Butterfly (11 page)

“And you’re not,” he retorted.

“I know who and what I am,” she countered. “If I can make a lot of money using this face and body, then I’ll do it as long as I can.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand over her face and chest. “Some people sell drugs, others sex. I sell
face and clothes, Phillip.” Pushing back her chair, she reached for his plate, but he caught her wrist.

Phillip stood up. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m clearing the table.”

“I’ll do it. You cooked, so I’ll do the dishes.”

Seneca peered up at him through her lashes. She was slightly inebriated but didn’t want him to know that. For her, drinking champagne was akin to taking a sleeping pill.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Phillip continued. “I used to clean up my grandparents’ restaurant.”

“Okay. Just don’t put the flutes in the dishwasher.”

Resting his hands on her shoulders, Phillip angled his head and kissed her cheek. “Go relax. That’s not a request, but an order.”

“Okay. I’m going to lie down, because my legs aren’t working so good right about now.” Before the last word was off her lips, Seneca found herself swept up in Phillip’s arms. “What are you doing?”

“I’m putting you to bed. After you get your legs back I’d like you to pack enough clothes to spend the weekend with me. You did agree that we’d have breakfast, lunch and dinner together,” Phillip quickly reminded Seneca. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“It’s down the hall on the right. Remember, we’re scheduled for a photo shoot this weekend,” she reminded Phillip when he carried her across the kitchen.

“Why don’t you call the photographer and ask him what he wants. You can ask him what he wants me to bring, too.”

“O-k-ay,” she slurred, closing her eyes while resting her head on his shoulder.

Phillip shifted the slight weight in his arms. “Damn, baby, you’d be a very cheap date,” he teased.

Seneca opened her eyes. “Don’t play yourself, Phillip Kingston. There’s nothing cheap about Butterfly.”

“Who’s butterfly?”

“I’m Butterfly.”

He walked into her bedroom and stopped. Whoever had chosen the Asian-inspired head and footboard design of the queen-size bed, bedside tables, double dresser and lingerie chest was obviously very discriminating. A workstation and club chair with a matching footstool were positioned under a trio of tall, narrow windows. A flat-screen television, resting on a stand, was positioned so Seneca could view it whenever she lay in bed.

“Put me down on the chair. If I get into bed, then I’m not getting out.”

“Who decorated your bedroom?”

Seneca smothered a yawn behind her hand. “I did.”

“What happened to the living room?”

She smiled up at Phillip when he loomed over her. “I had nothing to do with that. At least once a month Electra threatens to put everything out on the curb, but the furniture was a gift from her favorite aunt.”

Phillip grimaced. “It looks more like a charitable donation.”

Seneca giggled. “You’re bad, Phillip Kingston.”

He leaned closer, brushing a kiss over her mouth. “Relax.”

Waiting until she was alone, Seneca picked up her cell and dialed Mitchell Leon’s number. She informed him that Phillip Kingston was back in town and wanted to know what they should bring to the shoot. Reaching for a pen and pad, she jotted down the outfits and accessories Mitchell had requested.

“What about makeup and hair?” she asked. It was almost
nine, and Seneca still hadn’t heard from her cousin. She knew Stefani wanted to leave the salon where she’d become a glorified shampoo girl.

“I’ll have people on hand who will do your hair and face.”

“What day and what time should we get to your place?”

“Sunday at eight. I’m projecting it should take about four hours to get what I want, so figure finishing up around noon.”

“We’ll see you Sunday,” she said in parting, and rang off.

Slumping back against the chair, Seneca closed her eyes, chiding herself for drinking the second glass of wine. It wasn’t the calories that worried her, but the dizzying effects. It was apparent she had very little tolerance for alcohol.

“Seneca, baby, wake up.”

Eyelids fluttering wildly, Seneca came awake. She moaned when she realized she’d fallen asleep. Phillip sat on the footstool, her bare feet in his lap. She hadn’t remembered taking off her shoes.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long.”

“How long is not long, Phillip?” From where she was sitting she couldn’t see the clock or the readout on the cable box.

“About forty minutes.”

“I have to pack.” She attempted to get up, but his hands tightened on her ankles.

“Don’t get up,” Phillip urged softly. “You don’t have to go home with me tonight.”

“Really?”

Phillip smiled. Seneca reminded him of a trusting child. And that’s what he wanted. He wanted her to trust him. “Yes, really. But I wouldn’t mind if you let me stay here with you.”

Her eyes grew wider. “You want to sleep with me?”

Again, Seneca had shown him another side of her personality—vulnerability. He liked this better than her getting in his face. “We can
share
the bed.”

