Eye Candy Read online

  Grrr, I growled.

  Only Phelps heard me.

  "Thought you wouldn't want to cause a scene," he whispered. "Besides, now you can schmooze the boss."

  I turned, scowling, and found Ferrero sitting to my right. Maybe Phelps was a little more business savvy than I—or Fiona—gave him credit for.

  Kelly and Gavin made their way into the spots Brant and I had occupied. I was right, Kelly wore a barely-there, cherry red bikini I had seen in the last Victoria's Secret catalog. Gavin handed her down, following in his matching red swimming briefs. He eyed me warily, as if expecting me to do something outrageous and emotional and totally deserved.

  I was above such petty behavior. Especially when he was getting everything he deserved with Kelly. If he thought he could cheat on her without becoming the next John Wayne Bobbitt, then he was dearly mistaken.

  Letting all the other nonsense fade into the background, I tapped Ferrero on the arm. "Fe— Franco, you wished to discuss more about my designs today." I pinched my earlobes, tugging the pearl-dotted spirals into view. "These are my latest."

  Franco leaned in to examine the silver pieces, and I could almost hear the steam shooting out of Kelly's ears from across the Jacuzzi.

  When Jawbreaker came to inform us of a sightseeing trip into the thriving metropolis of Southampton, nearly everyone in the tub clamored to go. Only Ferrero appeared uninterested. Even Phelps decided to go, swiftly whispering that I should "take a golden opportunity when it punches me in the face" before lifting me off his lap and following everyone else into the house.

  Left alone with Ferrero and his rapt interest in my jewelry designs, I knew this was my chance to make the most important impression of all.

  "Franco," I started.

  "Dear Lyvia," he interrupted—I chose not to correct him since this was his closest guess by far—and placed his soft hand dramatically on my forearm, "I have been seeking for so long to find a woman of spirit, of imagination, of—" He paused dramatically. "—passion."

  His pale blue eyes glowed and his grip on my arm tightened. A quick glance around told me the deck was deserted. We were alone.

  And I was pretty sure I wouldn't like where this conversation was heading—although it had to be better than any conversation about Gavin.

  "My creativity is, you see, a very fragile creature." He gazed wistfully at the sky above. "It requires much petting and great care. In short," he grabbed me by both shoulders and stared directly into my eyes, "it needs a muse."

  "Muse?" I repeated.

  Now that was not what I had expected him to say. And I can't say I was any relieved to hear it.

  He nodded emphatically. "Yes, a muse. An inspiration, like the tales of Greek mythology. Like Jacqueline Bouvier. Like Princess Grace. And you shall be mine."

  "But Mr. Ferrero," I argued, reverting to a polite distance, "I don't know anything about being a muse. I'm an account manager. I handle sales accounts, for Good&Plenty's sake. What do I know about being a muse?"

  This whole thing was ridiculous.

  "You already are, my dear." He smoothed his hand over my hair, along my ear, and cupped my earring. "You have creativity," he said. He dropped his hand beneath the water and lifted mine to his mouth. "You have spirit." He cupped my cheek. "You have passion." He grinned. "You are already my muse."

  Whoa there, Twizzler.

  This exciting, spirited, passionate woman he described was not me. "I have some creativity, I'll grant you," I acceded, thinking of my jewelry designs. "But I'm not spirited."

  I was so not spirited that when I found Gavin pressing flesh with another woman, all I thought was Guess I'll have to return the ring.

  "Nonsense." Ferrero waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "I have eyes to see the wildcat sharpen her claws."

  Great Gobstoppers, did he mean on Gavin or that toad Brant? I had to admit I had been feeling a little spirited so far this weekend. But that wasn't the usual me.

  "Fine, but I'm not passionate, either."

  I was so not passionate that Gavin had to go to another woman—probably several other women, in fact—to satisfy his, um, needs.

  "Ah, chica," he tsked, the Spanish endearment sounding peculiar with his Jersey-tinted Italian accent, "no one could fail to see the passion between you and your young man. Fireworks were not the only thing lighting up the dark last night."

