At Mr. Cartwright's Command (2 page)

A
bout 5 minutes past 3pm a black sedan with tinted windows pulls up just a few doors down from the McDonald's. And I'm standing there eagerly waiting.

The driver rolls down the window and asks, “Are you Tamara Pierce?”  I tell him that I am, and he comes around the side to open the door for me.  People on the streets are staring— It's not something that's seen regularly in this part of town.

The interior is comfortable with two rows of large leather seats facing each other, and I get it all to myself.  But that's what scares me. I want to sink into the warmth of the cushy seats, but I can't allow myself to get used to this.  The very few good things that have happened in my life have quickly been taken away, so why would this be any different?  After all, this meeting is just that – a meeting.  Mr. Cartwright very well might not like me or want to work with me, and I have to be prepared for that.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

He won't like me; he'll love me.  I'll make sure of it.

*

“We're here,” the driver says as the car comes to a halt. “The door man will show you where to go from here.  Have a nice day, Ms. Pierce!”

I step out of the car and bend my neck back to fully take in the towering heights of the building before me. 
The Autria Towers
says the sign above the large double doors.  This wasn't the agency, it was a high rise luxury apartment building. Did the driver bring me to the wrong place?

“Madame, can I help you find something? Or something?” I hear the heavily accented voice of the bellman say to me.  He has friendly eyes and he's eager to help.

“Uh, yes, does Mr. Cartwright have an office here or something?” I ask.

“Ah, oui, Monsieur Cartwright lives in the penthouse suite,” he explains as he opens the door wide for me.  “Let me show you to his private elevator.”

Private elevator?

I follow him along the marble floors of the lobby.
Luxury indeed,
I think to myself as I take in the sophisticated surroundings, once again feeling out of place in my worn out kicks.  I'm lead through a few rooms towards the back of the building to an elevator that has only one button. 

“Wait, so only he can access this elevator?”

“Of course, Madame.  But you are his guest so you are more than welcome to go straight up.”

Who the hell has their own private elevator? 
The very idea
baffled me.

“Go on,” the bellman says as the doors open, “He is waiting for you.”

The doors close and the elevator begins to move.  Elevators make me nauseous, but I know my nerves are also at play now.  I don't know what to expect when I get to the top, and I quickly realize that it should worry me more that I'm going alone to a man's
apartment
.  Isn't this the kind of situation they always warn women about?  He might be rich as fuck but it just doesn't sound normal, yet alone professional.

The elevator brings me to the top and I step out.  There's another door in front of me, only one, which I figure must lead to his quarters.

I knock on the door once, and then wait.  Almost a minute passes before I do it again.  And still no one answers.  And then I start to get nervous. 

Finally the door opens and an older man pops his head out.  “You must be Tamara,” he says with a warm smile.

I nod.  “Yes, I am, are you Mr. Cartwright?”

The man chuckles.  “Oh heavens no!  I'm Master Cartwright's butler, you can call me Ronald,” he says as he invites me in.  “Please, let me take your coat.”

I give him my coat as he asks, and suddenly I realize I am, once again, in a very elegant place wearing my same old, not-so-elegant clothes. Even worse, it's the same thing I had on
yesterday
.  Thank God Mr. Cartwright wasn't there to witness that.

“My, you are even prettier than your photos,” he says with bright eyes and I feel my cheeks flush. 

“Thanks,” I reply shyly.

I hear a deep voice boom from another room.  “Is that Ms. Pierce? Bring her to me.”

“Well, as the master orders.”

I follow Ronald through the sprawling apartment, and into what appears to be a study.  In front of me there's a man sitting behind a classic oak desk, newspaper up in front of his face and shiny leather shoes crossed and perched on it's edge.  I stand there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

“You can leave us now, Ronald.  Take the rest of the day off.”

Ronald looks slightly nervous when he says that.  He looks at me like he wants to say something more, but ultimately suppresses the urge.  “Alright, sir.  I will see you in the morning,” he says in a defeated tone, which throws me for a loop.

He exits the room and I hear the front door close just seconds later, leaving me alone in the penthouse with Mr. Cartwright.  A man who's face I've yet to see at this point.

“Sit down, Tamara,” he instructs me.  I hesitate, realizing there's still time to blow this joint with minimum embarrassment. Why did his butler make that face when he announced he wanted to be alone with me?  Do I really want to blow off a potential opportunity on a hunch?  I apprehensively take a seat in a chair in front of his desk, but I stay on high alert.

He finally puts down his newspaper and our eyes connect.  Like an idiot, I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out—I'm far too taken by his pale green eyes.  They're soft in color, but behind them laid a twinkle of something more devious. 

He's surprisingly young.  Older than me, perhaps in his early thirties or late twenties.  My eyes study his sculpted jaw, his kissable lips and the broad shoulders that his suit hugs just right. His hair is parted and pushed mainly to one side, and is a dark bronze hue that catches the light.  He could be a model himself—maybe he was at one time?  He has that perfect mix of rugged and refined handsomeness that I can't help but fall for.

I almost don't notice that he's studying me as well; closely and intensely.

Kicking his legs off the desk, he stands up from his chair and saunters around to the front, perching himself off it's edge.  He looks down at me, and I see his bottom lip get lost between his teeth as his eyes trail down my neck to my chest.

Shit, my clothes.

Actually, I don't think he's exactly looking at my clothes...

“My apologies, I'm being rude,” he says, “I'm Mr. Cartwright,” he introduces himself, extending his hand to me.

