Passions & Scandals

By Lee Flack

It is the engaging story of a savvy young photographer's stylist from Philadelphia who falls for the handsome and sophisticated Max Garrett. When the two are separated due to her fashion assignment in glorious Greece for the K-Cruise Yachting Group, Portia meets the romantic and engaging Andoni Kokalatsis - the president and heir to the Kokalatsis Shipping fortune.

Interferences from jealous and treacherous past lovers bring about heart shattering consequences, as well as, a new found love affair that takes Portia off guard and sweeps her into an incredible life of untold wealth and adventure.

Confrontations - the lure of power - violent sex, drugs and murder befall Portia Whittaker and her friends in the fast paced world of fashion and photography! And through the devastation emerges even greater events - greater love - and greater heart break.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483685946

Lee Flack

Lee Flack • Fashion shows for Jaques Ferber Furriers – Philadelphia • Numerous fashion show for department stores – Philadelphia • Newspaper ads for Gimbel’s Department Store – Philadelphia • In-house “fit-model” for Jones of New York – Philadelphia • Various print ads in Philadelphia magazine – Philadelphia Education : Harcum College Tyler School of Art Fleisher Art Institute Special Skills: Licensed and active cosmetologist / Photographic stylist & make-up artist / Fine Arts painter / Cartoonist / Blue belt in Kenpo Karate / Swimming / Dance / Cartoon voice of child / Semi fluent in Greek / Trained Diamondtologist / Seminar leader & trainer for modeling schools / Front Desk receptionist for national corporation / International resident with travel.

Book preview

47409.png

Lee Flack

Copyright © 2013 by Lee Flack.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2013915073

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4836-8593-9

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4836-8592-2

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4836-8594-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 09/09/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

138847

Contents

An Overview

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

An Overview

P assions & Scandals will pique your desires and break your heart and whet your sexual appetite to an edge you didn’t know was there nor expected in a novel.

*     *     *

The male libido is a wondrous thing. It will pursue a female with lust, promise, devotion, and then—Phffft get snagged away by another female. Then there’s the other kind of male with a libido that will not be diverted and remain steadfast in its pursuit of love and affection and constancy. Portia Whittaker entertained and experienced the attentions of both these types and had no idea whatsoever of the depth true love and devotion could bring to her life!

Then there is evil.

*     *     *

Photographic stylist Portia Whittaker and the rest of engaging staff of the Joe Boreman Studios were selected to shoot and video the newest yachts of the K-Cruise Lines owned by the Kokalatsis Shipping Group, led by the two charismatic sons, Andoni and Alexandre Kokalatsis. And as the world would have its way, Portia’s handsome and roguish boyfriend, Max Garrett of Philadelphia’s Garrett Enterprises, was pulled away to Los Angeles and Hong Kong on urgent business at the exact same time Portia was leaving for Greece. The two had gone beyond dating, were practically living together, and hadn’t anticipated the effects of such a separation. It was to be the acid test of the love for sure.

In the meantime, one of the models—and also the only male model selected for the shoot in Greece—was Portia’s ex from quite a few years back. He was a nasty and debauched but also gorgeous guy with extraordinary luck coupled with a sexual history of a slew of kick-to-the-curb ladies in the wake of his every step. Fayer Christenson was a no-good son of a bitch and the hottest ticket in modeling, along with a burgeoning career set for LA for television. Everyone wanted Fayer, regardless of his sexual reputation. He was no good, and no one wanted to believe it, no one except Portia because she knew firsthand the depth of his depravity.

*     *     *

Ride the waves of Portia’s heady, lusty, erotic, and often times taboo affairs and romances with wealthy entrepreneur Max Garrett who came from the streets of Philadelphia’s worst neighborhoods; involve your own sexual curiosity with the Greek shipping scion Andoni Kokalatsis and how his strength and sexual prowess enticed our Portia to feel emotions to fill her soul for a lifetime. Then at the same time, slowly discover the evil effects of what certain lusts and desires can create—chaos spread out and stretched to the degrees no man or woman could ever, ever understand! Experience the wonders and wealth of romantic Greece, the inspiration and sophistication of New York City, the calm and serenity of Philadelphia, the headiness of California, and the exotic port of Hong Kong

Chapter 1

W hat’s new in business and finance — Silicon Valley’s about to surrender another manufacturing plant in the IT world to foreign buyers, or do we see the Philadelphia wonder kid Max Garrett swooping in like a white knight to save this company and take it to the NASDAQ? Word on the street says Garrett Enterprises might even take on a partner with the pending deal, which could be a first for the lone wolf of acquisitions and buyouts.

