Glamour (35 page)

He knew all about her. Jane struggled against her arousal. So what? It was a photographic memory, a trick of the mind.

“I’m not interested in being a VP of personnel. I’m interested in being a CEO. Of my own wholly owned business.”

“Why?”

She had not expected that question.

“I don’t like being dependent,” she said, after a pause.

“I could help you.”

“You could buy me Saks and give it to me for a birthday present.” She spoke strongly, on more certain ground now. “But I’m not interested in being a kept woman. I want to make it on my own.”

His smile deepened. “Impressive.”

“And you should know a couple of things, Mr. Levin.” Jane spoke up bravely, challenging him. “The first is that I know all about you, and I admire you. Like everybody else working in business, I guess. The second is that I am
not
going to be one of your trophy girls.Your throwaway identikit supermodel arm candy.”

“My
what
?”

“Remember Iris the bartender? She and I had a good talk.” Jane smiled triumphantly.“And I’m not really interested in taking a number with any man, no matter how rich and . . . powerful.” Saying it sent little frissons of electricity across her stomach; Jane ignored them. “So I hope we’ll have a pleasant flight, and I’ll admit it’s been exciting to meet you. But you should know that all this flirtation is just a waste of time. I’m a busy woman, and I’m not interested.”

“I understand your feelings.”

“My feelings?”

“It’s all they are.” He smiled unapologetically at her.“You have a perfect right to express all these things, and I have a right not to accept them. But don’t worry, Miss Morgan. I’m not going to stalk you. I’ve never yet tried to force myself on any female. When you come to me—and you will—it’ll be entirely of your own volition.”

“You’re very cocksure.”

“I’ve earned that right.”

“Not with women,” she said, outraged.

“Certainly with women. Ask any of my ex-girlfriends.”

“Ex,” she said, with emphasis.

Levin inclined his head. “I’m afraid so. They weren’t enough of a challenge.”

“You date beauties, and yet you want to be challenged? Give me a break.”

“That’s about it. I want everything in a woman. Brains—beauty—strength—humor—a certain style.” He shrugged. “If we’re expected to spend the rest of our lives with only one person, then I think we should be allowed as long a shopping list as we like. I start with beauty, yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s the only quality than can be instantly assessed,” he replied calmly.“To see if someone is intelligent, or spirited, requires dating.”

“Has anybody ever told you you’re a sexist pig?”

“Am I? So what do you require in a man?” he asked. “How many poor, ugly, underachieving, diffident males have you gone out with recently?”

Jane was silent. She didn’t want to tell him there had been nobody except Jude. This was America, where everybody was a shrink. She didn’t want to be psychoanalyzed. Especially not by Craig Levin.

Instead, she changed the subject. “So what are you doing in L.A.? Business?”

“Yes, but I can’t tell you what.”

She understood. The market watched Craig Levin’s every move. For her to know what businesses he was looking at would equal insider trading.

“I’m going to start my business there,” she told him. “Buy a house. And find some old schoolfriends.”

He grinned. “You make that sound easy.”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” she said. “People overcomplicate life.”

As they touched down, she turned to him and briskly offered her hand.

“It’s been nice to meet you, Mr. Levin.”

“Craig.”

“I don’t think we should.We might do business in the future.”

“Oh, we never will,” he said at once.

“How do you know?”

“I’m attracted to you. And you’re attracted to me. That’s too many complications for any kind of financial dealings.”

The plane halted and shuddered to a stop. Levin was up instantly, retrieving his briefcase and handing her her bag. Jane felt a huge sense of aggravation and loss; the flight was done, he was gone; she had been a pretty distraction, and now she would never see him again.

Her pride would not let her say a word.

“You have no idea whether I’m attracted to you or not,” she hissed in a low voice.

He leaned down, in to her, where she was sitting in her seat and he was standing, and placed his mouth to her ear, so none of the businessmen milling around them could hear.

“Of course I do.”

Jane bit her lip. She had never come across a man like Levin. God help her, his self-confidence was sexy. She knit her hands in her lap.

“Here.” He offered her a business card. “Good-bye, Jane Morgan.”

