Glamour (54 page)

“I will. Thanks.” Jane had just got a steal of five thousand square feet on the Lower East Side. And even better, it came fully carpeted and equipped; she wouldn’t have to waste time.

She walked around her new offices. Great views of lower Broadway, looking toward the World Trade Center; perfect for a Wall Street newcomer.

Jane would employ fifteen brokers, two analysts, and fifteen assistants. As she expanded she hoped it’d be more.

Maybe she could never be another Craig Levin, but she was sure as hell going to try. Until GLAMOUR was hers, that meant trading in currencies and stocks; Jane intended to take buy-and-hold positions, maybe start a retail hedge fund. Her track record there was golden. Plus, she thought she might dabble in real estate.

She didn’t want to be just another woman executive.To persuade stockholders to sell their GLAMOUR shares to her, she needed to be playing in the mixed divisions.

The thought of Haya, shouting and raging, crossed her mind; of Sally, telling her any broker could handle the finances.

And then of Craig . . . her love . . . lying there, not stopping her, not holding her.

Her father; the last time she had seen him, clutching ineffectually at him as he got into his diplomatic car.

Friends. Lovers. Family. In the end, you could trust only yourself.

Let Monday come. When she sat down in that boardroom, her offices would be fully staffed, fully funded, and trading.

She walked out.Time to get her hair and nails done.The press would be there, Monday. Haya was an almost-queen, and Sally was a star. She, the single girl, didn’t want to look bad.

Jane thought of Craig, and winced from the sheer physical ache of it. She wanted him so badly. Wanted his body driving into hers, his strong, bearish frame on her slight one, her fingers clutching at his back.

But she wanted so much more than that, too. And he wasn’t going to give it to her.

Love—whatever kind of love—was always dangerous, a bad risk. She’d never gotten away with her heart intact. Now she was just playing to win.

But as she locked the office door behind her, there were tears in her eyes.

Jane despised her own weakness.

Sally glanced down at the little stick. She’d had the pregnancy test included in her grocery deliveries; that way it could be anonymous—she got them with a credit card in her assistant’s name, to stop the tabloids raking through her trash. Didn’t want to read about it in the
Enquirer
.

The little blue flush crept up to the window. Sally held her breath . . .

But no; there was only the one line. She waited. Nothing. Not pregnant.

Sally sighed. Of course, it wasn’t gonna happen right away. She was just gonna have to be patient. Oh, yeah—and practice a lot. She smiled.

She was fitter than she’d ever been. Chris loved to play around while working her out. Talk about an incentive! He made her watch while he lifted weights with his shirt off. Got her so worked up, watching his strong muscles slide around under that tanned skin, his biceps straining, that Sally could scarcely keep from jumping on him as soon as he was done.

Before, it had been good. Now they were married, it was perfect. Every time she looked down at the thick round band of white diamonds—there was enough ice on her left hand to satisfy a polar bear—Sally felt a rush of deep, profound pleasure. He was hers—signed, sealed, delivered. She relaxed in bed in a way she hadn’t thought possible. All she wanted now was to have his babies....

And to run her company.

Looking down at the single, lonely little line, she consoled herself. Hey, this wasn’t a once-for-all thing.They got an infinite number of attempts.

With GLAMOUR, not so much. Sally threw out the stick, washed her hands, and went downstairs to call her lawyers again. She might not be the world’s biggest brain, but she was savvy. And there were brains around for hire.

And she was her father’s daughter. Let Haya and Jane pit their bookish minds against her street smarts. She was damn sure who was going to win.

“But aren’t you under contract? To GLAMOUR?”

The gray men in suits were sitting behind the table in the Chicago office, trying not to ogle Sally. She knew how she appeared to them—a butterfly among moths; her tight, short dress displaying her perfectly toned figure—Chris was, like, the world’s best personal trainer, and she did mean
personal
—her long, blonde hair shimmering with fresh white platinum highlights shot through a buttercup base, like liquid strands of sunshine; her teeth, whitened with porcelain veneers to Hollywood-like perfection; a ruby and diamond necklace, another gift from Chris, lying against the creamy hollows of her throat.

