Desire Inc.

ZOE ZARANI

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.mischiefbooks.com

An eBook Original 2015

Copyright © Zoe Zarani

Cover design: Head Design 2017, cover images: Shutterstock.com

Zoe Zarani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780008168131

Version: 2017-08-22

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

About the Publisher

ONE

Six-thirty on a balmy evening in early September. New York Fashion Week had just gotten off to a good start. It was now my moment. This was my big night, the presentation of this season’s Desire handbag collection. In just four years, I had been lucky enough to steadily grow the business thanks to a core group of women. My first clients had been a mix of boutique store owners, women who were climbing the heights of the corporate world and lots of ladies who lunch. Bless their loyal hearts. They kept buying my handbags and spreading the word to others. Last year I had made enough profit to pay back a sizeable chunk of the bank loan. Now I wanted to celebrate and thank the group by showing off this year’s line with a cocktail party in my East Village loft that was home, office and showroom.

The launch of every new season is an important night. It’s a make or break moment. I wasn’t anywhere near the big handbag guns – Fendi, Hermès, Prada – but I was holding my own. Smart, efficient Leila, the best assistant anyone could ever have, had convinced Aileen Gerber, a reporter from Women’s Wear Daily, to show up. Maybe one day I’d get Vogue, the premier fashion magazine, to take a look, and the trendmaker stores Bergdorf Goodman and Barneys to place an order. One day soon. If my luck continued to hold out.

I was nervous. I’m always anxious showing off my new bags, twelve in all, but tonight my heart was in my throat. I blamed it on the unexpected high cost of the party, the WWD reporter and the number of people coming. Up to now I’d shown my new line to one client at a time. I’m at my best dealing one on one, and I like to give the client all my attention. It makes her feel exclusive. I know how to chat up a client, gently convince her that the bag she’s looking at is an accessory she or her store can’t do without. Tonight I had 33 guests expecting me to deliver another set of must-have handbags.

Leila turned on the music track she’d put together – Justin Timberlake, Tegan and Sara, Haim, Jessie Ware, Adele and others. The first song was ‘Get Lucky’ by Daft Punk, a typical Leila touch. I needed lots of luck. ‘Keep it soft,’ I said. I didn’t want my guests to have to shout over the music. Besides, I needed calming down. With my stomach tied in knots, I took up my post at the open door.

Geoffrey and Giles arrived first. I hugged them, knowing that they were on my side. Partners in life and in their very sought-after interior decorating business, they had been pushing me to loosen up with my designs, take more risks. Three years ago they’d walked into my showroom for the first time with a client and proceeded to convince her to buy three of my most expensive bags. I could always count on them to drop in with one of their many clients. I always made a sale. Giles was a short teddy-bear of a man, with pinchable cheeks, zany bowties and a tongue that could slice you in half. Geoffrey was a few inches taller, with a muscled body, long thinning hair he wore in a low ponytail and a rugged handsome face. We’d become good friends. I had spent many a weekend with them at their place in the Hamptons.

‘I hope you don’t have to rush out of here. I need you.’

Geoffrey ran his finger down my nose. He’d seen the designs, but not the finished product. ‘I want to say, “Trust me,” but I hate people who say that so all I’m going to say is, “It’s going to be great.”’ He looked me up and down. ‘You look hot tonight.’

‘Thanks.’ I’d found a red silk dress at a vintage store over in the West Village for a really good price. I could barely breathe, it hugged me so tightly, and I had to remember not to bend over or my breasts would fall out, but I thought it matched the look of the new line – young and jazzy. That’s how the dress made me feel. Next year I was going to hit the dreaded thirty.

Geoffrey slowly spun me around to survey the back of the dress. When I faced him again he raised one neatly tweezed eyebrow. ‘You look too good. You’ve got a new lover.’

‘Man-free and not looking.’

‘Someday some lucky man will catch you for keeps.’

