Losing Control (16 page)

“Don’t sound so glum. I have a task for you. Friday night you’ll need to get yourself to the Red Door Spa on Fifth Avenue at seven p.m. Can you make it?"

“Sure, but why?”

“I’ll need you to get properly armored at the Red Door at seven, and I’ll pick you up there at ten to go to your assignment. The Aquarium is,” he pauses, searching for a word, “a shark tank. I want you to be properly armored.”

“Okay. Is this for the project?”

“Yes. I was going to explain it to you this evening, but obviously that’s not possible, and it’s not something I want to do over the phone.” He says something indistinguishable to another person and then returns. “Where are you going next?”

“I have deliveries in midtown and then on the east side. I’m at Tenth and Fifty-Second Street. I’ll be going crosstown because I have a delivery over on Designers’ Way. Probably dropping off fabric samples.”

"Have you considered not doing your messengering job?”

“No,” I say shortly. “Does it embarrass you?”

“It worries me.”

That shuts me up. Only my mother worries about me, and the idea that this bothers Ian touches me in a deep way. I blink rapidly to stave off any physical reaction to his concern. Why am I so hormonal lately? “I’m safe.”

“You told me earlier you spend each moment thinking about how to best avoid an accident. That doesn’t sound like a safe job to me. Do you know that there is an actual New York City government study on bicycle fatalities? Between 1996 and 2005, 225 bicyclists died in crashes."

I don’t have anything to say because my thoughts are caught on the idea that he’s concerned enough to look up statistics about bicycle safety. In fact, I’m certain that if I spoke, I’d start crying—so I remain silent. I don’t even point out that those numbers are from ten years ago.

Ian sighs then and says, "I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Goodbye,” I manage to croak out, but he’s already gone.

The week crawls by without Ian here to hassle me. He does call, though, more than I expected, and the pleasure I feel just listening to him tell me about his day is worrisome. Each day I wait for the call as if I’m a drug addict and he’s my heroin.

When I arrive at the Red Door on Friday, I’m flushed and sweaty from the day of work and I’m wearing at least an inch of city grime all over my body. Steve is leaning against the Bentley, his arms folded and aviators covering his eyes. He looks like a bodyguard rather than a chauffeur.

“Hey Steve,” I say, wondering if Ian is in the car.

“Hello, sheila,” he says in return. “Can you pop off your wheel?” he nods his head toward my bike. “We need to stick it in the trunk.”

“Right.” I bend over to disengage the quick-release mechanism and hold up the front tire. Steve takes it from my hand and then picks up the frame and easily carries both to the now open trunk.

He closes it with a thud and then, with a little wave goodbye, climbs into the driver’s seat and jets off.

Inside, soft music plays and a woman so slender she makes reeds look fat totters over to me on six-inch heels. “Ms. Corielli?” she inquires. For a moment I don’t know who she’s addressing, and I look over my shoulder to see if there is another lady who walked in behind me. But no, she’s addressing me. I nod and try shaking her hand, but she backs away a little unnerved. Who shakes hands with the receptionist? No one, but I’ve never been in one of these swank spas before. The closest I’ve ever been to a spa is one of the nail salons that populate every city block.

She gives me a wan smile and leads me up a circular staircase and into a fairly large room. There is a garment bag with “Barney’s” lettered discreetly on the left side hanging on the back of the door and a shopping bag in the corner. A robe and slippers are laid out on a massage table, and to the left is a hair station. Apparently everything is done in this one room. No mingling with the masses for me.

“Please remove all of your clothing and jewelry and press this when you are ready.” She hands me an iPad with a big red button that says “Attendant.”

Over the next two hours I’m rubbed down and then done up. Inside the garment bag is a top that could be called a sweatshirt. It has a ribbed bottom and cuffs but, except for the front panel, the entire shirt is made of a heavy, deep-red lace in a beautifully modern floral pattern. The neckline is wide, giving it a tendency to slip off my shoulder. As I root around in the bag, I am unsurprised to find that there is no bra—only a pair of sheer red panties with tiny bows all over them. I slip on the delicate panties and then pull on the silk shorts that I also find inside the bag. They are black with tiny pinstripes mimicking a man’s suit pants. I’m relieved that they aren’t booty shorts and actually manage to keep all the private parts of my body fully covered, even if I bend over.

