Butterfly (28 page)

The mattress dipped slightly when he got into bed beside her. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Seneca felt hot tears prick the backs of her eyes. It was the first time a man had asked her what she wanted. It was always what he’d wanted. “I want you to make love to me, Eliot.” She’d asked him to make love to her when she’d wanted him to fall in love with her. She wanted and needed him to love her as much as she was beginning to love him.

Eliot took his time arousing her again, his mouth charting a sensual path from her lips to her feet. His hands and mouth left no part of her body untouched, and when he’d reached the point when he was afraid he wasn’t able to hold off ejaculating, he eased his sex into her body, both of them groaning in exquisite pleasure.

I’ve come home!
That was all Seneca could think when Eliot moved inside her, taking her to sensual heights that left her gasping for her next breath. She came again, the orgasms overlapping one another as she surrendered to an ecstasy that took her beyond herself, screaming and crying when she and Eliot climaxed together.

Eliot waited for his heart to slow to a normal rate. He buried his face in the curly hair fanning out on his pillow. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered.

Seneca smiled. “And I don’t want you to.”

A
mere twenty-four hours later, Seneca felt as if her world had come crashing down on her. The news that her bank account was frozen by the federal government because Booth Gordon had used it to funnel drug money was compounded with details of her personal life that had become the grist for the entertainment rumor mill.

“Calm down, Seneca, before I’m forced to sedate you.”

Eyes, wide with fear and pain, implored him to understand her. “They are lying, Eliot! Why would my family turn on me like that?”

Forcibly pulling her against his body, Eliot wouldn’t permit Seneca to escape him. “Viewers don’t know they’re lying, because they haven’t heard from you.”

Seneca stopped struggling. Her eyes met Eliot’s. “What do you mean?”

“You have to counter their lies with the truth.”

“You want me to go on the air and spill my guts?”

“Either that, or do or say nothing. And if you do that, then
the public will draw its own conclusions and you’ll be hounded by the media for the rest of your life.”

Seneca wasn’t certain who in her family had talked to the investigative reporter, but the segment on the rise of Butterfly was rife with innuendos and lies. What if she married again? Had children? Would they be forced to defend their mother?

“Okay, Eliot. Who do I talk to? Larry King? Oprah?”

“Let me make a phone call. I know a correspondent who is just breaking into the business. She owes me a favor, so let’s see if she can come through for you.”

Seneca stared at the man with the smooth black skin and penetrating deep eyes that seemed to know her better than she knew herself. “Why does she owe you?”

“That’s something I can’t tell you, baby. Doctor-patient privilege. But if she can get her network to approve the interview, then we can have more control than if someone like Barbara Walters or Larry King conducted the interview. I’ll ask Debrah to let us know which questions she’ll ask beforehand.”

Seneca smiled despite the seriousness of the situation. Eliot had said
we
and
us.
It was apparent they were in this together. “Call her, Eliot.”

“Two minutes and we’re ready.”

Seneca felt as if she’d stepped back in time when she’d prepared for the shoot with Phillip Kingston. She’d asked Kathie to come to L.A. to do her makeup and Yancy to style her hair. Eliot had paid their expenses because the FBI still hadn’t removed the lien from her bank accounts. If it hadn’t been for Eliot Rollins, Seneca Houston would’ve become a part of the
system.

She’d returned to New York, taking a red-eye and wearing
a wig and several layers of clothes in an attempt to conceal her identity. She knew the paparazzi were camped out in and around her apartment building; in an attempt to evade them she slipped into the building using the service entrance. Although she didn’t have access to her bank accounts, she wasn’t cash-poor. Seneca had secreted five thousand dollars in cash, along with jewelry—mostly gifts from admirers—in a safe built into the floor of a bedroom closet. The cash, two pairs of diamond studs, totaling six carats, and the diamond band and bracelet Phillip had given her were in the tote she carried on when she took a return flight to the West Coast.

Eliot, who hadn’t known of her escapade because he was working a three-day shift at the medical facility where he and his partner had set up their practice, was waiting for her when she walked into the condo. They had their first serious disagreement, with her seeing another side of the soft-spoken man who’d made the most exquisite and tender love to her. He accused her of stealing away like a thief to retrieve a stash he’d hidden away from his cohorts. When Seneca told him she didn’t want to have to rely on him for her existence, his rejoinder had shocked her into silence.
When I love someone, I tend to take care of them. That’s what I do, Seneca.

