Butterfly (4 page)

He smiled. “You have to know by now that I like you.”

“You like me, hoping I’ll agree to go to bed with you. Forget it,” Seneca said, not giving him the chance to refute her. “I don’t drink, do drugs, nor do I sleep with men.”

Crossing muscular arms over his chest, Phillip angled his head. “Who do you do sleep with—women?”

Seneca’s right hand swung up an arc, but before her palm could connect she found her wrist caught between fingers that tightened like iron manacles. “You sonofabitch!” she spat out. “Just because I haven’t shown you my crotch you think I prefer women?”

Phillip glared at Seneca. Not only did she have a wicked tongue but also a wicked temper. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

“No, Phillip, you’ve got it wrong. I should’ve never come here with you.” She tried extricating her hand. “If you bruise me I’ll sue the hell out of you!”

He loosened his grip. “I’ll let you go if you promise not to try and hit me again.”

Some of the fight went out of Seneca as the light went out behind her eyes, successfully concealing her innermost feelings from the man staring so intently at her. The incident in the hotel lobby continued to nag at her. People had reached for their cameras and camera phones not because of her but Phillip.

She was willing to do whatever it took to become a successful runway model and if she were to be photographed it was to further her own career, not because she’d been seen with basketball phenom Phillip Kingston.

Exhaling audibly, her eyelids fluttering, she nodded. “I promise.” He dropped her hand. “And for your information, I don’t sleep with women.”

The smile spreading across Phillip’s handsome features was mesmerizing. “That’s good, because if you did then it would make it impossible for me to react naturally whenever we’re photographed together.”

“What are you talking about?” Seneca asked.

He reached for her again, this time cradling her elbow.
“Come with me and I’ll explain everything.” Phillip led her back to the living room of the larger suite, easing her down to the sofa and sitting beside her. “The reason I was late coming down was because Booth wanted to talk about you and me.”

Pulling her legs up under her, Seneca shifted to face Phillip. “What about you and me?”

“Booth wants to market us as a couple.”

The very thing she hadn’t wanted to occur was already on her agent’s agenda. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” Even as she asked the question she knew he wasn’t kidding.

Phillip, who’d divulged more than he should have, shook his head. “No, I’m not kidding. Booth didn’t want me to say anything to you until he told you, but I didn’t want the Barracuda to blindside you and you go off on him like you did me.”

“I doubt if Booth would represent me if I punched him out.”

“Don’t be so certain about that. I’ve heard rumors that he likes to be spanked.”

Seneca scrunched up her nose. “Kinky.”

“You don’t know the half,” Phillip crooned, smiling. He rested a hand on her bare knee. “Are you a virgin?” He knew he’d shocked Seneca when she emitted an audible gasp. “Are you?” he repeated.

A beat passed. Seneca’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going with this, Phillip?”

“You don’t drink, do drugs or sleep with men.”

“I don’t drink not because I’m not twenty-one, but because they’re empty calories. One cocktail and I’m reaching for the chips and nuts. I don’t do drugs because I saw firsthand what it did to my cousin. She sold her body, then her infant son for two hundred dollars worth of crack. She died last year
from AIDS. I’m currently celibate, because a man I’d believed loved me was sleeping with me and my best friend at the same time.”

“I guess that translates into you having trust issues when it comes to men.”

“Big-time,” Seneca confirmed. “I have guy friends, but they’re just that—friends.”

Phillip removed his hand from her knee. He had his answer. Any hope he’d had to sleep with Seneca was dashed with her “I don’t sleep with men.” But he wasn’t about to give up. In fact, he liked the fact that she was playing hard to get. That made the chase even more challenging.

“Can I be one of your guy friends?”

Seneca stared at the man who probably could have any woman he wanted even if he hadn’t been a high-profile athlete. He was an exquisite physical specimen, and he was a rare find because he wasn’t the stereotypical brawn and no brains. Phillip had put off going into the NBA to attend college, majoring in premed.

Peering up at him through a fringe of long lashes, Seneca met his penetrating gaze. “It looks as if
our
agent has already taken care of that. Didn’t you tell me that we’re going to be a
couple?
”

Phillip’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “So, you’re willing to go along with Booth’s proposition?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked.

