MR ROTHCHILD! PART I: NATHANIEL
Martin Rothchild entered the conference room pulling on his tie which triggered the rolling of eyes. He may as well have been pulling off his tie, a titillating prospect for the women who mooned over him daily. Always fastidious from his silvery hair and matching well-manicured beard to his every movement he’d captured the attention of his female staff.
And yes, Samantha held back sensual thoughts catching a whiff of his manly scent while alone with him in his private office. The few times he’d made eye contact she had shivered with desire, but she was well past that now. The consummate personal assistant that she was would never cross that line. She was the envy of the female staff, including paralegals, associates, and law clerks.
Mr. Rothchild nodded to each of his associates, shaking hands with the new interns as he passed. He then took a formal stance at the head of the conference table.
“Okay, Let’s do this.”
He waited for the room’s revered silence.
Martin wasn’t the king of France, but certainly, formality was his cup of tea. And he did appreciate a defendable red wine.
Samantha had spent the afternoon directing the catering for this sacred occasion. Sacred being a term she borrowed from listening to remarks about the handsome newly arrived young interns who stood at attention. At Mr. Rothchild’s request, Samantha had placed three cases of the vintage Mondavi under the table and uncorked twenty-four bottles. The cheeses, canape’ and finger foods had been delivered by the caterer and all accouterments had been readied.
He’d asked her to line up eight large wine glasses for each of the Interns, and also set nine for the paralegals, thirty-seven for each in-house associate, and three for the partners; plus, twenty-four glasses for the secretaries who would soon be sipping a new vintage to be opened at seven PM when this special event concluded. They knew to stand back and watch the yearly ritual when they had merged in timewise as expected. And it was arranged for Maryanne, a secretary who sits in for Samantha during her lunch breaks to assist at this event so that Samantha might be free to formally meet the interns as it naturally unfolded.
This would begin her fourth year greeting the summer interns. She knew to fill the glasses for the toast at just the right moment, while Mr. Rothchild was entering the party. She understood she must avoid any awkward down moments; as well as anticipating her own expected and simple introduction. However, she had developed her own ritual around that.
Normally, and officially Samantha is the first person visitors meet when they walk through the royal doors of Rothchild, Ketterling, and Levin. In keeping with that, she dressed as classically correct as possible. Think Princess Di. Samantha doesn’t usually flaunt herself, but this day, well, she’d pushed her boundaries slightly. She was thinking more along the lines of Marilyn Monroe when she retired to the ladies room and slinked into the form-fitting white vintage Chanel cocktail dress. The bodice was cut high, showing no cleavage, but the back had a cut out that plunged toward her ass. The fabric was thick and held her taut body just where a girl needs it. She wore sheer black stockings with high heeled black pumps.
At six o’clock sharp Samantha was lingering near the head of the table paying attention to all who were entering the room. She felt it her duty to be available in case Mr. Rothchild needed her assistance. When all felt secure she retired to the back of the room where she leaned against the wall near the hallway entrance like she always did for a catered event. This wasn’t her party, after all.
Mr. Rothchild cleared his throat, tapping a wine glass like hosts do at weddings. Heads turned immediately toward him watching silently as he poured the Mondavi cab, and holding it up to the light, he swirled it admiringly, put his nose to the glass and inhaled, speaking directly to the new interns.
“Ah, she is, as they say, to use a word loosely, of a vintage full of sweetness and expression. She shows a measure of restraint and finesse and finishes with a mature and complex flavor. A beautiful, fully matured sweet ripeness, with excellent purity.”
The men sipped, but their heads turned sharply when he announced:
“She is the redhead standing in the corner. Please allow me to introduce and salute the woman who will make or break your future here.”
He lifted his glass to Samantha. She caught her breath because of course, she thought he was praising the cabernet, but they sipped when he sipped, raising their glasses toward her.
Mr. Rothchild went on, tapping his glass again.
“She sits under a chandelier like a princess, but don’t be fooled, Sam is the person you need to get acquainted with. She manages your message center and keeps track of your whereabouts. Don’t underestimate her power. Be nice and she’ll take care of you. If not, I assure you’ll regret it.”
Her face flushed because the young men set their wine on the table and applauded. They’d had a good laugh at her expense while Samantha took a dignified yet purposeful fierce walk to the front of the room.
She smiled at Mr. Rothchild and whispered.
“This is me showing my restraint,” she said.
He laughed, placing his warm hand on the bare skin of her back, his fingertips dipping just a little.
Samantha straightened. She’d never seen him act like this before.
He spoke in her ear.
“I couldn’t help but equate you to a fine wine, I trust you weren’t offended?”
She squirmed away slightly.
“No Bob. I’ll get my revenge later.”
Samantha picked up a glass of wine and tipped it toward his with a clink.
“By the way, I’m impressed by the professional way you handled all of this. Your experience and finesse all around are greatly appreciated you know.”
Samantha knew she deserved praise because of her experience. Having worked with one of the finest caterers in San Francisco she had to admit she was a gourmet and a wine snob. It’s a past she didn’t think about often, but an obsession she’d never regretted. She’d been hired by the firm partly based on her culinary experience. And that impressed Mr. Rothchild who is a fanatic about great wine and cuisine. She would forgive him this indiscretion.
Her green eyes twinkled.
“I do know,” she smiled while she turned and moved to the position where she would greet the new Interns.
The room was rippling like a tide after a monsoon. The interns were taking their time toasting, congratulating each other, shaking hands and edging up to meet the exalted redhead.
These young men had passed the Bar Exam vying to be hired by the most powerful corporate law office on the west coast. Who didn’t want to live in Southern California with access to the most beautiful beaches, skiing only hours away, and all the drama of Hollywood at their feet?
This was also Samantha’s shining moment. Being SoCal born, she had spent much of her life as close as possible to the Pacific ocean. She knew every intimate mile of Mulholland Drive and every beach from San Francisco to Baja.
I suppose I actually am these guys’ go-to person. I know to anticipate their every question. And she was immensely appreciative of the opportunity.
The men were taking their time, stopping to celebrate their good fortune; toasting each other because they were finally getting a taste of the infamous wine and cheese Friday. And if in fact they did get hired at the very short summer’s end, it would be a great and overwhelming opportunity.
There were eight interns this year. Five looked like frat boys. Duncan, Kirk, Jefry, Vincent, and Cory crowded up to say their hellos…Nice-to-meet-yous.
But Samantha noticed when the tall one hanging back caught her eye once or twice.
The secretaries and staff swarmed in, surrounding the men and Samantha lost track of him. She never liked large crowds, and this was particularly uncomfortable because she was stuck in a corner helpless to move.
But not too helpless, she thought as she slipped out to use the ladies room and get some air.
She’d come to this job with a terrifying uncertainty, but over the years she had shed her old self-conscious fears and accepted her new-found power which she practiced daily.
Coming back in refreshed she stood at the entrance looking over the crowded space. She flushed and turned her head when he made eye contact across the room. He was too tall. Too good-looking. And that she understood and identified with as sorrow. Too late. He was already swimming his way through the bodies toward her, holding his wine glass above the crowd. She felt an urge to run away, and at that moment she knew he was trouble.
Her stomach fluttered when he held out his hand and lit her evening like a torch.
“I’m Nathaniel, but you can call me Nate.”
He took hold of her hand and didn’t release, or else, she was pretty sure if she could rely on the moments when time stood still; they’d simply forgotten to let go. Neither of them actually needed to speak in that bubble of theirs.
Samantha did note his eyes. They radiated sparks of amber. She’d noticed his haircut because it was just on the cusp of way too long for an intern. The way he had it combed back from his face, almost finger-combed that made her long to run her own fingers through it. The nape of his neck hair was just short enough to get by, but all kind of thickly ruffled just over the top of his collar. She intuited that it had recently been longer, maybe shoulder length like the surfers in Manhattan Beach.
She pictured him riding a wave. His forehead was tanned with a line just about an inch above his eyebrows lending the impression of a deep thinker. And why would she be so attracted to his smallish eyes? His brows, in such close proximity to his eyelids, gave him the intensity of a stare she couldn’t resist. A well-shaped Roman nose with a slight bump. A perfect “V” defined his upper lip with enough space for a light shadow of stubble. She enjoyed watching him speak because of the slight dimple in his chin. The spatter of light freckles across his nose made him seem fresh and vulnerable, but the rest of him was all man.
His eyes crinkled.
“You’re not really a Chanel girl, are you?”
She should have felt offended, but it was as though he knew she’d rather be a chef or a writer. When he smiled that crooked smile like a kid it threw her off balance. She wondered where this kid had been all her life. She’d felt her face heat up, and a deep throbbing ache distracted her. She wondered if he’d felt something too, but surely it doesn’t work that way, does it?
She turned away because she was flailing, lifting her wine glass, she made a false attempt at normality.
“Oh, I forgot to bring out the extra wine!” She said.
“Here, let me help you,” He offered.
She had let him, but she truly just needed to escape.
And escape she did after inviting him to talk another time.
“Oh!” She argued with herself helplessly because he’d felt so threatening to her security, of which she obviously had none. A momentary terror passed through her. She had been hesitant to let go of his hand because it felt unfathomably healing. Why was he tracing her palm with his thumb? What was in that gentle act that caused her to ache like a lovesick girl? She turned, glad it was Friday because she and Jordan had plans later for cocktails at the Formosa.
Monday morning Samantha was checking messages for Mr. McInerny when Nathaniel entered her reception area from the hallway behind her to her right. She looked up and watched him make his way across the marble floor into the hall on the other side. He had a nice long sauntering kind of walk, a Gary Cooper kind of pigeon-toed walk as though he’d just dismounted and his legs were stiff. Her knees went weak and that ache returned.
“Sam, are you alright?” Said Mr. McInerny.
She put her hand to her forehead, “Just a slight headache is all.”
Nate had the nerve to walk through her territory several times on Monday and Tuesday. Was he doing this on purpose? Was he lost? It was so annoying!
He’d look up at her with that little grin when he came from the North entrance, but when he came from the South he didn’t look back at her at all. She got so distracted that when any person walked through she thought it might be him. If not, she was disappointed.
Pull yourself together for god’s sake!
On Thursday she was minding her own business when she looked up to see Nathaniel perusing the paintings. The massive reception area indeed felt like the interior of a formal art museum. The low-lighting enhanced the art but was actually intended to protect Martin Rothchild’s valuable collection. Samantha was used to the soft dim lighting. The chandelier above her head offered the light she needed to do her job. It was a pleasant space for clients to wait because it invited them to stand and appreciate the art which was rotated by the curator monthly.
When she looked up again Nathaniel was standing in front of her desk. She loved his full name, the way it flowed off her tongue.
“Hi,” He said.
