Gloria's Secret Read online

  With a few minutes to spare, I used the time to my advantage. Pulling out my iPhone from my handbag, I checked my e-mails. There were easily a hundred new ones from people who reported to me around the world. From store managers to subcontractors. Why did everyone have to bother me with their silly problems? But that was my job. To run the company. There were only two that I urgently needed to read. The first, from Kevin, who was likely updating me about the status of this afternoon’s annual Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show. I opened it and sucked in a deep breath. So far everything was on schedule and moving forward. The other one was good news too. It was from one of my product managers informing me that the first prototype of the sex toys we were developing had been shipped to our Los Angeles headquarters. A smile spread across my face. We were about to expand our business, which now included intimate apparel, active wear, and beauty products, with a collection of BDSM-inspired lingerie and a complementary line of fun, innovative sex toys. Our consumer research with focus groups had strongly indicated that this could be a breakout piece of business for us—women believed that vibrators, dildoes, and bondage accessories, like lace masks and silk handcuffs, were a natural extension of our already sexy product line. And that Gloria’s Secret was a store where they would feel comfortable purchasing these provocative items. We had indeed evolved into a major “lifestyle” brand. As I was about to hit reply, an urgent e-mail came in from Kevin.

  G~

  The run-through was HOT! Except the lead model tripped on her heels and sprained her ankle. Looking for a replacement. Challenging as all models are working Fashion Week. Will keep you posted.

  ~K

  I replied to his e-mail with a smiley-faced emoticon. Among the many things I loved about Kevin was that he was a problem solver. He had once saved my life. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be who I am; there would be no Gloria’s Secret. I was confident he would find a replacement, and the show would go on. I began to reply to the remaining e-mails.

  The sound of sprightly footsteps diverted my attention. My head swiveled to the doorway. My mouth dropped to the floor, and my iPhone slipped out of my hand. Oh. My. God. It was him! That pompous asshole who had caused me to drop my briefcase in the elevator and then played head games with me. What the hell was he doing here? Maybe he worked for Ms. Zander?

  He took long confident steps in my direction. I hesitantly stood up. He took my hand in his and shook it. His grip was firm, the touch warm and smooth. My body stiffened and my heartbeat quickened.

  “Ms. Long, a pleasure to meet you officially.”

  I wasn’t sure if I had yet closed my mouth, but I was speechless. I finally found my voice. “And you’re…”

  “Jaime Zander.”

  Fuck! Holy, holy, fuck!

  I collapsed back into my chair. He shot me a devilish smile. Damn him. He knew I was caught off guard. Big time.

  Wordlessly, I gazed up at his face. The baby photo that I’d seen online flashed into my head. It was him all right. Though maybe thirty-five years older, he had the same baby blue eyes with that thick fan of lashes, silky chestnut hair, and that distinct dimpled chin. He had been one of those babies that old ladies would look at and say, “Oh, he’s pretty enough to be a girl.”

  Mortification struck me like a lightning bolt. I was not easily rattled, but Mr. Zander had succeeded. I suddenly didn’t want to do the meeting or give him my business.

  Paralyzed, my eyes stayed locked on him as he lowered himself into the chair catty-cornered to mine. We were in such close proximity that I could inhale the intoxicating scent of him and feel his warm breath on my cheeks.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something? A coffee? Water? Tea perhaps?”

  A fan?

  “No, thank you,” I said, nervously tugging on the thick, platinum braid that wrapped around my shoulder and cascaded over my boobs. The sooner we got down to business the better. His presence was making me bristle. Get a grip, Gloria. You’re one of Forbes’s One Hundred Most Powerful Women in the World!

  Composing myself, I began by telling him that I was seeking an outside agency to bring my company, Gloria’s Secret, to a new level of sales and sensuality.

  He folded one long, muscled leg over the other and relaxed back in his chair with his sculpted forearms casually crossed over his crotch—I mean, lap. “Gloria’s Secret. The #1 lingerie retailer in the world. 2,045 stores worldwide. Estimated annual sales revenue: 6.2 billion dollars.”

  He had indeed done his homework. But there was no way in hell that I was going to let him know that I was impressed. My expression remained impassive while I responded.

