Butterfly (6 page)

T
he driver was standing on the top step holding an umbrella when Seneca walked out of the brownstone. He extended his free arm, and she looped her arm over his suit jacket as he led her down the stairs to the black Mercedes Benz parked at the curb.

The rain that had started earlier that morning was tapering off to a light drizzle. In deference to the weather, she’d changed outfits several times until deciding on a black pencil skirt, black patent leather pumps and a red blouse with a mandarin collar piped in black. Upon closer inspection one could see tiny embroidered butterflies on the silk fabric. The black obi sash accentuating her tiny waist pulled her winning look together. She’d taken the time to flatiron her hair, styling it into a bohemian knot. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl studs. With the warmer weather she tended to go bare-legged, but today she wore a pair of sheer black nylons.

Smiling, Seneca thanked the black-suited chauffeur as he opened the rear door; she sat on the leather seat, then swung
her legs around. Having a driver at her disposal was a far cry from trying to flag down a taxi in the rain. She’d discovered that taxis mysteriously became as scarce as hen’s teeth whenever it rained in New York.

Earlier that morning, she’d had a lengthy conversation with Luis, giving him an update on Booth’s dinner party, her becoming godmother to her nephew and the scheduled lunch date with Booth at La Grenouille. What she hadn’t told Luis was that she’d gone with Phillip Kingston to his hotel suite.

She could hear the excitement in Luis’s voice when he told her she was about to make it big. Then his tone changed when Seneca promised him that they were to be a package deal. He’d told her not to worry about him, but that was something she couldn’t do. If it hadn’t been for Luis she never would’ve given modeling a passing thought. Now she was on the threshold of signing with one of the premier agents, who’d promised to make her a supermodel.

Relaxing against the supple black leather seat, she detected the lingering scent of Booth’s cologne. He’d sent his car and driver to pick her up. Why, she mused, did she feel like a lamb being led to slaughter? Shaking off the uneasy feeling, she stared out the window at the passing landscape as the driver took the Seventy-ninth Street transverse road through Central Park to the east side. The uneasiness fled, and Seneca was in complete control when she was escorted through the doors of the exquisite dining establishment and ushered to Mr. Gordon’s favorite table.

Her vermilion-colored lips parted in a warm smile when he rose, hands extended, to greet her. His hands were cool, soft. “The restaurant is lovely,” she whispered against his smooth-shaven jaw. La Grenouille was a garden where food just happened to be served.

Booth stared numbly at Seneca before a smile parted his thin
lips. He still found it hard to believe that she was even more beautiful in person than in her photographs. She was like a rare D-colored diamond. Seneca Houston was flawless.

“You are lovely, Seneca,” he said, pulling out a chair at the table and seating her while he lingered over her head longer than necessary. She lowered her chin, the demure gesture enchanting. He stared at the coil of hair on the nape of her long, slender neck. How he longed to place his mouth against the velvety skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.

“Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

A scowl replaced his smile as he retook his seat. “Please call me Booth.”

Seneca peered at Booth through her lashes. His navy-blue suit with a faint pinstripe must have set the agent back several thousand dollars and there was no doubt his shirt and silk tie hadn’t come off a department-store rack or shelf. His fingernails were square-cut and buffed. Booth Gordon was the epitome of sartorial splendor. The exception was his hair. It was too long and much too oily.

“But you’re old enough to be my father,” she said in a quiet voice.

Booth moved his chair closer, placing his hand over hers. “But I am not your father. Call me Booth.” It was a direct order.

Seneca stared at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Okay, Booth. What do you want to talk about?”

“Do you have another appointment after lunch?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“If that’s the case, then I’d like to eat, then talk. Is that all right with you, Seneca?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It’s fine with me.”

Resting his elbows on the table, Booth tented his fingers. “Is there something about me that bothers you, Seneca?”

To say his query caught her off guard was an understatement. What did he expect her to say? That the way he was leering at her made her feel as if he were a pedophile preying on younger women, although she was past the legal age of consent?

“Your hair is too long.” It was the only thing she could say without openly insulting him.