The shoes are black with lace fretwork running around the sides and up the middle. A delicate strap encircles my ankle. There are bangles for my wrists and a pair of red stone earrings. I wait to put those on.

“That’s a gorgeous outfit,” my stylist Robin comments as she winds my hair around a hot curling iron. After my massage, a team of people trooped in. Robin is the hair stylist and Mark is the makeup artist. Robin and Mark take turns holding my chin and nodding to each other about how my eyebrows need help and my hair color has no depth. Limp as a noodle from the rubdown, I endure the inspection without comment.

“First hair,” Robin declares, and Mark leaves to round up more tools and the eyebrow artist. They actually have someone designated only for eyebrows. I try not raising mine when I hear that.

“Thanks.”

“Your legs are so toned. Pilates?” she asks.

“Cycling,” I say and then hurriedly add, “Cycling class.” Bike couriers can’t afford three-thousand-dollar outfits to go to a nightclub. Whoever shopped for Ian had failed to remove the price tags.

“Going somewhere tonight?”

“The Aquarium?”

“Ohhh,” she breathes out in awe. “Private party?”

“Don’t think so.”

She nods at me in understanding, although I don’t know what we’re agreeing to. “They always say its closed to private parties, like at 1 Oak, but it’s all who you know, isn’t it?”

“Yes, probably.” She’s likely wanting to know who it is that I know, but I’m not drawing connecting lines for anyone.

We chat a little more about the city’s best nightclubs, although it’s really just Robin talking about all the hot places she’s heard of or went to and me nodding along.

After she’s made my hair look voluminous with big waves spilling down my back, Mark comes in with a team of people. One is focused on my feet and another on my hands. The eyebrow artist advances toward me with a tool of shiny implements strapped to her waist. I close my eyes and tip my head back because there’s nothing else I can do.

Once they’re done, I see that I look like an entirely different person. My cheekbones look more pronounced and my lips look fat and juicy. They also feel like they’re tingling. “It’s all in the shading,” Mark says, whisking a brush one more time down my face.

“What if I sweat?” I ask, raising the tips of my fingers to a cheek that looks luminous even under the harsh lights. I didn’t realize that makeup could actually make a person look this good.

“Don’t,” he says shortly. “There’s blotting paper, a little foundation, blush, and gloss in your purse. Think of yourself as Cinderella. You’ll turn into a pumpkin if you stay out so long that you’re sweating.”

“I think it was the rats that turned into the pumpkin, not Cinderella,” I say. My eyes look huge and mysterious. I’m going to have to take a selfie because there’s no way I’ll ever look this good again.

“Cinderella got herself home before she started sweating, otherwise she would have been a pumpkin—a big, orange, sweaty, lonely pumpkin,” Mark declares.

I’m shooed off and downstairs the receptionist gives me a slight nod of approval, which I take to be just as effusive as clapping.

“Thanks, everyone,” I say and the team of specialists beams at me like I’m the best school project they ever put together.

S
TEVE
IS
WAITING
FOR
ME
outside in the gray car. When I crawl in, I notice that Ian is sitting right behind the driver’s seat. The light illuminates the interior for a few seconds after Steve closes the door. I wait, a little breathlessly, to see Ian’s reaction.

“So I guess we’re staying in tonight,” he finally says when the light flickers out.

“What?” I ask¸ confused.

“You’re far too beautiful to be out in public.” He slides a finger around the boatneck opening of my sweatshirt, and we both watch as his finger pulls the fabric down so that the ball of my left shoulder is exposed. “Clearly I need to give better instructions about what’s appropriate attire. No bra, Tiny?”

His finger is circling my skin in some pattern known only to him. But that small contact is making me throb in a dozen other places. I slide closer to him, close enough to feel the fine wool of his trousers brush against my bare leg. I want to slip off my sandal and run my bare foot up the entire length of his leg. “No,” I croak out. “You’d see it in the back.” I turn slightly so he can see that the back of my shirt is just open lacework.

