Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 07
Five Days, Twenty-Two Hours, Thirty-One Minutes
One of the fringe benefits of working with the world's leading faces in the fashion and modeling business was the limousines. No matter what time of the day or night Indiri Farris needed a ride, there was always a car available. Instead of taking a cab or her agency car, she insisted on having a limo drop her at the Heston. After all, this was her first date – her first dinner with what she hoped would open the door for a second – with the suave, exciting, world-traveled Richard DeMarco, and she refused to show up playing the part of a commoner. She realized he probably wouldn't be watching when she arrived, but that didn't matter. What did matter was how she cared about herself. 'Think a winner,' she had always reminded herself and her models, 'and be a winner.' It was a simple philosophy, but it sometimes helped to 'keep it real' when dealing with the brainpower of some of the models. Granted, the industry had evolved over the last dozen years – she had been involved with it for far too long to recite all of the changes – but more and more of the sincere beauties – male and female – were business-savvy: they knew at a very young age that a career in modeling wouldn't last forever, so they were making investments with their money, they were preparing themselves to serve as fashion correspondents when their looks faded from magazine cover glory, and they were even doing as she had done – starting their own talent agencies – as soon as their personal fortunes could make a dream into a reality. Thankfully, Indiri had exercised good judgment all of her life. Her father had insisted on it – she had a very passionate love/hate relationship still going with her divorced mother – and dear ole dad had insisted that she make the business – her business – an investment, a long-term prospect for a lifetime of income ... and it had worked. Hers was a recognized name in a cutthroat industry ... but, tonight, the only person she wanted to recognize her was the dark and handsome Mr. DeMarco.
The limo pulled into the lane before the Heston, and the hotel's valet immediately stepped over, opened her door, extended his hand, and helped her from the car. She smiled at the young man and was preparing to offer him a few polite words of thanks when surprise overtook her as her date for the evening – dressed in a fine black silk Armani suit with a white silk form-fitting crew collar shirt appeared almost instantly.
"Young man," DeMarco said, his voice sounding as smooth as velvet, "I believe you are holding the hand of my lady."
"My apologies, sir," the valet tried. He steered Indiri's hand into the older man's, and, tactfully, he slipped her fingers into his. "I compliment you on your taste in women."
"Thank you," DeMarco replied. He slipped the valet a $20 bill – Indiri thought the tip was more for her benefit than the valet's – and grinned hungrily at her.
"Well," she offered, "this certainly is a surprise."
"Whatever do you mean?" Turning gracefully, he slipped her fingers from his hand to his arm. She gripped his forearm and allowed for the man of international charm to escort her into the Heston. "Are you unaccustomed to such courtesy, Ms. Farris?"
She nodded at him. "I'm unaccustomed to such eagerness on the part of any suitor, Mr. DeMarco."
He chuckled warmly at her, and the sound of his laughter vibrated in her stomach. She realized how much she was feeling like a teenager with a schoolgirl crush, but it certainly felt good. Washington men – if she had known as much, she never would've placed her agency in the nation's Capitol – were largely ... gruesome and manipulative. Oh, they were charming, indeed. In fact, one couldn't be successful in politics without an abundance of charm, but the charm wore off quickly under the shadow of a trophy-bride/wife (in some cases, wives!) or the sexually-inquisitive interns or the bed-hopping mistresses. There weren't many men to celebrate in a city dedicated to celebrating men – damn women's suffrage – and Indiri enjoyed the dark stranger's touch even more because of it.
He led her through the lobby and toward the archway of the Abendessen, the Heston's signature restaurant. The maitre de greeted the two of them with impeccable politeness, and he made chit-chat as he escorted them to their table. A dinner menu and a wine list later, Indiri found herself being closely studied by her charming suitor. She glanced up to find his eyes staring into hers, and, feigning embarrassment, she widened her eyes back at him.
"Richard!" she teased.