Booth resisted the urge to touch the hair falling over the collar of his shirt. “How short should I cut it?”

Her eyebrows shot up, mirroring her surprise. “You’d cut your hair for me?”

An unnamed emotion darkened the blue-green eyes. “Let’s say I’d take your suggestion under advisement.”

His response puzzled Seneca. “Does it really matter what I think?”

“To a certain extent it does,” Booth countered. “Whenever I consider taking on a prospective client I ask them the same question, and I expect an honest answer.”

“Do you always get an honest answer?” she asked.

“Nine out of ten times I don’t. Most are so eager to please they lie to me and to themselves.”

“So, this was a test.”

Booth smiled. “And you passed. The next time I meet with my barber I’ll have him cut it shorter.”

Seneca gave him a sidelong glance. “Is there something about me that bothers you, Booth?” If her question shocked him, he gave no indication as his gaze lowered to the pristine white tablecloth.

“It bothers me that I can’t seduce you.”

The seconds ticked before she was able to form a response. “And why not?”

Booth’s head came up, he giving her a long, penetrating
look. “Because I’ve made it a practice not to shit where I have to eat.”

There was another pause. “It looks as if we have the same practice,” Seneca said. “I will not sleep with you and pay you commission. That would make you my pimp and me your whore.”

Booth’s face paled with annoyance. It wasn’t often that he met a woman like Seneca Houston. She continually challenged him, without regard to the fact that he held her future in his hands. All it took was a single telephone call or the scrawl of his pen to make her a very wealthy young woman. And like all those who’d come before her and would come after her, she wanted fame and fortune.

Some would say she had a great attitude, while he believed she had a chip on her shoulder—a chip directed at authority figures. What Seneca Houston hadn’t realized is that she’d just used up her first strike with him.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have an acid tongue?”

Seneca gave him a sensual smile. “Yes. In fact, Phillip Kingston said the same thing to me the other night.” She’d decided to broach the topic of Phillip before Booth did. “When I told you I had another engagement the night of your dinner party, it was with Phillip. We had an arrangement to leave separately, then go somewhere and talk.”

“If I’d known you two were getting together I wouldn’t have held him up.”

“Why did you hold him up?” she asked innocently. Seneca knew Booth’s doorman had reported back to him that she’d been waiting for Phillip, but neither of them knew what Phillip had confided to her.

“I’d hoped you and Kingston would hit it off, because I’d like to market the two of you as a couple. I got an offer from General Motors to sign Kingston as a pitchman for the Cadillac
SRX. I was thinking that maybe you could also appear in the ad with him.”

Twin emotions warred inside Seneca. Appearing in an ad with Phillip Kingston would thrust her into the media spotlight, but only because of the ballplayer. “You’ve told them about me?”

Booth shook his head. “Not yet.”

“What makes you think they’ll accept me?” she asked.

“I’m certain they will once they see photos of you and Kingston together.”

“What photos?”

“The ones Mitchell Leon will take this coming weekend. Kingston has agreed to come back to New York for the shoot.”

“You want me to do an ad with Phillip Kingston before I sign a contract with BGM?” She’d asked yet another question.

A mysterious smile tilted the corners of Booth’s mouth. “Your contract is being drawn up as we speak. All I need is the name and fax number of your attorney and it will be on his desk before five o’clock today. I’ll attach a memo asking them to expedite it. And don’t worry, Seneca, I’ll pay the billable fees out my own pocket.”

The uneasy feeling was back. Why, she wondered, was Booth Gordon in such a rush to sign her? Did he see something in her that made her that marketable? What was so different about her that he knew with a single glance that he could make her a supermodel?

Seneca knew she was only one of millions of women with a unique face and body who were able to live uneventful lives away from the cameras and spotlights if they weren’t sucked into the world of modeling. When Luis had approached her with the possibility of modeling his designs, initially she’d
turned him down. But, Luis was relentless. In the end she agreed to model a collection of evening gowns for a private client. And the rest, as they say, is history.