His hands sweep aside my hair to reveal my braless back. “How do your breasts feel without their restraint?” he asks, sliding two hands down my shoulder blades and then around to rest underneath my breasts. With a quick tug, I tumble backward so that I am leaning against his chest. I squirm a bit, wishing that there wasn’t his suit coat, shirt, and undershirt separating us. His mouth finds the tender skin where my neck and shoulder meet and he sucks, causing me to cry out in desire.

“God, Ian,” I moan.

“Your breasts,” he says again, “tell me how they feel.” His hands move downward and then sweep underneath my shirt. My breasts strain toward him, my nipples ache for his touch, but he doesn’t move and he won’t until I give him what he wants.

“They feel heavy. They ache,” I say.

He bites softly in the same spot. “Good girl.” I’m rewarded when his hands cup my breasts, one for each hand. He holds them loosely, almost as if weighing them to see if they are, indeed, heavier. “What do they ache for?”

“Your hands.” I place my own hands over his and press them harder against my chest. “Your fingers.”

“My mouth?” He sucks lightly on my neck. There’ll be a mark there, but I don’t care at this moment.

“Your mouth,” I agree breathlessly. His fingers begin to pinch my nipples all the while palming the sensitive flesh. His mouth leaves my neck to place kisses and bites all along the back of my shoulders. My panties are getting damp, and I’m squeezing my thighs together, both to increase friction and assuage the ache that’s growing.

I don’t understand how he can affect me this way—make me so hot just by touching my chest or running his mouth along my shoulders—but I’m so turned on that I think I could come, given enough time and maybe just a little touch of his fingers between my legs. I can feel the rigid length of his erection press against my butt.

A car door slams shut and the lights flicker on again, just for a moment. “Ready, boss?”

Ian drops his head against my shoulder, and I almost cry out in frustration. “Ready,” he replies. He places a soft kiss against my neck and then pulls his hands out from underneath my shirt.

“What exactly are we doing tonight?” I slump against the seat.

“Baiting the hook.”

At the mention of being the bait, I draw away from him.

“Tiny.” He grabs my hand. “No matter what happens tonight, it’s only part of the job. The rest of this between us is separate. Whatever you think is happening between us is entirely real. Don’t forget that.”

I don’t understand how he can separate business from pleasure. One minute he’s telling me he can’t wait to be inside me and the next he’s saying I’m bait for something. But this is how I’m to earn my keep. I just need to remember that. It’d be a lot easier if he kept his hands to himself.

He hands me
The Observer,
one of the local city gossip papers. On page six, there is a picture of Richard Howe, son of mayoral candidate Edward Howe, his arm wrapped around his wife, whose name I can't recall.

“Our project involves Edward Howe?” I gasp.

“No, his son, Richard. Richard is a forty-seven-year-old going on eighteen. He's rumored to be in the throes of a serious mid-life crisis and is spending his family money faster than the Treasury Department can print it.”

I run a finger along the edge of the paper. Edward Howe was in his late sixties and came from old money. He was the type of guy whose family rubbed shoulders with the Rockefellers and Astors. While his name wasn’t on landmarks around the city, his ancestors’ buddies were. The city’s residents weren’t sure if they loved him because he was an institution or hated him because he was so wealthy.

Unlike most politicians, he seemed to have no skeletons in his closet, and despite his posh Fifth Avenue address, he lived austerely and without unseemly extravagance. The fact that he was wealthy meant that he would be shielded from graft and corruption—or so the thinking went. He has only one wife and one and campaigns on the promise that he’ll be a solid, if unexciting choice. Whether he’d be the next mayor is hard to say. His campaign is running smoothly so far.

“You said that I wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone,” I accuse. My voice is reaching perilously high levels. “You want me to have sex with him and take pictures or something? Because I'm not going to do that.”

“Calm down. No. Nothing like that.”

“What is it then? What do you want me to do that will cost you so much money?”

Shaking the paper, Ian taps his finger on Howe’s face.

“Howe is no innocent. About fifteen years ago, he was an up-and-coming trader but he had expensive tastes and decided that company funds would be used to finance his adventures. A friend of mine helped him out, and that friend ultimately got blamed for Howe’s embezzlement.

I don’t know how many people Richard Howe has managed to ruin in the intervening fifteen years, but I've decided that he's a blight on this earth and needs to be stamped out. The Howe household is built on sticks. And one little gust will topple it over.”