He laughed, and, again, she felt it in her stomach. It had been so long – far too long – that she had been in the company of such a handsome and interesting man. She was afraid that she was about to say the wrong thing – make an inappropriate comment about the world, about religion, about politics, about clothing, for God's sake – and that his interest in her would wane quickly. People were so fickle that she had decidedly recent never to even attempt to start a conversation for fear of introducing the wrong topic, but, at this point, he wasn't saying anything. He was, simply, watching her.
"Tell me more about yourself," she tried.
"There really is very little to tell, Indiri," he told her. "I was born ... oh, shall we say that was many years ago? I was raised by a very, very lovely woman."
"Are you close to your mother?"
With some pain, he smiled. "I was, yes."
There. It had happened already. She made a mental note to jot down on her desk blotter a new record time for turning off a man.
"Oh, Richard," she offered, "I'm so sorry."
"No, no," he insisted. "Death ... it is a part of life, no?"
"Of course, it is, but I'm so sorry."
Lifting his head, he noticed the waiter coming. He silently mouthed the word 'later,' and she nodded happily.
The waiter poured their glasses of wine and quickly disappeared to another table where he was called by a large man who appeared very unhappy with his meal.
DeMarco lifted his glass and swirled the merlot. "Indiri, my mother was a very beautiful woman, and she lived a very beautiful life. It was full of purpose. It was full of joy. Like any of us, she suffered her share of disappointments, but I find comfort in knowing that she died as she lived, true to her heart ... and loving her only son."
Again, Indiri heard his words, and her heart fluttered.
"She raised a remarkable young man, it appears."
"You are too kind."
"I mean it," Indiri persisted. "Richard, certainly you've done your share of traveling, and certainly you've entertained people from all over the world. You must know that – despite a very human desire to hope that every man and woman you meet has some goodness in them – not everyone is raised to show so much as a simple courtesy to his fellow man."
"Or fellow woman," he agreed.
"Then," she began, lifting her own glass, "let's toast to courtesy."
He sat back, still grinning at her. "Now, that is not very romantic."
"No," she agreed, "but it is very real."
Still twirling the glass slowly in his hand, he offered, "I would rather toast ourselves than to toast a world that has turned its back of humanity, Indiri. Please, don't misunderstand me. I am ... I am much like you. I have looked for the goodness in people. I have looked for manners. I have looked for basic consideration. But I have found very little. I hold out hope that I will someday find more of it, but, for tonight, I would very much like to celebrate the simple romantic idea ... of us."
He raised his glass, and she followed.
Throughout the meal, they talked about everything. He told her about his youth – most of his stories surrounding his mother – and she found herself, as usual – talking more and more and more about her business. Conscious of the fact that agency chatter tended to become incredibly boring incredibly quickly, she kept trying to steer the conversation away into areas of more personal interest, but, ever the gentlemen, DeMarco kept insisting on hearing more about her, her life, and her daily trials and tribulations. Surrendering to his inquiries, they laughed over the stories she told. They enjoyed an exquisite meal and even more entertaining conversation ... and Indiri couldn't suppress her growing desire to reach across the table to feel his warm hand again. Would that be so wrong? Would that be inappropriate? In her profession, it wasn't uncommon to develop an attraction for a beautiful male right away. After all, she was surrounded by perfect faces, perfect teeth, and perfect bodies throughout much of the day ... but she had found, over time, that the human body was more of a 'case' than it was a 'vase,' as someone had once warned her. Still, here she sat, wanting so badly to feel little more than the warmth of a man's hand. Would it be so bad?
Had so become so disconnected with herself that she had sunk to this?
"Richard," she tried nervously.
"What is it?"
Their waiter had delivered the tab, and her date – still the gentleman – was reaching into his lapel pocket for his wallet.
"Indiri?"
'No,' she told herself. 'There wasn't anything wrong with it.'
Proudly, she lifted her head. She smiled at him, staring into his dark eyes, and she found the confidence to slowly slide her hand across the table. He saw what she was doing, and, in compromise, he reached across to her. They touched, their fingers lacing, and there again was the warmth she had felt on the curb outside of the Heston. She sighed peacefully, happily, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of simple human contact.
"What is it, Indiri?"
"I don't know," she confessed. "It's just ... well ... I hate to sound like a little girl ..."