She wanted to ask him how his first week was going, like an adult, her being a professional and all. But no. She willed herself to say something, anything intelligent and felt her brain dissolve like an adolescent girl. She was growing to hate that girl!
“I think you may have a message for me, from New York?”
“Oh, let me see, yes, here it is.”
He looked her in the eye and grinned.
“Thank you, Samantha.”
He turned to walk his walk. He wore no suit jacket today. She appreciated the pleasure of a view of his fine tight ass walking away from her once again and satisfied herself that his grin and eye contact had some meaning. There was a message in it, she was sure.
Or I am one possessed woman.
The following Monday Samantha was ordering lunch in for Mr. Rothchild’s clients. She used a specific restaurant based on their tastes. The caterer would deliver the food directly to the conference room unless it was to be a small intimate luncheon in which case she served it personally in Mr. Rothchild’s private office. As she hung up the phone she looked up to view Nathaniel standing before her.
“Hi,” Nate said.
“Hi,” she smiled with a soft sigh of relief.
He spoke awkwardly, chin down, raising his eyebrows.
“Do you want to have lunch today? With me?”
She bit her lower lip straining to remain calm.
“Yes, definitely yes. With you, at one PM? That’s when I’m relieved for my lunch hour, at one PM.”
He shifted his weight putting his fist to his chin.
“Where should we meet?”
In the interest of discretion, Samantha asked him to meet her in the downstairs lobby.
Their meeting held all the drama of a covert rendezvous. When she stepped out of the elevator he took hold of her hand and whisked her away, pulling her down Wilshire Boulevard to a smart restaurant with tablecloths and booths. It was an updated version of the Brown Derby and exhibited all the panache of a Gentleman’s Club that Beverly Hills had to offer.
They were seated in a booth and ordered something.
But Samantha wasn’t thinking about food.
“Where exactly are you from, Nathaniel?”
“My family’s from New York State. I live in the city”
She poked at her salad.
“There goes my surfer theory”.
“What?” he laughed.
“Nothing, forget I said it.”
Samantha willed him to touch her. He did. At first tentatively. She had placed her left hand on the red leather seat and he had entwined his fingers with hers. She was holding her breath because it was an unforgettably intimate moment; their hands, like hidden lovers, embracing beneath a fresh white tablecloth.
When he began rubbing her palm with his thumb she almost cried but kept some dignity, taking a sip of water with her right hand while inhaling the beauty of his tender love-making. She felt aroused, imagining the kiss that would follow. She hadn’t eaten a bite.
A moment later she thought he was going to reach for his glass, but instead, he placed his fingers under her chin and turned her face to his, searching her eyes.
“So. Green,” he confirmed.
She succumbed to the embrace of his eyes and the delicious erotic sensations, the sentient touch of flesh, the scent of his breath. Slowly she slipped and stumbled into his hypnotic lure, their lips growing closer by the moment.
Nathaniel raised his left hand, and the waiter brought the bill. He threw some cash on the table and took her hand. They raced out of the restaurant into a breezeway where Nathaniel pulled Samantha into his arms and delivered that kiss. He held her close, just long enough for her to feel his bulge against her tummy.
She gasped a little, and He chuckled.
“I think you’re wonderful. Can we do this again?”
“Sure, but can’t we skip lunch next time?”
He pulled her close, “Oh dear Samantha, what am going to do about you?”
Settling back into her routine after lunch was challenging. Samantha felt anxious and incredibly buoyant at the same time. Anxious because her anticipation was exhausting. What had he meant? Was she a problem for him, or was he merely expressing the fact that as an intern he was under a microscope, and had been granted little time to himself? Indeed, it was true, those guys were worked to the bone. It would take great effort to maintain his pace of work and begin a relationship in tandem.
Her heart ached for him.
She’d be in the middle of a task and suddenly realize she wasn’t breathing and gulp in a huge breath. If she didn’t see Nate during the day she became forlorn. If she did see him and he smiled at her she’d become happy and buoyant again. Samantha was on a seesaw of emotions. God, she hated feeling this way. And she loved it too. She found ways to distract herself. Shopping for clothes at Bonwit Teller during her lunch hour where she had a credit line. She enjoyed rummaging through their classic designer suits for her work wardrobe but would gravitate to the lingerie department where she fantasized about a night in bed with Nate.
She could not endure two full days on the weekend without seeing Nathaniel.
It had been four days. Where is he?
She reprimanded herself, It’s all just fantasy, a fairy tale…don’t do this, you’re not ready!
But she’d begun conniving how she’d approach him at Friday’s wine and cheese. This is not something she’s used to doing. Samantha was accustomed to men falling over themselves for her attention, but now she felt all wrong and out of sorts. The usual steely in-control Samantha was having terrifying feelings of inadequacy.
She sighed, rising to leave the office and walked to the elevator. When the doors slid open, Nathaniel stepped out.
He turned to her with a stack of files on his arm, searching for words.
Samantha stepped into the elevator and pushed the down button.
“It’s okay Nathaniel, don’t worry about it,” she said softly keeping her eyes down.
Nathaniel hopped in just as the doors closed.
She was a mannequin standing there staring at the elevator doors, his warm body beside her. She listened to him breathe. A deep breath, then an exhale. His arm was touching hers. She caught the scent of his body and his familiar sweet breath. The deep ache claimed her once again, and she began to tremble.
She bit her lip thinking, If this were a film or an erotic tale we would be fucking in the elevator by now!
The door slithered open and Samantha stepped out bravely into the cool underbelly of the twelve-story building.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he said.
Their footsteps echoed as they walked, and she felt the ominous terror that accompanied her and unlocked the door to her Toyota then turned to sigh and look into his sparkling amber eyes, raising her eyebrows questioningly.
“You’re so beautiful,” rolled off his tongue like a sad lament.
He was shaking his head slightly as if he’d been beaten. He stood up straight, took a breath and set the files on the roof of her car. Then he put his hands in his trouser pockets and rocked back.
“I really do want to see you again. Really, Samantha.”
It was one really too many and so she turned, letting his comment go like a leaf in the wind. She threw her bag onto the passenger seat and backed in to sit behind the wheel.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, going for her arm.
He pulled her forward so she sat on the edge of the seat with her feet on the concrete.
If he doesn’t take advantage of this opportunity I’m going to start the engine and run him down.
“Why don’t we get dinner tomorrow night?” he asked.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Why not come to my place for dinner?”
Now his eyebrows were raised. He was actually thinking about it.
Oh no, she thought. Cooking on a first date? I probably scared him to death!
But she had second thoughts.
He’s a lawyer, he can handle it!
He looked around, then grinned, taking her arm gently, and pulled her out of the car. She stood watching him turn her wrist over and kiss the back of her hand peering up sincerely into her eyes.
“I’m looking forward to it, honestly.”
Samantha blinked. An honest kiss on the hand gave her little satisfaction.
She reached up and placed the flat of her hand on the back of his head and pulled his face toward hers. Nathaniel submitted by catching her red hair between his fingers. He pressed his mouth demurely on her forehead at first, then sliding down, he captured her lips hungrily. His hand moved to her buttocks pressing her into his groin.
“Samantha,” Nate pleaded, “Please don’t give up on me.”
He held her head between the palms of his hands searching her eyes.
“Trust me. Please trust me. No matter what. I’ll make everything right.”
Samantha, overcome, sat on the edge of the car seat again, and Nathaniel crouched to slide his warm hand along her bare thigh and rested his head in her lap for a moment inhaling her feminine scent. She ran her fingers through his messy blonde hair.
“I trust you, Nataniel.”
Nate raised his head.
“Oh god Samantha, I’m sorry, I have a meeting…”
“I’ll put my address and number in your inbox.” she smiled.
Nate turned toward the elevator.
“Don’t forget your files,” she said, pointing to the top of her car.
Samantha relived his violent kiss.
That is one passionate man, she smiled.
But she had her misgivings, not concerning Nate, but inviting him to her apartment did hold a certain terror for her.
Hanging on to a positive, she thought Nate might be the cleansing factor. She was sure there was something; something in him that owned her. She had only to think back on their introduction during the first wine and cheese when he’d deliberately claimed a place in her heart. There was no question about it, he was a permanent fixture there now.
When she found this charming apartment she’d fallen in love with it.
It may be small but It has character.
The living room that served as her bedroom had a fifteen-foot ceiling with french coving and original 1920’s moldings. The windows were practically floor to ceiling and opened out french style with a view of tall palm trees.
The kitchen, almost all windows enhanced the airy charm of it. Samantha had postcards on the walls above her dining table to remind her of her travels to tropical places, and so she enjoyed a large potted palm in the corner.
It just feels a bit haunted now, she sighed.
I am one weak-minded woman. How would Nathaniel react if I told him?
But she wiped it from her mind again. Oh how she fought to stay positive, just this once, and keep her head. She’d done her best to erase all traces of Levin’s presence from her memory. And as a thinking woman, she knew she had no obligation to disclose the incident to Nathaniel.
Samantha set a bottle of the infamous Mondavi on the mantle with two wine glasses before she left for work on Friday morning. She smiled because this promised to be a fun sexy evening. On her way home from work she would pick up a light supper from one of their finest caterers.
NO cooking on a first date!
Samantha’s morning went smoothly except for one thing. Nathaniel hadn’t retrieved her information from his inbox. She didn’t concern herself too much because she understood how busy the interns were. She hadn’t seen him this morning but surely he would come out later to fetch it.
She usually walked during her lunch hour, preferring to eat at her desk prior to going out. Today she was in such a great mood she jaunted down to Brentano’s to browse books. It was a beautiful sunny California day. A day to just be happy.
On returning, Samantha found an envelope on her desk.
It read, Sam.
She timidly tore it open to read an incomprehensible message.
Please forgive me, I cannot make our dinner appointment tonight, Nate.
She figured he didn’t owe her an explanation, but sure as hell should have given her one.
She partially blamed herself, believing that if she hadn’t asked him to come to her apartment they would still be going out to dinner this evening.
She comforted herself recalling her promise of trust.
Be patient, it could be completely out of his control.
On Friday Samantha was a bit nervous before entering the conference room. It was something she had done a hundred times over the past three years. She’d worn her favorite Chanel suit with the plunging neckline and slipped into a pair of high heeled pumps. She was tall without them, but they gave her added confidence, and Nate was tall enough that she wouldn’t tower over him.
She halted in the doorway. All the interns were there with the exception of Nathaniel.
Jordan strolled in.
“Have you seen Nathaniel?” she asked.
Jordan poured a glass of red for Samantha and turned to hand it to her.
“He had to go back to New York,” she said.
Samantha took a deep drink and swallowed.
“Okay I’m ready, spill the beans.”
“I’m not sure, but he may not be coming back.”
“What? Why? I don’t understand!”
“Understand this sister. He’s engaged to be married.”
“No! That’s not possible.”
She whirled around, searching for Nathaniel.