“Yes.The Lassiter brand is theirs.Which is why I’m proposing to start a new one.” She dazzled them with a smile.

“But what could be more recognizable than Lassiter?”

“Sally,”
she said, and winked.

The chemists and marketing executives sighed.
Sally.
Of course. It was perfect. One word. One name. America’s sweetheart.

“I’ll want the highest quality and on-time delivery; we’d be talking to America’s premier outlets, not just GLAMOUR. This would be on sale at Harrods, at Saks Fifth Avenue, at Scruples in L.A. And that means zero mistakes. I’m thinking Crème de la Mer—but bigger. A little less expensive, too. Affordable luxury, like a Chanel lipstick.”

They nodded frantically, as similar execs had done in every cosmetic house she’d visited.

“And the marketing?”

“I have it out to five top Madison Avenue firms.”

“It’s been a very impressive presentation, Mrs. Nelson,” said their chairman, standing up and all but rubbing his hands together in glee. “And we’d love to be in business with you. We’ll messenger our costings to your people later today.”

“Total creative control,” Sally repeated firmly. “It’s my brand; you’ll be supplying the raw materials—that’s going to be in the contract.”

“Mrs. Nelson, you
are
the brand,” he replied, looking surprised. “Why would we go anywhere else?”

Sally shook hands, delighted.Yeah, they got it. If only her two former best friends could see things the way the marketing men of America did!

On the limo ride back to O’Hare Airport she mulled things over. She could get this going by the end of next week. Samples on her desk, packaging included . . .

She’d intended to use it purely as blackmail. But now another idea was forming. Two companies—one public, one her own. Why not? If Jane could branch out, why not Sally? Showing she was competent, showing she could run things—that would sweet-talk the shareholders into selling GLAMOUR back to her.

Yeah. It was a great idea. She took out her mobile and dialed the direct line to her chief lawyer. He was head of a big firm in L.A., and available to her whenever needed.

“Tony? Sal. Listen, I’m going ahead. Can you draw everything up, get it registered in my name? Sally Lassiter Cosmetics.Thanks, doll. Have the papers waiting when I get home.”

She listened as he gave her a report. Perfect. Everything was going fine.

Jaber sighed with pleasure and rolled off Haya, panting; drained, he lay on the bed and stared at the mosaics in the ceiling.

She was exhausted, herself. But man, was he good. Patient, exacting, knowledgeable. He knew just how to handle her body. She responded, intensely, unable to help herself.

“I couldn’t handle this without you. None of it.”

“You couldn’t have refused?” Haya asked, timidly.

“Refused?” Jaber propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at her, her glorious dark hair pooled out over the white Egyptian cotton sheets. “You can’t refuse your destiny when it calls.That way lies eternal regret.”

She turned onto her belly to meet him, and nuzzled kisses into his ear and throat.

“Which is exactly why I have to go.”

“Haya.” He sighed. “The king could die any minute. While you’re out there.You would be the Queen of Ghada, and sitting in some boardroom in Los Angeles! How would it look?”

“Like you aren’t a man who compromises his principles,” she said. “You took a risk when you married me, Jaber.You know what a woman I am—a businesswoman, a professional.Yes, I set it aside. But not so that they can destroy everything I’ve built up. Let me save the company. One day. It’s all I ask.”

He shook his head.“Haya—I cannot deny you. But make it as quick as you can, and be back on the jet the second you get out of there.” Jaber sighed. “Women. You’d think as a king I might have it easier.”

She hit him on the chest, grinning. “No chance.”

“I should have married that distant cousin,” Jaber said, darkly. He reached for his wife, yanking her to him; Haya was amazed at his inexhaustible energy.

“Never mind.” He kissed her lightly, deliberately. “I’m going to give you a chance to make it up to me.”

“The press is coming,” Sally told Jane, bluntly.“They got word of what we’re doing—and the fight.”

“You told them?”

“No,” Sally replied coldly.“There are three sets of lawyers’ offices involved now, Jane.”

Jane pursed her lips. Damnation.

“Then I suppose the answer is dress well and act civilly. If the analysts think we’re at each other’s throats, the IPO will be disappointing. They need to understand we remain a team—you and I, at least. Haya’s out of the game.”