  “Yes. We’ve enjoyed phenomenal success. But we can’t stop here. Imitators are springing up. We’ve got to stay on the cutting edge, ahead of the competition.” I paused. Okay, now the test. “Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  He grinned. “Of course.”

  Ha! I didn’t believe him. He was bullshitting me. I could tell by the wry look on his face.

  “Okay, then what’s the full name of Christian Grey’s adoptive mother?”

  “Are you testing me, Gloria?”

  “It’s Ms. Long, and yes, I am…Well?”

  Without wasting a second, he said, “Grace Trevelyn Grey. And she’s a pediatrician.”

  Damn it! Score one for him. Except for one feminist copywriter who pooh-poohed the book for demeaning women, none of the Madison Avenue suits had read it. I had to hand it to him. But exam time wasn’t over yet. “Mr. Zander—”

  “Please call me Jaime.”

  “All right, Jai-me, tell me, what, in your opinion, has made the book so popular with women?”

  He leaned into me, looking straight into my eyes. His gaze was mesmerizing. As much as I wanted to divert my eyes, they stayed on him.

  “Truthfully, while the sex is hot, I believe women fall for the romance.”

  “What do you mean?” I was all ears.

  “Well, Ms. Long, wouldn’t you like me to scoop you up in my arms… tell you that ‘I want you, body and soul, forever’ and make insane love to you on the couch?”

  Inwardly, I gasped. He had actually quoted Christian Grey. My eyes took in his mountainous biceps, jumped to the couch, and then back to his crotch. My temperature had just risen ten degrees. Confession: I had the burning urge to shrug off more than just my suit jacket.

  He leaned in closer and growled in my ear. “Or would you prefer me to throw you over my desk… or perhaps carry you away and devour you on the conference room table down the hall?”

  I squeezed my inner thighs together and could not stop my crossed leg from swinging like a pendulum—a behavior that was so not in my repertoire. I jerked away from him and found my voice. “You seem to know women rather well.”

  He sat back in the chair. “Yes, I do.” His tone was confident, almost cocky.

  “In my experience, the only men who understand women are gay. Are you, by chance, gay, Jaime?”

  He let out a deep, sexy chortle. “Hardly. I could have several hundred stunning women give you a stellar recommendation.”

  “Oh, so you have them review you like you’re a book on Amazon?” My deadpan sarcasm camouflaged my shock at the number of women he’d likely fucked.

  He laughed again. “You’re quite witty, Ms. Long. I like that in a woman.”

  Again, I was speechless. Damn him!

  He moved in again uncomfortably close to me and snagged my braid, coiling it around his lithe, long-fingered hand. “So, what will it take to win your account?”

  The hair play was angsting me out. And so was his proximity. I promptly removed his hand from my tresses and composed myself once more. “I’ve asked every agency I’ve met with to come up with a pitch by Friday. Do you think your agency could do that?”

  “Not a problem. I’ll put my best person on the job right away.”

  “And who might that be?” I asked, my voice dripping with a mix of curiosity and sarcasm.

  He grinned wic
kedly. “Yours truly.” With that, he rose and escorted me to the door. Before I could step over the threshold, he barricaded it with his body and outstretched arms. His biceps flexed as he pressed his hands against the framework. We were face-to-face again, only a breath way.

  His eyes bore a hole in mine. “I meant to tell you, Ms. Long, I find your eyes fascinating.”

  Most people did. My right eye was blue; my left one brown. I had a rare genetic condition known as heterochromia. In press releases and on the Internet, both eyes appeared to be brown thanks to Photoshop. But because I suffered from dry eye syndrome, I was unable to use contacts to conceal my idiosyncrasy the rest of the time.

  Jaime continued to study my mismatched eyes. “They’re contradictions just like the rest of you.”

  That I hadn’t heard before. “What do you mean?”

  “Your mind says one thing, your body says another.”

  His words spurred a rush of tingles to my core and sent my heart into a gallop. Damn him! He was unhinging me again. “Mr. Zander, can I please leave?” I spluttered.

  With a smirk, he pivoted so that he was leaning against the doorway. He gave my braid a little tug as I hurried past him. “Ms. Long, I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you again.”