“You could always say no, but be prepared for the backlash,” he warned. “What Booth is proposing is very commonplace in the movie and recording industries—hip-hop stars hooking up with music divas, rockers with supermodels and actresses with athletes. You and I have chosen careers with a very short shelf life. I give myself another ten years before I retire—that is, if I can stay healthy.

“You’re twenty trying to make it big when there are fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds out there who think of you as old and a has-been. But you have something special, Seneca, and Booth knows that. Barracuda, Svengali or Machiavelli aside, the man knows his business.”

Seneca studied Phillip for a full minute, digesting what he’d said. “Have you done this before? Hooking up with a woman for publicity?”

Phillip’s expression was a mask of stone. “Yes.” The single word was pregnant with revulsion. “He asked me to escort a singer, who will remain nameless, to an award show. Her breath was horrific and I spent the entire time holding my breath every chance I could. Booth wasn’t too happy when I refused to see her again, and I told him that the next time he decided to pair me up with someone I had to meet the lady beforehand.”

There was only the whisper of their measured breathing and the bluesy jazz piece floating from speakers placed strategically throughout the suite as Seneca contemplated the turn her life had taken in a matter of hours. She wanted an agent, and she was about to get one. An agent who’d built his reputation as a risk taker. And even before she’d signed a contract with him he’d planned how he’d wanted to market her. What better publicity for his client than to have a supermodel date a superstar athlete?

Smiling and leaning closer to Phillip, she brushed her mouth over his. “How’s my breath?”

Phillip placed a hand along the delicate curve of Seneca’s jaw and deepened the kiss. He felt resistance, then her mouth relaxed and he caressed her lips with his.

“It’s perfect—just like the rest of you,” he whispered against her parted lips.

Seneca placed a hand on his chest, pushing him back. “Could you please get me some water? I’m feeling rather parched.”

Phillip went to get her water. He took a bottle of Fuji water from the refrigerator, emptied the contents into a glass and then retrieved a bottle of beer for himself. Returning to the living room, he found Seneca peering through the telescope. His hot gaze lingered on the curve of her hips, then moved lower to her long, bare legs and narrow feet. The flesh between his thighs stirred to life and it took Herculean self-control to repress his erection.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, as he approached her. He handed her the glass of water.

“Phillip, I can see the pedestrians on the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“I’m more of a stargazer than a people watcher.”

She touched her glass to the neck of his beer bottle. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Vertical lines appeared between his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“When Booth proposes I go out with you, I promise to act very surprised.”

“Don’t act too surprised or you’ll arouse his suspicions.”

It was Seneca’s turn to frown, although she’d made it a practice to keep her face expressionless to lessen the ravages of laugh lines. “Why would you say that?”

“There’s no doubt his doorman has already reported back that you were waiting for me. Booth Gordon has legions of spies and paparazzi on his payroll. If there is no scandal, then he’ll fabricate one.”

She took a swallow of water, watching Phillip over the rim of the glass as he took a long, deep swallow of his beer. “Why have you managed to remain scandal-free?”

“My endorsements come with a morality clause. And that
means no substance abuse, sex with underage girls, drunken orgies or brawls and an endless laundry list of don’ts.”

“Do they actually spell it out like that?”

He nodded. “Either I adhere to their rules or give up several hundred million in endorsements.”

Seneca whistled softly. Her long-term goal was earning a hundred thousand a year, while Phillip earned nearly a half billion in brand sponsorship for sports drinks, men’s fragrances, sneakers, pain medication and a world-renowned clothing designer.

“I suppose I would behave, too, for that kind of money.”

“It’s not that hard to stay out of trouble. It all comes down to making the right choices—whether it’s your friends or a woman.”

“Tell me about the private Phillip Kingston—the one the camera doesn’t get to see.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she repeated.

Phillip flashed his sensual smile. “Have dinner here with me tomorrow night. I’ll send a car for you and arrange to take you back home.”

“I’d love to, but I have to go to D.C. for my nephew’s baptism. What about one day next week?”

“It can’t be next week.” He’d changed his mind again about leaving for L.A. now that Seneca had agreed to go out with him. “Remember, I’m going to see my folks.”