Philadelphia Business Journal—Our all-time fav real estate Philly whiz kid Maxmillion Garrett (Garrett Enterprises) has just purchased the city block property between Broad Street, Washington Avenue, Carpenter Avenue, and Kimbal Street for development that will benefit the neighborhood schools as well as special parking facilities.

International Fashion and Entertainment Wire—W Magazine, Town & Country, Vanity Fair—Max Garrett was seen backstage at the Armani show in Milan. We believe he was there to support and view Toni Arzan in her comeback to fashion runway work. Arzan and Garrett have been spotted together on recent occasions at the Paris and New York shows. So they must be traveling companions perhaps? Stay close and watch. Maybe fireworks are ahead.

Max paced back and forth in the lobby of his apartment building. He was running late, and it had him agitated. Grabbing his cell from his suit pocket, he called his office for a second time, once again barking instructions to his assistant Madison to tape-record the meeting so he wouldn’t miss a beat.

Yeah, I’m really pissed… car’s late… all kinds of traffic, so just plop the damn recorder on the table and tell them to start without me. And he was done. Phone closed. And bingo—his car pulled up! Thank God! Max thought to himself.

Just as Max descended the steps out on to the building’s front drive and into his Hummer, an outlandishly hot young lady dashed past him going up the steps he’d just descended and disappeared into the building. It was her—that same gorgeous, sexy, good-looking female that had been crossing his path over the past few months. She seemed to appear in the thick of crowds in the most unlikely of places: at a Phillies game where her beautiful face ended up televised on the big screen, at an exhibit at the Healey Art Gallery in Soho, twice at the Pyramid Club where she was with a large group. Then a couple of times, he’d see her walking through Rittenhouse Square or jumping off at a bus stop or grabbing a cab in the Center City area. And quite a few times, he’d see this beauty coming or going through the lobby of The Gates.

One of the first times he had seen her up close, Max noticed her intense green eyes and long streaky blonde hair. He had been in the lobby of The Gates again, and she clipped by him, flashing a quick smile his way but never stopped nor blinked, all very generic. Nevertheless, those green eyes of hers and her renaissance curly hair made a searing impression in Garrett’s brain. Afterward, Max quizzed the doorman as to her name and whatnot.

"Her name is Portia Whittaker, and she comes here to visit her godmother, Mary Anne Blasco, who owns the modeling-acting agency here in town. Ms. Whittaker is a lovely young lady and quite respectable."

Garrett had to chuckle at the doorman’s verbiage, as if he were Whittaker’s father and a warning was being sent out, You’re a Lothario, so watch your step.

In the meantime, when Portia arrived at her godmother’s apartment, she went into great detail about whom she’d just seen.

I just passed that Max Garrett guy down it the lobby. You know who I mean, don’t you? she said, trying her best to be casual and unimpressed about Garrett. But her giddiness betrayed her.

Max Garrett was not just some run-of-the-mill guy you’d bump into at a bar. Although Garrett was known for his uncanny ability to show up in crazy bars and dives. He owned a couple of such places in South Philly and had some friends that owned a dance hall. It was a Greek place for parties, but on Friday and Saturday nights, it transformed into La Mamunia. So technically, one could bump into Garrett at a bar.

Besides his brunet good looks, brilliant career in real estate and money brokering, or whatever it was that he was so successful with, his photos didn’t do him justice with what Portia was able to see the few times she saw Garrett’s face in real time. There was hunger and raw sex appeal in his demeanor, but his eyes were dark and solemn and disclosed no joy.

Why all of sudden do I start seeing this guy all over town, Aunt Mary Anne? She paused as she mindlessly washed her hands in the large kitchen sink. I even saw him two weeks ago in New York when Joe and Bliss came with me to that big exhibit, but the weird thing is whenever I smile at him or not and just catch a glimpse of him, he is so serious and stern-looking! She paused again.

Mary Anne looked on a bit amused as Portia sat herself down at the cozy kitchen dining table loaded with all sorts of breakfast delights. Odd, it was already 11:00 a.m.

