The Lost Year

  “Nothing you can say will make me run away. I promise I won’t hurt you. I want to get to know you better.”

  “I want to spend more time with you, too.”

  “We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with, as long as it’s forward.”

  “Backward would suck.” Taddy huffed into a laugh, but it didn’t come out convincing.

  He pulled her into him. “Do you remember last night, at dinner? When I said you hadn’t felt a man’s touch in a while?”

  “Yes.” She buried her face in his chest.

  “I can also tell you haven’t experienced love. Not in a long time—if ever.”

  “No, you’re right.”

  “You deserve to be loved. Please, let me show you.” He drew her face to his and kissed her. “I’ll show you if you let me.”

  “I’m needed in New York. I’m…” Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, unable to finish her words. Taddy didn’t mean what came from her lips. He knew her rebuttal was bullshit. She wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

  Warner shushed her and held her in his arms as they pulled into the airport. When the limo arrived, he got dressed, stepped out with her and walked her as far as airport security would let him. He’d promised Taddy he’d come to New York on his way to Asia. He gave her the keys to his penthouse, his personal assistant’s name, and contact information in Manhattan. Warner guessed she’d never use it. She was Miss Millionaire Independent, but he hoped those ‘strings’ would provide assurance that they’d continue this new relationship.

  I want her to be as excited about ‘us’ as I am. But she radiated terror. His words had meant nothing to her, he could tell. Taddy’s media world was built on hearsay and things that might not ever come into reality. Her personal life was about action. And he’d realized in the limo that talking to her wouldn’t do either of them any good, because she wouldn’t listen. She had to be shown.

  I’ll give you action, Miss Brill. Like you’ve never seen.

  Suck It, Blake Morgan

  While stuck talking to Air Euro Airways’ President Monsieur Jérôme du Tautou in the first-class lounge, Taddy had missed her flight and booked herself on the next departure, two hours later.

  A true Frenchman, Monsieur Jérôme didn’t scold her over the Hôtel de France Kiki debacle. Rather, he’d asked to use her Park Avenue residence that summer. Taddy didn’t see his visit as a problem, since she holidayed Memorial Day through Labor Day out east in Bridgehampton with Blake and Vive. Although, after he’d busted her sex toys up, her replacement items would be off-limits. Jérôme promised to arrive with his own dildos, corsets, and whips.

  Late from her Paris connection, Taddy finally arrived home. Her Manhattan penthouse felt unlived in and dark. Díma, already asleep in his servants’ quarters, had left a note in her boudoir which read, “Muffie stopped by. The puppies were good while you were gone. Breakfast is at 8.”

  The city’s summer humidity had settled in early for the spring season, so she set the air-conditioner to sixty-eight. Kissing Ruby, Carmine, Scarlet, and Cherry on their black snouts, Taddy doted over each puppy. Cherry danced in circles, spinning the tucked-in sheets out from the bed’s corners. Scarlet barked with a not-quite-a-dog yelp. Ruby licked Taddy’s dry hands with her tongue. And to finish the list, Carmine waited for Taddy to snuggle her face in his silk coat and kiss his belly.

  She crawled under the covers, but before she closed her eyes, she did what she promised herself she wouldn’t do—Taddy referred to her cell phone. No calls, texts, or e-mails from Warner wishing her a good night. She was familiar with personal disappointment and realized she might have to accept that being in his arms that weekend would never come to more than a Big Daddy good time. If she allowed her mind to fill with expectations, she’d go mad.

  At eight o’clock the following morning, her cell phone chimed with two messages, one from Lex and another from Vive. Leaving them unanswered, she dressed in a Chanel suit, pulled her hair in a bun, and sat in the formal dining room while Díma served her breakfast.

  Díma called the dish zavtrak. She identified it as crap. He considered breakfast an essential meal for the day. His usual preparations included protein-rich foods fit for an Olympic athlete. With a loud thud, he placed a Hermes bowl before her filled with Kasha.

  Yuk. “Díma, darling, didn’t I say you can’t make me suffer like Oliver Twist living in some godforsaken orphanage by serving me this…shit?” Resentment filled her empty belly.

