Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (4 page)

Twenty minutes later, I arrived panting in the lobby. The concierge greeted me as if we were old friends and escorted me to the valet stand where a sleek black Mercedes-Benz waited. The car ride was long enough to keep me wondering where the hell we were going.

Clearly, I already knew Calvin Chambers was wealthy—rich enough to have an extra three million dollars to spend—but Carmichael said that all other information was confidential, which only increased my interest. My Google search yielded a few helpful articles, but details beyond Chambers’ professional activities were limited. I was in the middle of a long article about the start of Chambers Funds LLC, Mr. Chambers’ hedge fund company, when I was called to board the flight, Las Vegas direct to New York City.

When I boarded, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I’d been booked in a first-class seat. Even though I grew up in a wealthy family, we didn’t travel much, and on the rare occasions we did, my sister and I rode in coach while my parents enjoyed complimentary bourbons and hot towel service.

After I’d buckled myself in and accepted a glass of white wine, I sorted through the stack of magazines nestled in the seatback in front of me—
Elle
,
Glamour
,
Vogue,
and
Forbes
. Normally, I’d toss anything that wasn’t fashion to the side—business and financial news weren’t exactly what I considered enjoyable reading—but a small headline caught my eye—
Calvin Chambers: Inside the Mind of an Enigmatic Billionaire.
What were the odds? Eagerly, I flipped through the magazine, as if the article would answer all my questions, the leading one being, why me?

On page 42, the headline sprawled across two pages with half the left page filled with a vivid picture, caption:
Calvin Chambers, CEO of Chambers Funds, attends Giulio Cesare’s opening at the Metropolitan Opera, New York City
. Dressed in a classic tuxedo, Mr. Chambers stared into the camera lens, eyes dark, lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. Heart beating, I stared back at him, studying him intently. He was much younger than I’d expected, even though I had already read that he was one of the world’s youngest billionaires. In my head, I’d pictured an older man, maybe late thirties or early forties, but certainly not early thirties, as this article stated he was.

Although young, his face held no trace of boyishness, and I wondered what he’d looked like as a child. Had he ever been six, playing in a sandbox with a shovel and truck? With a strong jaw and high brow, he looked particularly masculine. A slight crook in his nose made his face interesting, not traditionally handsome, but alluring, nonetheless. Not
my
type, I decided, but I could see why the article described him as a favorite among Manhattan models and how he had earned the number 3 spot on the
Sexy Thirty under Thirty
list.

His lifestyle was deemed a whirlwind of artistic pursuits, the article citing his love of the opera, art, and chess. “An avid collector of historical relics, Mr. Chambers recently purchased an original David Rossan for twenty-two million dollars from the Louvre, adding to his extensive collection of Sado-Christian paintings.”
Sado-Christian?
Even after two semesters of art history, I’d never heard of that genre of work.
How bizarre
.

“Despite his busy schedule, Mr. Chambers manages to remain just out of view from the public eye. Often surrounded by security, he distances himself from society at large, preferring privacy to celebrity. Business acquaintances praise him as committed and focused, while those inside his social circle opt for brooding and pensive as descriptors,” the article continued.

I studied his face again, looking into his eyes—dark like midnight blue or charcoal black. Something about his demeanor seemed melancholy, reminiscent of a sad song or a lonely night, but I couldn’t place it or begin to understand from where it came.

That picture haunted my thoughts as the skyscrapers whizzed by through the Mercedes’ tinted window. It was my first time in New York, but I couldn’t concentrate on the city sights, only the anticipation in my stomach and the possibility of my first encounter with Calvin Chambers. By the time the car screeched to a stop in front of a skyscraper, I had all but sweated through my outfit.

In solid block letters,
Chambers Fund Management, LLC
was illuminated on the top of the building, as if to shout our arrival. We were at his office—hardly the place I’d imagined for our intimate encounter.

I walked into the building cautiously, dazed by the unexpected art, the dark colors. A petite, redheaded receptionist greeted me from across the lobby and had me sign a visitors’ log.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling politely.  Obviously I was expected. 

“Um, is Mr. Chambers in yet?”  It wasn’t much of a leading question but I was desperate for any information at all.  With a tight smile, she told me that someone would be right with me and to have a seat by the swans.
The swans?
She pointed toward the back of the lobby where a row of chairs faced a small water fixture filled with several swans that I hadn’t noticed when I first walked in. What kind of man has black swans in his lobby?

Now, sitting in a hard plastic chair, my eyes kept wandering to the painting. I looked away, but after a few moments, I realized I was studying it again, the claw marks across the woman’s stomach, the seductive curl of her lip. A strange blend of curiosity and fascination bubbled in my stomach, like the time I accidentally walked through the velvet curtain in the old video store on Mulberry to see hundreds of women bare-chested and bronzed. I knew I had discovered a place for
adults
that I should leave immediately, but I stood rooted to the ground.

Uneasy, I swallowed nervously, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. In and out, in and out. The silence was so loud I worried my heartbeat would create an echo through the lobby’s high ceilings.

“Sabrina Clarke?” A slight, clerkish man appeared in the doorway, holding a folder to his chest. Not Mr. Chambers, but at least something was happening. 

“That’s me,” I said, wincing slightly at the nervous squeak in my tone. I cleared my throat. “I’m Sabrina.” 

Standing, I smoothed my wrinkled skirt, trying to keep my cool. I wished I felt more put together, but that just hadn’t been possible in twenty minutes.  Then again, I wondered if it would really have made much difference, considering how nervous I was.

He nodded, glanced quickly at the folder’s contents, and offered a handshake.  “I’m Oliver Du Cheval, Mr. Chambers’ personal assistant.” He might have been on the small side, but he had a natural confidence about him.