“Oh Sam, I’m sorry. I know you care for him. I can see you’re not okay.”
Sam held her hands over her ears.
“Of course I’m not okay! I should have played hard to get! I should have cut my own heart out; become untouchable, damn it!”
Jordan sighed, taking her hand.
“You didn’t deserve this Sam. Let’s get you out of here; I’ll call a cab, but I need to get out of this suit first, then we’re going to the Formosa to get good and drunk!”
Most days Samantha took the bus from Palm Drive to the office.
“I drove.” she sighed.
Jordan took her arm.
“You can pick up your car tomorrow.”
They exited the high rise from a backdoor of the street level parking garage. The door was a shortcut to the historic landmark on Camden Drive where Jordan lived in the stunning 1926 Churrigueresque hotel of a Spanish Baroque style.
“It’s not the Beverly Hilton, but much better,” Jordan often commented.
Stepping into the darkened cave that was once the hotel lobby Samantha relaxed and re-experienced the ambiance of the architectural wonder. She felt the clearly decaying unkempt building envelope her, and as always she’s able somehow to feel safe as if the time warp was wrapping its arms around her.
The antique box elevator was permanently out of order, and so they climbed the serpentine staircase while Samantha dragged her fingers along the worn banister pondering which famous stars had touched the surface over a period of more than half a century.
Samantha wasn’t surprised when Jordan knocked on door 209.
The old woman opened it wide with a flourish, and she ushered them in wearing garish full stage makeup.
“Come in, my darlings.”
The Diva showed off a dramatic heavy cream satin gown, raising her crinkled sagging arms she whirled, dripping a mass of lengthy pearls and heavy costume jewelry that weighed down her substantial bosom. Her hair was a flame of unnatural red piled high with a tiara that tilted when she spoke.
Samantha marveled at the rose-flocked papered walls holding countless yellowed photographs in elaborate frames, some pinned in every accessible space except where the draperies of deep wine velvet hung ponderously. Every space in her living room was brimming with an abundant and mysterious history. The Diva was displaying her past as a bohemian film star from Hollywood’s Golden Age.
“I never get enough,” Samantha sighed.
Riveted once again by the fading portrait of the diva, she realized that in the photo she was probably the age that Samantha is now. And she was indeed a beauty. But it struck Samantha like a dart, and she faltered, experiencing a sick feeling. It was an emerging awareness, causing her to weep openly.
Both women rushed to her, the diva taking her hand in her bejeweled fingers.
“What is it dear?”
Samantha looked at the diva pleadingly.
“I’m sorry, I’ve ruined everything.”
“Not at all my dear,” she said.
Jordan watched as the stately woman bore herself luxuriously to a glass table and carefully filled a crystal champagne flute with sherry from a slim carafe.
Samantha’s mind was whirling, wondering how the spinster managed to retain her radiant confidence of youth, and her shimmering wealth, though it was obvious her money was long gone. Surely, she had answers that Samantha couldn’t begin to know the questions for.
Jordan stood by, watching, trusting Ms. Charlemaign’s instincts while Samantha sipped from the flute and the diva tapped her tear-stained cheeks with a fine lace handkerchief. She then took hold of her fingers and guided Sam to a tufted piano seat.
“Now, my dear, sit. Tell me–there is a man involved!”
Samantha nodded, blinking away tears, but revealed nothing.
Squeezing her hand with her long wrinkled fingers and blood-red manicured nails, the diva countered,
“Well, we’ll take care of that stinker!”
Samantha’s weak smile emerged.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering how the woman would go about fulfilling her promise. But she felt somehow reassured by the warmth of her hand alone.
The old woman took Samantha’s hands, and squeezed them, her grey eyes intensely focused on Sam’s.
She barked in her deep cigarette voice.
“My dear, listen closely…find who you are deep down and express it no matter what! Your strength is in your confidence as a woman. Hold your head high, and most importantly exhibit your unique truth.”
Satisfied she had done her job, the diva patted Samantha’s hand.
“Come see me anytime you like.” She handed Sam the damp handkerchief.
“Take this with you as a reminder, your tears will dry.”
Samantha nodded again, rising.
As the young women took their leave, Madam called to them,
“Embrace your life darlings. Life is short!”
FORMOSA CAFE’: A PLACE OF SECRETS
He set up the cocktail shaker and began to pour.
“Good evening ladies; Jordan, Sam”.
Samantha smiled because he was making reference to Sam Spade, the private detective of Dashiell Hammett’s 1930 novel, The Maltese Falcon. She felt comfortable because as a kid she was called Sam. And she was cozy now and safe in the romance of his presence.
It was 1978, but the young women willingly accepted the pleasant trip back to the thirties and forties with the help of the original bartender of fifty years, who, like a godfather, was there to watch over them. He knew to offer a cigarette or two as they lounged at his bar enthralled with tales of the iconic establishment since 1925. He insisted on lighting their cigarettes using his lucky gold lighter, his fist folded over the flame with the practiced suavity of Cary Grant.
The Formosa is a place that invites nostalgia. A slanted wall above the bar, plastered with black & whites of movie stars back in the day peered down on them, eavesdropping.
Tonight Samantha felt their presence, as did Lindy whilst he poured her dirty martini with three olives, Jordan’s dry vodka, and fed them extra olives. His convincing sincere style was the voice of authority because he was the witness. Lindy knew all. The women lapped up impossible stories of Bogart, Gable, and Sinatra. He assured them that the place was haunted by Sinatra’s pining for Ava Gardner. They believed every word because it was in the very air of the place.
Couples poured in. Beautiful young women in strapless gowns and men in tuxedos lighting cigarettes leaned over the bar to order cocktails. And single men, old and young began flirting with the women. Jordan looked all lawyerly in the office, but when she changed into a cocktail dress, let down her shimmering blonde hair, and added black eyeliner, she became a stunning attraction, turning men’s heads. But Samantha was in no mood for their attention. This is when Jordan agreed to move their second drink to a remote table near the original jukebox that housed Billie Holiday’s earthy laments. Holiday’s voice resonated with the other ghosts as the women sat reverently sipping their Winston lights in this place of secrets they could only imagine.
Samantha trusted that the secret she will soon share with Jordan would dissolve like the vapors of Bogart’s cigar, but she was reticent about sharing it, not wishing to spoil the evening.
“Tell me, Samantha pleaded, “What else did you hear about Nathaniel?”
“Well Sam, I do like him, and I think he’s a smart, sensitive guy. I’m sure you intuited that yourself, right?”
Sam squeezed a tear down her cheek reflecting on his passionate kisses.
She straightened up and threw back her drink.
‘I’ll have another, please.”
“Okay, I get it, you guys were intimate, and only an insensitive bloke would walk out on you, Sam. Listen, I hate to give you false hope, but I have a feeling he may be having second thoughts about his engagement. I honestly believe he cares for you. I heard he took a leave based on family illness, which is actually the only excuse he could have used other than a death in the family. So… Oh, Sam, I hope he’s breaking up with the bitch!”
“God I’m a dope,” Samantha laughed through her tears.
“Actually,” Jordan offered, “I hate to say this but I think it’s best that you forget about him.”
It irked Samantha that attorneys were all so damned logical.
It must be sheer training toward analytical conclusions.
“You’re right,” she sighed as she tapped her glass against Jordan’s.
“As of this moment–I’m moving on.”
“No more tears, my friend. The man’s not worth it.”
PART II MR. ROBERTS
Martin Rothchild had not understood Samantha at all. His knowledge that she’d taken his meaning during his daring introduction to the new interns half in sport was disconcerting.
He shook his head. From the high rank where I stand, how could I expect her to take it any other way? In his cowardice, he had buried a sincere truth and in his realization of the facts, he had checked his own boldness, how he’d made a sincere introduction and how smoothly she had accepted it…unruffled!
She’d let it slide over her like a smooth wave showing him the deeper side of her character that had outshone her beauty.
His attraction was less to her sensual beauty than to her fearless ambition. She had been an indisputable professional and had handled his outrageous toast with grace. He’d been steadfast up until now determined to never break the barriers between Partners and staff.
But how would he bridge that gap he had set between them? Her feminine attractiveness was undeniable to him the moment he felt himself agonize with jealousy watching Samantha spend the evening holding hands with that new intern Nathaniel.
It’s lonely at the top, he nodded to himself as he steered toward his office. She, after all, is the mature one. She would never cross that line! But his imagination presented a scenario that defied his barriers.
Martin admitted he needed so much more to fulfill his tastes. He’d never settled for financial success. What was it anyway but an ocean of opportunity to achieve his highest ambitions? For him, it was simply the gateway to an unfulfilled mission. And he’d denied himself love by keeping his sights on the prize.
Rothchild decided he was fighting a war of his own. He hadn’t the complete support of his two partners. And he understood he was the lone wolf, larger than life, thus set apart like an icon no other would ever chance to be. His wealth separated him from Ketterling and Levin who had no interest in the art. In truth, they had nothing in common other than their positions in the firm. For them, it was all about finances. They’d made very different choices. Setterling, a conservative, was dependable but lacked the courage to create greatness. And Levin was a bit of a rogue.
On a whim, Samantha grabbed a jacket and descended the stairs from her upper apartment in the old Deco building on Palm drive.
She had no destination in mind except that She’d left her Toyota in the parking garage last night and needed to pick it up. These walks helped her unload her mind, and so she strolled the short block to Wilshire Boulevard, turned right, and pressed forward.
“Gin and Tonic.” the bartender smiled as he placed it on the bar before her.
It was early, but not too early since the sun was low, and she was thirsty for her favorite drink that was her way of ushering in the summer season. A false step toward normality, but it proved refreshing.
She picked up her drink and walked out to the sidewalk where couples were seated. She felt both envious of them and almost embarrassed to be alone, but the drink had given her courage. And so she took the last sip and raised her head as the diva had prescribed.
She strolled further down the boulevard and stopped at her favorite French patisserie. Feeling bold, she seated herself at an outdoor table and ordered a salade niçoise with a Chenin blanc.
She was lifting her glass when a male voice with a French accent announced, “spécialité pour la belle dame“ and laid down a steaming chocolate Pots de Creme.
“You must be mistaken.”
“No no, I assure you it is the gentleman who sent it.”
She turned to find Dennis standing beside her.
The metal chair screeched when he pulled it out and sat,
She stretched out taking his arm. Pulling him close, she drew up her shoulders experiencing a moment of sweet delight and breathed in his refreshing scent.
“When did you get back?”
He placed his large warm hand on top of hers.
“I got in last night”.
“How are the girls?”
“My daughters are doing well, just growing up too fast.”
Sam placed a finger to her chin.
“So, what else?”
His smile disappeared
“Nothing to report in that area, probably won’t be.”
She reached out to touch his cheek.
“I’m so sorry.”