Something should’ve alerted Seneca that she and Phillip were moving too quickly, that they hadn’t known each other a week, but her limited experience with men had her committing to sharing his hotel suite. She’d successfully parried the advances of every man who’d professed to be attracted to her, yet she found herself unable to escape the sensual masculine magnetism Phillip emitted like a force field. Whenever they shared the same space he seemed to suck her in while making her his willing captive.

“Okay. But if you start anything, I’ll dial nine-eleven.”

“What will I be charged with?” he teased, grinning.

“It won’t be for you, but me when they arrest me for manslaughter.”

“Damn, baby. Why are you so hard?”

“Would you like me better if I were a doormat?” she asked.

“Nah,” Phillip drawled.

Raising her arms above her head, Seneca arched her back. “Please let me up so I can change into my jammies. If you want, you can select a movie.” She pointed to the lateral file cabinet under the workstation.

Phillip stood, offering his hand and pulling her gently off the chair. “It can’t be movie night without popcorn and soda.”

Seneca rolled her eyes. “Sorry, my brother, but the concession stand is closed, because the workers wanted to unionize and management wasn’t having it.”

Throwing back his head, Phillip laughed loudly. “Go change and I’ll pick out one that doesn’t require tissues.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I don’t cry when viewing a movie.”

Phillip slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oops, I forgot. Seneca Houston is hard.”

“You better get used to calling me Butterfly.”

“Why Butterfly?”

Turning and presenting him with her back, Seneca pulled the hem of her blouse from the waistband of her slacks, showing Phillip the delicate tattoo of a monarch butterfly. The artist had drawn the insect with orange-brown wings with black veins and borders to appear as if floating in flight.

Phillip closed the distance between them, tracing the out line of the permanent ink at the small of her back with his forefinger. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he eased her forward and kissed the tattoo. “Whoever inked you is incredible. The little bugger looks real.”

Seneca smiled. “I got it the day I turned eighteen.” She straightened, turning around to face Phillip when dropped his arm. “Do you have any?”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he bared his chest. Black Asian characters were tattooed over his heart. He pointed to the first one. “This is Korean for ‘now is the time.’ The next one is a Chinese symbol for ‘health,’ and the last one is Japanese for ‘long life.’”

“They’re nice.”

Seneca had said they were nice when she meant they were tasteful. She liked tattoos but couldn’t understand how some people resorted to covering large parts of their body with the colorful ink designs. She’d gotten hers before she’d begun modeling, but if she’d known she was going to become a model she would’ve held off getting one until she’d left the business.

“I’ll leave a toothbrush and towel for you on the table in the bathroom.”

Phillip nodded. “Thank you.” He waited for Seneca to leave the bedroom before he stripped down to his boxer briefs, leaving his clothes folded neatly on the chair. When he’d gotten up that morning he never would’ve expected to be invited to Seneca’s apartment for dinner or to sleep with her. And she didn’t have to concern herself with him attempting to seduce her, because he hadn’t brought condoms with him.

Phillip Park Kingston wasn’t about to join the ranks of other high-profile athletes who’d become fodder for the tabloids when they were thrust into the spotlight with paternity suits and/or baby-mama drama. If or when he fathered a child, it would be with his wife and not some chicken head crooning that he would “make some pretty babies.”

Seneca returned, wearing a white tank top with a pair of peppermint-striped cotton drawstring pants. Her curly hair floated around her face like a cloud. “You can use the bathroom now.” She ran over the bed, falling on it like a mischievous child. “I always run and jump on the bed,” she explained when Phillip stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he shook his head. “One of these days you’re going to break down the bed and land on the floor.”

Kicking her legs as if she were riding a bicycle, Seneca gave him a sexy smile. “That means I’ll just have to buy another one.”

In that instant Phillip realized that underneath her so-called tough-girl exterior, Seneca Houston was still a kid—a kid who was about to be thrust into a world where everyone would want a piece of her. And if she wasn’t strong enough, she would come to believe the hype. Then, if and when the
fickle public moved on to the next “It” girl, would she be prepared for the fallout? He’d planned to give the NBA four more years before walking away to follow his ultimate dream to become a doctor. What were Seneca’s long-term plans? She’d gone from full-time to part-time and now a college dropout to embark on a full-time modeling career. Who, he pondered, would be there for her when it ended?

I will,
said the voice in his head.

“Hurry up and come to bed, Phillip. The movie is going to begin in ten minutes.”