She took the card. Of course, she ought to have shredded it to confetti in front of him. But instead, she slipped it into a jacket pocket.

Levin’s hand reached out, and a callused fingertip casually, secretively, traced a line across her neck down to her shoulder.

It was electric. Jane, helplessly, reacted; her body shuddered, and she had to grip the sides of her seat to prevent anybody else from seeing her reaction. She blushed, hot with shame and wanting him, and waited it out.

And in a few seconds he was gone. Front of the line; he left the plane without looking back. Jane had arrived in Los Angeles the way she had left it . . . on her own.

“Momma.” Sally knocked on her mother’s door. Two weeks back from rehab, and Mona was spending all day in bed. “Momma—what do you think?”

“What? I’m tired.”

Yeah, she was always tired.

“I want to show you these new sketches.” Sally was determined to have her mother awake, and aware of the wider world. “What do you think?”

She was sure these were the best yet. A short sheath dress in buttercup yellow, with a careful ruched neckline and cinched at the waist. A business suit with sass—tailored jacket and kicky pleated skirt. A little navy dress with cap sleeves, full skirted, fitted at the waist and bodice—something for the girl who could no longer go strapless.

And in addition, Sally had come up with jewelry. Forget minimalist—she was maximalist. Her designs glittered and sparkled with rhinestones and cheap semiprecious jewels.

“Very nice.” Mona wasn’t even looking.

“Would you like to go for a walk, Momma?”

“Nobody walks in L.A.”

“Well, when I get back, I’ll drive you to the beach,” Sally said firmly. She was determined to get Mona out of the house.

“Where are you going?” Her mother was using that whiny, tearful voice again.

“I told you yesterday, I have an appointment. At DeMarco’s.”

“Okay, well, good luck. I hope they have some positions.You could be a girl on the makeup counter,” Mona said, tiredly, and closed the door.

Sal shook her head and went back into the living room. She gathered up her sketches and the two pieces she’d actually run up herself. The first was her favorite skirt, a wild little thing in blue satin with a scalloped hem, bias-cut and full of motion.The second, a necklace, one she’d crafted very carefully: little round pebbles of semiprecious jewels, with a letter carved into each one; they spelled out LUCKY. She’d strung them on a silver chain, since she hadn’t been able to afford a gold one.

They were good, she knew that. Stylish, and hot. Something a little different. She would wear them—any young girl would.

So far, it had been tough—buyers refusing even to see her stuff. But after weeks of badgering, Ollie Foster at DeMarco’s had agreed to give her five minutes.

This was gonna be it. Her lucky break!

“So you can see the movement.” Sally smiled and turned the skirt around, letting the hem flare out in the breeze. “And these stones—they’re designed to be sold individually, with a chain. You can make your own message. It’s like jewelry as pizza, you pay for each topping.They’re like candy, no girl will resist.”

“Interesting.” Foster steepled his fingers automatically and moistened his lips. She noticed his eyes roaming across her ample breasts and steeled herself not to stiffen. “You got anything else to show me, baby? It’s hard to break in to sales in this town—real
hard
.”

“I have these sketches. . . .”

“I’m not talking ’bout sketches. Why don’t you slip into the changing rooms with me and model that skirt?You know—show me something. Got a cute little ass on you, girl. If you want a deal here, you know what you got to do. . . .”

Sally snatched her necklace back and turned on her heel. Sleazeball! Her eyes filled with tears.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he shouted. “I got connections, girl. All the other big stores in this town. You gotta learn to play nice if you want to be in the game. . . .”

But she was already gone.

Sally didn’t go home. She couldn’t bear to go home and deal with her soporific mother. She was back here on her own turf; she had to make something happen....

Screw it,
she thought, with uncharacteristic passion.
Screw them all.
The lechers and the sexists and the ones who just didn’t care enough to even give her a chance.

So nobody was going to help her? She’d do it herself.

Wiping the tears away, Sally walked from DeMarco’s down Melrose. It was a long walk, hot, but she didn’t care. Here was the epicenter of L.A. hip. All little biker bars, leather clothing stores, gothic fashion, witchcraft shops, and palm readers.

