Butterfly by Rochelle Alers Page B

her. She was still executive assistant to the CEO because she knew the functioning of the company in her sleep. In other words, she knew where all the bodies were buried.
    His first order of business had been to get Joan Powers and every employee to sign a confidentiality agreement. Every piece of mail, telephone call and what was discussed in meetings had become sacrosanct. Booth knew he ran BGM like a despot, but it was necessary for continued success. Despot or not, he rewarded his employees with liberal salaries and year-end bonuses.
    “See if he’s available at two.” He waved a hand, dismissing her. “That’s all.”
    “What if he’s not available for that time?”
    “That’s all,” Booth repeated. He waited until the annoying woman walked out of his office, closing the door behind her, then shook his head. The only reason he hadn’t given Joan her walking papers was because he’d promised his uncle thathe would never fire her. And despite being the son of a bitch he was, he never would go back on an oath he’d made to the man who’d become his surrogate father.
    Picking up the cup, he took a deep swallow of the premium brew. Good coffee, beautiful women and gourmet food topped Booth Gordon’s favorite things list, but not necessarily in that order. His mind kept going back to his meeting with Seneca Houston. What he’d first interpreted as belligerence he now thought of as a banked fire that would serve her well once she waded into the treacherous and cutthroat world of international modeling. And, she would need the fire and everything she had to bring to stand out among women who were willing to sell an internal body part to make it big.
    A soft chiming of the telephone claimed his attention. It was his private line. He depressed a button. “Yes?”
    “There’s a Mr. William Jacobs on the line for you. He says it’s about Seneca Houston’s contract.”
    “Put him through,” he told Joan.
    “Mr. Gordon?”
    Booth sat up straighter in his executive leather chair. The voice coming through the speaker was deep, authoritative. “Yes.”
    “William Jacobs. I represent a potential client of yours, Seneca Houston. I’d like to talk to you about her contract. I need clarification as to the amount of your commission.”
    “What do you want to know?” Booth questioned.
    “It’s a little excessive.”
    “The contract stipulates a breakdown as to the percentage.”
    “It’s still excessive. I’ve advised Ms. Houston to select her own makeup and hairstylists.”
    A muscle twitched nervously in Booth’s jaw when heclenched his teeth. “Has she gone along with your recommendations?”
    “She has,” the lawyer confirmed. “I’ve also recommended she sign the contract, but only if you’re willing to cut your commission to twenty percent.”
    Booth’s fingers curled into tight fists. It looked as if his golden goose was going to play hard to get. He’d promised to turn her into a supermodel if she gave him complete control of her career. Well, it appeared that wasn’t going to happen.
    What he couldn’t afford to do was not sign her when he recalled her retort: If not you, then there will be someone else. There wasn’t going to be someone else. BGM would represent Butterfly for ten percent. That was a fact no one other than Booth Wilkes Gordon needed to know.
    “Twenty percent it is, Mr. Jacobs.”
    “Can you please revise the contract and download it to me, and I’ll have Ms. Houston sign it. A courier will deliver it to you for your countersignature. I’ll instruct him to wait for an executed copy.”
    A wry smile touched Booth’s mouth. “I’ll have my legal department make the revisions, and you have my word you will receive it today. Don’t forget to e-mail your bill. Your payment will be in the same envelope as the executed contracts.”
    A deep chuckle came through the speaker. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gordon. Perhaps one of these days we can get