Chapter 7: Sam the Ham

Laura

What was I thinking!?

I should know, by now, that broad instructions given to Mr. Steele inevitably result in some sort of chicanery on his part.

We've gone undercover in the fashion mart, the infamous fashion show held each year in Los Angeles, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, featuring some of the best known designers in the world. Our client, Julian Barron, is convinced someone is out to steal his latest designs. While it would appear, on the surface, a trifling matter, it's not at all. An original dress Barron could attach a seven-thousand dollar price tag to could quickly be rendered a seven dollar off the rack garment should someone swipe the design and create thousands of knock offs. Surprisingly, espionage within the fashion world was remarkably common.

I had, reluctantly, agreed to take to the catwalk, a model to be ogled and groped, all for the honor of assisting in the sale of an obscenely overpriced garment that I couldn't distinguish from any other black, red or white dress sold at Bloomingdales. The mere idea of displaying myself as flesh and nothing more went against everything I'd ever fought against: women as subservient, not as capable as men, meant to be little more than a man's complacent mate. Yet, there was no faster way to get behind the scenes, and feel out the other models, so cope with it I would, and all the while with a smile at the ready.

Mr. Steele, on the other hand, had been assigned the role of buyer. I'd envisioned him as a snooty, austere and demanding Brit, unwilling to part with the first quid unless the garments under consideration met his fastidious standards. It was the perfect part for him, after all, he with his tailor made suits, French cuffs, silk ties and Italian shoes. But did my vision come to fruition?

Of course not! I hadn't, after all, spelled out point-by-point, letter-by-letter, what I expected of him. Not that I had to, given he and I had had a knack for understanding the other without a word spoken… well, at least when it came to these types of ploys… from almost the start. But since I'd been remiss in my instructions, since I hadn't pounded into his head exactly what I was expecting, what did I get?

Sam from Birmingham. Sam the obnoxious ham. Sam the chauvinistic man.

It's at times like these I want to throttle the man! Yet, loathe as I am to admit it, I'm left impressed by his chameleon like nature. This Sam from Birmingham is as different from the man I've come to know as his Johnny Todd persona. Sam is as repulsive as Mr. Steele is charming, as uncouth as Mr. Steele is refined, and as handsy as Mr. Steele wishes he could be with me, I'm sure.

Speaking of which...

"Ohhhh wonderful texture," an smarmy voice intoned, as a hand stroked over my satin clad hip. "Beautiful sheen." Then a cheek of my bottom. "So sleek. So…so… touchable." And finally dared to palm my bottom, squeezing it. It's something I've fantasized about a time… or a hundred… those sensual hands gliding over my body, grasping my hips as I rise and fall above him. But now's neither the time nor place, and I'm already feeling like a mindless, soulless piece of meat in this role where I am appreciated only for my surface. I level him with a heated glare in the mirror before spinning around, to grace him face-to-face with the same.

"Watch it, buster!" I warn between clenched teeth. Lila leans in closer to me

"Easy honey," she cautions. "The buyer's always right."

She's right, I know, and had it been anyone else I would have plastered a smile on my face while pretending to be flattered by manhandling. But, this isn't someone else, and I see by the quick flash of alarm in his eyes that he knows he's taken things a bit too far. He never breaks from his role, and even takes the opportunity to land his hand on the bottoms of a couple of other models. A jolt of jealousy courses through me, which even I have to acknowledge is irrational. Seeing each other we might be, but I not only have no claim on him, but he's made it very clear he can make me no promises, which is why our physical relationship is virtually non-existent: kisses, a few stray caresses that wouldn't even warrant being termed 'second base'. Still, I don't have it in me to watch him fondling other women, no matter how intentionally over the top the action is, in keeping with his role, and I drag him away from Lila and into the dressing area.

"Spare me your pranks," I tell him, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. "It's enough that I have to slither through that meat line out there."

"Duty first, Laura."

"It's demeaning. It's degrading." I watch as his eyes wander around the room, taking in the other models in various state of undress. It's obvious my words have barely registered with him, and I slip out of my gown, intent on reminding him of what he's wanted for the past year plus: me.

"Yes, indeed, I'm sure it is." He's oblivious to me standing before him in nothing but a black satin and lace teddy, his eyes on a voluptuous blonde, the epitome of 'his type' before I came along… at least I hope since I came along. I've always been confident in my appeal to men before, but have found when it comes to him, I have a streak of insecurity a mile wide. That he's tweaked it again, leaves me snapping at him.

"Eyes front, St. Cloud." He snaps to attention at the sound of my voice, and as Julian Barron, our client approaches, it is only then that he realizes my near lack of attire. I worry, for a minute, that I may have taken things a step too far given as we confer with the client I can feel his eyes wandering over my sternum, returning again for a hopeful glimpse of a breast that he has yet to see after all this time.

Still, as we take off on foot after a potential suspect I can't help but to think, game, set, match, St. Cloud. If you ever hope to see what's underneath, you better fall in line.

Until I'm once again reminded of why I worry incessantly about the two of us mixing business with pleasure. I've been so caught up in making him remember who it is he is there with, that I've completely forgotten I'm dressed in nothing more than my underwear.

Which is how I end up in the middle of the audience, being leered at by dozens of patrons. I have no choice but to send Mr. Steele after the culprit while I return to the dressing room to don clothes.

Damn it.