Listen, little one. Mary Anne chuckled. He’s a very charming guy, and I’m sure he’s quite nice, but I think perhaps being as successful as he has become and at such a young age can make a person a bit spoiled and rude. But hey, what’s an old lady like me know about such things? and she sighed a soulful sigh. Mary Anne looked straight into Portia’s twinkly green eyes. He’s no one to fool around with! And her brows knitted together for emphasis. "Don’t think you’re the one who will melt his heart… Men let it happen when they want it to melt… and every single one of the girls he’s hooked up with alllllll think they are the one to bring Max Garrett to his knees! and she looked down at her manicured red nails and gave out with another big sigh. Trust me on this—he’s not for you. Just steer clear of the guy. He is with a different woman every two months, they say. I hear my girls at the agency moaning about him so often… so you better be wise, little one." And she placed a plate with a fluffy white omelet and small Italian sausage breakfast links in front of her. My darling Portia, Mary Anne thought to herself, my best friend’s daughter . . . so very sad she passed at such a young age . . . little Portia whom she loved dearly . . . no mommy nor daddy . . . so sad.

That afternoon, Portia spent a good part of the day looking up Garrett Enterprises on the Internet and gossiping with Joe, Gordie, and Bliss, her friends and coworkers at Joe Boreman Studios on Columbus Avenue down on the Delaware River.

Most of the Max Garrett articles Portia read online said pretty much the same thing: Max Garrett was a native son of South Philadelphia and made a lot of money funding restaurants and flipping real estate. But what was so vague in these pieces was his past and his early background. Nothing was written about his parents or family at all. Portia assumed he paid people for his privacy, and he wanted to keep his family safe and out of harshness of tabloid life.

Portia assumed most folks just wanted the current buzz about Garrett, who he was with and where he went and who he knew and the general made-up tripe. Max’s photos were often in these tabloids and society columns with snippets about some big purchase or sale his company made or a generous donation or contribution he gave privately with sketchy copy and very iffy details. However, Portia came across this one mention of a particular raven-haired beauty, Toni Arzan, who, at one time, was the number 1 model for hire for all the runway fashion shows from New York to Milan to Hong Kong. Much to her distaste, Portia knew exactly who she was. She had actually done two photo shoots with Toni at Joe’s studio when he was doing more fashion and retail.

Toni Arzan was tall, razor thin—the antithesis of Portia—with ink-black hair in an extremely short bob. She looked magnificent even in her mug shot. Toni had been picked up for DUI, along with a nebulous charge of possession and shoplifting. Toni was one of those people who always seemed to have a story following her around, and it was never her fault. Regardless of how Toni managed to gain sympathy for her sins, Portia felt nothing but disdain and annoyance for Toni. She was the model known for being difficult to work with. It was her bitchy attitude, nasty temper, and rude comments. Such as the barb she directed toward Portia as being the fat girl on the photography team. It really stung, but Joe did come to her defense. Nevertheless, the words had already been spoken, and back then, Portia was carrying just a tad more poundage.

After Joe and Gordie got bored with the chatty gossip, Bliss shared a tawdry tale about Toni Arzan with Portia. It was quite interesting.

Supposedly, it happened about five years ago when Toni was in Milan for a Valentino show or something. She was at some ‘after party’ and coupled up with an elderly and extremely wealthy German, or maybe it was Austrian, duke, said Bliss with a sly smile across her sweet face. Anyway, they got married, after a one week courtship of sex and booze! It was a big gossip thing around all the Eurotrash, and so naturally, as luck would have it, they divorced! Toni was given a massive sum with the stipulation she would never use his last name or title and never talk openly about their union—regardless of what a reporter might choose to write about as long as it didn’t come from Toni’s lips—but she walked away with beaucoup bucks! and Bliss chuckled as she shook her head. This family of his had so much power they even swept her out of Italy with a stipulation she would not return for six months, which meant Toni couldn’t finish her contracts for the rest of the fashion shows, but that didn’t bother her one bit! Toni had more money than she knew what to do with, and I think she’s still living off her ‘buy-off’ bucks!

Portia was amazed and thoroughly pleased that strife could actually touch that twit of a female, and it also made her think, Hmmmmm, perhaps that was an attraction for Max Garrett to be around her . . . She didn’t need any of Garrett’s millions.

The following day, Portia lumbered down Seventeenth Street, looking terrific in her new boots and jodhpur-cut pants. She was deep in thought while headed toward Walnut Street, juggling two bolts of fabric along with her monster of a tote bag. Her thoughts had been wrapped up in the design layout for Zara’s big front windows when—bam!—her parcels tumbled all over the sidewalk. Portia struggled to maintain her own balance from the body slam of someone coming out of a doorway. Growling goddammit under her breath as she collected one of the fabric bolts rolling toward the gutter, the strong arms of the stranger from nowhere steadied her as Portia looked up into the eyes of this person.

oh dear god! it’s you! she yelped out.