‘Never. Is the dress too breasty?’ Geoffrey, along with Leila, often acted as my fashion consultant. For tonight’s outfit I’d used my own instincts. ‘I can always cover up with a wrap.’

Geoffrey scowled. ‘No way. You’ve got the best boobs in New York City.’

I laughed. ‘And how many women’s breasts have you seen?’

‘The way they’re showing them off these days? More than I need to.’ Geoffrey lifted my long chestnut-brown curls and draped them strategically over my breasts. ‘Give them just a peekaboo. Sexier.’

I kissed him. ‘Thanks, pal.’

Giles jerked his head toward the door. ‘Who’s the hunk we just saw getting out of a cab with the lady who Opiumed herself into a stupor?’

‘That must be Olivia Farrington,’ I said. ‘She does like that perfume.’

‘What about the hunk?’

‘I don’t know who he is. Olivia called and told me she was bringing a guest. He’s the only other man coming.’ She hadn’t asked if I minded, which annoyed me. The cocktail party was to thank the people I knew, people who had given Desire, Inc. a good start. I had no idea who this man was and Olivia hadn’t bothered to explain. My annoyance lasted about four seconds. Olivia Farrington was my best customer. She believed every outfit she owned deserved its own bag. She owned a lot of outfits and a lot of bags, a lot of them mine.

‘Well, whoever he is –’ Giles grabbed a cheese puff from the tray a waiter was offering him ‘– he’s drop dead. Must be gay to go out with her. Or dirt poor.’

Geoffrey’s eyebrow went up again. ‘With a Brioni suit? Gay maybe. Poor no.’ He gave Giles’s shoulder a soft punch. ‘And he’s not that good-looking.’

I’d been pressing the buzzer, letting people in during this conversation. Now I could hear the old-fashioned cage creak up to my floor. ‘Move, guys, I’ve got work to do.’

Guests flowed in. I shook hands, kissed cheeks, remembered to call each person by name and kept thinking, What if the bags flop? I had strayed from my classic designs into crazier, younger territory with some of the bags, using a lot of patchwork, stripes, squares, triangles, soft Italian suedes sewn next to heavy damasks and bright Indian silks. Designing the new bags was an exciting experience that kept me busy for months. The finished product had thrilled me until a few hours ago. I stole a quick look at the work table where Leila and I had strategically placed the bags and crossed my fingers. Behind me Leila took the guests’ briefcases, their wraps, their shopping bags. Before dropping them off in my office, she nudged me with her elbow, her way of saying everything was going to be fine.

Waves of Opium announced the arrival of Olivia Farrington, a hefty fifty-something widow whose only claim to beauty, according to some of my nastier clients, was the considerable fortune left her by her Wall Street husband. She air-kissed me. I barely saw her, my eyes glued to the man standing behind her. Drop dead was right. He took the breath right out of me. Somewhere in his early forties. Over six feet, dark wavy hair, lots of it. A square jaw. Tanned skin. Thick biteable lips. Strong aquiline nose. He exuded power, leadership. And he was far too handsome for anyone’s good, his included, I suspected. With looks like that, the whole world falls at your feet. Beauty doesn’t build character, my mother liked to say whenever I complained that I wasn’t pretty enough.

Not gay. I could admire a gay man’s good looks, his perfectly shaped body, but nothing would happen to me down below. This man had the kind of male sexual strength that can get a woman wet with one glance, which was great if all you wanted was a good fuck. If you were dumb enough to translate that into wanting love, you ended up a crying mess. I’ve made sure never to be that dumb.

I tried to look away but what held me were his eyes. A colour that seemed to vary with each blink, from see-through brown to aqua blue to the palest of greens. His eyes stayed on me and I felt my stomach tremble. His gaze felt like a hook reaching inside me, catching me, holding me. The only way I was able to fight him was to close my eyes. When I opened them again he was handing Olivia a glass of champagne. Free of his gaze, I felt lessened. As if something of mine had been taken away. That was a first for me and I didn’t like it.