“It’s not an ad,” Booth corrected, breaking into Seneca’s musings. “It’s a television spot.”

Seneca was certain Booth could hear the runaway beating of her heart through her blouse. Her first television commercial would pair her with none other than Phillip Kingston. Unable to get out the words locked in her throat, she managed a barely perceptible nod. Within three days she’d gone from part-time student and part-time commercial model to one with infinite possibilities.

“I’m glad you didn’t lie to me about meeting with Kingston,” Booth continued. He knew Seneca was stunned by his pronouncement that he wanted her to team up with Phillip for a television commercial. What he hadn’t disclosed was that the ten-second spot would preview during the Super Bowl.

“There’s no need to lie to you, Booth. Phillip and I are consenting adults,” she said after she’d recovered her voice. His comeback was preempted when the waiter approached the table to take their lunch selections. Seneca studied the menu, then flashed a demure smile. “What do you recommend?”

Resting a proprietary arm over the back of her chair, Booth leaned closer to Seneca, inhaling the subtle woodsy notes that made up her perfume. The fragrance matched her looks and personality: unabashed sensuality.

“The corn crêpes with sautéed chicken livers and sherry are always good.”

“How’s the endive salad with pears, walnuts and Roquefort cheese?” she asked.

“It’s also quite good.”

Seneca stared up at him through her lashes. If she’d been like her mother and sister, she probably would’ve found herself
entranced by Booth Gordon. Dahlia and Robyn liked older men, while she preferred them closer to her own age. That was why she hadn’t been receptive to Luis Navarro’s subtle advances.

“What are you having?” she asked.

“I’m leaning toward the chicken paillard with sage and squash gnocchi.”

“Please order the salad for me.”

Booth beckoned the waiter closer, giving him their selections. “I’d also like a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rosé and Perrier for the lady.”

The waiter bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”

Booth settled back to enjoy the youthful beauty of a woman who was completely unaware of her marketability. When the photos Mitchell Leon had taken of Seneca Houston ended up on his desk, he’d found himself mesmerized by the face that made love to the camera.

He’d seen and been with more beautiful women than he could count or remember, but there was something about the up-and-coming model that was different. With or without makeup, with her hair in a sleek, sophisticated style or curling naturally around her face, she was stunning. Whether fully or half clothed, she was spectacular. He hadn’t missed the admiring glances directed at Seneca from the other patrons when she was escorted to his table. His only consolation was that he would have her undivided attention for the next two hours.

“What are you smiling about, Seneca?”

“I’m wondering why you would select a romantic restaurant when you want to discuss business.” White-bone English china, napkins, exquisite wineglasses—all set on white table-cloths—provided the backdrop for a breathtaking arrangement of white camellias.

“La Grenouille is the unofficial headquarters of top fashion designers and many of their best customers. Speaking of designers—you’d mentioned a Luis Navarro. Who is he?”

Seneca told Booth about meeting Luis at party in the Village and how he’d approached her to model his designs for a private client. “He says I’m his muse—his
mariposa.
That’s Spanish for butterfly,” she explained, seeing his puzzled expression.

Booth stared at the embroidered butterflies on her blouse. “Didn’t you wear a necklace with a butterfly clasp Friday night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Do all of his designs have butterflies?”

“No,” she said, laughing softly. “However, whenever he makes something for me he’ll include a butterfly somewhere on the garment.”

Their drinks arrived, the sommelier uncorking a bottle of wine, filling a wineglass and a goblet with sparkling water. He backed away from the table as they raised their glasses in a toast.

Booth winked at Seneca. “To Seneca.”

“To Butterfly,” she crooned, bringing Booth’s gaze to linger her parted lips.

Seneca declined dessert in favor of a cup of imperial green tea while Booth, who’d finished the bottle of wine, ordered espresso. She’d gleaned a lot about the man who was to become her agent while she’d watched him eat. He was attentive, his table manners impeccable, and he had asked several times if the meal was to her liking.

Booth touched the napkin to his mouth, then placed it to the right of his cup and saucer. Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he removed a minute tape recorder, activated the Record button and set in on the table.