Seneca lifted her shoulders. “Then we’ll get together when you get back.” She handed him the half-empty glass. “I only have another hour before my driver is off-duty, so I’m going to leave now.” Phillip watched as Seneca put on her shoes, retrieved her cell phone from her purse and called the driver. “I’ll be ready as soon as I use your bathroom.”

Reaching for his jacket, he slipped his arms into it. By the
time she’d returned, he’d filled the pockets with the money clip, cell, and card case with his ID and was waiting at the door. “I’ll ride down with you.”

T
his time Seneca was prepared when she stepped out into the hotel lobby. Hand in hand they strolled across the marble floor, ignoring the bold stares and whispers. What she’d discovered when first moving to New York City was that everyone regarded themselves as a celebrity. There were times when she passed an actor, recording artist or athlete on the sidewalk that she’d noticed people barely gave them a cursory glance. It was tourists who wanted to take pictures or asked for autographs.

Her driver had maneuvered up to the curb and had opened the rear door with her approach. He inclined his head. “Miss Houston. Mr. Kingston.”

Seneca got in, and much to her surprise Phillip slipped in beside her. “What are you doing?” she whispered at the same time the door closed with a solid slam.

Reaching for her hand, Phillip laced his fingers through hers. “I want to make certain you make it home safely.”

She sucked her teeth loudly. “Of course I’m going to make it home safely. That’s why I hired a driver.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “If ever you need a driver, just call the hotel and tell the concierge you need a car.”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. I’ll add your name to my account.”

Seneca wanted to ask Phillip why her, or if he extended the courtesy to all his women. Although appreciative of the offer, she doubted whether she would take him up on it. “Thank you,” she said instead.

“You’re not going to call.” His query was a statement.

“Did I say I wouldn’t?” she retorted.

“You won’t, only because you want to prove that you’re a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man for anything.”

“That’s not true. Men are good for a few things.”

“Please list them for me, baby.”

Seneca went completely still. It was the first time he’d referred to her by the endearment, and whereas she intensely disliked it, just hearing it roll fluidly off Phillip’s tongue sent shivers of warming over her body. How, she mused, could one man be the complete package, possess everything most women looked for? He claimed looks, intelligence and physical prowess and exhibited what she’d found lacking in some of the boys with whom she’d grown up: good breeding. However, since meeting Phillip it was as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to exhibit a negative side of his personality that would confirm her belief that she couldn’t trust a man.

Turning her head, she stared out the side window. “They’re useful when I need them to move something heavy.”

Phillip smiled. “What else?”

“Checking the oil in the car and/or changing a flat tire.”

“What else?”

“That’s about it.” Seneca turned to see Phillip’s startled expression.

“What about making a baby?”

She waved a hand. “I don’t need a man for that. I can always go the test tube route.”

“That’s no fun,” he mumbled.

“It is if I don’t want to be bothered with a baby daddy. It will be just me and my baby.”

Stretching his right arm over the back of the seat, Phillip touched the wisps escaping the intricate twist of thick dark hair. “Is that what you want, Seneca? To have a child and not give your son or daughter the option of having a father in their lives?”

“It would depend on the father.”

Phillip caressed the nape of her neck. “So, you punish the entire human male species because of one jackass. Grow up, Seneca. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last woman who will sleep with a cheater.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she spat out.

“Then what’s your problem?”

“My problem is that the SOB told everyone in our school that we’d gone to a party and after I had a few drinks I went into a room where guys stood in line while I gave them oral sex. He lied, because I never gave him oral sex.”

“Damn,” Phillip drawled under his breath. “I can see why you have trust issues. But remember, not all men kiss and tell.”

“That may be true, but I had the misfortune of sleeping with one. Luckily it was my last year of high school. Instead of attending a local college, I chose one that was downstate.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Ithaca.” She told Phillip she’d been accepted into Cornell
University intending to major in theater, film and dance, but Seneca knew she had to leave her hometown or endure the snickering and sly looks from those who’d rather believe a lie than the truth.

“My second choice was NYU. Moving downstate frightened me at first, but now I wouldn’t live anywhere else. I had to go from full-time to part-time, because I have to be available for shoots. And now that I’m going to sign with BG Management I’ll probably have to drop out.”