Sipping her wine, she leaned back facing the sun that was setting in streaks of pink and glowing halos around puffy clouds on the horizon.
His eyes followed hers.
“Say, I’m on my way to meet Roger for drinks, you want to come?”
“Ummm,” she said, “Not tonight, but thanks, I’m not up to Rodger’s rowdy behavior. But let’s get together soon!”
“You got it. Monday for Sushi?”
“Not Monday. We have a special engagement with the new interns. My schedule is overwhelming this week. I’ll call you when I have time to breathe.”
He leaned in and took her jaw in his hand and turned her face toward his locking her eyes.
“Sam, you’re not excited enough with all that fresh meat surrounding you. I know you better than that. You should be flying high!…and, hey, what happened to Arthur?”
She looked at him sincerely.
“You know that was just a couple of dates Dennis? Besides, he left us. Was hired by a firm in San Francisco.
“Oh. Sorry I brought it up, yikes!”
“Not a problem big guy.”
He pulled his keys out of his pocket, then hesitated.
“Of course I am.”
He placed his hand flat on top of her head like her big brother used to do–god she’d missed him.
“Why am I not convinced Scarlet?”
Samantha realized she couldn’t bring up Nathaniel. It seemed trivial to complain to him after he’d shared his own personal grief.
“I’m fine Dennis. Thank you for my chocolate fix.”
“I know your tastes Sammy, you be a good kid, and next time I’ll get to hear all about your new designer male.”
“Haha,” she smiled as she watched him stride over to his Jaguar Challenger parked by the curb. He raised his hand and jumped over the door into the gorgeous red convertible, waving as he sped away with a screech of tires.
Other than Mr. Rothchild, Dennis is the most honest man she knows. Samantha’s heart hurt because it felt so wrong that she hadn’t opened up to him when he intuited her trouble. Her barrier was as thick as a lead door.
She still had tonight to reconcile her thoughts. After that, she may as well disappear. She laughed at herself, limping along toward Palm drive. She had no reason to pick up her Toyota today, and she had no business driving drunk anyway.
The evening dragged on as Samantha ruminated over her break down in the Diva’s apartment. She truly needed to talk to Dennis, just hadn’t worked out how to go about her confessions regarding Levin, not to mention her agony over Nathaniel.
She had worked hard to hide the truth. She quietly believed she could keep the secret and behave naturally. There was so much more she hadn’t shared with Jordan, and even if she had, Samantha had no right to expect her silence when it was she who should have dealt with the authorities.
She wondered why she felt what happened with Levin was her fault. This is the crux of it.
I am guilty of something, I must be.
Samantha was approaching her thirtieth birthday this month and on that note, she focused on the next phase of her life carefully. She made a vow to turn all thoughts to the future. First, she dismissed her dreams of Nathaniel as a nonsensical girlish mistake. She squared her shoulders rationalizing that a relationship now would have paused her professional progression. It had been eating at her that the writer in her had stalled due to distraction.
She was surrounded by professionals who already had their careers and it was unsettling to think of herself as a career receptionist. She honored her deep love of literature and fine arts, and so today, she tackled her piece on War Veterans she’d interviewed and spent the rest of her afternoon at her desk sketching a book-cover for her thesis, “Our Real Lives. Personal stories told by Veterans of Viet Nam.” She had presented her thesis to her professional writing teacher at the UCLA Extension program but hadn’t finished it. She had received a positive critique but had dropped out due to the Levin issue.
Now was the time to finish the piece, encouraged by the working journalist,
“It’s still viable, interviews like yours are never too late.”
She had also been drawn to an art history class that was strictly based on modern artists that had excited her. She wanted to explore it more deeply and realized she had the perfect source right under her nose.
Who better to ask than Elizabeth, Mr. Rothchild’s in-house curator?
Samantha met Elizabeth the following afternoon in her office on the seventh floor.
“It’s good to start wherever you can, but I advise you to begin by taking some undergrad courses at Santa Monica College so you’re actually gathering credits if you wish to pursue a degree. And, it would make sense to volunteer in a venue like an art gallery, or a museum similar to the night you hosted the Barnsdale exhibition with Mr. Levin.”
The thought of Levin irked her, but she had yet to tell anyone in authority that he had harmed her that sad night. A night that had enlightened her otherwise. Sam was a progressive, at best.
“Also, Elizabeth said, you don’t need a degree to volunteer for this, but if you want to get more familiar with Martin’s collection, it couldn’t hurt to do some research, and next time you’re asked to host, you’ll have more knowledge to provide the guests.”
Later that afternoon Martin Rothchild stopped by and knocked twice on her desk. Samantha enjoyed his quirky sense of humor. She relished the fact that Rothchild was more than a lawyer, that he was an intellectual and a prominent patron of the arts.
“Stop by my office before you leave, OK, Sam?”
“Course I will, Bob.”
“Good,” he said, knocking twice again as he jogged away.
His colleagues called him Bob, and Samantha grinned because she was included in that circle and calling her Sam was a nod to that bond.
She thought Bob was very energetic for a man of forty-five. Today she’d noticed his untamed locks of hair that made her think disturbingly of an aging Nathaniel causing that ache to hitch a ride in her stomach again.
When she recovered, she grabbed her bag and sweater and stopped by Mr. Robert’s office at 6PM.
“Liz tells me you’re interested in the art,” he smiled, tapping a pencil on his desk.
“Yes, Bob, I fell in love with your collection, of course, who wouldn’t, living with it every day? And working your Barnsdale exhibition inspired me to, well, I believe I’d like do that professionally. “
He rocked back in his chair tapping the pencil to his chin.
“Most people are afraid of German Expressionism, it makes them think of burning bodies and the Holocaust.”
“Oh no, I think it’s terribly romantic the way the young artists and poets would meet in coffee houses and collaborate on their work. I think it’s the most exciting art I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe we’ve never discussed this before now!”
He leaned forward, brown eyes flashing, and studied her with a grin that looked like he’d discovered uranium.
“On that, we agree,” he concluded.
Samantha waited to hear if he had anything else to add.
“Would you like to see the most important portion of my collection? Would you be able to come for lunch on…” looking at his calender…penciling out a time… “Friday afternoon?”
“Friday? I’m working.”
“Ah yes, let’s see__Saturday then?
“That sounds fine.”
“Okay then. Have a good night. Oh, let me write down my address for you. Let’s say 12:30?”
She caught a whiff of him when he stood and removed his suit jacket and sat again, finger-combing his thick tresses, and grabbed a pen. He looked up at her then jotted the information on a pad, ripped it off and handed it to her.
“See you Saturday,” he winked.
“Good Night Bob.”
She knew she’d see him before Saturday. He surely knew that tomorrow was Friday. Bob had certainly been acting oddly lately and wondered if it was his age showing.
Samantha took a smooth sip of her chardonnay while watching the entrance to the conference room because Jordan hadn’t shown herself.
When Marcel Levin sauntered in and locked eyes with her, Samantha spun quickly to focus on the large plate glass window trusting she wouldn’t turn and fling her wine glass at the back of his head. She imagined the patterns of blood, like a great abstract painting with all its dark and light vivid sharp shapes dripping down the glass for all to witness.
Without Jordan’s or Martin Rothchild’s protection, she felt like an easy target, exactly what she’d meant to avoid this evening.
When Levin sauntered around to the head of the table like an innocent man, she stood rigid with purpose. Ignoring the violence in his gaze, she lowered her eyes to peer down from the fifth story window. An endless stream of silent vehicles moved haltingly like a slow river, and in their glacial movement she counted Mercedes, Ferrari, and Jaguars slowing down for the light, and a single vulnerable girl pushing a baby carriage attempting to cross the intersection on the corner of Beverly and Wilshire.
Samantha turned cautiously toward the massive mahogany conference table laden with fine wines and cheeses. It was the very image of undeniable abundance dealt those living and working in the wealthiest shopping district in the world. The usual attorneys, paralegals, and various personnel were assembling in flocks of animated conversation.
She turned to look down once more, imagining her lowly used Toyota merging with the luxury automobiles limping along below. But as Dennis had reminded her, this was the springtime of new male blood that she usually greeted with great anticipation. Friday evening is supposed to be Samantha’s time to feel the silence rush over her before the onslaught of a mass of bodies surrounded her. On cue every Friday at six PM they’d begin to file in, in twos and threes until the room was growling with male voices. This thought caused a sudden pang of loss because Nathaniel had all but abandoned her.
After the incident with Levin, she’d felt shy of men, and had been fearful suddenly of losing her cushy job and ending up on the streets. Or worse, scandal. She was visibly nervous because Jordan hadn’t arrived, and so she retreated to gather her things to go home.
Samantha was circling her desk when Mr. Rothchild appeared.
“Aren’t you coming to the wine and cheese tonight sweetheart?”
She raised her head looking at him blankly.
“Perhaps you would allow me to escort you?”
Sam strolled into the conference room on Mr. Rothchild’s arm with the knowledge that the only man she wanted to see was not there, and the only man she couldn’t abide stood across the room wearing a practiced innocent face.
Jordan arrived shortly after.
“Sorry Sam, I had a last minute phone call from a hysterical client. Wow, you look like a vision from Chanel’s newest collection”.
“Gucci.” A knock-off”
Levin wouldn’t approach Samantha under the circumstances and she felt grateful to be cared for.
But he brazenly eyed her again, and she flinched.
Martin took her arm.
“Don’t worry dear, let me pour you a nice glass of wine.”
“Ugh! What am I, a child?”
Had someone given Mr. Rothchild a head’s up? Not possible. She’d not disclosed the incident to anyone with the exception of Jordan, who pried it out of her last Friday at the Formosa.
She closed her eyes and her shoulders dropped. Of Course, Jordan had no choice, but it was a relief Samantha hadn’t expected.
It was a sunny warm day in Beverly Hills.
Samantha had chosen a white knit sundress with gold flat sandals.
Mr. Rothchild’s home wasn’t far from her apartment on Palm drive, but certainly in a more upscale neighborhood.
As she turned up Roxbury the hill climbed too fast to read the addresses. She made a U-turn at the top of the hill and drove slowly back down. This time she found a brick pillar that said 908 on a black plaque with gilt trim.
She turned into the drive. The gated entrance shielded a view of the house with abundant bouganvilla flowering wildly across the wrought iron. When she pushed the button the gate opened automatically to reveal a long uphill drive with a view of the exquisite Italian Estate.
She passed tennis courts on her right, then pulled slowly up toward the grand entrance, a double-doored entry flanked by huge white columns holding up an enormous pilaster.
I should have rented a car, she thought when she parked her old Toyota as far from the entrance as possible.
As she walked toward the mansion the architecture appeared to grow larger. She was confused seeing no doorbell, so turned to look back over her shoulder. Her car appeared to be crouching under the bouganvilla.