“Agreed. See you Monday,” Sally said crisply, and hung up.

Jane was listening to a dial tone. Slowly, she replaced the receiver. She had no doubt that Monday afternoon, Pacific, she would be making the deals with institutions that would give her control. So why did she feel so down?

Her phone rang again—and Jane jumped. But it was only the double tone that meant the concierge was calling.

“Yes, Ortiz?”

“Miz Morgan, we got a delivery here. Boy, do we ever.” The fat old man was chuckling. “Flowers, from Mr. Levin.”

She shivered. Why would he do this? Hadn’t she been clear? She wanted a clean break.

“You can bring them up.”

“No ma’am—
I
can’t. But the delivery men will.”

“What do you mean?”

“He sent you flowers—like, a
truck
load.There has to be about a hundred arrangements. In pots—there’s even a flowering orange tree, smells pretty good down here, ma’am.”

“Is the truck still there?”

“Unloading now.”

“No,” Jane said.The pain was as bright and sharp as a diamond now. “Ortiz, refuse delivery, okay? I don’t want them. Tell the men to take them back.”

There was a pause, but he knew not to argue with her.

“Yes ma’am. Any message?”

She thought about it.

“Yes.Tell him ‘All or nothing.’ ”

She replaced the receiver again and fled into her rooftop garden. Somewhere with no phone, high enough that nobody overlooked her, where she could lie on a recliner, by her Japanese fountain, look at the sky, and have a little peace.

My heart can’t take this, Jane thought. I know they all think I’m made of stone. But it hurts to love him, it hurts so deeply.

She decided she would check into a hotel, the Victrix on Central Park. Nice and anonymous—strictly no incoming calls—and stay there until the flight left on Monday.

Craig would get the message. She loved him far too much to act like his personal hooker. And perhaps her rebellious heart would get the message, too. Maybe in its own way grief could help her move on.

Craig Levin sat in front of his desk and tried to concentrate. Behind him, a sheer wall of glass looked out over Wall Street. It was an office for a master of the universe. His playground, too. He’d had it modeled on Gordon Gekko’s pad in the movie; a cautionary tale, but Levin used it as a motivational tool.

Last night he’d dated a model. Very smart girl, Israeli, dark and doe-eyed, a premed student before she quit for the catwalk. Just a date; just dinner. Even though she was obviously willing, and her body had been rounder and lusher than Jane’s ever was, he’d stopped at dinner; feeling sick, feeling like he was cheating on Jane.

Ridiculous.They’d broken up.

He spent a poor night thinking of his ex. Angry with her. Make that furious.Why had she taken the hottest thing in his life, the best thing, and messed with it? Stupid, conventional notions of love. He
did
love her—passionately. What the hell difference did a ring make?

Lots of folks had told Levin it was their way or the highway. He’d never failed to take the highway, and it had worked out well enough.

Not this time.

He knew her, though. It was better because she always fought it. She was so damn hot, an ongoing challenge.

He knew every inch of her. Knew just how she was pining for him.

What was he thinking? He had gotten Jane in the first place with a planned campaign, patient months of waiting, letting her longing do the work. Now all he had to do was get her back. He had lifted the phone and called the all-night florist, delivery first thing in the morning.

Just now, his chief assistant had called with the news. And Jane’s message.

It was so—so strong. So classy. She was everything the model hadn’t been. She fascinated him. Levin felt himself start to weaken, to surrender. For once in their relationship, he thought, she was going to triumph.

He called her building.

“She’s gone, Mr. Levin,” the doorman told him, with, Craig thought, a touch of pride. “She said to tell you to please stop chasing her. She won’t be back until after her meeting, and she doesn’t want you to call even then.”

“Thanks for telling me, Ortiz.”

He hung up as his assistant buzzed him.

“Craig, your nine a.m. from Bank of America’s in the outer lobby and the nine twenty from KKR are waiting in reception . . .”

“Emma—apologize to them, cancel all my appointments.”

“All of them?” she protested.

“All of them. For the week.”

“Are you feeling okay, Craig?”

“No. I’m sick. And I’m going home. Tell Peter to deal with everything.” His deputy in the firm. “And don’t call me.”