Max grinned apologetically and said, Yup! It’s me, and I am soo sorry! and chuckled out loud as he deftly gathered Portia’s belongings and held them for her as she stood shocked and embarrassed looking at him.

She was speechless, and her brain told her to remain speechless because the synapses from her brain to her mouth and lips were a mess. She was thinking to herself, wow, it’s really him, the big motha-fucker, himself!

So! Max breathed out and cautiously stroked the side of her right arm. Please tell me you’re okay. Didn’t hurt you, did I? And he could feel the firmness of her upper arms as his hand remained holding her. Jeeze, I really startled you. I apologize.

Worry and repentance in his voice and manner made Portia laugh. Laughing was her knee-jerk reaction whenever she was extra nervous or flustered, and this was one of those times. She nervously giggled and shook of her head, as Max offered his right hand to formally introduce themselves to each other, recanting all the sightings they had had of each other. The two fell into a full combustion of conversation, going from where they were each headed at that moment, regarding their work, and how many times they’d seen one another and where it occurred too.

Here… Max grabbed her heavy tote bag and the other bolt of muslin. Let me not hold you up from your appointment. And he extended his arm for her to take, very old-school gesture. "I insist you let me walk you over to Walnut Street. That is where you said you were going, right?"

Again, with that wide gleaming smile of his, Portia recalled Mary Anne’s warning of not being foolish.

Okay. Portia grinned. I’d like that. And she took his arm.

Then dead silence fell upon the two of them as they walked. It was weird how the world fell away and they had nothing to say to each other, but they were each sneaking looks at each other. It was very high-school-like, shyness and awkwardness prevailed but in such an enjoyable manner.

As they crossed the street and approached Zara’s, Portia was trying her best to harness her enthusiasm so she could coherently come up with something brilliant or profound to say to this great-looking, charming, friendly, no-good heartbreaker that she had been warned about. The Max Garrett—Philadelphia’s most eligible, most sexy blah, blah, blah,—was all duded up in business pinstripes and a spectacular yellow tie and with his rich brown wavy hair that slicked back off his swarthy face in perfectly trimmed shortish layers. Then it occurred to her Max was not so much the handsome-man type. She ascertained it with her experienced eye of style and beauty from her years of being a photographic stylist, but it was his raw unharnessed sex appeal that enveloped him. It was in the air all about him. He was not the guy with the perfect face but close up, it was more the aura and subliminal message Garrett exuded. He had passion in his face and between his gleaming wide smile and twinkling eyes. The phrase bad boy leaped up in her brain. Portia shook her head to rid her head of such sophomoric adulation for this guy.

By the way, Max said into her ear, breaking the silence, this Friday I’m having a little party at my place. I would really like you to come. And he adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder. Really, please come by.

Chapter 2

G iant shiny ebony double doors with large brass handles swung open into the Garrett foyer. Out of this world! Portia ooohed to herself as the manservant greeted her, saying, Good evening, Ms. Whittaker, and with a sweep of his arm, welcomed her to pass through.

It’s rather daunting to have the Garrett help already know who she was. Then again, this was Max Garrett Portia was dealing with. Lord only knew what kind of connections and magic the man possessed, so of course, the butler would know the names of the guests.

Stepping across black and white marble block floors, all cool and art deco-like, Portia entered a magnificently structured room full of guests, marvelously chic furniture and art, and music. High ceilinged—of course, it was the penthouse—with a muted taupe shade to the walls, which were hung with all kinds of oil paintings and prints, indigo-colored plush suede sofas and divans casually situated here and there across the creamy marble floors—it looked great. It looked marvelously expensive, uncomplicated and sleek, but there was nothing personal from what Portia could see, but it was certainly tasteful. It was his decorator’s Academy Award, to say the least. Portia was duly impressed, and the little artist that lived in her soul was doing splits and flips at the Garrett collection of prints and oils.

Not bad! Portia joked to herself as she waved to a familiar face she spied across the room, and what a room it was.

As Portia gathered her bearings on the layout of the Garrett place—that is, what she could see of it—she stationed herself next to the bar while her eyes scanned the room for familiar faces.

Your drink, Ms. Portia, spoke the dark voice to her left.