“Tamara,” I stammer nervously as I take his hand. My breath hitches at the electricity in our touch.

He chuckles. “Yes, I know.  Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?”

Fuck.
How am I supposed to tell this man in a designer suit, who lives in a freaking penthouse that I'm homeless, my mother tried to sell me for crack, and I only own one outfit because some other homeless bitch stole all my clothes?

Wait, why am I panicking? I'm an excellent bullshitter, after all.

“I, um, well I'm 20 years old. I'm 5'8”,” I lie again, “and I don't really have any experience modeling yet but I usually pick things up quickly. And I practice posing a lot in the mirror. And I really,
really
want this.”

He folds his arms in front of him. “I know all of that, Veronica told me.”

I cringe and wonder what else Veronica told him about me...

“I want to know about
you
.  Something personal. Something about your life.” 

Well that's what I'm trying to avoid...

“What do you like? What do you hate,” he leans in and his voice grows darker.  “What scares you?”

My body stiffens at his tone.  “I, well.  I grew up in foster care,” I admit.  Hey, the sympathy card works sometimes. “And I've been working to support myself on my own since I turned 18.”

The sympathy card doesn't seem to work too well with him – his face doesn't change.

“Go on.”

“I like...” I'm not even sure what I like.  Hell, I never had time to think about hobbies or recreational activities – I was too busy trying to figure out where my next meal would come from.  But I can make up something. “Animals.  And art. I've always been fascinated by history.” Not a total lie.

He nods, slowly, his eyes traveling up and down me once again.  “And your fears?”

Where do I start? I have far too many of them.  “Um, well, being alone forever,” I say, and that's totally true. 

He blinks as he listens to me intently.  He watches me for a moment with his hand in his chin.  “Anything else?” He asks in an almost whisper, his voice is low and growling, and it rattles me.

“Um...control.  I mean, not having it.  That's what scares me.”

A smile slowly crawls across his face.  “Perfect,” he says. “Come with me.”

I didn't know what that meant, but I followed him out of the room, down the hall past a few doors and into another room.  He flipped the light switch on and I see that it's a closet, an extremely large closet, that was probably originally a bedroom or an office. 

“I'm going to need to take more photos of you.  I'm sure you can find something nice to wear in here.  And when you're ready, just go to the end of the hall,  and to your left. I'll be waiting for you there.”

He exits the room as I move further into it.  The walls are lined with shelves and racks full of all types of clothes, shoes, and handbags.  In the middle there's a small armoire with a mirror and jewelry on top, and several drawers lining the outside bottom.  I curiously open one— it's full of bra's, but not plain ones like the one I'm wearing. Beautiful intricate lace bra's and bustiers, some with bows and others without, in every cut and color imaginable.

And then I look directly in front of me, into the bathroom.  There's a mirror there and I'm horrified at how my hair and make up looks. I rush into the bathroom and immediately splash water on to my face, dabbing it dry with a soft towel.  I look around and I'm thankful to find soaps, lotions, even toothpaste – all the things I need to freshen up.

I emerge a handful of minutes later, knowing that he's waiting for me.  There are too many clothing options,  and beautiful ones at that, to consider. But I eventually settle on a gown.  It's black and lacy, with one should strap and tulle coming out of the bottom.  I change into a lacy bustier and matching thong, both in my size, that I find in boudoir.

With a pump of perfume and bit of eyeliner I eye myself in the mirror. It's the first time I've felt sexy in quite a while.

I exit the room and make my way down the hall.  On the right side I pass a large metal door that looks totally different from every other door in the penthouse. I eye it curiously, and place my hand on the knob to find that it's locked.

“I'm in here, Tamara,”  I hear him call out and I jump, rushing into the back room.

This room is almost empty except for a large photography backdrop, a few chairs, his camera, and a desk on the other side with a computer.

I notice him trying to hide a smile as he looks me over.

“Go ahead and stand on the marker.  Let me adjust the lighting and then we'll get started.”

I take my place in front of the backdrop, smoothing out my dress nervously as he tests and adjusts the bright lights around me, before stepping back behind the camera.

“Alright.  Go ahead and pose.”

I stand there like a deer in headlights. I have no idea what to do, but I know I better do something fast before I blow this opportunity.

“Relax,” he says, “and just do what comes naturally.”

I take a deep breath and place my hands on my hips. I look down and then back up directly into the camera, a little tip I picked up years ago on an episode of Top Model.  He snaps the first photo and I see the side of his mouth curl up into a small smile from behind the camera.  He's pleased.

“Wonderful,” he mouths, and that gives me the confidence to go forward.

“How did you get so good at photography?” I ask him.

“I wanted to be a photographer.  Used to play around with it when I was a kid. But my father wouldn't allow it.  You know, rich boy problems.”

No, I wouldn't relate.

I continue to pose for about the next 15 minutes until he stops.

“Alright, let's change things up a little.  Maybe try something  a bit more ...revealing this time.”

I nod in agreement, but I can't deny that it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.

I return to the closet and find a sexy, low cut romper. 
Perfect.

When I return to the room he says nothing and just takes me in with his eyes.  I assume this means that he's once again, pleased.

He stops and strokes his chin for moment.  “No, this needs something,” he says and he moves to a drawer on the desk and pulls out something shiny.  He rushes across the paper and stands close behind me – so close that it makes me shiver.  His hand brushes my neck and is replaced with something cold and metallic to the touch.  With a click he fastens the clasp of the necklace around my neck.  I look down and it's a large collar covered with –
diamonds?  Are these real?