"And," he said, smiling, "I have the suspicion that you are going to say it anyway."
"Why is that?"
"Because I would like very much to hear what you have to say."
She grinned. Did he feel what she felt? Was it possible to forge a connection that went beyond a basic instinct so quickly in today's age of marital collapse ... or was this simply just another statistic leading to the need for a hook-up?
God, she hated that term.
"I wanted to feel your hand," she said. "That's all."
He focused on her eyes. He wasn't smiling. He was staring. She hoped she read words that he didn't have to say, didn't need to say, or perhaps didn't want to say in that gaze.
Reaching out with his other hand, he opened the bill's folder, and she looked down. On top of the receipt was a room key.
"Indiri," he began, "we are both far too ... wise ... to spend an evening alone, going back to our separate houses or our separate apartments when we've been given an opportunity for the night to mean far much more to us." He stiffened a bit, and she was surprised that he found it difficult to ask a woman to stay with him. "I ... like you ... have been alone for far too long. Yes ... like you ... my commitment to my work ... well, it has driven me to a state of loneliness that one accepts when you get to be of a certain ... of a certain age." He said the word like it was a curse, and she agreed that it was. "I would never be so bold as to assume that a woman ... a beautiful and talented and extraordinary woman ... would entertain the notion of sacrificing her personal code of honor to ..."
"Richard," she interrupted softly.
"Hmm?"
She smiled. "Shut up."
In the elevator, he was on her, his lips on her neck, and she felt the warmth in her stomach of passion, of an unbridled spirit. He kissed her gently, increasing his intensity until his desire overtook him, and his mouth tracing up the muscle in her neck and found her jaw. Gently, he bit down there, and she gasped, bringing her arms up around his back, pulling him closer, pressing all of herself to him. Finally, their mouths found one another, and they kissed, deeply, locked together, both breathing heartily and heavily, one of his arms wrapped like a vise around her waist and the other clutching the back of her neck firmly ... as the elevator took them up to the seventh floor.
END of Chapter 07
Five Days, Twenty-Two Hours, Thirty-One Minutes
One of the fringe benefits of working with the world's leading faces in the fashion and modeling business was the limousines. No matter what time of the day or night Indiri Farris needed a ride, there was always a car available. Instead of taking a cab or her agency car, she insisted on having a limo drop her at the Heston. After all, this was her first date – her first dinner with what she hoped would open the door for a second – with the suave, exciting, world-traveled Richard DeMarco, and she refused to show up playing the part of a commoner. She realized he probably wouldn't be watching when she arrived, but that didn't matter. What did matter was how she cared about herself. 'Think a winner,' she had always reminded herself and her models, 'and be a winner.' It was a simple philosophy, but it sometimes helped to 'keep it real' when dealing with the brainpower of some of the models. Granted, the industry had evolved over the last dozen years – she had been involved with it for far too long to recite all of the changes – but more and more of the sincere beauties – male and female – were business-savvy: they knew at a very young age that a career in modeling wouldn't last forever, so they were making investments with their money, they were preparing themselves to serve as fashion correspondents when their looks faded from magazine cover glory, and they were even doing as she had done – starting their own talent agencies – as soon as their personal fortunes could make a dream into a reality. Thankfully, Indiri had exercised good judgment all of her life. Her father had insisted on it – she had a very passionate love/hate relationship still going with her divorced mother – and dear ole dad had insisted that she make the business – her business – an investment, a long-term prospect for a lifetime of income ... and it had worked. Hers was a recognized name in a cutthroat industry ... but, tonight, the only person she wanted to recognize her was the dark and handsome Mr. DeMarco.
The limo pulled into the lane before the Heston, and the hotel's valet immediately stepped over, opened her door, extended his hand, and helped her from the car. She smiled at the young man and was preparing to offer him a few polite words of thanks when surprise overtook her as her date for the evening – dressed in a fine black silk Armani suit with a white silk form-fitting crew collar shirt appeared almost instantly.
"Young man," DeMarco said, his voice sounding as smooth as velvet, "I believe you are holding the hand of my lady."