  “Huh?”

  “You can’t put this crap in my good china, either. It dries like flippin’ concrete.”

  “Kasha is good for you.”

  Taddy stared at the gray-brown slop, wishing he’d prepare crepes, eggs Benedict, or lemon poppy seed pancakes. “Why do the Shih Tzus receive better meals than me?”

  “Ms. Brill, please do not start.” For some reason, Díma’s Russian accent thickened in the morning. His muscular body frame leaned over the table, teasing her with his chest as he poured orange juice.

  Once tempted to make him wear a slave collar, she’d settled on a formal black-tie uniform. “Where’s your bowtie?” She shook her head, dropping the spoon in the gruel.

  “Pardon?”

  “I told you, man-cleavage turns me on.” But oddly that morning, Díma’s pectoral wonderment exposed did nothing for her. Zero. Zilch. Nada. WTF? This is a first. Usually I’m sitting here eating my porridge while imagining a cock ride on your Mount Elbrus. She studied her butler’s physique. Nothing had changed. Standing tall, delicious, and Eastern European-imported, he remained a stud—one who, as a rule, she’d fuck. Damn, Big Daddy, get out of my head.

  “Apologies, Miss Brill.” Díma withdrew his tie from his front pocket and slid it around his neck. “Let me cook you something else. Kolbasa won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Perfect.” She pulled out her papers and jotted down her day’s punch list.

  Not caring if Taddy paid attention, Díma talked to her from the kitchen. He chatted on, claiming to be a distant relative to Michael I of Russia, first Tsar from the House of Romanov. Díma filled the dead silence between them with elaborate stories on the Romanov dynasty’s former wealth. Supposedly, they also ate—and enjoyed—the buckwheat paste.

  Taddy thought about what her father used to like to eat when she was growing up. “You noted Aunt Muffie came by yesterday.”

  “Yes, she brought friend,” he shouted from the kitchen in broken English.

  “Who?” she asked then sipped her orange juice.

  Díma popped his shaved head out of the kitchen. A whiff of meat sausage filled the room. “A small woman, late fifties, black hair. She introduced herself with a regal title. I did not get name.”

  “Flat-chested?”

  “Very.”

  “C–Countess?” Taddy choked on the title as it left her lips. “Countess Irma Brillford?” The citrus nectar in her stomach turned to acid. Her mother had accompanied her aunt?

  “I don’t recall. Muffie mentioned she will ring you today.”

  “Díma, I’ll take a rain check on your sausage. I better get into the office.”

  “What is a rain check? It’s sunny outside.”

  Ignoring his lost-in-translation question, she grabbed her bag and called down to José, who pulled the car around. As she rode to work, she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She just needed to work.

  Taddy headed straight for Blake’s executive offices on the opposite side to her suite. Pushing her mother and Big Daddy from her mind, she focused on the day ahead. Ass-kissing remained on her agenda to cover up for her sex-filled weekend, but she wasn’t looking forward to Blake filling her in on the Neve Adele account. She imagined his tone would be bitter.

  She walked into his office, unnoticed. Blake sat at his desk, surfing Craigslist for ass. “Happy Tuesday, Blake.”

  Blake grinned. “For someone who claims to have worked the Cannes film festival this weekend, your smile is an
ything but media-related.” Sporting Prada, he walked out from behind his desk. “Did you attend the parties I e-mailed you?”

  “Well…”

  Arms crossing at his chest, Blake examined her. “My Vanity Fair peeps reported back that you didn’t show up to any of the events. Not a one.” He made a tsk-tsk noise, as if he’d already come to the conclusion she’d spent the weekend in bed.

  “I worked on Hôtel de France for three days.” On purpose, she kept her voice flat, so she wouldn’t raise suspicion. “Time escaped me. Please tell your magazine friends I’m grateful for the invites, and I’ll be sure to go next year.”

  “Work doesn’t explain why your lips look like you’ve had a collagen injection.” Blake’s signature wit and sarcasm never stopped.

  “It’s from Baden Cosmetics new lip treatment. It’s called Blow Me,” she lied.