She jumped out of her skin. Oh god! she gasped in total surprise. "It’s you again!" she joked and took the tumbler of club soda from Max’s hand as he offered it to her.

He had large hands, Portia noticed, thick wrists. The pushed-up sleeves of his lightweight summer sweater exposed his tanned arms. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch.

You gotta grow some eyes in the back of your head, girl! he joked back and slipped back from behind the bar to stand facing her. Never know when some no-good guy’s gonna come sneaking up on you and knock you down!

And he slid his one arm around Portia’s waist for affect. Portia let go with a rousing laugh and loved Max’s harmless play as he gently released his grip. She noticed his twinkly brown eyes swept up and down her figure in admiration. She was dressed in her chic LBD with these great strappy stilettos that really showed off her legs and had slicked her hair back into a high flat-ironed ponytail. The dress and hairstyle choices were Joe Boreman’s. His eye for Portia’s look had always been spot-on, and this time, she listened, and it worked.

Portia smiled and said, Thank you.

Max looked straight into her eyes and responded with a smirk. You know—he paused—I like your sass. He took a breath, adding, And your perfume.

Portia gave a nod and grinned. Did you say ‘ass’ or ‘sass’?

They both laughed. He liked that. Portia had a sense of humor for sure.

Meanwhile, Portia stared back into Garrett’s rugged face. He had a scar in his right eyebrow and a slighter one on his left upper lip. Boxing or street fighting, she figured. She also instantly ascertained that this was a guy who likes to flirt. He’s nothing like what she surmised when she read up on him, nothing like what she assumed he’d be, not at all cold nor impersonal. Perhaps he was emotionally immature or emotionally stunted, bold or abusive. Is he testing the waters? Portia wondered to see if she was receptive to his charm and moves. Then in the same notion, a thought ran through her head, telling her she’s overthinking everything and to just enjoy the banter and the moment.

And it was at that nanosecond in time Max Garrett and Portia Whittaker slipped into their own zone of conversation. Max walked her around the main room, pretty much ignoring all his other guests, pointing out the various pieces of art he had hung and a couple of sculptures he was so proud to have on his walls.

Please realize not all of this stuff is mine. I borrow from galleries once in a while, and this decorator I hired is very into corporate art rentals.

Portia said she rather agreed with his decorator and then shared with Max that fact that she, herself, was a painter. So I’m just now finishing up a triptych to show to the Fleischer Institute in hopes they will put them in their big exhibit.

From there, Max got her to open up a little more and asked her about the medium she preferred and what were her favorite subject matters to paint and also got out of her a bit more info on what she did at the Boreman Studios. The two chatted for a time and somehow ended up on the veranda just off the main room.

My view! Max indicated. I love it… even though the Delaware River ain’t exactly Riviera. He chuckled. But it’s the open space. And he stretched out his arms for emphasis. I love the water, rivers or otherwise, and there is lots of activity to watch from up here.

He grinned as he leaned an elbow on the concrete balcony wall, enjoying the view, not of the Delaware, but of Portia, as she looked out to the night lights on the river and the two barges cruising eastward to the open sea. Max thought she was an outstanding-looking young woman—distinctive features, big green eyes, full kissable lips, along with a buoyant bust. Unlike the others Max had been intimate with, Portia had a healthy well-built figure, and despite her somewhat petite stature, she had a set of legs any New York mannequin would kill for. For Max, it was the whole Whittaker package. Physically, she was sexy as hell, all luscious and alluring with a personality that was fun and warm, plus she was intelligent and was able to keep up with him in conversation. Even though they hadn’t exactly solved the world’s financial problems nor reworked the presidential cabinet, Max knew she was a far cry from Toni Arzan.

Max and Portia stood side by side on the veranda, drinking in the stars and twinkling lights on ships and bridges.

So, Max, she said as she turned to look at him, what’s your favorite thing to do? She took a breath. Or am I getting too cutie-pie personal with that clever question?

Max laughed and turned to lean his back up against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest, and pondered for a moment. Portia couldn’t help but see the beautiful muscular shape of his upper arms, figuring his naked body was somewhere between spectacular and orgasmic. She admitted to herself Max had caught her interest. She was smitten but cautious.

Not much time these days for that luxury. He paused in thought. Reading—I read everything and anything. I like to swim, hate to run, but do enjoy a brisk walk, and I would love to take you out tomorrow. Will you have lunch with me?

Portia blinked. Aah… I a-a-a… Brain spin—was she booked for a shoot or a window-dressing job?