  Now there was no way I could tell him how fake that was. He had to see reason, to realize that I was not muse material. I had a promotion to garner, and I didn't think sitting around inspiring Ferrero or whatever being a muse entailed was going to accomplish that.

  "But—"

  "Enough," he commanded, rising from the tub and tugging me out behind him, "you will be my muse for next Spring's couture line. Your jewelry will accentuate every piece."

  "M-my jewelry?"

  He didn't acknowledge my stammering, instead held out both hands expectantly. In a daze, I grabbed a pair of towels from a nearby bench and handed him one. I wrapped the other around my waist as I pictured my jewelry accessorizing the Spring line on the Ferrero runway.

  That was an opportunity I could not pass up.

  Ferrero walked toward the house, toweling his snowy hair as he moved, and I blindly followed.

  "And your young man," he decreed as he draped the towel around his neck rather than cover his wet, white—and obviously unlined—Speedo, "will be my muse for the menswear line."

  I tripped over the negligible door jamb, righting myself just as Ferrero turned to say, "This will be my most inspired collection ever."

  6

  Q: Why didn't the leopard go on vacation?

  A: It couldn't find the right spot.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #19

  I was sitting on the front porch—fidgeting, worrying, hoping—when the sightseeing caravan returned.

  After changing into a bright Lilly Pulitzer sundress, with bright yellow lemons on a white background and matching lemon yellow piping, my brain had calmed enough to realize the opportunities abounding. Not only would I be working in presumably close proximity to Ferrero, leading to many fabulous opportunities for great impressions wherein he might actually remember my name, but my jewelry designs would be thrust center stage in the fashion world.

  This was marketing no advertising dollars could buy.

  An advantage the KYs could never hope to obtain and Jawbreaker could never hope to thwart.

  Now all I had to do was convince Phelps to join in.

  The shopping-weary sightseers climbed out of a trio of elegant black limos Jawbreaker had hired for the weekend. They were a ragged bunch of wrinkled polo shirts and sweat-smudged foundation—on both men and women.

  Kelly and Gavin emerged first, arm in arm and smiling falsely at each other. A perfectly matched pair of fakes.

  They slinked past me without so much as a sideways glance, which suited me just fine. I wondered if Kelly took potential alimony into account in her TIP calculation. For the first time, I actually felt sorry for Gavin. He didn't stand a chance.

  Three dozen or so other sightseers drifted into the house, worn out from an exhausting two hours of shopping and riding around in air-conditioned limos.

  The chauffeurs closed the doors after the last of the passengers disembarked.

  I frowned.

  Where was Phelps?

  I watched blankly as the three black vehicles pulled away and headed down the driveway.

  A faint buzzing sound rang in my ears.

  I shook my head but it didn't go away. In fact, it got louder. And I realized it wasn't in my head at all. Squinting down the long drive, I saw a streak of bright yellow heading my direction.

  I blinked, watching in horror as Phelps flew up the drive and skidded to a stop right in front of me on a Vespa.

  "What," I bit out, carefully swallowing the squeaky voice threatening to burst forth, "is that?"

  "Hey, it matches your dress."

  "What," I repeated calmly despit
e the overwhelming urge to launch myself at him, fists swinging, "is that?"

  He looked at me like I was stupid—like I was the one roaring around Southampton on a child's toy. "This is a scooter." He revved the tiny rubber band engine. "See, vvroom, vvroom. Wanna ride?"

  "No!"

  "Come on," he goaded. "You know you want to."

  "No, I don't." All I wanted to do was go up to my room—our room—and hide beneath the covers for the rest of the weekend.

  Clearly he did not understand the meaning of the word decorum. His brain must have been absent the day they taught that in modeling school.

  Or any school.

  I suddenly wondered what kind of education he had. Was he one of those wonder models discovered at fifteen and a high school drop out by sixteen?

  For that matter, I wondered— "How old are you, anyway?"

  "Twenty-seven."