She felt a little lost, then the door opened. Martin Rothchild stepping out to greet her.
“Ah, there you are!
“Come in, Sam, come in”
They both wore white, he in his tennis whites, and Samantha dressed for a garden party. He wasn’t wearing tennis shoes, but a pair of orange flip-flops instead, on his pedicured feet. She couldn’t help but notice his strong muscled tanned legs.
The entrance was a large circular room of white marble with a huge chandelier high above their heads and a skylight that made it all feel somehow sacred. She lifted her eyes in awe.
“Well here it is,” he said, waving his arm in the direction of the step-down living room.
Only, as she stepped down she gasped.
“OH, Mr. Rothchild! OH, this is incredible.”
She couldn’t close her mouth she was so aghast, and turning around she tried to take it all in. The entire room was nothing but German Sculptures!
“Call me Bob,” he smiled. “Now tell me, what do you really think of my collection?”
She opened her mouth, “Oh my god!”
“This room does have that effect on people,” he chuckled.
“Tell me about this one.” She pointed.
He began to weave in and out and describe in detail all the crazy insane and beautiful art that filled his living room.
Martin spoke like a scholar, but very passionate and proud as if he’d created them himself.
He had taken this exquisitely sophisticated house and built a museum. Each room she saw was like that, with art on the walls in the hallways and very spare furnishings.
“This is the way we should all live, surrounded by art,” she mused.
“I agree,” he smiled.
“I’ve made arrangements for our lunch to be served on the terrace, would you like to join me?”
Samantha followed him out to the resort-like area with a sparkling swimming pool where he seated her at a round table under an umbrella.
A moment later a woman appeared in a maid’s uniform.
“Sam, this is Nina”.
Nina brought lunch and drinks out on a wheeled cart and placed it in front of them, then disappeared.
They were sipping a crisp white wine with a succulent crab Louie, and french baguettes with sweet butter.
“Here’s to art,” Martin said, tilting his glass toward Samantha.
Pushing his dish away, he stretched his arms above head and placed his elbow on the table fist to cheek as though contemplating something. He was fiddling with his fork a bit then lifted his head confidently. He looked like a man who’d just made a very important decision.
Martin came right out with it.
“Would you like to see my master suite?”
Martin’s attention heightened Samantha’s resentment toward Nathaniel. She deliberated a moment, stood and glanced quickly around for the maid. She thought it a big leap from poolside to bedroom but remaining calm, she raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Martin laughed.
You know how my living room is not a living room? Well, my master suite is a comfortable gallery.”
When he reached out his hand she took it trustingly because he had so far not misled her, and she allowed him to lead her back into the mansion.
As they climbed the curving staircase Martin took her arm in his. He escorted her into a wing with a long hall that opened into the grand suite filled with breathtaking modern paintings.
He motioned to a cushioned French chair and pulled up a matching one for himself.
“Come, he coaxed, please sit.”
She perched on the chair expectantly.
“Now, Samantha you will explain to me what happened the night after the Barnsdale Exhibition.”
She stood, her eyes growing wide.
“How do you know?”
“I mean to hear it from you. Levin! I know! Tell me the facts!” He bellowed.
She trembled and sat on the edge of the chair.
A breath and a sigh caused her shoulders to rise and fall.
“I was afraid of losing my job, I…”
She dissolved into helplessness that grew into a maddening high pitched scream.
He softened his voice and pulled his chair closer.
“Men have ways of revealing themselves, trust me, I won’t do anything you object to, but I assure you dear, you have nothing to fear. I’m only involved because we’re friends. Are we not?”
She nodded, wondering how it was that all gentle people magically revealed a soft white handkerchief.
“I’m afraid of him. He threatened to…he promised to…I mean, I can’t expose him or he’ll ruin me. It’s over now. In the past.”
“I see,” he said.
“Oh, please don’t open things, I’ve moved on. I’m fine, really!”
“All right then. You’ve no worries, Samantha. I have my ways of setting things right.”
He put out his palm.
“Will you trust me?”
There was that word again. Trust seemed untrustworthy all the way around now. Who could she trust when she couldn’t even trust herself?
But his palm was warm when she pressed hers to his. Yes. She would trust him.
Martin imagined his arms about her. But this wasn’t the time. He’d wait to determine how fate would intervene. Today he had learned more, and the intimacy of her touch moved him. He’d coveted to taste her lips, and if she wasn’t completely offended he might have gained her trust and some hope. With Nathaniel out of the picture he at least had her to himself this one precious afternoon.
He was counting on the fact that Nathaniel hadn’t been entirely honest with Sam. He’d granted Nathaniel his leave for two reasons. One was convenience. The second, not so much. He’d gambled that Nathaniel’s betrothal party would cement him on the East Coast where if he were sincere was a good reason to marry and stay there with his bride. The second was the idea of his breaking his engagement because of Samantha which meant he would be free to come back to Los Angeles as a single man. Jordan had told Martin that Nathaniel pursued Samantha without the revelation of his engagement. That alone should have put her off. Martin believed she was smarter than that, but he understood how love could make a brain fuzzy.
Martin admitted to himself the risk was fifty-fifty and that he had immediate competition for Samantha’s love. He wondered if Nathaniel had needed an excuse to end his betrothal in which case there were no immediate answers other than, God forbid, he was actually in love with Sam. In that case, it would depend upon her feelings for Nathaniel.
But luxuriously he saw the couple as a poor risk at this moment because he wasn’t impressed with Nathaniel’s waffling. However, because he didn’t really know the young man, and he does know and trust Sam, the possibilities remained fifty-fifty.
He could now get rid of Levin with a clear conscious but wondered if he would need more ammunition. He couldn’t ask Sam for details now. She had already suffered too much.
SAMANTHA AND MR ROTHCHILD part II CONTINUED
It was like a dam broke. Samantha pulled Martin to her, hugging him tight while she let tears flow on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I should have come to you sooner.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders pushing her gently away and looked into her wet green eyes,
“You have nothing to apologize for, dear”
“But I do! It’s been months, and I haven’t told a soul until now. I don’t understand what I was thinking. It was awful, horrible. I can’t even bear to be alone in my apartment anymore. I should have done something!”
Martin stood and paced.
“Don’t be. I’m just livid about this, not because you did anything wrong, but because the damn fool hurt you and got away with it.”
At this point, her mind became confused because Samantha wasn’t sure if they were discussing Levin or Nathaniel. She put her head in her hands and shut her eyes tight.
“It was my fault.”
“I think I frightened him away the day before he took his leave.”
Martin held her, carefully blotting her tears when he realized she was suffering and he’d only meant to comfort her.
“Nathaniel never mentioned he was engaged to be married. He led me to believe he was sincere.”
“Now, tell me, are you in love with Nathaniel?”
“I…I thought I was, but that was a mistake. How can I possibly love someone who lied to me?”
Martin was aware that this was not a straight answer. What if Nathaniel is in the process of breaking his engagement? What if he’s on his way back to her right now?”
What if this is my only opportunity to have her in my arms?
She put her hand to her head.
“The wine. I need to lie down.”
He led her through a hall to his bedroom suite. He bent down and unfastened her gold sandals and placed them carefully by the door. She felt her toes sink into the plush carpet like lambs’ wool. She sighed languidly, stepped toward the bed and lay down.
He stood over her and passed his hands through his hair trying to determine who he was and why he was doing this. But he allowed his compulsion to guide him, brought a chair next to the bed, picked up a book and fished his reading glasses from his pocket feeling like he’d just captured a rare species of bird. His ownership didn’t thrill him much because behind it all lay a thick and sticky pool of grief.
When she sat up he remained calm while she removed his reading glasses. He blinked and leaned in while she made room for him, and he fell toward her, clamoring onto the bed.
Sam turned her hips to face him.
She looked into his eyes and traced his lips with her index finger.
“It’s going to be okay, right?”
I must be mad, he thought.
The moment had been unbelievably sensual. Oh god, Martin wanted her more than he’d imagined!
Suddenly terrified, he wondered if she and Nathaniel had had sexual relations.
“May I ask, if you and Nathaniel…?”
“No Bob. I thought it might happen, but he bailed.”
Martin lay his head back, relieved. Holding her hand tightly, he stared at the crystal chandelier on the high ceiling and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t rest with Samantha’s lush body next to his. He wondered what James Bond would do. He knew the answer was a seductive move on his part, but he also knew he was no James Bond and settled for thoughts and fantasies of sliding his hand under her summer white dress, of lust, and scents and images. In his lascivious mind, he feasted on her until he ached and pitied himself.
A moment later he felt the feather touch of her fingers slide across his cheek.
“Shhhhhhhh, it’s okay. I want this. It’s just between us.”
She stroked his stubbled chin and kissed his forehead, then his nose. “You are a good man,” she smiled, tears streaming. Martin lay still trying to stop his body from responding naturally to her gentle stroking, then closed his eyes to a rapturous aching agony.
When she awakened, he slipped off the bed and lifted her gold sandals. He helped her buckle them, then walked her down the spiral staircase to her car.
Samantha held his arm, tilted her head to his shoulder.
Martin laughed thinking back on their private nap.
“What’s so funny?”
“Now I can say I’ve slept with you.” he grinned.
She giggled and buried her face in his chest.
“Don’t you dare!”
“No worries, it will remain our secret. Sam, seriously, next time we’ll talk more about the art. I’m hoping you ’ll host our upcoming opening. Levin will not be attending.”
When he closed the door on her Toyota she lowered the window and he leaned in.
“Also, Sam. And this is important. I hope you will write a scenario of what occurred that night with Levin. I promise it will be for my eyes only. I want to be able to wave it in his face when I fire him. Of course, I’m hoping not to have to use it. I think I can get rid of him easier than that.”
MR ROTHCHILD PART III
Samantha’s birthday fell the first week in July.
Dennis called, “Hey Sam, I wanted to do something special for your birthday. I bought tickets for A Chorus Line in Century City.”
Samantha swooned, “Oh my God, I can’t wait!”
“Sam, can we talk soon?”
“I’d love to meet you at O’briens, but why not wait until my birthday night? It’s not that far away.”
Samantha had met Dennis on St. Paddy’s Day two years ago. Jordan and she were seated at the bar in O’Brien’s Irish Pub sipping Irish coffee. The place was packed and two men standing behind them edged in ordering shots of Bushmill’s.
The tall one knocked back a shot.
“You must be Irish with that mane of red hair,” he said, let me buy you a proper drink”.
He didn’t wait for her answer and yelled, “A shot of Bushmills for the lovely lady!”
Then turning to Samantha, the guy’s friend blurted out, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
The tall one was speculating; worried about his friend’s intoxication, he placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “C’mon Roger, leave the girl alone.”
Samantha was relieved when the guy pulled back just as his friend slid in.
“Sorry about Roger, he’s plastered”.