Seneca’s sultry voice broke into his thoughts. He’d selected
Blood Diamond
because he hadn’t seen the movie. “I’ll be right back.” Sleeping with Seneca and not making love to her was going to be a first for him, because whenever he crawled into bed with a woman it was because they’d mutually agreed to have sex.

Smiling, he entered the bathroom. Hanging out with Butterfly was not only going to be profitable but also a great deal of fun. Not only was she sexy but she had a wicked sense of humor that complemented what sports writers called his impenetrable mask of perfection.

He was King Phillip, the automaton on the hardwood, master of the three-point shot, while shooting ninety-seven percent from the free-throw line. He rarely gave interviews, and when he did sports writers were always frustrated, because in an age where a minor infraction was headline news he hadn’t obliged them. One writer had hinted he had the tendency to be a bad boy, and Phillip reminded him that there was only one Dennis Rodman.

Now he wondered what they would say once the news got out that Phillip Kingston was dating supermodel Butterfly. Their association would prove a win-win for BGM, Phillip Kingston
and
Seneca Houston.

He would get to date a woman he sincerely liked while providing her with male protection. What he didn’t want to do was think about the money Booth would earn from booking the beautiful model. Phillip brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, patting it dry with a thick, thirsty towel before returning to the bedroom and slipping into bed beside Seneca.

She lowered the lamp setting, picked up the remote and activated the play button. Halfway into the movie Phillip realized Seneca had fallen asleep. Gently easing her down from the mound of pillows supporting her back, he covered her with the sheet. He viewed the rest of the movie, and when the credits started to roll across the screen, he stopped the disk, ejected it and turned off the television. Walking on bare feet, he returned to the bed, extinguished the lamp and lay beside the woman who’d managed to slip under the barrier he’d erected to keep them at a distance.

He cradled her to his chest and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

“I
can’t believe I had two of them,” Seneca moaned. She’d eaten two hot dogs, smothered with mustard and grilled onions. On impulse, she and Phillip had stopped and ordered the franks and hot sausage from the man who’d parked his food cart several blocks from Macy’s. Reaching up, she blotted away a smudge of mustard at the corner of Phillip’s mouth with a napkin.

“Don’t worry about it, baby,” he crooned, smiling. “You’ll work off the extra calories on the walk back to Battery Park.”

Seneca glared up at Phillip from behind the lenses of her oversized sunglasses. They’d left her apartment at nine that morning when the driver arrived to take them to the Ritz-Carlton. A bellhop carried the garment bags filled with the outfits Mitchell had requested she bring to the shoot and her overnight bag to Phillip’s suite. She’d hung everything in the closet in the adjoining suite while Phillip called room service, requesting a continental breakfast for her and an all-American
breakfast for himself. Seneca managed to conceal her astonishment at the amount of calories he’d consumed, marveling that there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his hard muscular body.

They’d shared her bed, she waking before him to shower. She’d altered her routine to dress in the bathroom rather than in her bedroom. When she’d returned to the bedroom she was met with the sight of Phillip executing push-ups, not anchoring his hands but his fists on the floor. Watching the flexing muscles in his back, arms, and buttocks had left her gasping for breath. Seneca wasn’t certain how she’d done it, but she’d backed out of the bedroom without making a sound. However, the image of Phillip’s nearly nude body lingered for hours.

“I am not walking back, Phillip.” Unfortunately, she’d worn high-heeled sandals.

She’d whispered his name because Phillip had managed a modicum of anonymity with a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and sunglasses. He’d blended in with crowds of New Yorkers going about their business and wide-eyed tourists taking in the sights of the city. They’d walked from Battery Park to Herald Square, stopping en route at an outdoor café in the West Village to share a Caesar salad and a bottle of mineral water.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Phillip pulled Seneca close to his side. “We don’t have to walk. I’ll hail a taxi.”

Going on tiptoe, Seneca pressed a kiss to his firm mouth. “Thank you, my love.”

He increased the pressure. “You’re most welcome, my love.”

“Do you know what else I’m going to need, Phillip?”

“What?” he whispered against the column of her neck.

“A massage.” Tightness in her calves was a sure sign that she would wake up with pain in her legs the next day; she needed complete flexibility for the shoot.

“Do you have a preference?” Phillip asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Male or female?”

Seneca gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. “Male, of course.” Reaching for her hand, Phillip laced their fingers together. “I’ll call the concierge and see if they can reserve one for you.”

“Thank you.”

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You’re quite welcome.” Walking to the corner, Phillip raised his hand, and within seconds a taxi maneuvered along to the curb. He opened the rear door, waiting for Seneca to get in before he slid in beside her. “Ritz-Carlton at Battery Park,” he directed the driver through the Plexiglas partition. The words were barely off his tongue when the taxi took off like a rocket.