“Forfeiting or putting your education on hold can’t be an easy decision for you,” Phillip said in a quiet tone. He also wanted to tell Seneca that she was young and shouldn’t judge all men because an insensitive idiot sought to enhance his sexual reputation at her expense. The one who she should’ve been angry with was her so-called best friend.

Seneca closed her eyes for several seconds. “You’re right. It isn’t easy.” She couldn’t imagine what her family’s reaction would be once she revealed she wouldn’t be going back to classes for the upcoming semester.

The remainder of the ride uptown was conducted in silence, with Seneca contemplating how she would break the news to her parents that she was to become a college dropout. Willing her mind blank, she closed her eyes and sank into the unyielding, muscled body of the man with whom she would be linked romantically as a marketing ploy.

Seneca opened her eyes when the driver got out of the limo and came around to open the rear door. Extending his hand, he helped her out at the same time as Phillip opened the door closest to the curb.

“What are you doing?” she whispered when he reached for her hand.

Phillip gave Seneca a smile parents usually reserved for their
well-behaved children. “I’m going to make certain you get inside safely.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “Phillip, I live in a very secure building in a safe neighborhood, so there’s no need for you to walk me upstairs.”

Phillip glanced up at the four-story brownstone on the Upper West Side half a block from Central Park West. There were brownstones and townhouses lining both sides of the tree-lined street, giving it a suburban feel rather than being in the middle of Manhattan with its high-rise apartment and office buildings.

“Which floor do you live on?”

“The fourth,” she said, sighing.

“Let’s go, baby.” Phillip nodded to the driver. “I’ll be right back.” The man had double-parked in front of Seneca’s building.

Seneca had no choice but to follow when he practically pulled her along. “Slow it down,” she demanded, “or I’ll turn an ankle in these shoes.”

“Nice shoes and very nice legs,” Phillip said matter-of-factly.

She ignored his compliment while she unlocked the wrought-iron outer door, then another solid oak one with stained-glass insets. When she’d first come to look at the apartment, Seneca couldn’t believe her good fortune. The brownstone, erected around the turn of the prior century, had been restored to its original magnificence with marble floors and carved banisters and newel posts. Each apartment boasted parquet floors, tall windows, working fireplaces and claw-foot bathtubs.

Electra, who’d evicted a former roommate who’d refused to pick up after herself, had asked Seneca if she knew of anyone willing to share a two-bedroom apartment only blocks from
the Museum of Natural History. Seneca knew she’d surprised the drama student when she told her she would consider moving in with her. Riding the subway uptown and touring around the trendy neighborhood was all she needed to see. Two days later she moved out of the cramped Alphabet City apartment she shared with three other NYU students. Her rent had more than doubled, but at least she didn’t have to step over winos and crackheads to get to or into her building. Then there also had been the problem of someone indiscriminately ringing intercom bells in the hope that they would be buzzed in.

“Are you staring at my ass, Phillip?”

Throwing back his head, Phillip laughed loudly. “When I first saw you I never would’ve imagined you would have a wicked temper with a mouth to match.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “That’s what you get for judging a book by its cover.”

“That’s true,” he crooned. “But you’ve been a delightful surprise.”

“In what way?” she asked.

Phillip stepped off the last stair, following Seneca down the pristine hallway to the rear of the building. “I thought you’d be stuck-up like some of the other models I’ve met.”

Seneca removed her keys from her purse. “All of us are narcissistic,” she said in defense of her peers, “but it all depends on what degree. I have a theory that the size of one’s ego is usually linked to the number of zeros in their contracts. The more zeros, the more they feel they don’t have to adhere to the rules.” She unlocked the door, then turned and smiled up at Phillip. “We’ll continue this conversation when we see each other again.” Leaning closer, she pressed a light kiss to his jaw. “Good night.”

Bracing a hand on the door frame, Phillip angled his head,
covering her mouth with his, caressing and tasting the sweetness of her parted lips. He eased back, smiling. “Now, that’s a good night.”

“Go home, Phillip.”

“Not until you go in and lock the door.”