I like men. I like what they do to me sexually. I like what I do to them even more. I’m a firm believer in women being in charge in every way. I learned from my mother never to cede power to a man. So far I’d managed just fine. A few years ago, I’d started a male escort business to help other women be in charge of their desires. A man was just another accessory was the way I thought of it. I wanted to call it 2Desire, but Leila reminded me how malicious the fashion world was. With that name, they would have found me out. I settled for Close Encounters.

Olivia waved a Chanel-clad arm. ‘Darling, meet my very good friend Archer Thorne. You must have heard of him. The Thorne Company? He’s in charge of all sorts of big stuff. Archer, meet the wonderfully talented Nicole Wenders.’

‘And beautiful,’ Thorne added, his eyes skating down to my breasts. He took my hand. I expected him to shake it. Instead he held it, rubbed his thumb down my palm, a touch I instantly felt between my legs. Damn him. I hate this. I took my hand back.

‘Olivia has told me so much about you, I had to meet you.’ He had a deep, soft voice that wrapped itself around me like a cashmere stole. ‘I hope I’m not intruding.’

‘You’re not.’ I was glad Olivia knew zip. I didn’t want this man to know anything about me. I grabbed a glass of champagne from the waiter, checked that the horrifyingly expensive trays of hors d’oeuvres were making the rounds and excused myself. I walked to the centre of the room ready to make my little speech. I quickly saw that I was competing for attention with Thorne. Every head was turned to look at him, Giles and Geoffrey included. Even Leila was getting her eyeful.

‘Leila,’ I called out. She quickly picked up a spoon from a wandering tray and clinked it against her glass. I waited until the room quieted down and took a deep breath.

‘Thank you for coming. Thank you for your continued loyalty to my work. I wouldn’t be here without you.’

‘Hear, hear.’ Geoffrey raised a glass. ‘We thank you.’ Everyone raised glasses. Thorne saw my hands were empty and before I could blink, was standing in front of me, offering me his glass. I could smell him now that he was away from Olivia’s Opium. A musky scent, sandalwood mixed with something even more inviting.

‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, as he slipped the glass between my fingers.

‘Thank me later,’ he whispered back. His eyes stayed on me as he retreated. I found myself smiling at him against my better judgment. Hell, why not? I thought. It’s just a smile. Not a come-on. I’m not going to thank him later.

I raised my glass, my gaze on Thorne. ‘Let’s drink to new adventures,’ I said and took a too long sip of his champagne. ‘This year I’ve branched out into new territory with some of the bags,’ I announced, feeling the warmth of the wine slither down my chest. ‘I hope you like them.’ I looked over at Leila, who was in position at one end of the work table. The covers on the bags were attached to a string that she now held in her hand.

‘Please, Leila.’ She nodded and pulled. The covers came off in one swoop. Twelve new handbags designed by me, sewn and assembled in a workshop in the Bronx, now gleamed under a string of spotlights.

I heard a collective intake of breath, then a silence that lasted a century. Giles and Geoffrey and Thorne were the first to break the silence with applause. The women followed suit, adding praise. ‘Gorgeous.’ ‘Fabulous.’ ‘You did it again.’ Geoffrey whistled. ‘Way out’ came from Giles. Thorne’s gaze stayed fixed on me and said nothing.

Olivia came rushing over, leaned into me and whispered, ‘The one with the purple silk and red suede. That one’s mine. It’ll pick up the accents of a dress I bought this very morning. It’s perfect. I’ll pay you the usual two thousand dollars not to make another one like it.’

I laughed.

‘All right, I’ll go as high as two five.’ This was a game we played every year. She would pick a bag, make her offer. I would laugh. She’d add another $500. The actual selling price to private clients was $1600.

