Butterfly (13 page)

Seneca slipped out of bed, moving slowly not only because she didn’t want to wake Phillip but also because muscles she’d forgotten she had slowed motion. She hadn’t gotten into a routine of working out, because first, she couldn’t afford the membership fees at Manhattan sports clubs and second, she didn’t like to exercise. The closest she got to exercising was walking. Everyone who lived or worked in Manhattan walked.
However, her walking regime was relegated to running shoes, not high-heeled sandals.

The ache between her legs wasn’t as uncomfortable as it was a reminder of how long it’d been since she’d shared her body with a man. A sensual smile softened her eyes when she remembered making love with Phillip. He was more than she’d expected, making certain she climaxed before he came. Her smile faded when she recalled the explosion of profanity he’d spewed when ejaculating. For a brief moment she’d been so frightened by the intensity and ferocity that she’d feared for her well-being. Her limited experience with the opposite sex hadn’t prepared her for Phillip’s reaction, but it was something to bear watching.

When she’d shared the apartment with three other girls, Seneca had been drawn into their conversations about the men they’d slept with. Although she’d had only one prior romantic affair, she’d found herself engrossed in the discussions. And only one of the four hadn’t had a kiss-and-tell experience, while one had admitted to breaking up with a guy who’d cursed and called her
bitch
during sex. His outbursts had escalated, reaching a point where she’d feared for her life after he was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

Walking into her en suite bathroom, Seneca brushed her teeth, stepped into the shower stall, turned on the water, adjusting the temperature, and then moved under the shower-head. She let the water beat down on her head and face for a full minute before picking up the bath sponge and gel and lathering her body from neck to toes. A gasp escaped her when the door opened and Phillip stepped in and closed the door behind him. Not only did she find breathing difficult, but there didn’t seem to be enough room for her to move without her body brushing against his.

“What are you doing?” she asked, breathlessly.

Resting his hands on her hips, Phillip moved Seneca close, her breasts flattening against his chest. He dipped his head, brushing a kiss over her parted lips. “I came to say good morning.”

Smiling, Seneca inhaled his mint-flavored breath. “I like the way you say good morning.” Going up on tiptoe, she curved her arms under his broad shoulders. “Thank you, and good morning to you, too.” She gasped again—this time when his hand moved over the curve of her hip to between her thighs.

“Are you sore?” he whispered in her ear.

“A little,” Seneca said truthfully. “I want us to wait until—”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Phillip crooned, kissing Seneca and stopping her words. “I won’t touch you until you’re feeling better. But that doesn’t mean you can’t touch me.”

Tilting her head, Seneca stared up at him through spiked lashes. “What are you talking about?”

He went completely still, his eyes searching hers and seeing indecision. She didn’t know. Seneca didn’t know what he wanted her to do. Then realization dawned when he realized her age and limited experience with men.

Reaching for her hand, he guided her fingers to his semierect penis. “Jerk me off, baby.”

A shudder swept over Seneca from the top of her head to the soles of her feet when the flesh in her hand stirred to life, growing harder and longer. Phillip wanted her to jerk him off, and what he didn’t know was that she used to masturbate Vincent whenever she was on her menses.

“How do you want it, Phillip? Fast, slow, hard, easy?”

Resting his back against the tiled wall, Phillip closed his eyes. “You’re in the driver’s seat, beautiful. Do whatever you want.”

It was the first time, other than with the woman who’d taught him everything he knew about pleasuring a woman, that he’d relinquished control. There was something about Seneca Houston that was different, unique, and he intended to find out exactly what it was.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll do something you don’t want me to do?” Seneca asked.

He opened his eyes, glaring at her. What was she trying to do? Make his hard-on go down? “No, Seneca,” he said between clenched teeth. “Just do it.”

“Sit down, Phillip.”

“What?”

“I said sit down.”

Phillip complied, sliding down to the floor of the stall, Seneca following and straddling his thighs. Grasping his penis with both hands, she pressed it against his belly while moving it up and down, around and around, as if she were churning cream into butter.

The guttural sounds coming from deep within Phillip’s heaving chest competed with the rhythmic tapping of water splashing over their bodies. Excitement—raw, untamed—quickened Seneca’s breathing, her heart pumping wildly against her rib cage. Never had she felt so powerful, so in control as she manipulated the rigid length of blood-engorged flesh.