Max leaned in toward her. I have to fly out tomorrow evening to Zurich, and I would like to see you before I go. I’ll be away for a few days and— Suddenly, his focus looked over and past Portia’s shoulder as she stammered out her response.

I… think… I’m… available.

Replying in a slow methodical manner, she followed Max’s eyes. It was headed straight for them.

Maxieee, baby, called out the beyond gorgeous super tall raven-haired Toni Arzan.

But what she called him made Portia laugh out loud. Garrett threw Portia a smirky look. Instantly, Portia saw what was about to unfold and decided to leave to defuse any embarrassments.

Max, I’m gonna go, she said softly and took a side step.

No, wait, Portia, don’t go… I…, said Max as he attempted to juggle Toni Arzan, all tipsy and tall and leaning on him.

Poor guy! thought Portia.

whaaa! Whass yer name? guffawed Toni. Her voice was loud, and her laugher was obnoxious. "Yerrr name is Por-Sha? she said in exaggerated phonics as she laughed into Portia’s face. Like the damn car? Thass crazy!" she snorted as Max gripped her elbow.

Aaa, Max stammered, easy, Toni…

Portia, polite and cordial, replied in dry sarcasm, Yes. Yes, Toni, I was named after a car.

Max closed his eyes and shook his head, suppressing a laugh. He said, Ah, jeeze, and took a deep breath.

So, Max, Portia continued without missing a beat and smiled sweetly at Toni, knowing full well that the has-been mannequin had no recollection of working with Portia three years prior in a big fashion shoot. I really must be going. She paused. Toni, it was nice to see you again. Speaking quickly so Max wouldn’t be able to interrupt her, she said, I have an early day as I am sure you do too, and took a couple of sideway steps, waving her hand in the air for Max to hold his words and not speak. But instead, Toni waved back at her and slurred, Bye, car girl. And she laughed her head off as she hung on his arm.

Max had his hands full.

*     *     *

The following day had Portia so busy with a catalog shoot that she missed Max’s calls. Not once did she hear the phone chirp from the bottom of her big tote. He had left her one text message, but by the time she got around to reading it, the time was well past 7:00 p.m., making it six hours ahead in Switzerland.

The message was terse but appropriate because the two of them really didn’t know each other that well.

Portia’s heart soared, and her cheeks blushed when she read the text. She showed it to Bliss, Portia’s ever-steady and serene girlfriend and Boreman Studios manager and bookkeeper extraordinaire. Bliss bugged her eyes wide.

Oh my! she said in a hushed tone. This is well worded. I like the last note that you are beautiful! and she gave Portia an approving grin. Soooo?

Hmmm… We’ll see, Portia said, playing devil’s advocate with herself. "Let’s see if he follows through… I think it’s a real possibility that he’ll never call. I have a funny feeling about Toni Arzan in his life. She’s a thorn."

The next day, a huge bundle of flowers were delivered to the studio. Bliss received them in and hollered out across the way to where Portia sat in her cramped workroom. hey, Whittaker… look! and she held up the fancy box. This box is for you, darling! she sang out. Sure enough, they were from Max. So how come he hadn’t followed up with a text or call, she wondered. Bliss calmed her by saying, You get flowers from this great guy and now you want to pick apart the moment and make him wrong! You a crrrazy girl!

Portia agreed. But as each day ticked by, big bloomin’ roses or not, she grew anxious. Dinner with friends Joe, Gordie, and Bliss one night, movies with her godmother the next night, and finishing work on her three oil paintings kept Portia occupied to a point. Yet she could not stop from checking her phone for missed calls and texts from Garrett.

Nothing, damnit! she whined to Bliss on Sunday night. "I have never been this tied to my phone ever! I hate this! What is this ‘power’ he has?"

"He hasn’t any power. You’re just lonely and at loose ends. Nobody has power over you, Portia… Have you learned nothing from your therapy?" she joked and got a smile from her friend, and she nodded in agreement.

Monday, Portia had calmly decided to take the upper hand with Garrett. True, it was fun that day they slammed into each other on Seventeenth Street, and it was nice to go to his party and spend time in conversation with him. The flowers were a nice touch, but that was all. He was just a memory and the last man on earth she should involve herself with. Portia felt a pinch to her soul with the nasty flashback of her days with Fayer Christenson. Disaster, atrocious behavior, abuse—all descriptions of that strange time she was involved with that creep. He was hot, sexy, and successful, a super good-looking guy with charm and fun at the forefront, but the day-to-day behind-the-scenes stuff evolved into a travesty. It was bad, so bad, so very, very bad.

