He watched her sleeping face for a few seconds, then placed a throw across her body and lay down next to her, closing his eyes, comforted by the quiet sounds of her breathing.
The early morning light was streaming into the room, the red sun of dawn. Dina woke, glanced around, realised where she was – who she was with.
And what was going to happen today. Everything. All of it.
Joel first.
She slipped the throw off her, careful not to wake him, and stripped nude. Then she padded into his wet room and turned on the shower, cleaning herself. She wasted no time; within a minute, she was rough-dried, back in his bed, slipping under the covers this time, pressing herself against him.
His eyes flicked open.
‘That’s a hell of a wake-up call.’
‘I love you,’ Dina said. ‘I still want you.’
Gaines ran his hands firmly over her whole body. Feeling her calves, her breasts. Cupping her ass.
‘Ohhh . . .’
He pulled the covers back; she was there, under him, naked. This was the first time he had ever seen her body clearly. Goddamn, but she was beautiful.
He knelt across her, stripping his own clothes off, piece by piece. And, as he slid his fingers from her breasts to her knees, Dina gasped with longing.
‘Patience is a virtue,’ he said, and teased her lightly with one finger, just grazing her, back and forth, as his other hand grasped her hands, holding them over her head. She was wet, so wet, and her belly was literally hot, warm with blood under him. She bucked and lifted herself to him. She was beside herself with longing, and he wanted to laugh with the triumph and love of it.
‘Oh my God!’ Dina gasped. ‘Oh Joel! Please . . .’
And his knee nudged her legs apart, and he took her, swiftly, hard, his mouth on hers, kissing her, bearing down on her, and her body dissolved in a wave of bliss, so intense and wonderful that it blew everything away.
Chapter Twenty
A buzz rippled through the crowd.
Dina Kane certainly knew how to make an entrance.
There was a portion of the street roped off with ribbon – a precious thirty-minute easement granted by the city, delighted to have another strip club removed from Times Square. And the space was completely full.
The Dina Kane, Inc. blog had been up for a week – promising samples, makeovers and all kinds of goodies to the first hundred customers. She had more than two hundred women milling around the avenue now, annoying commuters, spilling on to the street.
Among the crowd were tens of New York beauty bloggers – and not just the big ones, the giants from Makeup Alley and the rest. Dina had sent personal invites to all her favourites, the underground anarchist beauty sites, the one that focused solely on the over-sixty-fives, the gay beauty blog, the Urdu-only site for Asian skin . . . She had spent those months as a shopper delving deep into the bones of Manhattan’s beauty addicts, and the result was a heady mix of eclecticism, ethnic beauty, impoverished students and Social Registry housewives from the East Side.
Every few minutes, her staff – the best make-up artists she’d poached from Torch, the sales consultants Natalya had signed off on – emerged from the gleaming entrance to the Dina Kane store, handing out free goodies: a lip balm from Scotland, a new mascara from California, fragrance samples from a tiny house in Austria. The journalists from the women’s magazines, roped off separately, watched and scribbled. There was a palpable sense of excitement.
And it wasn’t just them. Three camera crews were pointed at her tiny storefront: all local TV, but clearly Dina Kane was getting a name for herself, was worth watching. An ageing reporter in Versace, a doyenne of the gossip columns, hung around too, gawping at the commotion for a single shop, unable to report on the embarrassment he had predicted for Ludo Morgan’s ex-girlfriend.
They were expecting a limousine, a big black monster, or a Lincoln Town Car at the very least.
But suddenly there was a light ringing of a bell – a bicycle bell – and Dina Kane had arrived. The custom-painted green and gold bike contrasted with her stunning outfit; she wore some beige leggings, rammed into chestnut high-heeled boots, a fitted cream silk shirt and a simple gold bracelet. As the flashbulbs popped and snapped, Dina Kane took off her helmet – letting her dark hair fall loosely down her back.
The photographers purred. The women breathed out. She was beautiful. She was stunning. Her young face was made up, lightly, nothing too heavy: a sheer mousse foundation, golden eye shadow, bronzer on her cheekbones, clear lip gloss and a separating mascara that made her eyes pop. Her teeth were white as she smiled, and she looked healthy, attractive, young and confident.
‘Dina! Where’s the limo?’ a journalist shouted.
There was a mike stand set up on the pavement in front of her, and Dina Kane approached it, laughing, her helmet under one arm.
‘No car. This is New York! We bike. We love fitness – it’s the best blusher you can’t buy.’
All the women laughed. The flashbulbs popped once more.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll just look over there – Dina Kane, Inc. has come to Times Square.’
She pointed and, above them, to the right, a huge rectangle thirty storeys high suddenly blazed into light.
DINA KANE
, it said.
BEAUTY.
The company logo and website address flashed up, and then a smooth morph of a slender forty-five-year-old’s face, with make-up being applied, becoming groomed, beautiful. It was replaced by a plus-sized teenager, an African-American mom cradling a baby, and a blonde twenty-six-year-old – all with the Dina Kane message scrolling behind them.