“No kidding,” she smiled.
“Roger’s a great guy, really.”
“What about you, are you a great guy too?”
“Oh god, sorry, I’m Dennis,” he said.
“Samantha.” She smiled
At that moment the bartender slid her shot toward her.
Dennis caught him, “Another Bushmill’s here.”
They tilted their heads back taking their shots in one slug. “Prost!”
Dennis had an almond colored face, full-lipped, with large soft dark eyes. His hair was thinning above a high forehead. He compensated by growing it longish around his collar. Sam noticed his suit fit his tall frame perfectly. Here was a man who paid attention to fashion.
Samantha, “Let me tell you an Irish joke.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“What’s Irish and sits out on the lawn?
He went on without waiting for her answer.
She played along, “I don’t get it.”
He made a face, “Paddy O’ furniture?”
“Oh, she laughed, “I thought you said Patio furniture.”
Her joke did not go unnoticed. They both burst out laughing, congratulating each other.
Samantha was relieved because he hadn’t come on to her at all.
“Shall we have another?”
“Only if you promise you’re not a pouncer.”
“A pouncer is a guy who gets your trust, then slobbers all over you.”
Samantha looked at Jordan.
“This calls for another round.”
“Okay Jordan, wait, wait wait, don’t slug it yet, I have to tell the joke first.”
Roger piped in.
“Hello beautiful, mind if I tell it this time?”
Samantha nodded, believing Roger was the one to be mindful of.
She turned to Dennis.
“Tell me what you do in do in this crazy town?”
“Roger and I are in radio. Down on Wilshire, the Miracle Mile.”
He thoughtfully put his hand to his chin, elbow on the bar, dark eyebrows furrowed and shared.
“I think I’m in the middle of a divorce, but I’m still hoping we can work it out.”
“Well, Dennis if you want to get together for a drink sometime and talk I’d like that. I’m on Wilshire too.”
Roger burst out “SCORE!” when he watched her write her number on the back of Dennis’ business card.
“Roger really is a cool guy,” Dennis assured.
They started by meeting once a week at a bar near the law offices at Beverly and Wilshire.
Dennis brought an entourage of friends with him every time.
His friend Roger did prove to be a stand-up guy, although he could not give up his insistence that Dennis and Samantha should be a couple.
He hollered, “I can’t imagine it’s even possible for you to spend time with a dame like her, and not want to get in her pants!” Poor Roger. They all loved and tolerated his outbursts.
Dennis was still trying to patch up his marriage, spend time with his kids. He never treated Samantha as more than a good friend and that contented them both. His group were hard working men in suits, who after a long day met at the bar, probably every night. This was their watering hole, and Samantha was honored to be the only female admitted to their feisty club, the only woman present, and an insider of a sort of men’s club. The guys always pooled their money and paid for her drinks. How did she get so lucky?
She and Roger became close friends too. He’d wander over and kiss her cheek,
“Hi good lookin’,” and shake his head, as though Dennis was a fool.
Samantha believed the men rallied behind Dennis, that their nights spent clubbing were all in his honor, to keep him alive, and hopeful. And she had noticed that Dennis often would intercept the bartender’s bill and pay upfront. Those guys never knew about it.
Dennis rarely mentioned his wife. When Samantha first met him, his two little girls came on weekends to his rented home on Beverly Drive. The house was beautiful from the street, but inside it was a bachelor pad. Practically vacant, with only the necessary furnishings, a large recliner, and a TV. It was obvious he wasn’t invested in staying here. He used the kitchen to make coffee and ate all his meals out. It was temporary because he was still holding out hope of being with his wife. But when she moved the girls back to Chicago, he was a broken man.
NIC & SAM
Samantha was raised with five brothers. Four were younger, and she’d not been close with them because she left home after high school. But she adored her older brother Nicolas. He was actor-handsome, not in the intense James Dean way, but more like the boy next door. Think a young Paul Newman. What was so wonderful about Nicolas was that he liked Samantha back even though he was three years older. He’d walked around in a buff-colored fringed suede jacket that thrilled Samantha’s high school friends.
She was the lucky one, getting to spend time with him every day. When Samantha was fourteen and he was seventeen he taught her to dance. He was patient with her, and she was an eager student, fast to catch on to the athletics of swing dance. Nicolas was broad-shouldered and strong, and Samantha’s petite frame allowed him to easily lift her in their acrobatic throws and jumps. They practiced until their routine had been polished and so handily won competitions at school dances. As his sister and partner, their relationship was solid. She could always count on him to catch her. They became known on campus as “Nic & Sam.”
When he wasn’t home she would wear his suede jacket around the house. It held his scent. He was her closest friend.
Samantha had never gotten over the devastation she felt when Nicolas died of cancer when he was a young thirty years old. The extreme violence of an early death had her deeply involved to the point of a driven belief that she could cure him through prayer and meditation. When he died anyway she felt she had failed him. That God had failed her.
Her logical mind told her it was possible to find that one boy next door kind of guy who would replace her brother.
All her life she has turned to men for friendship. She had cherished a deep abiding desire to have a male friend. But for the most part, that had evaded her until she met Dennis.
Sam managed to carefully cultivate male friends. In the law firm, there was a young Office Boy, a runner of errands. Orlando was a nebulous slight young man with an obvious feminine mystique. When he hung around her desk they mused over reports and animated tales of in-house misbehavior.
Mr. Van Vorhiis, the office manager alerted Samantha that they had a new hire, an office boy’s assistant named Frank, who would work with Orlando. When Sam met Frank she was moved by his physical beauty. He had the face and body of a Greek athlete, all chiseled as a sculpture. The secretaries were swarming around him, needy for his attention, but Sam laughed when the guys revealed to Samantha that they were lovers. The three of them often lunched together. Shed spent Several of her days off meeting the couple for lunch and shopping at the French Quarter in the Valley. They had a relationship that she believed was impossible to find with a straight man. With the exception of Dennis.
One of the young female paralegals and Samantha were also good friends. They had much in common. Shawn’s mother was a wine-maker in France and was now managing a winery in Napa. Samantha had catered at that winery and was surprised to learn that Shawn was the woman’s daughter.
Shawn approached Samantha the day before her birthday.
“Mon Ami, I’m taking the day off, we’re going to Santa Monica beach tomorrow morning. You’re in dire need of some sunshine!”
Samantha was about to decline because she had arrangements with Dennis in the evening.
“Samantha, don’t say no, ’cause I know you have the day off, and those cabana boys are dazzling!”
“Oh Shawn, I’ve missed our outings so much… Let’s do it! Just keep in mind I have a date with Dennis tomorrow evening.”
“Don’t worry Sam, I’ll keep watch. Make sure you don’t get drunk.”
Shawn and Sam were an adventurous pair. Their summer road-trips were never boring.
The building was a clean white stucco with lots of tropical shrubbery on the exterior, but the apartment was pretty run down with common square rooms and little embellishment or design. She guessed it was fine for a young guy like Zack.
Surfing posters were tacked up, and a couple of surfboards leaned against a wall.
“This is Chase” Zack announced pointing at him as he rushed into the kitchen.
Zack’s friend Chase was a little older, maybe thirty with a softly weathered face, a blondish surfer with a bronze tan and amber eyes. He was sitting on the couch drinking a beer. Sam’s attention focused on him immediately. He reminded her of someone. He was the very image she’d had of Nathaniel as the surfer she’d envisioned on day one. She immediately longed to kiss Chase but reminded herself she had drunk too much to entertain such thoughts.
He stood, showing his bright white teeth, and stretched. He was bare-chested, wearing tropical print surf shorts that tied low on his hips. His hard abs and broad shoulders duly noted.
“Sure,” she smiled eyes following his movements. He pried open the bottles and turned to her.
She hadn’t even noticed that Shawn and Zack had disappeared. She stood staring at the door.
“They went out to buy more beer,” he said.
“It’s awfully hot in here,” Sam said pulling her swimsuit cover-up off over her head and throwing it on the couch carelessly.
“Yeah, no air conditioning,” He said as he strolled out to the balcony with their beer.
Chase and Samantha stood leaning out over the veranda enjoying the long clear view up the California coast.
“How was the surf this morning?” she asked.
“It was fair in Malibu, not bad.”
Their hips were brushing slightly. She wondered if he felt the same urges she was feeling. The briny sea air, sunshine, and a memory conspired a moment of sexual tension that confounded her. She felt Chase peering at her sideways. Was he feeling her vibes? She hoped he’d read it as an invitation, but then she decided she was in no shape to be making a decision like that. She liked it exactly the way it was at that very moment. All pleasure, no friction.
Where was Nathaniel when she needed him?
Exactly on cue, Chase turned his head slowly lifting his hand to pull a strand of her long red hair away while he touched his lips to her cheek lightly. She smiled because he wasn’t going to take advantage of her drunkenness. Neither did she object when he turned toward her, innocently removing her sunglasses, and staring into her eyes, grinning widely, Samantha stepped up and pressed her hips to his.
Sam was way too stirred up seeing Nathaniel’s face in his. She knew it wasn’t there, but she wanted, needed, encouraged Chase to kiss her hard, and nearly lost herself in his embrace. His warm skin burnt against hers, his bare chest, his strong tanned legs made her want to devour him.
And then she froze.
“Hold on. Are you okay?” Chase said.
“Oh my God, yes! But Chase, I need to go!”
“Chase, may I take a shower before Sean comes back?” I need to get back to town for an appointment and may not have time when I get home.”
“Sure, but will I see you again?”
“Yes,” she promised. “I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”
He was a good listener so he walked her into the filthy bathroom, pulled open the shower door and ran the water. He kept his eyes down when she peeled herself out of her bikini, then he turned and exited the small bathroom. When he heard her yelp he ran back in and turned the water to a cooler temperature.
“That’s very sweet of you,” she smiled as he climbed in.
Samantha slipped back into her bikini and ran into the living room to pull on her cover-up. Shawn was seated cross-legged on the couch with Zack.
Samantha was panicked, “Shawn we need to get back to town, now!”
Chase kissed her forehead and slipped his a card into Sam’s palm. They said their goodbyes and raced down to the parking lot across the street. Every minute mattered. It seemed that each moment was passing too quickly. They paid for parking and moved onto Wilshire Boulevard. Shawn lived in Santa Monica where Sam’s car was parked. By the time she got to her vehicle, it was 6pm.
She still had to drive all the way to Beverly Hills. She felt a hangover coming on. The traffic on Wilshire was insanely sluggish. She thought back to Chase’s patient demeanor, helping her take a shower naked while he assisted. What kind of man does that? He was one of the good guys, that’s for certain. Recalling their sensual interaction she almost made a U-turn.
She arrived at her apartment on Palm Drive at 6:45. and ran up the back steps from the carport, entering her apartment and slathered soothing aloe cream on her pink body. As she was finishing her makeup she heard the apartment buzzer. It was Dennis, and she needed more time to dress.