  Dear Mr. Goodbar, he was six years younger than me. I was robbing the proverbial cradle. Sort of.

  At least I wasn't really dating him. That would be worse.

  I groaned, wondering when I had begun resorting to rationalization to make everything seem okay.

  Phelps climbed off the mini crotch rocket and took me by the shoulders, guiding me down the steps and into the driveway. "This opportunity won't come around every day, you know. I took the official Vespa training course in Italy. I'm a licensed scooter stunt driver." He climbed aboard and pulled me across his lap. "And she has to go back by five."

  Before I could launch an argument, he started the engine and roared off toward the street.

  I was a captive in his quest of adventure.

  We sped through the narrow streets of Southampton. We spun doughnuts in the high school parking lot. We even raced long drives on the golf course, much to the dismay of the golfers and the groundskeeper.

  And much to my surprise, I enjoyed every minute of it.

  By the time we returned Daffy—so named because of her daffodil yellow paint job—to the rental place I was sad to see her go.

  Mental Post-it: look into cost of buying and housing Vespa.

  Wait, what was I thinking? I had my baby to feed and care for already. She would only be jealous of a younger, thinner sister stealing my attention.

  But it sure would be fun to dash to work through the park on a cute little— No! No cute little anythings, and that's final.

  "Ray says his brother can give us a ride."

  "What?" I was so busy with my mental debate I didn't hear anything but the end of Phelps' comment.

  "I said Ray, the scooter shop owner, says his brother can give us a lift back out to the mansion."

  "Oh, okay," I said, not having any other options.

  If I had known what that lift would consist of, I would have come up with some.

  Ray-the-scooter-guy's bother drove a rickety old farm truck, the kind with two-by-fours nailed around the bed to hold in the piles of potatoes or apples or whatever they harvested in the far reaches of Long Island.

  And the passenger seat was already occupied by a giant black and white Great Dane. I didn't think she would understand if I called shotgun.

  So Phelps and I rode the five miles back to Jawbreaker's house on the tailgate of the farm truck. At least Rick, the brother, had a relatively clean blanket for me to sit on so my dress didn't suffer the effects of the dirty truck bed.

  This was my punishment for even thinking about cheating on my baby.

  "You look like a mess," Phelps observed.

  Gee, like I expected to look like a Stepford Wife after a ride in a potato truck. I scowled as he lifted me down from the tailgate.

  "You're no shining example yourself," I returned.

  Though I had to admit, no man ever looked so good in a dirt-smudged black t-shirt with wavy black hair wind-tousled to an Elvis-worthy peak. He was gorgeous, no matter the clothing.

  Except for that space suit I had picked him up in.

  "We'd better clean up before dinner." And I still had to talk to him about Ferrero's proposal.

  He grinned like a schoolboy. "I'll race ya!"

  "No, thank you."

  "Come on, it'll be fun."

  "Um... no."

  "You turned down the Daffy ride at first, too." His eyes sparkled as he poked me in the arm. "And look how much fun that turned out to be."

  "This isn't the sa—"

  "Chicken?"

  "No, I'm just too—"

  "Chicken," he declared.

  Planting my hands on my hips in what I hoped was a determined nature, I said, "I am not a chicken, I'm just—"

  "Afraid you'll lose." He looked at me sympathetically. "You're probably right. Better not to be humiliated like that."

  He turned and headed up the steps.

  As his foot hit the top step, I blew past him, calling back over my shoulder, "Just waiting to take advantage of your arrogance."

  When we hit the staircase in the east wing, he caught hold of my hem and tugged me back. He made it two steps before I grabbed his sneaker and pulled him to the ground. I scrambled past him, just lunging out of his grasp, and bolted down the hall to our room.

  I stood outside our door, fingers curled around the doorknob, as he raced down the hall in my wake.

  "Guess I get the shower first," I teased.

  He grinned as he arrived and covered my hand with his own. "We could always share."

  "In your dreams, Elliot," I said, feeling carefree.

  I pushed open the door and preceded him into the room. Behind me, I swear he muttered, "Don't I know it."