Giving him one final sweeping glance, Seneca pushed open the door, stepped inside, closing and locking it behind her. She stood motionless, listening for movement and/or sound from the other side of the door. Then she heard it. Phillip whistling as he retraced his steps, the sound fading with his descent. Bending slightly, she slipped out of the stilettos and walked in the direction of her bedroom. The floor lamp in the living room was turned to its lowest setting, an indication that Electra had decided to visit her parents in Connecticut.

Neither she nor her roommate liked walking into a dark apartment, so they’d agreed to leave a light on. Electra teased, calling their place Motel 6, where they always left the light on.

Seneca touched the dimmer on the wall, and her bedroom was flooded with light from one of two bedside lamps. She undressed, walked into the bathroom to remove her makeup, brush her teeth and shower. Her nightly ritual of applying moisturizer to her face and body and brushing her hair and braiding it into a single plait was something she would be able to execute in a blackout. And, like she’d done as a child, but only if her mother wasn’t looking, she raced out of the bathroom and jumped onto her bed. Even at twenty some habits were slow to be relegated to childhood.

Settling herself on the bed, she reached for the remote, flicking on the television and activating the DVD feature. As a serious film, theater and dance student, she filled the empty hours in her life viewing movies. It didn’t matter the decade in which they’d been made, whether black-and-white or with
CGI—computer generated imagery—the art of moviemaking had become her passion.

At the recommendation of her professor who taught the history of Hollywood films she’d embarked on a retrospective of Bette Davis and gangster films that included
White Heat, Little Caesar, Bonnie and Clyde,
the
Godfather
trilogy,
GoodFellas
and
The Departed.
Tonight she didn’t want to be disturbed by blood and the sound of gunfire, so she selected the Bette Davis classic
Now, Voyager.

Shifting the mound of pillows supporting her back, Seneca read the opening credits and watched the movie with a critical eye. As a student of film, she had become more than aware of camera angles, dialogue and Paul Henreid suavely performing the archetypal two-cigarette trick.

What she didn’t want to acknowledge was how closely her life would’ve paralleled the Bette Davis character’s if it hadn’t been for her paternal grandmother. If there was anyone who could put Dahlia Houston in her place, it had been her mother-in-law. Seneca’s eyelids felt heavy as the closing credits scrolled down the screen, and she flicked off the television and the table lamp. She would sleep in late, because she’d made a reservation to take an afternoon train to D.C. The last time she’d seen her nephew he was only hours old, and not only was she an aunt, but she was to become a godmother for the first time.

The taxi maneuvered into the driveway behind an SUV with New York plates to a century-old farmhouse in suburban Washington, D.C. Seneca’s parents had arrived before she did. Her brother, Jerome, and his wife, Maya, had closed on the property a week before she gave birth to their son. The four-bedroom, three-bath house was advertised as a fixer-upper or a handyman’s special, and the couple had poured all of
their savings into making the house habitable. Peeling paint and cracked windows with broken sashes had been replaced with white vinyl siding, black shutters and new energy-saving windows.

Seneca paid the driver, retrieved her overnight bag, got out and walked up the porch steps. She smiled. The brick steps and the porch floor were also new. Her brother and sister-in-law, both teachers, had married after a whirlwind courtship. No one, Seneca in particular, had expected Jerome to settle down. He’d dated so many women from every race and ethnic group that she’d thought of him as a modern-day Casanova. She didn’t know what it was about Maya, but the high school biology teacher had succeeded where the others had failed.

The door opened before she could ring the bell. She grinned broadly at her sister, who seemed to have grown at least an inch since she last saw her earlier that spring. The similarities between the sisters were startling. Both had curly hair, but Robyn’s was a shade lighter, with reddish highlights. The fourteen-year-old had hinted she also wanted to model, but Dahlia had dashed her dream when she said one wannabe model in the family was enough.

Seneca hugged Robyn. “What’s up, kid?”

Robyn hugged her back, tightening her grip around Seneca’s neck. “Not much. Mom’s complaining…as usual,” they chorused, laughing.

Seneca had tried analyzing Dahlia and failed completely. Dahlia had become a mother for the first time at sixteen, when she’d found herself pregnant with a married man’s child. Her life changed dramatically when she met and married Oscar Houston—a man nearly twenty years her senior. Jerome was six when Seneca was born, and six years later Dahlia gave birth to her second daughter.