to Phillip Kingston had remained that over the years—a secret, until her world as she’d known it at that time was turned upside down. She wasn’t certain that what she’d told Hans would end up in the book, but whatever it was that hadn’t been made public would thrust the former Butterfly back into the public eye.

Before agreeing to grant the interview, Seneca had discussed it with her husband. His response was to tell the truth, because lies would only come back to haunt her and disrupt the lives of their children.

There was a time when her mother, father, sister and brother were her family—but everything had changed when she’d decided it was time for Butterfly to put away her colorful wings and join the ranks of former supermodels who’d gone on to establish new careers.

Try as she would, Seneca wasn’t able to make the transition, to leave the glare of the spotlights and flashbulbs, so she was forced to do what she hadn’t wanted to do—make others happy. It wasn’t about what had made Butterfly happy, and so she had continued to agree to photo shoots and fashion shows and accept cameo roles in movies and popular television shows.

It had taken Herculean strength, but Butterfly underwent another metamorphosis in an attempt to survive, not for others
but to secure her own future. By this time she’d wanted what most women wanted—a husband, children and a normal life. It was one thing to ask for these and another to fight for them. For her it had been the latter.

Cradling the mug between her hands, she retraced her steps. Walking into the family room, she stopped abruptly. Hans was flipping through a photo album she’d left on the table next to the love seat.

“I meant to put that away.”

Hans spun away, embarrassed that she’d caught him snooping. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked your permission.”

Seneca shook her head. “It’s okay. You already know more about me than most people.”

“Where were you when those photos were taken?”

Closing the distance between them, she sat at the opposite end of the love seat. “I was at Booth Gordon’s house in the Caribbean. I’d gone there to recuperate.”

“Were you sick?”

She took a sip of the warm honey-and-lemon-infused water. “Not physically sick. I was close to burnout, or what is commonly known as a nervous breakdown. It took at least a month before I began to feel like myself.” She took another swallow of the liquid, then cleared her throat. “No more questions, Hans, or I’ll be completely hoarse tomorrow. Let me show you to the guesthouse. As soon as you’re settled in I’ll take you on a tour of the property and the surrounding area. If you’re up to it later on, we can visit some of the vineyards, where you can do a little wine tasting.”

Hans flashed a wide smile. “I like the sound of that. Let me get my bags from the car and I’ll meet you around the back.”

Seneca retrieved the key to the guesthouse from the small box on the fireplace mantelpiece and left the room through
a side door. Once she’d received confirmation that Hans was coming, she’d made arrangements for the smaller version of the main house to be cleaned and aired out. Unlocking the door, she left the key in the lock, leaving the door ajar. Hans arrived, carrying a garment bag and matching Pullman.

“Come in and rest yourself.” Seneca closed her eyes, remembering that it was a phrase her grandmother always used when she welcomed someone into her home.

Hans walked in, peering around at the French country furnishings. It was the perfect place to kick back and relax. “Very nice.”

“Thank you. I restocked the pantry, refrigerator and the bar. If there is anything you need and it’s not there, please let me know.”

He set down the Pullman that contained his photography equipment. “Right about now I’m craving a shower and a firm bed. If you don’t see me in a couple of hours, that means I’m down for the count.”

Hans didn’t tell Seneca that he’d left Los Angeles and was on the road minutes after midnight to arrive at her house before eight. She’d explained to him that she’d wanted to begin the interview early in the morning and conclude by noon.

“If I don’t see you later, then it’ll be tomorrow morning.” Turning on her heels, she walked out, feeling the heat from Hans’s gaze on her back.

Seneca had returned to the main house after her early-morning walk and had just finished slicing fruit when she heard the thud of the door knocker. She walked out of the kitchen, through the living room to the front door. Peering through the security eye, she recognized the face and opened the door.

“Good morning.”

Hans winked at the former model, whose smoky voice, sensual smile and perfectly symmetrical features had invaded his dream. “That it is, Seneca. It’s a beautiful morning.” He brought his right hand up. “May I take a few candid shots of you before we begin the interview?”

Seneca ran her hand over the hair she’d secured in a ponytail. “You know I don’t model anymore.”

“This is not for the book. I’d like to add it to my personal collection. And if I decide to include it in a book of models unplugged, I’ll be certain to get your release.”

A beat passed as she pondered his request. “Okay.” What did she have to lose? After all, she’d literally spilled her guts to Hans. Having him take a few candid photographs paled in comparison.

Hans raised the camera, peered through the lens finder and got off a shot, then showed Seneca the digital image. “Is that candid enough?”

A smile softened Seneca’s mouth when she recognized the wide-eyed expression that had appeared on so many covers of glossy fashion magazines. Butterfly had walked away from the fashion world at thirty, and seven years later she still had a good face.

“It’s nice, Hans.”

He got two more frames. “It’s more than nice, Seneca. You’re that rare find, because you’re stunning with or without makeup.”

“Come on in,” she ordered. “Yesterday I told you about Seneca Houston. Today’s Butterfly’s turn.”

Hans walked into the entryway and closed the door behind them. “Is Butterfly as interesting as Seneca?” he asked, staring at Seneca’s hips in a pair of cropped black pants in a stretchy fabric. She’d replaced her man-tailored shirt with a black tank
top. Today she’d pushed her feet into a pair of sandals with wedge heels that put her close to the six-foot mark.

“Butterfly is synonymous with drama.”

Hans sat at the cooking island and took out the tape recorder. “I don’t remember reading about you having to deal with catwalk drama.”

“Most of my drama was off the catwalk.” She handed Hans a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “Butterfly emerged from her cocoon the weekend I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. What I didn’t know at the time was that it would change my life, and not necessarily for the better.”