Pulling on her robe she walked out to buzz him in. He stood there smiling with a bouquet of flowers.
“Happy Birthday…is that what you’re wearing?”
“Oh Dennis, I went to the beach with Shawn today and came back with a terrible headache from the sun. Please forgive me, I was lying down and lost track of time.”
“Sure kid, we have time,” and he sat and waited in his crisp formal dress jacket and tie.
Samantha gulped down a couple of aspirin for her sunburn and impending headache. She knew what she was going to wear, so that part was easy. She brushed her hair into an updo and put on her heels.
When she walked out, Dennis smiled, “Hi, beautiful.”
Sam was feeling sheepish for having deceived him. But what else was she to do? She’d always thought that she could tell him anything but preferred to keep today’s details to herself.
As they pulled onto Avenue of the Stars Samantha was feeling more sober, even though her sunburn was beginning to blaze with the setting sun.
Dennis as always was a perfect gentleman and a great companion. Sam was feeling uncomfortable though because this evening felt suspiciously like a real date. She had always met Dennis at their destinations. He never drove! It would have been more appropriate if they had met the gang at O’briens to celebrate her birthday.
Back in the car, she thought about the harsh contrast between the dirty shower today and the shiny beauty of a night on Broadway. Life is full of contrasts. Sam always recalled her hapless days in order to appreciate the present. She tried not to judge anyone for the way they lived. There are so many who are quick to judge! But she was fortunate just to be here this evening and she would never take it for granted.
She lay her head back, her burning skin reminding her of Chase’s broad smile. Her stomach heaved with the memory of the kiss and of his kindness. His behavior had been heroic in her eyes. She relaxed and accepted the luxury of thinking back on Chase’s eyes as they roved over her nude body when he’d handed her the towel. She’d gone too far, but oh he was lovely when he stripped down his shorts madly and stepped behind her under the running water. It had happened quickly, and she was still feeling dizzy and aroused again. A moment later she wilted thinking of Nathaniel’s thumb in the palm of her hand. She wanted to scream and almost cried aloud.
Dennis interrupted her thoughts. “Would you mind stopping by my house for a nightcap?”
Being grateful, she agreed. But when he opened the door Sam was confused realizing none of his buddies were there. She’d never been alone with him in his house. It felt odd. Hoping, perhaps it was a surprise party she sat while he uncorked a bottle of wine.
She noted the contrast between Zack and Chases’ surfer apartment. They were essentially just two different addresses. The fact that Dennis’ house said nothing of who he is, that he hadn’t yet embraced his singular identity. She’d only seen him as a whole person when his friends were holding him up.
Sipping her wine, she was lost in her musings and realized Dennis was speaking to her.
“My marriage is over. Done, Sam…I received the divorce papers.”
She stood, “Oh Dennis, I’m so sorry!”
Dennis strolled to her and wrapped his arms around her. Was he crying? She couldn’t tell. But when he held her shoulders away from him he searched her eyes and tried to kiss her. Sam was still in a fog of sensual yearning, and so didn’t think before she kissed him back. Her mind went back to this afternoon when she allowed Chase to make love to her. And what’s more, she was indulging herself in whatever leftover sensual urgency she hadn’t shed from the experience. She couldn’t deny it.
Sam was suddenly terrified because she’d let Dennis carry her to his bed. Her thoughts dwelled on this question: “Would I ever be able to undo this and turn the clock back to being his friend again?”
She was torn between blaming him for betraying their friendship, or accepting that she was at fault for losing focus.
Of course, there could be the opportunity to have everything I ever wanted, a friend and a mate. But the simple truth is that I’m not in love with Dennis.
“Dennis, Dennis, Dennis, please listen to me! You’re not ready for our relationship to change. What you need is a friend. Let me be your friend,” she begged.
Thank god for good men! He was understanding when she explained to him that it would be a mistake, that he was reacting to his bad news, that he needed a friend, not a lover.
Thankfully, his urgency of sexual lust had shocked him and he agreed to remain friends.
After the calamity with Dennis Samantha forbid herself to have another thought of Nathaniel. After all, she had moved on, hadn’t she? She began to dream of Chase as a stand-in for Nate and forgave herself the naughty indulgence. She was getting ready for work when she came across his card on her dressing table picked it up. It was a business card with a photo of him on a wave, and the name of a surf camp in Malibu, and a phone number. She turned it over and read, Your beauty stunned me. I’m not that guy you think. Please call. Let me be your hero. Yours! Chase.
Samantha was naturally captivated. But it was all mixed up in her mind…it seemed a fantasy. Oh! Why am I so tempted to pursue this fairytale? Do dreams really work this way? I can’t have my surfer Nathaniel, but I can have his replacement, Chase? Oh, god help me!
This caused Sam to turn her back on both. But she changed her mind twice and almost contacted Chase. She realized she was still holding out for Nathaniel, like an idiot! And so she dug Chase’s card out of the trash can again. There was something physical between them, and the good news is, it didn’t have anything to do with the law firm.
She could find out easy enough by dialing his number.
“Malibu Surf.” He answered.
“Chase? It’s Samantha.”
“Naw, Chase is in the water, what can I do for you? ”
“Tell him Samantha called, okay?”
“Oh hey that dude has so many girls after him, he won’t even know which Samantha you are,” He laughed.
“Yeah? There’s probably plenty of surfer babes for him to choose from…but none of them is me! So tell him anyway. Here’s my number. Tell him I’m the Samantha who took a cold shower!” She slammed the phone down.
It was a waste of her time, and so she turned her mind to Mr. Rothchild’s art collection. It had honestly captivated her, and it was time to focus on her growing education. She took seriously the new challenges he presented her. The last thing she needed was a romance right now.
Her vulnerability annoyed her. She would put it aside.
Samantha awoke mornings eager to learn. She especially anticipated the promise of Martin’s “Good morning.”
She’d recently been stung by a surprising yearning for intimacy toward him. Was this evidence of a classic teacher/student crush? Or was it because she missed Nathaniel? Her longing for Chase? The near calamity with Dennis? Probably all of the above, but nonetheless disturbing.
I just need focus. Focus on one thing at a time. Her future took priority, and because Mr. Rothchild was the promoter of that, she’d chosen to stick with him.
She dressed this morning with the thought of Martin Rothchild. Seeing herself through his eyes, she walked the halls of the firm with a secret knowledge of his warm arms about her in his bed. Yes, what had happened between them was erotic, and that he claimed he had slept with her was no innocent statement. He’d given his thoughts away, and she’d read his meaning! There was no doubt that he wanted her!
Samantha smiled, Perhaps he’s thinking of me now. Regretting not taking full advantage of the possibilities of a vulnerable woman?
Oh, how she wished he had! The intimacy of her fingers closing around his enormous arousal had caused him to cum in great quakes and groaning. She was glad to have satisfied his need, but she could only imagine at the time that he was Nathaniel.
Perched behind her desk, she settled in like a princess on a magic pillow. She bit her lip and sighed, I suppose Bob will be my lover now. She accepted that their relationship was more than sensual regardless of his old age, and sighed dreamily. Yes, she would operate with that thought in mind.
It only made sense because sharing the truth about Levin had cleansed her. She had been raped as a child really, when she was very young, by a man she trusted. She had kept it to herself then, choosing to interpret it as love on his part. In doing so, she was a fool…a kid who thought sex was love. But she had conquered and risen above that. Free at last until Levin came along and showed her the true violence of rape.
She began to think of her relationship with Martin as a new religion based on the truths between them. He would surely keep the secret and provide all the security she needed.
I’m his lowest paid employee and Mr. Roberts is our King, and my Master, if you will. Whatever it is, this is a good distraction from Nathaniel.
But she wavered, pushing away that old ache that plagued her. God, she missed him.
Then she raised her chin confidently, It’s obvious! And she knew it fit, the way Martin orchestrated their time together. She dreamed of becoming his loyal submissive and she believed her gentle master would always dominate but never harm her in any way which meant she would remain safe. She thought of their warm palms touching, how they’d made a pact that day, that trust was their promise.
But what of the promise of trust with Nathaniel? She decided to dismiss it because it was clear that he wasn’t coming back for her.
Besides, Mr. Roberts was fifteen years her senior and she reveled in his sincere demeanor as a scholar, a man of wisdom. She would become his humble student and mistress!
She imagined a scenario that fit her new vision, believing time spent with Martin would equate to an organized ritual, as thus: Arts education, Luncheon, and eventually Sex. Savoring their nap for last increased her anticipation of their meetings.
Why was Bob was avoiding it?
Everything was arranged by Mr. Roberts ahead of time. He organized what they would talk about during their art discussions, and he knew when and where they would eat lunch. She simply wasn’t sure yet how she would get him back upstairs into the bedroom suite. She rationalized that Nina’s presence meant for the most part, they’d keep their hands off each other during lunch, but this increased her arousal.
She liked it when Bob would peck her cheek, as though they were merely friends. She especially liked it when they were in the middle of a discussion about, say German sculpture, he’d ask, “Are you ready for this?” She believed it was a double entendre, but she continued to behave as he wished, like a student of the arts. She studied tenaciously, all he had to share. She is, after all, as he refers to her, “a natural”.
It was during one of those California downpours the afternoon she’d arrived at his door soaking wet. Samantha had no umbrella in her car. She ran across the long driveway to the massive door, hoping he would open it, but he hadn’t heard her so she stood there, dripping and knocking. When he finally rescued her, she was shaking with a chill. Martin was alarmed, grabbed his coat from a hook and wrapped it around her.
“We must get you warmed up, come with me.” He took her hand and walked her up the double marble staircase, through his bedroom, and into a cavernous master bath.
Shivering, she perched on a small chair, huddled under his coat while he ran hot water into a massive deep steam tub. The steam filled the room, clouding the windows and mirrored walls contributing to her dream of possessing him.
She felt like a child when he began to remove her wet clothing. First, he took his coat away and placed it in a cupboard. Next, he knelt on the tile floor and removed her shoes and stockings.
When he began to pull her wet sweater over her head, she felt her breasts wiggle and wondered if he’d closed his eyes when he peeled the wet wool away from her cold flesh.
There was a pause for a moment when her arms were above her head that she imagined he was looking at her. Was he taking his time, examining her pert hard nipples? She yearned for her master for she was his to observe, touch, and control! Her longing for him increased.
She stood. His fingers went to her waist slipping under the elastic of her skirt. He pulled it down and paused assisting her to lift her ice cold feet away. She trembled knowing he was examining her naked body.
She should be cold but felt the warmth from a heater, and the wet steam as it settled around her.
“Let’s get you in the tub.”
He carefully guided her down the steps and when she was in the soothing hot water, he asked, “Is it too hot?”