  “You sucked dick.” Going in for the attack, he accused, “I can smell the sex coming off you.” Blake stepped closer, breathing in.

  “Stop it.” She pushed him back. “Jealous green isn’t becoming on you.”

  “Pardon me.” He laughed. “Over-sexed red looks fabu on you.”

  “Ha. And how long has it been since you and your hubby got it on, Blakey?” She attempted to redirect his interest, but realized they were tormenting one another as if they were kids again.

  His manicured eyebrows rose. “My soon-to-be ex-husband and I haven’t topped or bottomed in years. Speaking of bottoms…” Whack! He smacked her ass.

  “BLAKE.” Taddy rubbed her heinie. Inching back to the door, she realized her office visit had backfired.

  “I’ve never seen your ass up s-o-o-o high. Your tush is grazing the popcorn ceiling.”

  “It’s called squats. Suck it.” She turned around to show him what he envied. “Come with Lex and me to Gilad’s Pilates studio and you’ll get a better butt, too.”

  “And your long legs are spread a teensy bit farther apart.”

  Crossing one foot over the other, she put her hands on her hips. “Ah-ah-ah.”

  “Taddy Brill, you reek of a good ol’ fashioned face-fucking.”

  “Ha?”

  “A clit-shaking!”

  “What?”

  “An ass-pounding.” His voice was filled with envy as he clapped his hands together, causing her to flinch.

  “I told you I worked this weekend, Mr. Morgan.” Taddy’s nipples pebbled just thinking about what pleasure the previous forty-eight hours had brought her. “Anyways, I came in to give you my gratitude for dealing with Neve this weekend. And to bring you this check.” She slipped him a thank-you bonus as she always did when he covered for her. “I love you and your work.”

  “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed our friendship and our business together.” He sat back down at his desk and handed her today’s Wall Street Journal. She graced the cover, in Warner’s arms. The headline read, “TRUMAN’S PROFITS RISE FROM SEXY NEW IMAGE.” Warner’s Hollywood smile beamed, but his stare didn’t find the camera as intended. He looked into Taddy’s eyes, as if ready to kiss her. The photographer had captured the moment’s true essence. “Your canoodling was caught at the Hôtel de France press conference. Mr. Truman shows good face.”

  “Mr. Truman is very handsome.”

  Blake’s eyes rolled back. “You must’ve given him good head. Wanna tell me about—”

  “Nope.”

  “No, you can’t tell me because you slept with him to secure Truman Enterprises as a client?”

  “God, no.”

  “No, you won’t share any details because nothing salacious happened between you and Mr. Beefy?”

  “No, as in I didn’t sleep with him in hopes he’d become a client. Warner dropped the charges against our beloved Kiki, and I executed his crisis communications. Nothing more.”

  “Nothing less?” Blake didn’t buy it. “Speaking of our Utah virgin, is Kiki coming back?”

  “Next week.” I hope. I pray.

  “Your Mormon will call and quit, in the same fashion as your other assistants have before her. I’ll wager this bonus on it.” He held up the check and rubbed her face in it.

  “Thanks, Blake. As always, I appreciate your support.” You are much nicer when you have a cock to suck on. She turned, holding the doorknob.

  “I take it you haven’t set foot in your office yet,” Blake warned over her shoulder.

  She turned back. “No, why?” Taddy hoped there’d be long-stem red roses from Warner or Teuscher’s champagne truffles or maybe some new sexy Agent Provocateur lingerie. It was too soon for Harry Winston, but she’d even be happy with something as simple as a voice mail from her Big Daddy.

  “Our gal pal Lex arrived early this morning. Crying, a total mess. I put her in your office with a box of tissues. She wouldn’t tell me what’s up.”

  “Birdie drama returns.” She felt her day sinking. Damn it.

  Blake pulled out a client folder. “Taddy, I’m not sure who or what you did this weekend, but keep at it. It’s nice seeing you smile.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was afraid you’d forgotten how.” Blake tapped his cheek with his pointer fingers, demonstrating a Shirley Temple grin.

  “Funny.”

  “You deserve love.” He held the Wall Street Journal photo up and continued, “And I’m hoping that’s where this Warner Truman is headed.”