‘It’s a deal,’ I said. Olivia Farrington was obsessed by handbags. She always wanted one of mine only for herself. Always the most colourful one. I knew her tastes and had made this one especially for her. I didn’t mind not selling it to anyone else. She only cared about the colour combination, not the design. I could duplicate the bag in every colour except purple and red. The other women were busy picking up the bags, opening them, exchanging opinions, still stealing glances at Archer Thorne. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Leila follow them to make sure nothing got spilled on the bags.

The WWD reporter walked up to me, a handsome woman in her sixties with short silver hair brushed back behind her ears, casually dressed in black jeans, a black jersey top and flat black ballerinas. ‘Hi, I’m Aileen Gerber.’

‘I know.’ I shook her hand. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘I like the funky ones. They have pizzazz. They’ll be a hit with a younger crowd than you’ve got here.’

‘That’s what I’m hoping for.’ So far I’d been successful selling to the forty-and-up crowd.

‘I’d like to come over with a photographer tomorrow,’ Aileen said. ‘Shoot the bags, do a brief interview.’ Suddenly Thorne was standing next to me, his arm pressed against my shoulder as if we were an item. I leaned away.

Aileen took a quick look at him, then came back to me, clearly not impressed with him. ‘I’ll try to get an article in the next few weeks.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ Thorne said before I could. I wanted to give him a good kick in the shins. Who the hell did he think he was?

‘It’s only a maybe. There’s not much room for anything but the fashion collections right now. I can’t promise anything.’

I grabbed Thorne’s arm and pinched hard to stop him from opening his mouth again. ‘I understand. I appreciate you taking the time.’

‘How about seven o’clock tomorrow morning?’ Aileen asked. ‘I know it’s goddamn early, but I got a lot of shows to sit through the rest of the day.’

If she’d wanted four o’clock in the morning I would have said yes. ‘Seven o’clock it is.’

‘Good. I’ll have Starbucks’ Frappuccino with my interview and some of the edibles you’ll have left over from tonight. These women feed only on egg whites. The photographer will take care of himself.’ Aileen hitched her purse strap back on her shoulder and gave Thorne a long hard stare. ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know,’ she told him. ‘And that goes for money too.’ With that she left. I could have hugged her.

Thorne was laughing. ‘You’ll have your article. Front page too. That’s a Thorne guarantee.’

‘Mr Thorne – ’

‘Archer.’

‘Mr Thorne, I don’t need your guarantee. I don’t need you. I was wrong earlier. You are intruding.’ I walked back to the table where my bags were on display and started explaining to whoever wanted to know how I had come up with each design.

By nine-thirty the place had emptied. Guests, waiters, caterer all gone. Leila and I had the place to ourselves. Well, almost. Thorne was somehow still present like that annoying buzz in my ear I sometimes got. Except this buzz was between my legs. Maybe I was hallucinating. I was that tired. I went over to the computer and shut off Jessie Ware singing ‘Imagine It Was Us’. I kicked off my too high heels, unzipped my dress in order to breathe again and dropped myself down on the couch at one end of the room. Leila started putting the cloth covers back on the handbags.

‘Don’t bother,’ I told her. ‘The WWD photographer is coming at seven. Come over here. It’s recap time.’ I watched Leila as she carefully folded the covers next to each handbag, and realigned each bag with her long thin fingers. She was thoughtful, loyal, beautiful, intelligent and bisexual, with a marked preference for women. If I wasn’t a committed heterosexual, I would have fallen in love with her. Thirty two years old, a New Jersey native, she had strong Middle Eastern looks that came from her Tunisian parents. Her thick black hair was cut in a stylish short shag. Tonight she was wearing a beaded turquoise tunic over black leggings and Moroccan-style orange slippers she’d picked up from a street vendor. She’d eavesdropped on the guests’ comments and in a few minutes she would repeat their words verbatim. I always told her she was wasted working for me. The CIA would have snapped her up in an instant and paid her a lot more than I was able to. One day, one day, I hoped, I’d be able to pay her the salary she deserved.