There were
oohs
and
aahs
, and when Dina was satisfied they had gazed, transfixed, long enough, she spoke into the mike again.
‘And now, I’m so happy to say that Dina Kane, Inc. is open for business. All women are beautiful – we hope to help show that to the world. Thank you – and enjoy yourselves.’
She lifted a hand, and the glass doors slid open; the wall at the top of the stairs played makeovers, and women stumbled in from the street, rushing down into the gorgeously appointed space.
Dina handed her bike to an assistant.
‘Ms Kane, they’re ready for you,’ Natalya said, walking up to her.
She was beaming with pride. The store looked incredible, the crowd was wonderful, and the neon billboard at the heart of Times Square – a third of the budget, just on that, and they could only have it for a week – meant it was major league. ‘The press want to talk to you – about Ludo Morgan, you understand, as well as the store and the site. They want to discuss Torch and Joel Gaines. And there was some arrest this morning . . . ?’
Dina turned around and smiled at the little knot of journalists, looking directly into the TV cameras.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘And I’ll happily make a statement. For now, though, we have Dina Kane customers waiting. Excuse me, OK? I need to go and serve them.’
And she disappeared down the wide stairs into the brightly lit underground oasis of beauty that was to be Dina Kane’s new home, shaking hands, calling out greetings.
Natalya looked down after her boss and saw the women mob her as she walked into the store, applauding, pressing round her with compliments, already holding up face creams, asking questions. Behind her, the press pack was following; they were pursuing her down those stairs like she was a celebrity already.
She felt a frisson of excitement. It was only a store, but it was a damned good one. Casually she flicked open her cellphone and pressed the icon for the Dina Kane, Inc. app – it took her directly to the online store, which opened for business the moment the retail one did.
Already, she could see a few golden
sold out
banners.
Something was starting, right now. The result of one girl betting on herself, completely. And Natalya had a feeling it was going to be big – very big.
She breathed in deeply, and followed her boss down into the store.
Epilogue
The launch was a complete success.
Within forty minutes, shoppers had cleared the stock from the showroom, and within an hour they’d taken all their reserves. Natalya had runners out to their suppliers for more; and the press had to wait, and watch Dina Kane do business.
It was quite something. They reported the success, live, like financial reporters counting down to the closing bell.
And Dina did not disappoint. As soon as she’d shaken hands with the last customer, she walked up the stairs and back out to Times Square, where the cameras had been set up for filming.
Joel Gaines came down from his office. He watched discreetly from across the square. There was a scrum of media there now, and Dina faced the cameras head on.
‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Thank you all for coming to cover the opening of our store. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to your questions earlier, but, as you can see, we’ve been a little busy.’ There was a ripple of laughter from the hacks; Gaines shook his head, admiringly. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand. ‘Let me pre-empt some of your questions. I’ll try to be as frank as possible.’ Now they were rolling their eyes; nobody did frank, not in Manhattan, not where money was at stake. But Dina Kane stood tall and unafraid, and she kept talking. The effect was mesmerising.
‘Edward Johnson has been arrested for trying to kill me,’ she said. ‘There’s going to be a trial, and I can’t prejudice it.’
‘Is it true you slept with his father?’
‘Yes, it is true.’
There was a gasp of surprise from the press pack. She
admitted
it?
‘I did so for revenge. Although it was years ago, I still regret that very much. I would like to apologise to Mr Johnson, and his wife, and his family.’
‘Revenge for what? What did he do to you?’
‘So you slept with father and son?’
‘Look this way, Dina! Over here!’
‘What else can you tell us?’
‘Absolutely nothing whatsoever.’ She smiled brightly. ‘The legal process will take its course. I’m sorry I can’t go any further.’
There was a clicking of bulbs and a whirring as cameras were trained towards her, boom mikes shoved in her direction.
‘Why were you fired from Torch, Dina?’
‘You’ll have to ask Ludo Morgan that.’
‘The company says there’s a non-compete clause in your contract – that you can’t work for anyone else. They’re going to sue Dina Kane, Inc.’
‘How typically male,’ Dina said.
That provoked shocked laughter from the women there – journalists and style editors.
‘Let them try. The suit will be baseless. I’m not working for Dina Kane. I own Dina Kane.’ She flashed another strong, brilliant smile. ‘By all means, let Torch try to compete.’
‘But Ludo Morgan has so much power in retail! Torch have all the financial muscle!’
Dina lifted her head and looked around. Gaines stiffened; she had seen him, standing back there, gazing out at her. She winked at him, and his heart turned over with pleasure and love. To be at the start of this journey with her . . . And their journey – their journey together . . .
‘They do have a lot of muscle.’ Dina gestured towards the bright doors of Dina Kane, the electronic makeovers dancing, a little crowd outside as fresh boxes of stock were being carted hurriedly down the stairs. ‘But I’ve never worried too much about brawn. I’m going to put my faith in beauty.’
And she raised one manicured hand to the press pack, and walked across Times Square, towards her first store, and her new life.