“I’m going to soak in the tub,” Seneca said over her shoulder as she walked in the direction of her suite.

“Do you want company?” Phillip asked, staring at her slender hips in the fitted jeans.

Seneca did not break stride. “No, thank you.”

Phillip smiled. “Just trying to help a sister out.”

She halted, turning slowly. Phillip’s voice had changed. It was lower, almost coaxing. Seneca knew what he wanted, and no matter how much she’d denied the strong passions within her, she wanted the same: sex. Her first and only sexual liaison had ended badly, leaving her to blame the entire human male species for the debacle.

Something innate communicated that it would be different with Phillip. As a high-profile sports figure with a brand sponsorship tied to his not behaving badly, he couldn’t afford a scandal. While she, on the other hand, with her star on the
crest of rising, could not afford to take up with a purported bad boy. And Phillip Kingston was anything but a bad boy.

“Are you good with your hands?”

Raising his right hand, Phillip stared at the broad palm and long fingers. “I can palm a basketball with one hand.”

A mysterious smile played at the corners of Seneca’s mouth. “Have you ever given a massage?”

He approached her, his gaze never leaving her mouth. “Yes, I have.”

“Are you any good?”

Phillip recognized an open invitation in the eyes meeting his. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

“If that’s the case, then you’re hired,” Seneca whispered.

His hands went to her shoulders, pulling her to his chest. “Can you afford me, baby?”

Seneca exhaled an audible breath. Sexually sparring with Phillip was new for her, something she hadn’t experienced with her first lover. But then, she had to remind herself that Phillip Kingston wasn’t a boy but a man.

“What if I can’t?” she asked, purring like a cat.

“Then we’ll have to come up with something that’s amenable to both of us.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

Phillip’s impassive expression successfully concealed the satisfaction coursing throughout his body. He finally had Seneca Houston where he’d wanted her since coming face-to-face with her for the first time. When he’d glanced across the living room in Booth Gordon’s condo and saw the woman who seemingly had floated in with a garment draped over her slender body that revealed as much as it concealed, he knew he had to have her; he wanted Seneca like he’d wanted to join the NBA, like he wanted to become a doctor.

He’d approached her, the slogan of his favorite tattoo, “Now
Is The Time,” echoing in his head. Phillip had hoped to catch her unawares, but she’d turned the tables because she knew who he was. She hadn’t gushed, gone mushy or thrown herself at him like so many other women did once they were cognizant of his carefully scripted superstar status. However, Seneca Houston had flipped the script, leaving him to do the chasing.

“I’m mulling over a few, but there is one we can do right now,” he said after a pregnant pause.

Seneca’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“I shared your bed last night, so I’m inviting you to share my bathtub.”

“Okay,” she agreed, flippantly.

The look of shock freezing Phillip’s features was priceless. “Really?”

“How many models have you dated?”

He blinked once. “You’re the first one.”

She gave him a look that parents, whenever exasperated, usually reserved for their children. “One thing models aren’t and that’s modest. Taking off my clothes for you isn’t any different from my posing nude for an artist.”

Phillip gritted his teeth in frustration. It was as if Seneca was testing his very manhood. He swallowed the expletive poised on the tip of his tongue. “Go get what you need from
your
suite, and I’ll fill the bathtub.” He’d wanted to tell her that athletes also weren’t reticent about taking off their clothes. All she had to do was visit a locker room before or after a game to know that.

“Are you angry with me, Phillip?”

His eyebrows flickered. “Why would you ask me that?”

Reaching up, Seneca ran a fingertip over his right eyebrow. “This eyebrow lifts just a fraction whenever you’re upset about something.”

He caught her wrist. “Do you really think you know me that well?” Seneca tried pulling away, but he increased his grip.

“No, I don’t know you
that
well,” she countered. “But what I do know is that you have a nasty habit of grabbing me.”

Phillip dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, baby. I’d never hurt you.”

Going on tiptoe, Seneca pressed a kiss to his throat. “I know you wouldn’t. But you probably aren’t aware of your own strength.”

Cupping the back of her head in his hand, Philip buried his face in her hair. “You’re right. Anytime I go Neanderthal on you, please stop me.”

He always meditated before every game in order to turn on the switch in his head when he’d become a fierce and aggressive competitor. At six-six, he was shorter than many of the other players, but he made up for the difference with tenacity and excellent hand-eye control. His stats included leading the league in the highest number of three-point totals two years running.