“Don’t stop! Please don’t stop, baby. It’s so-oo good.”

She didn’t want to believe that Phillip Kingston—touted as the most focused player in the NBA—was sitting on the floor of a shower stall, quivering and blathering like someone possessed while she masturbated him.

Seneca felt her tender flesh respond to her own rising desire as Phillip jerked wildly, bellowing, then groaning as he ejaculated, semen spurting into her hand and onto his belly; she
opened and closed her fist until the strong pulsing ebbed, then stopped.

It was her turn to moan softly as orgasms seized her in a maelstrom of dizzying ecstasy that left her calling his name while she collapsed to his chest. They lay together, breathing heavily.

Bracing himself on one hand, Phillip came to a stand, bringing Seneca up with him. Fastening his mouth to hers, he pressed her back to the wall, slamming his pelvis against hers and simulating making love to her. Lust clouded his mind when he realized he was getting hard again. Holding his erection in one hand, he guided it between Seneca’s legs, but she managed to slip away from him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Seneca wasn’t aware that she was screaming until she saw Phillip’s shocked expression. She backed away from him. “You promised to use protection.”

He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and his erection went down like someone letting the air out of a balloon. It wasn’t her yelling at him as much as the look on Seneca’s face that had jerked him back to reality. She looked frightened.
No,
he thought,
the girl was terrified.
But what, he mused, was she so frightened of?

He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away. “What’s the matter, Seneca?”

“What’s the matter?” she spat out. “You were going to go inside of me without a condom.”

“I know I promised to protect you, but if I were to get you pregnant then I’d marry you.”

Seneca reached over to turn off the water. She didn’t want to believe what she’d just heard. A man she’d known exactly one week was talking about babies and marriage. “You’re
delusional, Phillip. I don’t know you, and you certainly know nothing about me.”

Crossing muscular arms over an equally muscular chest, Phillip rested his back against the wall, his hungry gaze moving slowly over her face and body. “What don’t I know about you?”

“I don’t want a baby. No, let me correct myself. I don’t
need
a baby. Not when I have to concentrate on my career.” Phillip’s right eyebrow flickered, and Seneca sensed he was upset with her response.

“I understand.” The two words were flat, cold.

She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand, Phillip. At twenty you knew exactly what you wanted and where you were going. You even have your life planned out for yourself. You say you want to give the NBA ten years, and then it’s on to medical school. Well, my life isn’t wrapped up in a neat little package with a bow like yours. I’m twenty years old, or should I say I’ll be twenty-one,
if
or
when
I’m regarded as a full-time professional model. And that’s old, Phillip. I’ll be lucky if I can stay in the game ten years, not when fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds are looking to push me off the runway. I plan to work as often as I can and for as long as I can before I give it all up for marriage and a family. I’d also like to go back to school and get my degree. Those are
my
long-term plans.”

Phillip realized he’d underestimated Seneca Houston. She could care less about his superstar status. She was Butterfly—purported by Booth Gordon to be the world’s next supermodel. And something said she would reach her goal, because she wanted it as much as he’d wanted to play in the NBA.

“I’m sorry, Seneca. It won’t happen again.” He held out his arms. “Come here, baby.” She took a step, then another, and
he cradled her to his body. “Why the hell do you have to be so damn sexy?”

Tilting her chin, Seneca smiled. “I should ask you the same thing. I came in here to take a shower, but someone interrupted me,” she continued, deftly changing the subject. “Remember, Mitchell expects us to be at his place around eight.”

Phillip patted her behind. “I’ll let you shower while I go and shave. I’ve already reserved a car, and the bellhop will take the garments down to the car whenever we’re ready to leave.”

“What time are we leaving?”

“I told the driver between seven-thirty and seven forty-five. It shouldn’t take more than ten to fifteen minutes to get to Tribeca, even with traffic.”

Seneca patted and then pinched his tight butt. “Go, baby. I’ll meet you in the living room.”

It was only when the door opened, then closed behind Phillip’s departing figure that she was able to draw a normal breath. Seneca knew she’d dodged a bullet when she’d stopped him from penetrating her. She didn’t know if he’d been so caught up in the moment that he wanted to make love to her without using protection. What she wasn’t willing to do was risk it again.