So with a beautiful warm late spring day upon her, Portia took the flowers Max had sent her, all wilted and icky from stagnant water. She boxed them all up, addressed them to Max’s office on Walnut Street, and had them couriered them over with a note, saying, Take back your damn flowers! They died! PW.

Chapter 3

T wo days after the floral delivery to Garrett Enterprises, Portia got a call from Max. He was all jovial and happy.

You are a very funny girl, Portia! He chuckled and was so grateful she picked up her phone. Portia laughed too then said hi. Max loved the sound of her voice. It was soft and rich and gave him a feeling he couldn’t quite describe. I liked the return of the dead flowers, nice touch. You gotta real knack for sarcasm, kid, even though it was a real stab in my heart! He was flipping her business card around his fingers as they chatted over the phone.

"I didn’t stab you in the heart, Max Garrett! she mocked. I thought I’d just be sassy and sort of make an obtuse reference to our botched lunch date," she said, still mocking and with a serious and haughty tone in her voice.

"Oh yeah… that. Max sucked in the air between his teeth. Yeah. Nothing went right that night or the following day… I’m really—"

Portia cut him off. Yeah, well… dead flowers, dead issue, dead chances for you, dead duck… you know, you’re a smart boy. She was smiling in her voice, but she meant what she said, knowing full well Max would pick up on the subtlety.

Ah, come on, Whittaker, it was not intentional. Will you—

She interrupted him again. "Oh, I know it wasn’t intentional. Things like this happen all the time. You’re a busy man, and you got swept up in stuff… Max was agreeing and saying Yeah, yeah in the background. So don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Garrett… All is forgotten."

great! So will you let me take you out for dinner tonight?

He was so eager Portia thought. Actually, I’m busy this evening, helping Joe and Gordie with some big fierce presentation. Sorry.

Dead air space.

Max? Still silence. You there? And she was about to hang up on him.

oh! Yeah, sorry… Yeah, I’m… here, just… thinking, he said slowly and with deep concentration. She could hear him breathing. She heard paper noises. Is he reading notes? So how about tomorrow night? he persisted, and Portia was really thrown. She would have sworn on a stack of Bibles he would have just let it all go but no.

Aaaa… I-a-I-don’t-a-know…, Portia stammered. I have to check my—

Max cut her off. "Ah, come on now, Whittaker! You’re not gonna make me suffer that much, are you?"

Portia began to laugh, and he laughed with her and repeated himself. Then Portia broke in, You make it so hard to resist when you whine like that, Max!

*     *     *

As Joe and Gordie tweaked up their PowerPoint piece for the upcoming New York presentation, Portia was putting together the storyboard, a photographic sample of their proposed magazine and brochure. This was a very important group that Joe and Gordie were meeting with, lots of anxiety and electricity in the air.

The front doorbells to the studio rang out. Everyone looked at one another, wondering who the hell it could be? They didn’t do nighttime appointments.

Holy crap, hooted Joe as he opened the door and lifted the iron gate. Look at this! he said as he let the waiters into the reception area. Wow! Did you guys order food or something? And two delivery guys walked in, pushing food carts, saying the food was compliments of Mr. Max Garrett. Well, waddaya know? Joe laughed and admired the full array of soda and assorted South Philly-style sandwiches, a true feast for the whole crew.

Portia got a warm feeling then put herself in check to not get all enrolled in this thing, this flirtation that goes nowhere. But there was no denying. Portia was grappling with a strong pull toward Garrett. It was undeniable. A gnawing urge that had begun to well up inside of her, she felt it down to her very center—all the more reason to not phone him.

That night, Portia could not get to sleep. She tossed back and forth, clutching her pillow with images of MG in her head. She recalled his hard stare into her eyes and the thrill that zipped through her core the time they spoke on Seventeenth Street. He did have a power of some kind, an aura, some strong force field that was drawing her in that was working her fascination with who and what he was. Her thoughts trailed to his different looks from that morning on the street in a suit and tie to his casual elegance at his party wearing a pullover and jeans. Portia recalled how remarkable his hands felt when he grabbed her by the waist. He had nice large hands that were cushiony. She recalled how personable he was, chatting about his gorgeous penthouse that he was truly proud of. She recalled how he leaned into her when spoke, like a moth drawn to a flame maybe. Was she the flame, his flame? Perhaps. Or maybe she was the moth, or was he just a smooth mover? Whatever! And yet his forwardness was not offensive. It was fun! Oh, how she wanted him, and oh, how damn fucking sexy he was!