  “The same.” Bastard!

  As I stomped down the hallway, I could feel his fiery eyes on my backside. His voice traveled down the corridor. “Oh, by the way, I find your black lace push-up bra and matching thong very sexy. And that garter…”

  Cringing, I just kept moving. How the hell did he know what I was wearing under my Chanel suit?

  Chapter 2

  Insanity. Utter insanity. That was the only way to describe the electrifying pre-show atmosphere at the Lexington Avenue Armory. Production personnel were running around like banshees getting it together. They were talking into headsets and cell phones and frantically jotting down notes on clipboards and in notebooks. The look of stress and panic was etched on everyone’s faces. The adrenaline was flying. The much-anticipated Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show was scheduled to start in an hour, but it seemed like we’d never get there.

  It was always like this even though this was our tenth show. This one, however, was more ambitious because it was celebrating our first decade of putting them on. For the first time, the show was being broadcast on a major television network in addition to being shown live on our website. Every fashion journalist and blogger in the world was going to be here including reporters from Entertainment Tonight…Vogue…Joan and Melissa Rivers… even that teenage wunderkind blogger, Tavi Gevinson…just to name a few. And the celebrity list was endless.

  “Glorious! Thank God, you’re here!” a familiar breathless voice called out. It was my trusted head of PR and Special Events, Kevin Riley. Kevin and I had been best friends forever. Since childhood. We knew everything about each other and shared a dark secret that bonded us eternally. We had been through a lot, and never for a minute did I forget that I owed so much of my success to him. In fact, my life. I loved him like a brother. We even had nicknames for one and other. I called him Kev, and he called me Glorious. We’d built Gloria’s Secret from the ground up together.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as he jogged up to me. While Kev could be an outrageous dresser (I’m talking kilts and jumpsuits), today he was dressed for functionality in perfectly shredded black jeans, a tight V-neck tee, and high-top Keds. With his spiky, dark-haired good looks, svelte toned body, and charismatic smile, he could easily make women melt, but that was not his preference. The diamond ear stud that he proudly wore said it all. It had been a birthday gift from me.

  With a flutter of his deep-set hazel eyes, he sighed, “The usual. The models are having meltdowns over who’s wearing what…Kim Kardashian’s people just called saying she’s miffed that she’s not in the front row…and Rihanna’s limo is stuck in traffic.”

  I rolled my eyes. There was no need to freak. All these hiccups were routine for this show. Business as usual. I trusted Kevin implicitly with my heart and soul. He’d make sure things worked out. They always did.

  His cell phone rang. He put to his ear and said, “Great.” Smiling, he ended the call. “Rihanna’s here! Gotta go.” He gave me a peck on my cheek. “Glorious, this show is going to rock!”

  God, I loved Kev! He brought good luck and sunshine even in the darkest times. As he scurried off, my eyes drank in everything. This show was going to rock! The set designer that Kevin had hired had created an outrageous fantasy of a sexed up heaven. Dry smoke emanated from the stage floor and rose up to the high ceiling where virtual clouds were projected. The plan was for dozens of gorgeous Gloria’s Secret models, clad in outrageous angel wings and the barest of bare undergarments, to float down from the ceiling via invisible ropes onto the runway. Some would even be entwined with sexy male angels in hot embraces. We were selling sex—fantasies and wet dreams. I so loved it! If the televised show went off without a hitch and got high ratings, tomorrow—Valentine’s Day—would be our stores’ busiest day of the year and lead to record first quarter earnings.

  While I took in everything and contemplated my mandatory end-walk down the runway, another familiar, this time shrill feminine voice, sounded in my ear.

  “If you don’t do it my way, I’m going to have you fired.” It was Vivien Holden, my assistant, arguing with a tired, overworked production assistant. I didn’t need to spin around because she was already in my face.