Come Monday she would call her gynecologist for an appointment to be fitted for an IUD. Women probably fantasized about having Phillip Kingston’s baby, but she couldn’t be counted among them.

He was King Phillip on the hardwood, and she was to become Butterfly on the runway. And that wasn’t going to happen if she found herself carrying his child. Dahlia’s dreams were dashed when she’d found herself pregnant. When she’d overheard her mother talking to her sister about the pitfalls of
becoming a single mother, Seneca had vowed it would never happen to her.

And as long as she remained in control of her mind
and
her body—it wouldn’t.

B
ooth Gordon glanced at the clock on a far wall; standing, he reached for his suit jacket folded over the back of the chair next to his desk. The excitement rushing throughout his body made him feel as if he were having sex instead of preparing to meet the account executives for the Super Bowl ad. He’d instructed Joan to set up the luncheon meeting in his on-premise apartment instead of scheduling the meeting at La Grenouille. He’d taken the liberty of asking the men their dining preferences and had a chef prepare the dishes in the kitchen off the living/dining room in the fourth-floor office, which was larger and more luxurious than many Manhattan apartments.

The buzzing of the intercom caught his attention. He’d instructed Joan to call him when the men arrived. He picked up the receiver rather than activate the speaker feature. “Yes?”

“Mr. Gordon, there’s a Mr. Browning here to see you—”

“I don’t know a Mr. Browning. And you know I never see
anyone without an appointment,” Gordon practically growled into the mouthpiece.

“I know that, Mr. Gordon. But Mr. Browning was referred to you by Dennis Mayfield.”

The intermittent euphoria Booth had experienced when viewing the photographs Mitchell Leon had taken of Seneca Houston and Phillip Kingston vanished as if he’d been doused with a bucket of ice-cold water. Dennis knew better than to send anyone to his office. He always met with the professional enforcer at his condo, because not only did his boyhood friend have to be announced but because his image was also captured on closed-circuit cameras. If Dennis had decided to turn on him, the police would have a name, face and a time of departure as a lead.

“Tell Mr. Browning that I’m coming out to see him.”

Gordon hung up, slipped into his suit jacket and walked out of his office. His gaze swept over the slender blond man sitting on the chair in the anteroom where Joan Powers presided like a sentinel, guarding and providing her boss with the utmost security. He estimated the man was somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, and he looked as if he’d stepped off the glossy pages of a Ralph Lauren ad. “Mr. Browning?”

The younger man popped up as if released from a tightly coiled spring. “It’s Carter. Carter Browning.” He extended his hand, but when Booth glared at it he slowly let it drop.

“Mr. Browning, I never see anyone without a prior appointment, but because you claim Dennis Mayfield referred you—”

“Claim?” The contrast of added color under a light summer tan made Carter’s natural ash-blond hair even more startling. Patrician features twisted into a scowl. “Dennis
did
send me,” he said in dangerously soft voice.

Nothing in Booth’s expression indicated the rage making it almost impossible for him to move or speak. “Joan, this won’t take long. Mr. Browning, please come with me.” He led the way back to his office, closing the door quietly before he rounded on the unsuspecting man. “Listen to me, you little arrogant fuck! No one comes to see me without a prior appointment. Even Dennis knows that, so don’t try and shit me by dropping his name.”

Carter recoiled as if he’d been punched in the gut, but then recovered quickly. He hadn’t expected the elegant-looking, well-dressed man to come at him like a pit bull. “Dennis didn’t tell me I needed an appointment.”

“Well, you do!” Booth spat out. “Now, I want you to go out that door and have my assistant give you my private number. Call me anytime after six and I’ll let you know when and where we’ll meet. And tell Dennis that he fucked up and not to do it again.”

Carter nodded, his blue eyes hard and cold as chipped ice. “Okay, Mr. Gordon.”

In a gesture that surprised even him, Booth gave Carter a comforting pat on the back. “Call me Booth.”

Carter Browning smiled for the first time. “No problem, Booth.”

Booth waited two minutes and then buzzed Joan. She picked up immediately. “How did he get past reception?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Gordon. They never bothered to announce him.”

“Find out who let him through and take care of it.”