Finding her had been a real coup. We met in Florence six years ago, while I was attending the Santa Croce leather workshop and she was wandering round Europe on a Eurail pass. I was eating a sandwich in the church’s garden when she came in, took some photographs, then tried to pick me up. I told her I was flattered but not inclined that way, and we ended up hanging out together for the week she stayed in Florence. We promised to write, then didn’t.

A year later, just when I’d moved back to New York and was planning to start Desire, Inc., Leila e-mailed me, saying she was in New York taking a few courses at FIT in retail business management. I hired her to be my assistant, my business manager, my support, my friend. She never let me down. I really lucked out with Leila.

Now she was moving the flower vases around.

‘Stop being obsessive-compulsive and come over here. You’re making me anxious.’

‘Like you don’t do that to me every day.’ Leila grabbed two glasses and a lone standing bottle of vodka from the bar table and walked over. She poured the glasses half full and handed

one to me.

Vodka was Leila’s cure for all ills.

I looked up at her. Good news we always celebrated with champagne.

‘That bad?’

Leila said nothing, clinked glasses with me and, still standing, downed her drink in one gulp.

‘The applause, the compliments, all lies?’

‘Come on, Nicole, drink. You’ll survive.’

Vodka gave me heartburn, but so did bad news. I drank.

Leila laughed at the face I was making, then sat down next to me and gave me a hug. ‘We ran out of champagne.’

I pulled back and looked at her grinning face. ‘You bitch.’

‘You said it. Hey, I just wanted to shake you up a little, get you to stop dreaming about that god Olivia Farrington brought over.’

‘Me dreaming about that man?’ Was it so obvious? ‘If anything he’s a nightmare.’

‘You always turn a hot red when your nightmares can’t take their eyes off you?’

‘All right, I’ll admit he’s hot. Very hot. I wouldn’t mind taking him to bed. If no one else was available. Archer Thorne is an arrogant know-it-all. And who ever heard of a name like that? I bet he made it up to sound like a master of the universe. Go on, tell me.’

‘Well, right after you two got introduced, your eyes got a five-carat shine I haven’t seen since I’ve known you.’

I shot her a warning look.

‘Yes, boss, I’m well aware that for you men are, like handbags, just an accessory, but maybe it’s time to come out from behind that steel wall of yours.’

‘If I were hiding behind a wall, which I’m not, it would be made of glass, and don’t call me boss. Now tell me everyone’s reaction to the bags.’

‘Then I’ll have to buy a hammer tomorrow. As to the comments. “Decidedly odd.” That’s from Emilia Howell, who has to be ninety if she’s a day. She did say she might bring in her great-granddaughter. That was the low point. Best one, “I’ll take all of them”, from the buyer for Ramona, that new store in the meatpacking district, who I wooed for three months.’

‘Wooed how?’ I took another sip of vodka. Now that Leila was giving me good news, I didn’t mind the burn so much.

‘With persistence and my irresistible charm.’

‘Ah ha!’

She slapped my thigh. ‘Nooo. She’s not a lesbian. And I don’t go to bed with people to get you more business.’

‘You did for Close Encounters.’ When I started the male escort business, Desire, Inc. was on its first legs, and I didn’t stop to think that I had to be careful to keep Close Encounters secret. I scouted for candidates among waiters, bartenders, most of them actors waiting for the next part. I advertised on Craig’s List. I tested every candidate first for his social skills, then if he was good in bed. I wanted to offer clients a real escort, someone they could take to a restaurant or to a party if that’s what they wanted. The follow-up in bed was up to them.

A meal, a drink in a bar then a romp in a hotel room with no commitment on my part, no chance of getting my heart strings pulled, was fun. Until Leila convinced me it was far too dangerous for me to expose myself. She took over for a while, claiming it made having sex with a woman so much more exciting. I no longer felt that taking the would-be escort to bed was necessary. A drink with him, with me playing client of the website, was enough.