  “No comment.” She wouldn’t admit she wanted the same thing. He’d tell the entire office.

  “Here’s hoping your luck will rub off on me. My body could use some TLC.” Blake’s handsome face grimaced.

  “Hang in there. I understand it’s been difficult for you and Diego.” Taddy realized Blake didn’t talk about it much at the office. She wanted to take him away from Brill, Inc. for a heart-to-heart.

  “Yup. That’s the reason I don’t attend Gilad’s Pilates classes with you and Lex.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Gilad has been having sex with Diego.” His face reddened. “For a year now.”

  “My Pilates instructor is gay?” Taddy hadn’t a clue.

  “You’ve heard of ‘gay for pay,’ right? When a straight dude sleeps with a guy for cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he is ‘straight for pay.’ Gilad has all the Upper East Side women thinking he’s straight so they’ll sign up for workout classes. But he’s secretly been getting plowed by my husband.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Blake nodded. “I’ve known for a while.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad between you.” Taddy felt awful for him.

  “I’ve sorta played it off like it’s just been a tiff. Haven’t I?”

  “Yes. Let’s have lunch tomorrow and talk about it.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Taddy closed the door behind her as she left, heading out into the hall while looking down at her cell phone. No messages.

  Damn!

  The sudden clacking sound of fingernails striking plastic keyboards increased as Taddy walked toward her office. She couldn’t help but giggle. The few days out of the office were the longest she’d been away all year. Her staff probably thought she’d been abducted by aliens when she didn’t come in the previous day. But the office racket became white noise to her as she thought about Lex and Birdie. The second she opened her door, she asked, “What’s wrong?” She set her purse and briefcase down on her desk and hugged her friend.

  “I called you last night, but your phone went to voice mail.”

  “Thanks to Monsieur du Tautou at Euro Air, I missed my Paris connection. Long story. I went right to sleep when I got home. What’s up?”

  “Work is exploding.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Too good.”

  “Congrats, darling.” From the look on Lex’s face, her visit didn’t have anything to do with Easton Essentials, but she’d humor her, as always.

  “Last December, we agreed to focus on
careers.” Lex sat on a loveseat alongside the window and pulled Taddy down beside her. “Easton Essentials is hot. We’ve sold out worldwide.”

  “The fashion press gave you great coverage this season.” She reached over to the coffee table and poured Lex a glass from the water pitcher. “Easton’s fabric is the best.”

  Lex took a sip. “The textiles we sourced from Girasoli Garments in Milan worked better than forecasted.”

  “Isn’t this kind of success what you dreamed?”

  “Yes, but I never imagined the brand would take on a life all its own.”

  “I did. Why else do you think I’d give you my life savings?” Taddy laughed. Lex constantly underestimated her own designer talent. Some called it being humble but with Lex, it was being insecure. Taddy hoped her friend’s skin would thicken after a few more fashion shows.

  “For the first time since Daddy’s death, we are debt-free. I paid off all my parents’ past bills. We have money to live again.”

  “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

  “Blake showed me the Wall Street Journal article when I came in. Spill it.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Warner Truman. The richest man in America. The one who resembles the NFL player Brayden Brooks you’ve been crushing on for years.”

  Taddy locked her pinky finger with Lex’s. It was a childhood tradition and with Lex’s encouragement, Taddy shared everything, from Garner in St. Barth being Warner, Kiki going to jail, the dinner, the lovemaking, and Warner’s desire to keep the getting-to-know-you-better going. “My stomach is in knots. Who knew I’d have puppy love at this age. It’s as if I’m fifteen.”

  “A love interest is wonderful news.”

  “But I haven’t heard from Warner yet. I doubt he’ll call.”

  Lex placed her hand on Taddy’s knee. “Have faith and confidence, would ya? You’re Taddy Brill. He’ll be in touch. Be happy.”

  “You’re the one who should be in high spirits, darling. You’ve become the fashion phenomena. Do you have any clue just how competitive your industry is?” Over the years, Taddy’s talents had launched numerous brands. Although, no label had ever reached the same status as Easton Essentials.