I looked down at my champagne-colored suit, which was now soaked with muddy water. “What do you think? Do I look all right?”
“Why don’t you get in,” he said. “I don’t bite…”
I planted my grocery-bag-covered feet firmly on the sidewalk.
“…unless it’s called for.”
Cute, I thought. Mr. Fancy Car is a comedian. I did an emergency assessment. Outside: rainy, sticky-hot, and blocks to go before a subway station. Inside: dry, air-conditioned, clean, well-heeled middle-aged guy with chauffeur. What were the odds that the car that happened to splash me contained a rapist or serial murderer? Infinitesimal. I dove in the backseat, but not before asking the man to produce identification.
He pulled out a slim Gucci wallet and showed me his driver’s license. Sweet Jeezus of Nantucket, I thought, glancing at the ID and then him. It was Denis King.
Denis King was a fortysomething mogul, masculine in a dorky but appealing way. He wore a simple navy pin-striped suit, this season’s Armani. His neck was red where he kept tugging at his French collar. His body was neither thin nor fat. He had a cleft in his chin, and dancing kohl eyes. It was the eyes that dominated his face—they were penetrating, with lines radiating from the corners that bespoke laughter, wisdom, and experience. His brows were thick and his wavy brown hair faded to gray at the temples. In front of him was a tray that came out of the seat (like in an airplane). A laptop with spreadsheets on the screen sat on it. I looked down, then glanced up beneath my batting eyelashes, giving him my shy Princess Diana smile.
He smiled back and there were dimples, deep adorable dimples. I don’t know why I’d never noticed them before. I’d seen his picture in the paper a thousand times and we’d met more than once at the museum. Each time, he’d reintroduce himself. Sadly, the man didn’t know I existed, although I was chummy with his assistant, Elvira.
Denis was the next big benefactor my boss was looking to bag. He was a major supporter of New York City opera, art, ballet, and symphony. Tanya was after some of his do-re-mi for our fashion museum. He was scheduled to underwrite our upcoming tiara show. That was how Tanya lured them in before capturing an even bigger pile of their net worth. First she invited them to join the board. Then she named them underwriters of an important exhibit. Finally, after they enjoyed the publicity and prestige associated with a high-profile retrospective, she went in for the kill. She had secured millions in pledges this way.
As I pulled the door shut, his chauffeur took off. Inside, the Maybach smelled like success. I wondered if Denis would let me borrow the car if we ever got married.
“Which way you going?” Denis asked, closing his computer.
“The subway station at Fourteenth. I’m headed to Eighty-fourth.”
His chauffeur silently passed back a roll of paper towels. Denis tore off several squares and watched as I patted myself down. “Thanks,” I said. “Oh, lordy, I’m getting water all over your fine Corinthian leather.”
Denis smiled. “Lordy?” he said, raising one eyebrow in Jack Black fashion.
I could tell he thought I was cute.
Denis took a few more paper towels and dried the seat as best he could. “Don’t worry. We’ll drive you. We’re going uptown.”
The car made its way west, then turned north on Union Square as rain pounded the windshield, wipers whipping back and forth to little avail. The traffic was crawling and a cacophony of horns blared.
I took in his fancy set of wheels. There was enough room to set up a kiddie pool. “Wait a minute. Is this the kind of car where the seats turn into beds?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Denis said. “Why, you tired?”
“Are you being fresh?”
He laughed. “I was kidding. Anyway, you’re not my type.”
I shot him a hurt look. “Just because I’m wearing grocery-bag shoes, you think you’re too good for me?”
“No, not at all,” he said, looking concerned.
Snapping the rubber bands off my ankles, I said, “I’ll have you know, these are Manolo Bagnicks.”
Denis laughed, revealing those twenty-four karat dimples once again. Handing me his business card, he said, “Let me pay to get your suit cleaned. Will you send me the bill?”
“That’s okay,” I said, stuffing his card in my bag anyway.
“Seriously, I want to take care of you.”
I sighed. If only he meant that personally and not dry cleaning–wise. Glancing up, I saw that he was staring at me. Mesmerized. Was it possible he was interested in me? Why shouldn’t he be? Pops did say I looked fetching today. Oh, Lord! My headgear. Reaching in my purse, I took out a compact and checked my reflection. Gaaah! Glasses too. My under eyes were stained with ink gel eyeliner and mascara, my skin looked splotchy, and my hair—don’t get me started. I was a walking “Don’t.”
“Seriously,” I whispered, “just drop me at the next subway station.”
Denis’ mouth crinkled into an amused smile. “It’s raining like a son of a bitch. We’re almost in the thirties. Here.” He handed me a box of Kleenex.
“Okay, thanks.” I started to remove my appliance and glasses, but stopped when I realized that if I put myself back together, there was an ever-so-slight chance he would recognize me. God forbid he associate this monstress in his Maybach with the woman he’d met and was bound to meet again at the Fashion Museum. I ceased all recovery efforts, but did replace the grocery bags with my Jimmy Choos.
“Those are unusual,” Denis said when he saw them. They were black, from the tips of the soles to the bottom of the sculpted three-inch heels. The leather toe straps were two tones of green—olive and ivy. The matching satin lacing, adorned by hand-made leaves and soft-sculpture pink cherry blossoms, tied like that of ballet slippers around my ankles. I called them my cherry tree Choos. “They’re designer, one of