"My apologies, sir," the valet tried. He steered Indiri's hand into the older man's, and, tactfully, he slipped her fingers into his. "I compliment you on your taste in women."
"Thank you," DeMarco replied. He slipped the valet a $20 bill – Indiri thought the tip was more for her benefit than the valet's – and grinned hungrily at her.
"Well," she offered, "this certainly is a surprise."
"Whatever do you mean?" Turning gracefully, he slipped her fingers from his hand to his arm. She gripped his forearm and allowed for the man of international charm to escort her into the Heston. "Are you unaccustomed to such courtesy, Ms. Farris?"
She nodded at him. "I'm unaccustomed to such eagerness on the part of any suitor, Mr. DeMarco."
He chuckled warmly at her, and the sound of his laughter vibrated in her stomach. She realized how much she was feeling like a teenager with a schoolgirl crush, but it certainly felt good. Washington men – if she had known as much, she never would've placed her agency in the nation's Capitol – were largely ... gruesome and manipulative. Oh, they were charming, indeed. In fact, one couldn't be successful in politics without an abundance of charm, but the charm wore off quickly under the shadow of a trophy-bride/wife (in some cases, wives!) or the sexually-inquisitive interns or the bed-hopping mistresses. There weren't many men to celebrate in a city dedicated to celebrating men – damn women's suffrage – and Indiri enjoyed the dark stranger's touch even more because of it.
He led her through the lobby and toward the archway of the Abendessen, the Heston's signature restaurant. The maitre de greeted the two of them with impeccable politeness, and he made chit-chat as he escorted them to their table. A dinner menu and a wine list later, Indiri found herself being closely studied by her charming suitor. She glanced up to find his eyes staring into hers, and, feigning embarrassment, she widened her eyes back at him.
"Richard!" she teased.
He laughed, and, again, she felt it in her stomach. It had been so long – far too long – that she had been in the company of such a handsome and interesting man. She was afraid that she was about to say the wrong thing – make an inappropriate comment about the world, about religion, about politics, about clothing, for God's sake – and that his interest in her would wane quickly. People were so fickle that she had decidedly recent never to even attempt to start a conversation for fear of introducing the wrong topic, but, at this point, he wasn't saying anything. He was, simply, watching her.
"Tell me more about yourself," she tried.
"There really is very little to tell, Indiri," he told her. "I was born ... oh, shall we say that was many years ago? I was raised by a very, very lovely woman."
"Are you close to your mother?"
With some pain, he smiled. "I was, yes."
There. It had happened already. She made a mental note to jot down on her desk blotter a new record time for turning off a man.
"Oh, Richard," she offered, "I'm so sorry."
"No, no," he insisted. "Death ... it is a part of life, no?"
"Of course, it is, but I'm so sorry."
Lifting his head, he noticed the waiter coming. He silently mouthed the word 'later,' and she nodded happily.
The waiter poured their glasses of wine and quickly disappeared to another table where he was called by a large man who appeared very unhappy with his meal.
DeMarco lifted his glass and swirled the merlot. "Indiri, my mother was a very beautiful woman, and she lived a very beautiful life. It was full of purpose. It was full of joy. Like any of us, she suffered her share of disappointments, but I find comfort in knowing that she died as she lived, true to her heart ... and loving her only son."
Again, Indiri heard his words, and her heart fluttered.
"She raised a remarkable young man, it appears."
"You are too kind."
"I mean it," Indiri persisted. "Richard, certainly you've done your share of traveling, and certainly you've entertained people from all over the world. You must know that – despite a very human desire to hope that every man and woman you meet has some goodness in them – not everyone is raised to show so much as a simple courtesy to his fellow man."
"Or fellow woman," he agreed.
"Then," she began, lifting her own glass, "let's toast to courtesy."
He sat back, still grinning at her. "Now, that is not very romantic."
"No," she agreed, "but it is very real."