“I’ll do that,” Joan said, her voice pregnant with pride.

Booth slammed the received in the cradle. He knew Joan hated him, but he could also trust her to act as his office enforcer whenever she redirected her rage onto another hapless employee.

Reaching up and adjusting his tie, he walked through the door leading to the private dining area with the table set with silver, crystal and china. Delicious aromas wafted from the nearby kitchen. He’d planned for them to eat, drink and then discuss business. That was something he’d learned from his uncle. Seth Rockwell’s mantra was “Feed them, drink them, and then kill the bastards with kindness.” Booth was willing to exercise the first two, but kindness was not a part of his business repertoire. His approach was straight, no chaser.

Ten minutes later Joan ushered the advertising executives into the space that on occasion doubled as her boss’s second home. Her late lover’s nephew had renovated the entire floor to suit his personality. The furnishings were expensive yet not ostentatious. There was nothing wrong with what she’d selected for Seth Rockwell, but after Seth died, it was as if Booth sought to erase every trace of the man whom she’d promised to love—even in death. However, the upside of Booth taking over the helm was that he’d expanded the agency beyond anything Seth could’ve imagined. Seth had done business the old way, with a smile and a handshake, while Booth relied on Machiavellian machinations.

Booth was smiling, but his eyes weren’t. They quickly assessed the well-dressed men, instinctually identifying the weaker of the two when he offered his hand. His fingernails were bitten to the quick.

Both were named John, and with the exception of the gnawed fingernails, they were Tweedledum and Tweedledee, indistinguishable: gray-flecked brown hair, gray eyes and clean-shaven. Both favored brown suits, shoes, white shirts and brown-and-white ties with differing patterns. Even their haircuts were the same, close-cropped and parted on the right side. They were updated versions of TV’s
Mad Men.

He gestured to the sideboard, where a white-jacketed waiter
stood in front of a well-stocked bar. “Gentlemen, may I offer you something to drink?”

Tweedledum, the senior account manager, ordered a caipirinha and Tweedledee a suffering bastard. Booth nodded to the bartender, grinning and exhibiting porcelain veneers. Cocktails, rich food and casual conversation before talking business were the prerequisites for closing a deal. Normally he would’ve had wine, but today he would take his lead from the ad execs.

“Ricky, I’ll have a smoky martini.”

The mixologist nodded. “I’m on it, Mr. Gordon.”

Booth was hard-pressed not to laugh when the two men strolled across the room to stare at the images flickering across the large wall-mounted flat-screen television. Their stunned expressions were priceless, and he wished he had a camera to capture them for posterity. He’d instructed an intern to set up a PowerPoint presentation with the frames of film Mitchell Leon had taken of Seneca and Phillip with the intention of whetting the creative appetites of the advertising executives before they sat down to negotiate the terms of signing Phillip Kingston as pitchman for the luxury crossover vehicle.

The ice in John Waller’s suffering bastard rattled like dice as he clasped his hands around the icy-cold concoction to keep his hands still. Whenever he was excited or exasperated, the fingers found their way to his mouth. “Who is she?” he whispered.

This time Booth did laugh, the warm rich sound bubbling up from his chest. His ploy had worked. The image of Seneca Houston’s face as she peered over her shoulder was mesmerizing. Her startled expression, wide-set eyes filled with indecision, slightly parted full lips, the profusion of raven curls around her face and sweeping over her bared shoulders, the sensual curve of her back, the distinctive, colorful butterfly
tattoo at the base of her spine and the outstretched legs and arched feet in a pair of stilettos as she straddled Philip Kingston’s lap were cause to give most men—if they were normal—an instantaneous erection. He had been no exception.

Booth took his drink from the bartender, picked up the remote, freezing the frame, and walked over to stand beside Waller. “She’s Phillip Kingston’s girlfriend.”

John Alexander joined them, staring numbly at the frozen images on the screen. “Holy shit!”

“Are you talking about Kingston or the girl?” Booth asked Tweedledum.

“Both. They’re perfect together. Maybe we can use her for something. Do you know how we can get in touch with her?” The words rushed off his tongue.

Gotcha! Booth mused. He’d gotten their rapt attention even before sitting down to discuss business. “That’s easy, because she’s a BGM client.”

