Sophie

It's exactly what I was expecting: Armani suits, Valentino gowns, Kettle One martinis, high-end Japanese fare--all the tiresome, snobby, au courant makings of a Guy Devereux soiree. Invitation requires being on a list three months or knowing the Devereux clan personally or getting hired to wear a revealing dress that says “contents paid for this evening.” As for me--well, I’m none of the above.

I’m feeling antsy. What I need is something to steady my nerves.

There’s a young man dressed in black slacks and a matching vest and bowtie carrying a silver tray loaded with cocktails. Barely eighteen, I’d say, with his boyish freckles and curly red hair, but definitely cute. I flirt long enough to talk him out of a couple of drinks, one for me and one for my very single girlfriend, I say. By the time he’s turned the corner, I’ve consumed both drinks. Much, much better.

Guy’s penthouse condominium is palatial, overlooking downtown Miami thirty stories up. It’s a relief to be standing on the landscaped rooftop, away from the suffocating scent of Hermès and Chanel and all the other over-the-top fragrances worn by the trophy wives, conformist girlfriends and sleazy concubines. And it’s particularly welcome not to be anywhere near the oversized bathroom-turned-ladies gossip chamber. The plotting and conniving nature of these women is beyond revolting. If only their men knew what they were saying while they peed, put on makeup and pushed up on their perfumed bras. I prefer to be out in the fresh air. The smell of the rain-washed city is just what I need. That, and a cigarette.

He’s standing by himself.

Rugged, Clive Owen type, late-thirties. Dark hair parted and falling back in a wave held perfectly against the slight breeze. Brioni tux, if I had to guess; platinum cufflinks and custom-made black leather shoes worn maybe one other time. He is as poised as he is immaculate, with his martini glass held level and arm bent at a gentleman’s angle. How typical. How boring. I don’t understand the mindset of these rich bachelors. What happened to originality, that hint of James Dean rebelliousness?

I take a cigarette from the case in my purse and stand near him--not too close to make it obvious, or too far to elude notice. There are fifteen or so people clustered about. They’re busy chatting, oblivious as I put the cigarette to my lips.

“May I?” he asks, lighter out.

I lean in, eyes on his. His blue contacts are bold, his gaze confident and steady. How many women have succumbed to that stare, I wonder?

“Are you a friend of the Devereuxs?” he asks.

I make him wait--the draw of smoke a second longer than it should be, the exhale even longer. “My sister knew them,” I say.

“Knew?”

“She passed away last year. Bad fall.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was dead when the paramedics arrived. At least she didn’t suffer. Thank goodness, right?”

He nods. I shrug and take a drag.

“You look familiar,” he says. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Have you?”

“At Villa Nostra perhaps. Or was it Nouveau in Paris? I’m there quite often.”

“Parlez-vous français?”

“I speak enough not to incur the spite of the locals. But I’d say my Italian is far better than my French. You?”

I take another puff. “Need you ask?”

“Then you’d understand me when I say vous êtes tres belle.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, beautiful in the classic sense. You remind me of a young Audrey Hepburn: same smile, same enchanting eyes.”

I laugh. “You must not know me very well.”

“I meant it as a compliment.” Then he says, “My name is Edmund. And you are…?”

“Sophie.”

“Ce très belle! If you don’t mind.” He takes my hand and kisses it.

“Do you always bullshit the ladies, Edmund?”

His lips part, but I don’t think he knows what to say. He’s probably used to being surrounded by brain-dead bimbos. I take the glass from his hand. Then I down the remainder of his drink and hand it back to him. “Not bad,” I say. “But a little too plain Jane for me. We’re going to need something with more character.”

“What would you like?”

“Dirty Goose. Two olives. Extra dirty.”

His face registers surprise, then a smile. “That actually sounds quite good. Be right back.”

A couple minutes later, Edmund returns with our martinis. We toast and sip and make small talk in a quiet corner of the rooftop. I’m grateful for the background noise of the city. It’s a nice balance to the obnoxious live music filtering out from the party. We pass the time with Edmund talking mostly about himself: trips to Europe, mountain climbing excursions, the history of his father’s vineyards in Northern California, his villa in Santorini, which he swears has the best sunset view in the world. All the while, he draws nearer, his face inching closer to mine, the faint scent of his Hugo Boss cologne growing more apparent. He caresses the stem of my glass, then my fingers, and peers unremittingly with piercing eyes. It’s when I feel the heat of his breath touch my lips, I shiver.

Edmund rubs my shoulders. “You’re cold. Why don’t we go inside?”

“The party? Ce ennuyeux.”

“How about somewhere more secluded then? Guy has a guest room in the back. It’s off limits to everyone else, but I can get us the key. Interested?”

I run a finger down Edmund’s wrist. “Or we could ditch this place all together. You up for a little adventure?”

“What did you have in mind?”

I whisper in his ear, “Meet me by the elevator in five.” I bite his earlobe for good measure and head to the ladies’ room.

As expected, he’s waiting for me. I pretend like we don’t know each other while the butler gets the door for us. Once inside, Edmund pulls me close. I allow his embrace, his breath in my ear. “I want you,” he says.

I lean to the side and press the button for the basement level.

“What’s down there?” he asks.

“I heard about this perfect cubbyhole from one of the guests. She swears by it.”

Edmund starts to protest, but I quiet him with a kiss. By the time we reach our destination, he’s pressed against me, crotch first, tongue in my mouth.

I guide him along a dim corridor, past locked doors and then the laundry room. I hear one dryer tumbling, but no occupants. It’s around a corner, the farthest point, where an unlabeled metal door stands. I test the handle. Unlocked. I flip the light switch to reveal a closet the size of a bedroom stacked with tissue paper cartons and cleaning supplies.

“In here?”

I edge my skirt up teasingly and step inside. He’s reluctant, but after a moment, he closes the door and it’s all about carnal instinct.

“Not so fast,” I say. “Stand over there. I want you to strip for me.”

“Strip?”

I run my hand down his chest and whisper, “Please! It’s such a turn-on.”

A caress in the right spot and Edmund takes the back wall.

“Sway your hips,” I say. “Nice and slow.”

He does; then goes the bowtie; then the jacket and shirt. When his pants drop to his ankles, I make him stop. “Good,” I say. “Now I want to show you something.”

I pull down my top so he can see my left shoulder. There’s a tattoo of three pointed ovals in black ink. I circle the design with a finger and his eyes follow.

“It’s Celtic,” I say. “The Triquetra, a symbol representing the three phases of a woman’s life. Look familiar?”

“I’ve seen this before? Where,” he asks, “on you?”

“No, mon lapin, not me.”

He watches me open my purse, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on, baby, use that hundred-million-dollar brain of yours,” I say.

“I’ve never seen it before. I--”

His expression morphs from confusion to revelation. “Wait a minute. I do know you.”

“No, you don’t.” I reach into my purse. “You knew my sister.”

THE END

©2009 Steve Pantazis. All rights reserved.