She found a place—Fine Fashions, it said—an optimistic name. Run-down and seedy, it was flogging racks of discount T-shirts from Taiwan at five bucks a throw, plastic earrings, and elasticized bracelets.

There was nobody in the store. It was a decent location; halfway up Melrose with an empty parking lot across the street.

For the first time since she’d gotten home, Sally felt a thrill of excitement.

She marched inside. Behind the counter was a little Korean woman, looking bored and reading a magazine.

“Hi,” said Sally. “This your place?”

The woman was instantly defensive.“We paid that fine, if you from city hall.”

“I’m not. I need a shop. How long is your lease?”

“Six months.”

“I’ll buy it out. Fifteen hundred a month.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You serious, lady?”

“Totally serious. Another three grand for the fixtures and the stock.”

“I want five.”

“Don’t push it,” Sally said. “Your place ain’t up to much, ma’am; I’m surely saving y’all from foreclosure. This way you keep a good credit rating, you can start over someplace else.”

“When you bring money?”

“You call your lawyer, I’ll be back here at two with a cashier’s check and a contract.” Sally had another idea. “You know any seamstresses? I need to hire some ladies who know how to cut and sew patterns.”

“Of course. Plenty.”

“This afternoon I’ll be hiring. I need four women.You could bring them with you.”

“Okay.” The woman shrugged. “This a rough spot, lady, lots of clothes shops, not enough customers.” She waved at Sally’s neat little dress and chic platform shoes. “But you rich, you can afford it. Learn the hard way.”

Sally smiled, her first real smile in a long time.

“See you at two,” she said, and left to find some walk-in lawyer.

“So this is what we’re going to do.” Sally smiled at the women; as of now, her employees. “Cut one shoulder off every shirt. Neckline diagonal. And slash the hem like so.” She showed them her flame design.“Then sew it back up.You see the pattern? I pay minimum wage plus a dollar. Once this stock is sold out, we’ll get health coverage.”

An older lady with bags under her eyes spoke up; Sally could see she was used to life in a sweatshop.

“Health?” she asked. “For real?”

“For real. And there’s an hour for lunch; I’ll get us sandwiches and coffee.We’re in this together, ladies.” Sally’s warm Texas drawl encouraged them. “Do you think you can handle it?”

“Yes,” the woman said, smiling weakly.

“Yes, miss,” another of them said, looking hopeful. “Here”—and she took a large, square, raspberry T-shirt, applied Sally’s pattern, and started to cut.

“
L.A. Citizen.
Editorial.”

“Can I speak to Mike Reardon?”

Sally gripped the phone. This was it—she was going all out. But she had no choice. Hiring the staff, buying the lease—their money had almost gone. She had the stock now. Now it was all about sales.

She was about to expose herself. And maybe Momma. But it was do-or-die time.

“Editor’s office. Janice speaking.Who’s calling?”

“This is Sally Lassiter.”

“From what company?” asked the bored assistant.

“I’m the daughter of Paulie Lassiter—you remember, the oilman whose company went bust and he died of a heart attack? Big story. Front-page stuff.”

“Okay . . .”

“Mom and I fled to Texas in disgrace.” It stung, but she forced herself to say it. Reardon would see her as a human-interest story or not at all. “Now I’m back in L.A. and I want to give an interview. Tell our side of the story.” She gave her their number. “Have him call me back on this number if he’s interested in doing a feature. Good-bye.”

Sally hung up and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, but she didn’t have long to wait; she had only opened the jar when the phone rang.

“Is this really Sally Lassiter?”

“It sure is.” She tried to sound confident. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal, Mr. Reardon.”

“We don’t pay for interviews, Ms. Lassiter, company policy.”

“Not what I’m looking for. I’ve started a little store—my designs. I need the publicity.You come and do a feature on me, you include mention of the store and shots of my T-shirts. I’ll pose in some of my clothes. I’m not asking for a puff piece—review them however you like.” He started to say something, but Sally cut him off. “I’ll give you what you’re looking for—plenty of emotional stuff about Dad and being poor, public school and taking the bus. All I want in exchange is the PR.” She paused. “Well?”