  The cool rush of the shower washed away the remains of the potato truck, leaving only the glaring unasked question. Would Phelps be willing to play the role of muse for Ferrero? And what would it cost me?

  By the time I emerged from the bathroom, one fluffy white towel wrapped around my chest, the other vigorously rubbing the water from my short, dark blond locks, I was ready to ask him.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or some such rot.

  "Phelps, I have a proposition for you," I began.

  "Mmmm." Sitting in the chair in the corner, he looked up from the book he was reading. "I like the sound of that."

  I rolled my eyes. "Not that kind of proposition, you Nutty Bar." Sitting on the bed, I finished toweling my hair and wrapped the towel around my head. "A bus—"

  "How do women do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "That thing with the towel." He motioned to my turbaned head. "No man alive can do that."

  "Phelps, can you please listen—"

  "No straight man, anyway."

  "Phelps!" I hadn't meant to shout, but he had a way of stretching my patience like Tangy Taffy, until it spread so thin little holes appeared and grew until all that was left was a shredded lace of sticky candy.

  "Can you please," I asked, calmly regaining my restraint, "listen to my proposition." When he looked ready to joke again about my choice of words, I added, "My business proposition."

  Though he looked a little disappointed, he nodded.

  "Are you familiar with the Ferrero menswear line?"

  "I'm a professional model, babe, of course I know Ferrero Men. I think I have one of last season's shirts—the ones with all the heavy-duty zippers—from a shoot for Vanity Fair."

  Ugh, I remembered those shirts. Not only were they ugly, but no man wearing one made it through airport security without a strip search. There had been a lot of store returns on that one.

  "Right, well, Ferrero is apparently looking for a muse," I explained, wondering how on earth you ask someone to be a designer's inspiration. "He, um, asked me to be his muse for the couture collection, and—"

  "His muse, huh," he interrupted. "The man has good taste."

  I tried to fight my pleasure at the compliment. But it was no good. Any woman would be flattered to be asked to be a famous fashion designer's muse. And, try as I might to hide it, I was just as susceptible as the next woman.

  "Yes, well, that
's only half the bargain."

  Phelps was beginning to look a little bored. I needed to get to the heart of the proposition.

  "He apparently needs a special menswear muse, too."

  He shrugged, clearly not getting my meaning.

  "You," I blurted. "He wants you to be his muse."

  "Me?" Phelps asked, incredulous.

  For the first time in our twenty-four hours' acquaintance—and that was twenty-four solid hours with no potty breaks or anything—he sat speechless. He chewed on his generous lower lip, his dark brows lowered in thought.

  He looked like he wanted to decline.

  Like he was trying to find the right words to tell me to go piss off. No, no, no. I was not about to lose this opportunity.

  "I'll pay you, of course," I rushed out, "for all the time spent as Ferrero's muse. I don't know how much time being a muse demands, but I'm sure we can work something out. We can sketch out a payment plan and—"

  "Lydia, what are you rambling about?"

  "What?" I paused in my babbling for only a second. "I just wanted to assure you that you wouldn't be doing this for free. That I'll still pay you—"

  "Why the hell would you have to pay me?"

  I blinked at him, not really understanding his question. "I don't know if Ferrero plans to pay you—or me, for that matter—for this, but I'll p—"

  He shook his head and laughed. "I would pay to do this."

  "What?" Now I was really confused.

  "I don't know what you're getting out of this deal," Phelps said, "but this is a golden opportunity for my career. I mean, what model wouldn't want to be the muse of a couture designer?"

  "You'll do it," I parroted.

  "Of course I'll do it," he confirmed. "This will skyrocket my career." He stood and approached the bed, looming over me. "Why are you doing it?"

  My first instinct was to make up a more legitimate and less, well, selfish reason. But he stood there, steadily meeting my gaze and probing my soul with those brilliant baby blues.

  I rose up on my knees to meet him eye-to-eye. "Because he wants to use my jewelry in the collection."

  He looked unconvinced, as if he knew there was more to my decision. He was right.