She shook her head and submerged in the water up to her shoulders.
“I’m coming right back, don’t worry, just soak for a few minutes.”
She thought he must be doing something with her clothing, perhaps giving it to Nina to dry for later.
When he returned she was moving her arms in the water finding it a sensual environment.
He offered a glass of champagne, “Are you hungry?”
He hand fed her a creamy soup and patted her mouth with a cloth napkin after each sip from the spoon. He tilted the champagne glass to let her drink. Samantha felt like a combination of a pet and a child nurtured and cared for.
After the last spoonful, he smiled, “Stand up dear.” He produced a soft cashmere robe that he wrapped around her and guided her out of the tub.
It must have been the champagne because she felt luxuriously sleepy and only wanted to rest. He walked her out to the soft lambswool carpeting in his bedroom.
He turned to her, “Sit.”
He lifted her legs onto his bed and covered her with a silky sheet and a light blanket. The pillow was soft and inviting. She snuggled up to the sound of the rain drumming down on the veranda outside his room.
Mr. Rothchild was sitting in a chair near the bed reading when she sat up.
He stood, “No, don’t get up.” And he pulled back the covers revealing her naked body.
She watched as he hovered over her and pulled off his tennis shirt throwing it to the floor. His chest and shoulders were wide and well built and tapered down to a narrow waist. When he peeled down his tennis shorts, his thighs glistened and flexed for her, and an impressive cock rose hard and magnificent to behold.
He swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply, hungrily, climbing over her, ready to thrust.
Samantha spread her legs, opening for him. She squeezed her eyes shut ready for his first plunge, but when she opened her eyes again, it was Nathaniels’ face she saw.
She woke to cry helplessly.
“Welcome back,” Martin said, ” Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know… It was just a dream.”
“Alright. Your clothing is dry. I laid it over the armchair with your shoes. I’ll be downstairs in the Sculpture room when you’re ready. Unless you don’t wish to have our meeting today. It’s okay if you don’t. We can set another time if you like, he smiled.
When she turned her eyes away he understood she was hiding something. He didn’t need to hear the details of her dream. Perhaps it was a terrifying memory of the rape? He was kind enough not to ask. Had he made a mistake in caring for her the way he did? Yes, of course, it was obvious. By his actions, he may have awakened her terror of men. She was still dealing with loss. He thought of his actions as a comforting response to her frozen body. But it was a huge mistake!
He realized now that he’d traumatized her beyond what she could endure. He should have filled the tub and left her alone in the bathroom. She was a grown woman. How stupid could he be? But oh god, she was beautiful. He had not been able to erase the image of her sensuous buttocks. And he never wanted to!
Martin was seldom confused. It was a state of being he didn’t accept. He believed there is always an answer or a solution. One just needed to ask the right questions.
“I fucked up,” he said. when she stepped down into the sculpture room.
Samantha froze as still as one of Martin’s precious sculptures. “It’s my fault,” she cried.
“Not at all dear, I’m to blame.”
“I was dreaming about Nathaniel, ” she said bluntly flopping down on the sofa.
“Oh. I see. How can I help?”
“You can tell me if you’ve heard from him. You can tell me if he’s coming back. You can tell me if he went through with the wedding for God’s sake!”
“Sam, I don’t have all the answers yet, but what I can tell you is matters are pending with Levin. It’s a matter of time, and I apologize for keeping you in the dark. It was stupid of me to hope our meetings would distract you. I promise you we will have it all swept under the carpet by summer’s end.”
“Summers end! I don’t care about Levin anymore!”
“So, this isn’t about Levin?”
She reached for him tearfully, “I made a mistake, Bob. I thought I could replace Nate with you. Please forgive me.”
She took a deep breath, “Martin, I love you, but not the way I love Nathaniel. I’m one mixed up woman, and I’ve made a mess of things.”
“No, it was I who messed up!”
She stood. “Oh for God’s sake…all you did was try and protect me. Don’t you think I know that?”
Martin gave up, feeling the need to be forthright he shared with Sam hesitantly, “As far as Nathaniel’s status, I haven’t heard back other than he hasn’t dropped out officially. He’s one of our star candidates. We wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. The partners voted to hire him if he’s still viable.”
SUMMER’S END: MISTER ROBERTS PART IV
Jordan was driving to Venice Beach where they would say their goodbyes to the interns who weren’t hired, and congratulate those that were.
“Sam, Do you remember which turn it is to Mr. Rothchil’s condo?”
Samantha was staring out the window at a strip of creamy white sand connected to a churning blue ocean, like a painting she recognized but couldn’t recall the artist’s name.
“Huh? Oh, I think it’s the crossover near Maiden’s Lane.”
“Sure, just wondering about Nathaniel. Do you think he’s gonna show?”
“Of course he is! Cheer up! You’ve every right to be bitter, Sam.”
“Bittersweet love, haha.”
“Listen, you’ve done this party three years in a row. You know the ropes. Shmooze with the interns who are sadly leaving. They’ll be drunk by now. Be your charismatic self and dance with them. You look like a dish in that dress. But stay close, I’ll be here for you, as promised. I’ll be catering to you hon. Bring you a martini. Whatever you need.”
“That sounds ominous,” she said dryly.
The sunset was beaming reds and oranges in the sunglasses of the secretaries lolling on lounge chairs in skimpy swimwear sipping cocktails waiting for Mr. Roberts to announce the hired Interns. They do care who is chosen. It meant new male blood on the fifth floor. There would be a salute and a farewell to those poor losers, though.
Jordan was right, the party was in full force. Samantha didn’t see Nate in the crowd. Had he been hired? Yes, she believed he had. And if so, what? She felt conflicted either way.
He’s not here, but you can’t think about that now Sam warned herself aloud as she raised a shot of tequila tapping it against Shawn’s while throwing her head back, then wiped the salt off her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You’re a natural” Shawn laughed, shaking her head.
Many appreciated this event because it allowed all the employees of the firm freedom to get plastered off premises.
“Too bad Nathaniel’s not here to see you in that sexy sarong. He doesn’t know what he’s missing! Dang girl, go find a dance partner.”
Jefry, one of the drunken interns tried to lift Sam’s skirt.
“Are you wearing anything under there?”
Samantha slapped his hand fiercely and ran toward the water. Jefry tried to follow her but fell flat on his face, so she kicked off her sandals for more traction.
It was a sultry evening, and the cool sand felt refreshing on her bare feet. Samantha strayed toward a strip of light. When she squinted, she saw it was a reflection of the rising moon on a wave. She breathed in the salty air, the waves luring her like a purposeful trail away from reality; perhaps a road she hoped, to another dimension.
Mesmerized by the beckoning light she struggled to the top of a sand dune. She only yearned to plunge herself into the beckoning sea. She imagined that somehow her drunken tears would mingle with the cool salty foam and that she might be reborn. A sort of baptism. She imagined herself an ameba returning to the place of her birth.
Yes, that would be perfect. No body, no evidence.
She stood on the dune, swaying in the breeze. She’d always adored the night sky with the sea’s soothing song. She felt light as a seabird now, descending, then rising over the next dune. Coming to a crest, she envisioned a silhouette of a man and forged upward, her feet squishing the sand, making piles of deep tracks.
She descended slowly, balancing herself, to keep from falling forward, but she tripped, Plowing down the dune. She began to believe the man was Nathaniel. But no, this man was wearing cut off Jeans and he was shirtless.
Maybe it’s Chase! Wouldn’t that be funny?
At the same time, she grew cautious, fearing the person was moving toward her. She stood swaying for a moment, then took a step toward him, tripped again, and stumbled directly into his arms. Sighing heavily, she rested her cheek on his warm chest and breathed in the briny scent of his skin and lifted her face.
“Hi,” she said drunkenly.
He held her up like a rag doll and resting his chin on top of her head he rocked her softly.
“Liar!” she screamed.
She tore herself away and ran hard up the wet sand crying tears she refused to allow him to witness.
Nathaniel gave chase and overcame her. His strength and determination mastered her inebriated state when he’d tackled and pulled her down hard.
Samantha rolled, digging her feet in. She was strong too and he didn’t deserve to win this battle. She rose to her knees and tried to crawl away. He reached out grabbing her ankles with his large hands and flipped her body. Taking advantage, he crawled over her while she flailed her arms tearing at his hair.
But she weakened, leaving her open, so he was able finally to lay his heaving body across her torso. He held her arms above her head which triggered Samantha’s rage and renewed strength. She was able to twist her hips when he relaxed thinking he had won.
She laughed in his face, and rolled, digging into the sand. The painful forward crawl bloodied her knees. Nathaniel thrust his body forward.
“Samantha, please let me explain!”
He got a grip on her ankles and dragged her backward through the cool sand, creating a trench with her body. Her sarong slid up to her waist exposing her bikini. Nate made a decision and lunged, but she dug in with her heels, kicking sand in his face.
He turned his head and spit sand, then took another quick lunge pinning her again, and he lay his head on her chest, pleading.
“Please” he begged.
She calmed herself and lay there silent for a moment. She nodded. He squeezed her hand sliding his downward, slowly, carefully. She remained calm, blinking, looking into his deep sea eyes.
He relaxed back on his heels.
“Samantha, do you still want me?”
She’d never seen Nate without a shirt. His wide hard shoulders, his bare chest pumping and glistening in the moonlight, his breast heaving. She watched the patch of hair that crossed above his nipples and dipped down in a thin line toward his navel and longed to trace it with her finger. Sam couldn’t find her voice because she was suddenly gagging on her own desire.
She blinked and nodded again.
Nate carefully peeled her dress down to cover her nakedness, holding one of his arms out in defense to prevent her from kicking him again. Samantha smiled and lay quietly watching and listening.
“I’m crazy about you Samantha, but it’s time I tell you the truth.”
“No!” She screamed.
“I truly love you Samantha, but it was impossible with Levin.”
“Levin?” She burst into tears sobbing on his chest.
“Oh my poor Nathaniel, what have you been going through?”
He cradled her in his arms.
They lay there together in the trench of sand holding hands, watching the soft moon glow over the crashing surf. Stars blinked alive one by one. The mystery of it all yet to be solved.
To be continued.….New Chapter: “Roberts vs. Levin”
They’d waited until after the vote to impeach Levin. With the assumption that he would not vote for Nathaniel, they agreed the votes would be two to one. And so Nathaniel was officially invited to join their team. It was up to Nate now to accept or reject the offer, however.
They’d served Levin papers the following day ordering him fired. Levin, of course, countered with a lawsuit based on the unwarranted accusations, none of which was rape. They had hoped he would quit because he’d threatened time and time again to start his own firm due to long drawn out disagreements. That would be just fine with Martin Roberts.
Roberts had hoped blackmail wouldn’t be necessary, but he wasn’t above it. In this case. He would certainly twist the knife if forced to.