Seneca nodded, smiling. “I will.” She kissed his chin. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Phillip watched her walk, her hips swaying sensually, as if she were on a runway. A knowing smile softened his features.
Yes,
he mused. Seneca Houston fit perfectly into his plans for his future. However, he had to tread carefully or he would lose her. Although he liked her spirited personality, her mouthing off at him was bothersome.

When he’d first joined the NBA he’d overheard some black players say they didn’t date black women because they always had attitude. In other words, they didn’t know their place, that when given the opportunity they tended to emasculate
a man. Phillip had thought it was an excuse for them to date or marry women outside of their race.

It hadn’t happened with him, therefore, he considered himself luckier than the others. It wasn’t that Seneca had an attitude but that she was as derisive as she was beautiful. What she didn’t know was that he had the perfect remedy to counter her acerbic tongue, and it was between his legs.

Seneca stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a large wicker basket that doubled as a hamper in her en suite bathroom. She hadn’t spent a night in the hotel but knew she could very easily get used to living there. The thought that Phillip could get anything he wanted with a single telephone call astounded her. During the ride back to the hotel he’d disclosed that he’d ordered dinner in his suite for later that evening, and she would have the option of dressing up. When she’d tried to get him to divulge what they were celebrating he’d remained tight-lipped, which led her to believe the dinner was going to be more than room service bringing a cart with covered dishes.

She lingered in the bathroom long enough to remove the elastic band from her hair and comb it with a wide-tooth comb before she brushed her teeth. Returning to her bedroom, she picked up a blood-red kimono off the foot of the bed and slipped it on. Walking on bare feet, she went through the door connecting the suites and into Phillip’s bathroom.

Leaning against the door frame, Seneca smiled at the man lounging in the tub; the swirling water from the Jacuzzi lapped against his chest. “Waiting long?” she asked, her sultry voice lowering an octave.

Phillip, stretching his arms along the ledge of the tub, nodded. The motion accentuated the corded muscles in his long arms. “Yes,” he confirmed verbally. “I’ve been waiting all of my life for someone like you.”

Seneca opened her mouth to tell him that he was being overdramatic, that he’d probably seen too many romantic-themed movies, but she wasn’t able to get the words out. It was as if her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.

“Same here,” she whispered, not knowing where the admission had come from.

Had she lost her mind? What spell, she mused, had Phillip Kingston cast over her, that she’d agreed to stay with him in his hotel suite like a kept woman? She was Seneca Ileana Houston, soon-to-be Butterfly, and she’d permitted herself to succumb to the good looks and superstar status of a man adored by the sports world and women from coast to coast.

She’d been one of those who’d opened a copy of
Essence
magazine to find Phillip Kingston staring out from the glossy page and had experienced a rush of moisture flowing between her legs. It was the first and only time she’d found herself enthralled with the face and body of a man who’d become eye candy for millions of women. She never would’ve imagined meeting the man, or agreeing to share a bathtub with him.

With wide eyes, she stared as Phillip pushed to his feet, water streaming off his magnificent body. Her gaze went to the thick length of flesh hanging between muscled thighs. “Come on in, baby. The water’s perfect.”

Seneca shook her head. If Phillip hadn’t stood up she would’ve gotten into the tub with him. But just seeing how well he was endowed frightened her. He didn’t have an erection, but he was
huge!
There was no way he could fit inside her.

“No, Phillip,” she whispered.

He beckoned to her. “It’s all right. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”

She took several steps. “It’s not you.”

“Who is it?”

Seneca forced a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s me, Phillip. It’s been almost two years since I’ve slept with a man, and to say I’m horny is an understatement. I’ve told myself that I don’t want or need a man, but I know that’s a lie. The truth is I need one in the worst way. I never thought I would ever resort to masturbating, but I do it just to get some relief.”

Phillip whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Seneca was so pumped and primed he could almost smell sex coming off her in waves. He beckoned again. “Come get in.”

Moving as if she were being pulled by an invisible wire, she approached the tub and untied the sash to the kimono, letting it fall to the floor. A modicum of bravado returned when she heard the soft whoosh of breath from Phillip. He extended his hand and she took it like a trusting child. His free arm went around her waist and he hoisted her into the tub.

Never had Seneca been more aware of the differences in their bodies as she was now. Pressed to his length, she felt the raw power in Phillip’s arms and hands as they moved up to her neck. His fingers circled her neck. A smile flitted across her face when his lips parted seconds before his head lowered and he slanted his mouth over hers.

Breathing the raw essence of his masculinity, she opened her mouth to his rapacious tongue. She went still when the tip of his tongue touched her palate before she collapsed against his chest.