  She was clad in hot pink Gloria’s Secret mini skirt that barely covered her ass, a crisp white blouse opened far enough to reveal her eye-worthy cleavage, and six-inch black patent stilettos that made her compact busty body rise to almost five foot six. I had to admit Vivien was stunning; she was younger than me by four years. I was thirty-three, she, twenty-nine. Her blessings, albeit manufactured, included a mane of long thick ebony hair (weaves), full, sensuous lips (filler), piercing green eyes (contacts), and a perfect upturned nose that I suspected was the result of plastic surgery along with her D-cup boobs. She could afford to have her features altered. She was rich. Mega rich. “Daddy”— billionaire corporate raider, Victor Holden—was Gloria’s Secret’s largest shareholder and Chairman of the Board. I could never keep track of how many shares he controlled. All I needed to remember was that he could make or break everything I’d built. And make or break me.

  Despite being my assistant, Vivien was never pleased to see me. She narrowed her catty eyes and gave me the once-over. “How did it go today with ZAP!?”

  Before I could respond, she huffed, “You know, Gloria, I should have been there. Daddy says advertising is soon going to be under my domain.”

  Her words irked me. Everything was under my domain. I was the CEO and founder of Gloria’s Secret. Vivien thought she was entitled because Daddy backed the company. Though she was talented, she wanted to get to the top quickly. It was no secret that she coveted my job. Inhaling deeply, I controlled myself. I couldn’t afford to offend her because of her father. It was sort of a Catch-22 situation that I had to accept.

  “No, Vivien, you belonged here. The Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show can make or break our year-end earnings. Plus, there’s so much you can learn from being on the set.”

  She scoffed at me. “The only thing I’ve learned is that I’m surrounded by a bunch of incompetent morons.”

  God, I wanted to slap her. Or rip off her phony lips. And that was not all.

  With a flick of her head, she flung back her mane of hair, one of her annoying habits. “So what was Jaime Zander like? I haven’t seen him for years.”

  My brows lifted. Vivien knew Jaime? Why didn’t she tell me? She could have spared me a lot of embarrassment.

  “He was very professional,” I answered, masking my displeasure. She had no need to know the details of the meeting. The thought of Jaime Zander made my breathing hitch. “I’m looking forward to his pitch, which I want you and Kevin to attend.”

  Her cat green eyes lit up. “And I’m looking forw
ard to seeing him again.”

  She sauntered off before I could I ask her what she meant by that.

  * * * *

  “In five, four, three, two, one… Showtime!” Hot techno music blasted; my heart hammered. Watching from backstage, I gaped as our gorgeous long-legged supermodel angels, their D-cup bodies clad in the skimpiest lace bras and thongs, descended from the ceiling through a cloud of dry ice onto the runway and began to strut down it, one after another, in their six-inch stilettos. Their outrageous colorful feathered wings, attached to their backs, fluttered like butterflies as they vamped to the beat of the pulsing music. Loud gasps, whistles, and applause emanated from the celebrity-packed audience and press. I let out a deep breath. Yes! They loved it! My beloved Kevin had pulled it off again. It truly was an unforgettable spectacle. Almost surreal, otherworldly. I was totally in the moment but wouldn’t be relaxed until it was over. Every muscle in my body clenched.

  Twenty minutes into the show, Kevin joined me backstage. While I was still an exposed nerve waiting for the worst to happen, he was like a child in a candy store. His long-lashed hazel eyes lit up like lanterns. “It’s faaabulous!” he crooned, squeezing my hand. In my anxious state, his hand was a welcome comfort.

  “Have you seen Vivien?” I asked.

  “Not for ages.”

  I wondered where she was. She was supposed to be with me, updating me on the live webcast. Once things settled down and we were back in Los Angeles, I was going to have a come to Jesus meeting with her, regardless of who her father was. That girl needed to learn what it meant to be a team player.

  Without a hitch, the show continued to blow the audience away. Oohs, aahs, whistles, and cheers filled the air. Forty minutes in, Rihanna descended from “the heavens” in a cloud of pink smoke. The crowd went wild. She looked amazing, her dazzling body clad in a diamond-studded black leather bra and thong that we had custom-made for her. The cost to make the ensemble was one million dollars, but it was being auctioned off later tonight for charity at the after-party that Vivien’s father, Victor Holden, was hosting at Touch. My hunch was that some billionaire pervert was going to buy the matching set and put them to his nose every night at bedtime. I chortled silently.