She’d walked into the bathroom, showered and then crawled into bed with Eliot. They’d slept with their backs to each other until she crawled over Eliot, begging him to make love to her. He did, and without a condom. When she woke hours later to find dried semen on her thighs she hadn’t panicked. She was thirty-three and ready to give motherhood a try. Her period was late, but she hadn’t told Eliot. And Seneca knew if she was pregnant she wouldn’t be able to hide it from him. After all, he was a doctor.

The cameraman checked the lighting for the last time, while Debrah White checked and rechecked her notes. Her career
was certain to take off because she’d landed the exclusive live interview with the former supermodel Butterfly. Seneca Houston had agreed to the interview in a private room at a popular Beverly Hills restaurant. Dr. Eliot Rollins had suggested the venue because it would provide complete anonymity for the woman with whom it was obvious he’d fallen in love.

She met the eyes of the woman with raven-black hair styled in a loose twist on the nape of her long slender neck. Her makeup was so subtle it appeared as if she wasn’t wearing any. A sleeveless black sheath dress with an asymmetrical neckline showed off her toned arms to their best advantage. Pearl studs and a matching strand around her neck complemented her sleek, sophisticated style. She crossed one long, bare leg over the opposite knee, the gesture attracting the attention of every man in the room.

Debrah affected her professional expression when the producer gave the signal to begin taping. “Good evening. I’m Debrah White, and I’m here with Seneca Houston, the former supermodel known as Butterfly, to get answers firsthand from the woman about whom there’s been a great deal of talk and interest. First, Seneca, I would like to thank you for agreeing to this interview.”

Seneca smiled. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“I find it strange that throughout your thirteen-year career as a model you were never the topic of any scandal, but with your retirement there seems to be a maelstrom of innuendos and attacks upon your character. How do you explain this?”

“What I find so strange is that I can’t explain it. I’ve worked with some of the most temperamental, egotistical women on the planet, yet I never had a problem with any of them. I retire and all of a sudden I’ve become a pariah—which is shocking and hurtful, because it comes from my family.”

“Speaking of family, I’d like to extend my condolences on the recent loss of your mother.”

Seneca closed her eyes, sucking in her cheeks, visibly moved. “Thank you,” she said after a pregnant pause.

Debrah leaned forward. “Do you want me to give you a minute?”

Seneca smiled again at the attractive reporter with the round face, flawless sable complexion and large dark eyes. With her pixie-styled haircut she looked like a chocolate doll. “I’m okay, thank you.”

“There have been quite a few men in your life. Can you tell me about them?”

“Which one?” Seneca asked, her expression impassive.

“Let’s start with Luis Navarro.”

“I credit Luis with starting my career and giving me my signature name. I was Luis’s muse and his inspiration for his Butterfly collection.”

“Mitchell Leon.”

“Mitchell took photos of me when I didn’t have the money to pay him. But I was able to repay him when he photographed me for the cover of
Cosmopolitan,
the
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue and
Vogue.
In my opinion, Mitchell Leon is in the same class as Annie Leibovitz, Richard Avedon and Francesco Scavullo.”

“Tell me about Phillip Kingston.”

“What about him?” Seneca asked.

“I spoke to your former college roommate, and she said you and Phillip Kingston dated for a while.”

Seneca stared at the toe of her black patent-leather stiletto. Phillip’s estranged wife had tried and failed to secure a televised interview where she could talk about her soon-to-be ex-husband, so she posted it on an online blog.

She and Eliot had talked about how she would answer the
battery of questions Debrah had forwarded to her. Debrah had listed more than fifty but had to narrow the list to fit the show’s time format.

“Phillip and I were married briefly, but decided we’d acted impulsively so we agreed to have it annulled.”

“How long were you married?”

“Not long,” Seneca replied.

“Were you in love with him?”

“Phillip and I were in
lust
with each other,” she said smiling.

Debrah smiled for the first time. “Okay, let move on. Booth Gordon.”

“Booth is my agent.”

“Is or was?”

“Booth Gordon is still my agent.”

“I know Mr. Gordon is currently out on bail, but are you at liberty to talk about the allegation that he had been laundering money for a Russian drug lord?”

“I haven’t seen or spoken to Booth Gordon since my mother’s funeral.” Seneca stared directly at the camera, placed her fingertips to her lips and threw him a kiss. “That one is for you, Booth.” Instead of giving him an air kiss, Seneca wanted to give her agent the kiss of death. His using her account to launder drug money was something she still couldn’t fathom.

“I’ve spoken to your brother and sister-in-law, and both claim you came to their home, took your mother and moved her to a medical facility, without letting them know where you’d taken her.”