Still twirling the glass slowly in his hand, he offered, "I would rather toast ourselves than to toast a world that has turned its back of humanity, Indiri. Please, don't misunderstand me. I am ... I am much like you. I have looked for the goodness in people. I have looked for manners. I have looked for basic consideration. But I have found very little. I hold out hope that I will someday find more of it, but, for tonight, I would very much like to celebrate the simple romantic idea ... of us."
He raised his glass, and she followed.
Throughout the meal, they talked about everything. He told her about his youth – most of his stories surrounding his mother – and she found herself, as usual – talking more and more and more about her business. Conscious of the fact that agency chatter tended to become incredibly boring incredibly quickly, she kept trying to steer the conversation away into areas of more personal interest, but, ever the gentlemen, DeMarco kept insisting on hearing more about her, her life, and her daily trials and tribulations. Surrendering to his inquiries, they laughed over the stories she told. They enjoyed an exquisite meal and even more entertaining conversation ... and Indiri couldn't suppress her growing desire to reach across the table to feel his warm hand again. Would that be so wrong? Would that be inappropriate? In her profession, it wasn't uncommon to develop an attraction for a beautiful male right away. After all, she was surrounded by perfect faces, perfect teeth, and perfect bodies throughout much of the day ... but she had found, over time, that the human body was more of a 'case' than it was a 'vase,' as someone had once warned her. Still, here she sat, wanting so badly to feel little more than the warmth of a man's hand. Would it be so bad?
Had so become so disconnected with herself that she had sunk to this?
"Richard," she tried nervously.
"What is it?"
Their waiter had delivered the tab, and her date – still the gentleman – was reaching into his lapel pocket for his wallet.
"Indiri?"
'No,' she told herself. 'There wasn't anything wrong with it.'
Proudly, she lifted her head. She smiled at him, staring into his dark eyes, and she found the confidence to slowly slide her hand across the table. He saw what she was doing, and, in compromise, he reached across to her. They touched, their fingers lacing, and there again was the warmth she had felt on the curb outside of the Heston. She sighed peacefully, happily, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of simple human contact.
"What is it, Indiri?"
"I don't know," she confessed. "It's just ... well ... I hate to sound like a little girl ..."
"And," he said, smiling, "I have the suspicion that you are going to say it anyway."
"Why is that?"
"Because I would like very much to hear what you have to say."
She grinned. Did he feel what she felt? Was it possible to forge a connection that went beyond a basic instinct so quickly in today's age of marital collapse ... or was this simply just another statistic leading to the need for a hook-up?
God, she hated that term.
"I wanted to feel your hand," she said. "That's all."
He focused on her eyes. He wasn't smiling. He was staring. She hoped she read words that he didn't have to say, didn't need to say, or perhaps didn't want to say in that gaze.
Reaching out with his other hand, he opened the bill's folder, and she looked down. On top of the receipt was a room key.
"Indiri," he began, "we are both far too ... wise ... to spend an evening alone, going back to our separate houses or our separate apartments when we've been given an opportunity for the night to mean far much more to us." He stiffened a bit, and she was surprised that he found it difficult to ask a woman to stay with him. "I ... like you ... have been alone for far too long. Yes ... like you ... my commitment to my work ... well, it has driven me to a state of loneliness that one accepts when you get to be of a certain ... of a certain age." He said the word like it was a curse, and she agreed that it was. "I would never be so bold as to assume that a woman ... a beautiful and talented and extraordinary woman ... would entertain the notion of sacrificing her personal code of honor to ..."
"Richard," she interrupted softly.
"Hmm?"
She smiled. "Shut up."
In the elevator, he was on her, his lips on her neck, and she felt the warmth in her stomach of passion, of an unbridled spirit. He kissed her gently, increasing his intensity until his desire overtook him, and his mouth tracing up the muscle in her neck and found her jaw. Gently, he bit down there, and she gasped, bringing her arms up around his back, pulling him closer, pressing all of herself to him. Finally, their mouths found one another, and they kissed, deeply, locked together, both breathing heartily and heavily, one of his arms wrapped like a vise around her waist and the other clutching the back of her neck firmly ... as the elevator took them up to the seventh floor.
END of Chapter 07