The Johns extended their glasses as if they’d choreographed the motion countless times. “I think we’re onto something,” Waller announced proudly. “We plan to run the ad with Kingston during the Super Bowl, and what better time than to feature him with a beautiful woman who just happens to be his girlfriend?”

John Alexander took a long swallow of his caipirinha. “What happens if they break up before the ad airs?”

Booth’s eyes darkened until all traces of blue had disappeared, leaving them a frosty green. “That shouldn’t concern you. Remember, Kingston and Butterfly—”

“Butterfly?” the two men chorused, interrupting him.

“Sixties supermodel Lesley Hornby went by the name of Twiggy, and Seneca Houston is Butterfly. As I was saying, their relationship should not concern you. You’re selling a product, and BGM is responsible for its clients’ image. And, if
they do break up, then our publicity department will handle it so that it doesn’t impact negatively on either of them.”

He depressed the pause button and the frozen image switched to one of Seneca and Phillip in wedding attire. Booth sipped his drink, watching the reaction of the men who were transfixed by the photographs of the attractive couple.

He did the calculations in his head. If the auto company was willing to offer Kingston twenty mil over four years to endorse their product, then he would ask for ten percent for Butterfly. Earning a cool two hundred thousand, less commission, for appearing in a ten-second spot with Phillip Kingston was a very nice start for a twenty-year-old girl from upstate New York.

Ricky, doubling as a waiter, approached with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “I have barbecued tandoori shrimp, mini deviled crab cakes with tomato remoulade and potato rosti with crème fraiche, caviar and dill.”

Waller set his drink on a nearby glass-topped table, accepted a cocktail napkin from Ricky and selected a rosti with caviar. “I think I’m going to like doing business with you, Gordon. Nice office, good drinks and wonderful food.”

Booth gave him a facetious grin. “I’ve always said that if you can’t do it well, then don’t bother to do it at all.”

John Alexander nodded, smiling. “It’s the same with Norman, Kilburn and Spencer. We’ve staked our reputation as being one of the best advertising agencies in the country. That’s why we’re very excited to come up with a campaign to promote one of the most electrifying vehicles to come along in years. And having Phillip Kingston as the spokesperson is as phenomenal as his stats.”

John Waller took a crab cake and popped it into his mouth. “Don’t forget to warn Kingston that if he’s a bad boy not only will he lose the endorsement but he’ll have to repay all monies
for that particular year. You know how some of
these people
act when they get two nickels to rub together. It goes to their head.”

Booth counted slowly to ten, hoping to defuse his quick temper before he said something he would later come to regret. He’d worked hard to get the endorsement for Phillip, and he would be damned if he’d let a tight-ass bigot take money out of his pocket.

“You take care of the advertising campaign and I’ll take care of my clients. And, in case you’re not aware of it, ‘these people’ is hardly politically correct.” Sarcasm marred his forced polite tone.

John Alexander shot his assistant a disapproving look. “There are times when my associate forgets himself.”

Booth waved his hand as if brushing away an annoying insect. “Please don’t apologize for him. I’m relieved that neither of my clients heard it, because it wouldn’t bode too well for your company. Would it, Mr. Waller?”

A bright flush crept up his neck to his hairline. “Sorry about that,” he said, apologizing.

“Apology accepted,” Booth said grudgingly. “Ricky, please freshen up everyone’s drink. After we eat, I’ll have the head of legal join us. The sooner we ink this deal, the sooner you can begin to put your campaign together. I also want you to keep in mind that Ms. Houston will probably be out of the country in the fall, because she’ll be involved in several fashion shows for next year’s spring line.”

“We’ll work around her schedule,” Alexander said. “We just picked up another client who might be interested in your Butterfly.”

“Who are they?” He’d piqued Booth’s curiosity.

“I can’t divulge the name, because we haven’t finalized the deal. But they are a cosmetics company and they’re looking
for a new fresh face. As soon as we bring them on board, I’ll contact you for headshots.”

Booth nodded, watching in smug delight that the ad execs couldn’t keep their eyes from straying to the television screen. Seneca Houston had become his secret weapon. Once her face appeared on the pages and covers of glossy magazines, she could name her price. He knew he could sell her, because everyone had a price, and he would make certain she wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand a day.