He didn’t elaborate any further, and I hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to ask more questions, after the ease with which the receptionist had shot me down.

Oliver Du Cheval’s fitted suit was exquisitely tailored, the rich fabric complementing not only the golden tone of his skin but the very wallpaper in the lobby.  He moved with a natural grace—if he’d been more feminine you could have called him dainty.  But there was also something sharp about him.
I couldn’t imagine him being the sort of man who made many compromises.  I tried to guess at his age and came up short. Did he color his hair? I couldn’t tell.  God, my mind was working overtime. 
Settle down, Sabrina,
I told myself. 
All you know about this man is that he has a nice suit, stop overanalyzing. 

It didn’t really help, though. 
He’s definitely the sort who’s going to notice I didn’t iron this morning…

“Follow me, please,” he said, and motioned for me to enter the hallway before him.  He closed the lobby door behind us silently, and I followed him down the hall.  Our footsteps didn’t make a sound on the thick carpet.  No industrial neutral weave for this office.  Discreet sconces lined the burgundy walls.  For a moment, I felt strangely like Little Red Riding Hood, about to meet the Big Bad Wolf.   Oliver led me to the end of the hallway.  He stopped and keyed a code to unlock the last door. 
Who locks offices in the middle of the day?
I wondered. 
Stop overanalyzing!
I scolded myself again. 

The office was empty.  Oliver sat at a prominently displayed mahogany monster of a desk, and nodded to the chairs in front of it.

Oliver flipped open the folder, retrieved a legal pad from the desk, and made a few notes.  I couldn’t see what was in the folder.  Should I say something? Ask something? Questions didn’t go far here… I was trying to formulate something, anything to say, when Oliver spoke.

“Is that natural?” he asked, breaking the silence, head still down.

“Excuse me—is
what
natural?” My eyes searched the top of his head for a clue, but there was nothing to indicate to what he referred.

. He looked up, impatience stamped on his sharp features.  “Are you naturally blonde, Ms. Clarke?” His tone seemed to imply that he hoped I was the stupidest person he’d interact with today.

Instinctively I reached up, feeling for a blonde curl. Normally, it was stick straight, but this morning hair curling had made its way to the top of the priority list, and the coil felt foreign between my sweaty fingers.

“Yes,” I stammered. “Well—no. I mean, yes, but—” The question confused me. I couldn’t see what my being naturally blonde had to do with the terms of the contract.

I took a breath and started over. “I have it highlighted now and then.” I tried out a smile.

He jotted something down.  No response to the smile, not even a flicker.

“All right,” he said, after a moment. He set the pen down and sat back, appraising me.  “Let’s go over how this is going to work so I don’t catch you off guard again.  Please answer the questions directly and honestly, and yes, they may be questions you weren’t expecting.  If my interview is satisfactory, you’ll be interviewed again, by Mr. Chambers.” He paused, until I nodded.  “If Mr. Chambers is satisfied with
that
interview, the contract will be finalized.”

I nodded hesitantly. Finalized? I thought it had been finalized before I left.  Interview?  I had tried to prepare myself for all sorts of events today, but interviews hadn’t factored in.  Well, I was here now, so… “Okay.” I said, with another nod.

“I must stress that you be honest in your answers,” he said, looking back down at his file. 

I nodded quickly, then realized he wasn’t looking at me, and squeaked out another “Okay.”

He flipped though the file quickly, brows knitted.

“The receptionist didn’t give you anything to sign?“

“Um, no,” I said.  “I mean, the visitor’s log…” 

“Did she give you the NDA?”

“The what?”

“
You don’t know what an NDA is? The non-disclosure agreement.”

Oh.  “No, no she didn’t.”

“Well, thankfully I have a copy here,” he said, reaching into the desk and sliding it across to me, accompanied by a heavy silver pen.  Something in his voice indicated he didn’t have much use for the receptionist, anyway.

As I skimmed the paperwork, he said, “This agreement dictates that anything discussed, anything that occurs, or anything that you discover, is entirely confidential,” he repeated. “Any breach whatsoever terminates the relationship, and our lawyers will contact you.
Understood?”  It sounded like something he’d memorized.

Fine by me.
I thought, and signed.

Oliver took the contract and placed it in an official-looking folder before locking it in his desk. “All right, Ms. Clarke, let’s begin. What kind of relationship do you have with your family?”

I snorted, mostly to myself, “Well… right now… it’s a bit tense.” “Elaborate.” He returned to his note-taking, apparently glad to be on track.

“My parents are very—,” I sniffed, trying to find the appropriate word, “—disappointed with my choice to participate in the auction.” If he wanted honest, he’d get honest.

”Both of them?”

”My father is pretty angry. My mother… I don’t know if she’s angry at me, but she always takes my father’s side. I doubt she’d be happy about it even if he wasn’t in the picture, though.”

“Understood. Now tell me…what turns you on?” The tone of his voice hadn’t changed, and I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

“Say what?” I asked. I’d heard him, but…

He lifted his icy eyes to mine. “What turns you on? Sexually.”

I felt the blood begin its return to my face. “I guess I don’t really know yet,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “I mean… the auction… I haven’t…” 

Oliver sighed again.  “Ms. Clarke, surely you have had some sexual thoughts in the past?”

He held my gaze for a moment, tapping his pen on the desk.

“Let’s try that again. I will attempt to be more specific for you, Ms. Clarke. What did you fantasize about the last time you had an orgasm?”

I blushed.
Hurry up and answer, Sabrina.

“What my first time would be like. What kind of man it’d be with.”

“What type of man was he?” He kept writing, not bothering to look up.