view,
but Lara hiked the sheet all the way to her shoulders.
Clay pushed the sheet back down and
kissed her shoulder. “Relax. Even if there was anyone out there, they couldn’t
see you.” He wrapped a towel around his waist. “And there’s nothing you could
do to make yourself any more desirable, either.”
The knocking got even more
emphatic. Clay kissed Lara’s neck and then headed into the outer rooms. “Chill
out! Geez!”
Lara looked at her reflection and
saw herself wearing a sheet and suffering from a serious case of bed-head. I
look like the Statue of Liberty after a one-night stand.
* * *
Out in the suite, Clay threw open
the door to a pudgy little bald man wearing purple sweats, silver
cross-trainers and Buddy Holly glasses with diamond-studded temples.
“Ten A of M, people!” Chartre
trundled past Clay. Two female assistants—a blonde with long, straight hair and
a redhead with her curls in a ponytail—followed, doing their best to avert
their eyes as they passed their scantily clad boss.
“But we haven’t even had
breakfast,” Clay said.
“Make that ten oh-one,” Chartre
countered. “And I can’t imagine what you could have been doing to delay
breakfast for so long.” Chartre looked Clay up and down over the tops of his
glasses as though noticing for the first time that he wore nothing more than a
strategically placed band of terrycloth. “Then again, I have a pretty good
guess. But what is that to me? I’ve been working since seven. The luxuries of a
leisurely lifestyle do not trickle down to my level on the organizational
chart.”
“It’s easy being C.E.O., huh?
People barging in on you on Sunday morning and making outrageous demands at such
ungodly hours?”
“I’m not making any demands on you. I’m here to see Miss Dixon.” He strode toward the bedroom.
“I’m not sure she’s ready,” Clay
said as the assistants edged past him.
“Ten-oh-two!” Chartre disappeared
through the door.
* * *
Lara preened in the smoked glass of
the wall. She wore a negligee from the closet that resembled the swan gown
Bjork wore to the Oscars. And it was at least six sizes too big. Lara pinched
the plunging bodice to keep from flopping out.
“Good morning.” Lara played it
cool.
Chartre froze and stared at her.
His face was stern, his lips taut, his eyes oddly impassive as they bored
through her. Flanking Chartre, the assistants whipped out their phones so they
would be ready to take notes when the Great Man spoke.
“The raw materials are all
present,” he said.
Lara frowned. “What does that
mean?”
“He’s saying you make a nice
clothes rack,” Clay explained as he sauntered in. Lara felt her face redden.
Clay stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. “He wants you to believe
he has everything under control.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Chartre
retorted. “I know what a woman’s got. Although, I can’t for the life of me
fathom why, of all the wonderful negligees in that closet, anyone your size
would choose this monstrosity.”
It was the closest to my hand
when I reached into the closet.
“Eight,” Chartre barked to the
assistants without looking at either of them. The redhead nodded and typed on
her phone.
Chartre turned toward Clay.
“Scoot!” he said, fanning Clay away with the back of his hand. Then he circled
Lara, studying her as if she were a dog in a kennel show. She had the distinct
impression he was judging her haunches, muzzle and coat—not good, since at the
moment she felt more like a beagle than a greyhound. It was a strange position
to be in, but it got stranger when, without warning, Chartre reached into the
swan costume, hefted one of Lara’s breasts with the back of a hand, then
tweaked it to see how it bounced.
Lara squeaked, jumped back and
raised her hand to slap Chartre, but Clay stopped her.
“It’s okay. He’s a professional,”
Clay whispered through gritted teeth.
Without acknowledging
but Lara hiked the sheet all the way to her shoulders.
Clay pushed the sheet back down and
kissed her shoulder. “Relax. Even if there was anyone out there, they couldn’t
see you.” He wrapped a towel around his waist. “And there’s nothing you could
do to make yourself any more desirable, either.”
The knocking got even more
emphatic. Clay kissed Lara’s neck and then headed into the outer rooms. “Chill
out! Geez!”
Lara looked at her reflection and
saw herself wearing a sheet and suffering from a serious case of bed-head. I
look like the Statue of Liberty after a one-night stand.
* * *
Out in the suite, Clay threw open
the door to a pudgy little bald man wearing purple sweats, silver
cross-trainers and Buddy Holly glasses with diamond-studded temples.
“Ten A of M, people!” Chartre
trundled past Clay. Two female assistants—a blonde with long, straight hair and
a redhead with her curls in a ponytail—followed, doing their best to avert
their eyes as they passed their scantily clad boss.
“But we haven’t even had
breakfast,” Clay said.
“Make that ten oh-one,” Chartre
countered. “And I can’t imagine what you could have been doing to delay
breakfast for so long.” Chartre looked Clay up and down over the tops of his
glasses as though noticing for the first time that he wore nothing more than a
strategically placed band of terrycloth. “Then again, I have a pretty good
guess. But what is that to me? I’ve been working since seven. The luxuries of a
leisurely lifestyle do not trickle down to my level on the organizational
chart.”
“It’s easy being C.E.O., huh?
People barging in on you on Sunday morning and making outrageous demands at such
ungodly hours?”
“I’m not making any demands on you. I’m here to see Miss Dixon.” He strode toward the bedroom.
“I’m not sure she’s ready,” Clay
said as the assistants edged past him.
“Ten-oh-two!” Chartre disappeared
through the door.
* * *
Lara preened in the smoked glass of
the wall. She wore a negligee from the closet that resembled the swan gown
Bjork wore to the Oscars. And it was at least six sizes too big. Lara pinched
the plunging bodice to keep from flopping out.
“Good morning.” Lara played it
cool.
Chartre froze and stared at her.
His face was stern, his lips taut, his eyes oddly impassive as they bored
through her. Flanking Chartre, the assistants whipped out their phones so they
would be ready to take notes when the Great Man spoke.
“The raw materials are all
present,” he said.
Lara frowned. “What does that
mean?”
“He’s saying you make a nice
clothes rack,” Clay explained as he sauntered in. Lara felt her face redden.
Clay stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. “He wants you to believe
he has everything under control.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Chartre
retorted. “I know what a woman’s got. Although, I can’t for the life of me
fathom why, of all the wonderful negligees in that closet, anyone your size
would choose this monstrosity.”
It was the closest to my hand
when I reached into the closet.
“Eight,” Chartre barked to the
assistants without looking at either of them. The redhead nodded and typed on
her phone.
Chartre turned toward Clay.
“Scoot!” he said, fanning Clay away with the back of his hand. Then he circled
Lara, studying her as if she were a dog in a kennel show. She had the distinct
impression he was judging her haunches, muzzle and coat—not good, since at the
moment she felt more like a beagle than a greyhound. It was a strange position
to be in, but it got stranger when, without warning, Chartre reached into the
swan costume, hefted one of Lara’s breasts with the back of a hand, then
tweaked it to see how it bounced.
Lara squeaked, jumped back and
raised her hand to slap Chartre, but Clay stopped her.
“It’s okay. He’s a professional,”
Clay whispered through gritted teeth.
Without acknowledging
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