Flirtinis with Flappers (33 page)

Still, the hardest parts of my career path have been learning the subtleties of social graces and the product lines of the high-end stores and brands that are as ground into my well-bred coworkers' childhoods as Sears and Walmart are to mine.

I hold my breath as I ring Brewster's doorbell and wait for what feels like a very long time, shifting from foot to foot as the strap of my bag digs into my right shoulder. I'm about to ring the bell again when I hear noise on the other side of the doorway. Finally, one of the double doors inches open.

"Ms. Dawson!" says Aubrey Valentine, Brewster's live-in house manager, as she pulls the door wider. Aubrey and I have spoken more than I've actually talked with Brewster himself, though I can't figure out her exact role in his life. She's not a housekeeper, because I've met the housekeeper, and her name is Angelique. So I've assumed Aubrey is his personal assistant, despite the fact that he also has an assistant at work.

I step over the threshold, noticing that Aubrey looks flushed and confused. I redden too, thinking it's because I'm late.

"I'm sorry," I stammer. "Traffic was really terrible."

Man, if she's this tough I can only imagine how irritated her VIP boss is going to be.

"No, it's…fine," she says. "I don't…think." She glances back over her shoulder, into the house. "I didn't know Mr. Brewster was expecting you too."

"Oh!" I say, wondering about that word
"too"
as she takes a step back and ushers me into the foyer anyway. Twin staircases with ornate iron rails curve down to either side of the sweeping circular space. The floor is made of impractical but beautiful gold-laced marble imported from Turkey, and the center table has a reclaimed wood top and sturdy industrial base with exposed steel rivets, driving home the masculinity of its owner.

Confused, I tap the calendar app on my phone's screen and begin scrolling down the page, thinking I must have mixed up the date, which is also unlike me. At this point I'm relieved Brewster isn't expecting me because as flustered as I am, I'm in no shape to conduct a presentation.

"I have down 5:30 on Monday, May 12," I say, glancing up at Aubrey and then over her left shoulder as I hear Brewster's muffled voice coming from somewhere in the house. I cringe and stand a little straighter, composing explanations in my mind.

But Brewster doesn't appear, and as I take a couple more steps into the foyer, both Aubrey and I pause as another voice mingles with his. It's a woman, and her garbled words are punctuated by a peal of laughter.

Something about that laugh is familiar, but I don't make the connection right away since I'm busy backtracking toward the door. "I'll call you tomorrow to reschedule," I say over my shoulder.

At the same time, Aubrey says, "Don't you want to go in there with them?"

I stop mid-step and swivel on one patent leather heel. "Go in there with them?" I repeat. "Who?" I shake my head. "Who is Brewster…I mean, Mr. Brewster, in there with?" I ask.

"Well, he's with Ms. Greenlee," Aubrey says, as bewildered as I am. "Aren't you two working together?"

My eyebrows must shoot up two full inches, but I clamp my lips shut and try to contain my surprise.
No, we're not working together
, I think, but if Aubrey thinks we are, clearly something is in the works that I'm unaware of. "Of course," I lie through clenched teeth.
What the hell?
"I just didn't realize Candace was taking part in this presentation."

I follow the soft tap of Aubrey's ballet flats as she turns and breezes through the foyer, my sharp heels sounding thunderous in her wake. Brewster's study is one of the first rooms past the entryway, and that's where she stops. She knocks quietly twice. Then she turns the handle and pushes open the heavy walnut door.

"Mr. Brewster, Ms. Dawson is he—" she says and then trails off mid-sentence as the door swings open wide enough for me to look past her into the room.

Candace is on a sofa with her back facing the doorway, but I can see her shiny, sleek-straight blonde bob clearly enough to be certain that it's her. Brewster, who'd risen as soon as the door opened and knocked something to the floor in his haste, rushes toward us now, swiping at the corner of his mouth with his knuckles. I squint to get a better look just as he walks into the glow cast by a sconce near the door. He's missed a spot—there's a distinct coral smudge trailing from the edge of his lip onto his lower left cheek.

My confusion turns to disgust as I flick my eyes back to Candace. She rises from the sofa, attempting to discreetly fasten a button on her champagne-colored silk blouse as she walks smoothly toward the three of us.

"Jennifer," she says in her honeyed Southern accent. "I thought your appointment was rescheduled." I notice that she looks at Brewster as she says this instead of me.

"I didn't get the memo," I say after a long pause, my voice faint. And then, louder, "And I didn't realize you were teaming with me on this project."

Candace laughs lightly, and I'm sure I'm the only one who catches the nervous edge behind it. "Well, of course," she says, "any client with Emory's taste and resources will work with the most
experienced
members of our team." She emphasizes the word, and I feel like gagging at the double entendre.

My mind is spinning, and I take a step forward, peering past Candace into the study. The Queen Anne cocktail table in front of the tailored Ralph Lauren sofa is spread with products and samples, as if Candace has been at it a while. From the look of things, if I'd arrived ten minutes later she might have spread out a lot more than fabric swatches and color samples on Brewster's highbrow furniture. I vaguely wonder how long she's been plotting this hostile takeover.

"Of course," I repeat, smiling brightly at the disheveled lawyer, who's succeeded in removing the lipstick from his cheek but not the confusion from his expression.

"I apologize," he says in his trademark tenor that holds traces of an East Coast accent and expensive education. "When Candace called me to move up the appointment I assumed you'd worked it out together." I watch his eyes slide from my dark blonde hair down my body to take in my pencil skirt and blazer combo, all the way to my skin-tone, three-inch heels. My body shivers in response but not the way it might have if I were conducting this appointment alone. Instead I stand frozen in a fight-or-flight panic. I can practically see the word "threesome" followed by a question mark in Brewster's dilated pupils.

I glance at Aubrey, whose eyes are wide and shifting between the three of us in alarm. She looks as if she's flipping through a mental etiquette primer but can't find the right page.

"That's all right," I say smoothly, wishing I could reach out and slap the licentious look off Brewster's face and whisk the polite and unassuming Aubrey from his presence. Clearly Emory Brewster is a person who's used to getting what and who he wants—not unlike Candace. "I'm sure it's my mistake."
My mistake for ever hearing your name in the first place.
"I'm happy to let Candace finish the presentation. We can discuss it at the office later."

My voice, on those last words, holds a warning that I know carries no weight. After this little scene I'm certain I can kiss my chance at a partnership good-bye—since clearly I never had it in the first place.

"Good night, Aubrey. Thank you for seeing me in." I spin on my heel and walk through the foyer and out the front door so quickly she doesn't even have time to follow.

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