I should’ve kicked that bitch’s ass when I had the chance,
Seneca seethed inwardly. She clenched her teeth, then forced herself to relax. “My mother needed medical care my brother and sister-in-law could not provide. She wasn’t eating and had lost
control of her bodily functions. I did what I thought best for my mother’s well-being, and I stand behind my decision.”

“Your sister-in-law said your mother told her you’d killed your father. Why would she say that?”

“Dahlia Houston said a lot of things, but that didn’t necessarily make them true. She was diagnosed with FTD—frontotemporal dementia. It is a disease that robbed her of her memory in her early forties.” Seneca paused. “Let me set the record straight. My father died of coronary heart disease.”

Debrah rearranged her cards. “A month before you announced your retirement footage shows you thinner than usual. You were observed vomiting. There is speculation that you are bulimic, had come down with the flu or food poisoning, or you were pregnant. Which one is it?”

Throwing back her head and baring her throat, Seneca laughed. “I’m sorry, but none of the above.” She sobered quickly. “I’d become dehydrated during the overseas flight, and when I checked in at my hotel I’d drunk too much water. The water had to go somewhere.”

Debrah shifted another card. “Nicely put. You’ve been photographed with heads of state and celebrities all over the world. Perhaps you can identify a few of them for us.” The camera shifted to a large flat-screen television.

“I can’t remember or pronounce all of the names, but I can tell you who they are.” Seneca was able to identify eight photos before Debrah resumed her questioning. She took a sip of water from the glass on the table beside her chair.

“I have to keep coming back to your family.” Seneca lowered her lids and nodded. “Your sister-in-law—”

“Maya,” Seneca said, supplying the name.

“Maya told me you resented her because your brother married out of his race.”

“How resentful could I have been if I was one of her
bridesmaids? I’m also godmother to her son. Does that sound like resentment to you?”

“No, it doesn’t. I spoke to your sister and she told me that she once harbored a lot of resentment because she felt you wouldn’t help with her modeling career. What do say about this?”

“I know how Robyn felt because there’s one thing my sister isn’t and that’s shy.”

Debrah smiled. “I got the same impression when I spoke to her. But on a more serious note, she told me if she had the opportunity to choose any sister she wanted, she would pick you again.”

Seneca winked at the camera. “Love you, Robbie.”

“She says you’re generous to a fault, and that people tend to take advantage of your generosity. Is she talking about your brother and his wife?”

“No comment.”

“Is it true you renovated your brother’s house and paid him a small fortune to take care of your mother after she was unable to live alone?”

“No comment,” Seneca repeated.

There was a charged silence as the two women stared at each other. “What’s next for Butterfly?”

“Butterfly has taken off her wings.”

“Will you ever return to the runway?”

“Maybe if someone decides to put together an old-school fashion show I’ll consider it. But only if I don’t have to wear five-inch heels.”

“Are they really that uncomfortable?”

“They are if they’re a size too small.” Seneca made a fist. “This is how a foot looks when you finally release the dogs.”

Debrah laughed softly. “What’s next for Seneca Houston?”

Seneca pressed her hand to her throat. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to get used to keeping my feet on the ground. There have been days when I wake thinking I’ve overslept and will miss my flight to Europe or Asia.”

“Are you enjoying retirement?”

“I love it.”

“What about marriage and children?” Debrah asked.

A dreamy expression softened Seneca’s face. “Maybe one of these days.”

Leaning forward, Debrah extended both hands as Seneca grasped her fingers. “Thank you for being so candid. Good luck.” The camera focused on the journalist as she issued her closing statement.

Seneca stood up and a technician removed the microphone attached to her neckline. “Debrah, thank you so much for allowing me to tell my side of the story.”

The petite woman steered Seneca away from the technicians. “I’m sorry if I blindsided you when I mentioned you paying your brother to take care of your mother.”

“It’s all right. As annoyed as I am with my brother and sister-in-law, I don’t plan to out them publicly. After all, I’m godmother and aunt to their three children.

“You sister’s right, Seneca. You’re generous to a fault. I don’t think I could be as forgiving,” Debrah admitted.

“I understand where my brother is coming from. His wife has to leave her children and go back to the classroom because they’re not able to maintain their current lifestyle on one paycheck. It’s not going to be easy for them, but they’ll make it. Maya’s lucky she has a degree to fall back on, so my heart isn’t bleeding for her.” Seneca saw Eliot walk into the room. “My ride’s here, so this is goodbye.”