The next day—and Portia was totally prepared for it—Max’s assistant, Madison, called her at the studio. She had an important message from Max in that he was most regrettably unable to keep their dinner appointment, for he’d suddenly been called out of town just the night before.

Okay then. Well, thank you for calling,. Portia said stoically, trying her hardest not to whine out oh no!

Mr. Garrett added that he would like very much to phone you upon his return and make up for this abrupt change. Madison said softly. Clearly, one could tell she felt really awful in delivering this message, but Portia soldiered up, reminding herself that this lovely woman most certainly had been well trained. How many hundreds of times had Madison delivered these I’m sorry messages.

Portia sighed. Thank you. And she added, I appreciate your time, Madison. Good-bye, and hit the end button on her cell.

Portia was done with Garrett. This was a sign from the gods above. She felt certain this was his way of life with all women, and it was not for her. Maybe it was okay for the likes of Arzan but not Portia. No way was she going to let herself become involved, no matter how stinking badly she wanted his mind, soul, and body wrapped around her. Jesus H. Christ—just the thought of him made her sweat and grit her teeth in frustration. Portia admitted to her lonesome self she needed to get laid.

*     *     *

Joe and Gordie were on the train to New York, packing their special laptop loaded up with the super PowerPoint presentation and the fold-out portfolio containing Portia’s computer graphic layout for the prospective client’s print ad and brochure.

This meeting was just for Joe and Gordie to present. Joe was most emphatic about not bringing Portia or Bliss or any of their assistants. Joe claimed it would be far too distracting for these clients. They were from Greece and owned both commercial shipping lines and barges, and now they were coming out with a boutique cruise line despite the unstable economy in Europe. Undivided attention was required because the proposed budget was in the millions of euros. These guys played by a different set of rules and operated in wider boundaries than American shipping groups. So the less confusion and distraction set before them this day, the better the chance Joe and Gordie had of obtaining their vote and winning the hefty account.

The afternoon and evening crept by slowly for Portia. Even though she had dinner with Bliss and some other girlfriends, her heart was not into socializing, and she was kicking herself for being sophomoric and juvenile about the whole Garrett thing. Portia’s bounty of pent-up emotions and ravenous desires had, unfortunately, created a phantom relationship with Max. She had to keep reminding herself there was nothing there. The man was not her boyfriend. He owed her nothing. She was being stupid.

When at home later that night, Portia tried doing a little painting but got bored as soon as she set up her oils and brushes. She tried reading and watching TV—nothing. She was dissatisfied with her life and needed a big change or a big new interest. She tried Joe’s and Gordie’s phones, but they weren’t answering. Maybe they stayed overnight in New York.

Around two in the morning, her eyes finally fell shut, and she slept through until seven. The annoying bells of her phone awoke her. She answered.

Hey, hot stuff… Whatchya doin’?

Portia groaned in her groggy whisper. Oh nooo. It was her ex-boyfriend, Fayer Christenson—the scum. Fayer! Come on… Leave me alone—I’m sleeping, damnit!

And she banged the phone down to disconnect the line and then unplugged it. Then she grappled for her cell on the nightstand and shut it off too. Even though she felt sure he didn’t have her cell number, she didn’t want to risk it. Fayer was a bad ass but a beautiful bad ass and a successful one too.

Portia had met the sizzling California bad boy about two and a half years ago at a big fashion show after party in New York. Back then, Fayer Christenson was just coming into his own with modeling and commercial print work. He had begun getting big-time notoriety from his photos at W and GQ and a couple of other high gloss rags. There was even talk of him doing some television work.

Anyway, Portia and Fayer began seeing each other. He lived in LA but would commute to NY and jump down to Philly just to see Portia. It seemed so romantic at the time. Fayer was almost a celebrity and was fun and charming, very sexy and loved to go out, party, and dance. And he treated Portia very special, but she knew something wasn’t right. She had a gut feeling right from the start and knew in her bones Fayer Christenson was a bad-news kid. Unfortunately, she never quite realized to what extent until that one sticky morning she awakened in the apartment in a tangled sweaty sleeping and naked pile of bodies all reeking of after sex, smoke, and booze. Portia was beyond horrified, beyond scared, beyond vexed. What in hell had she done what had Fayer done to her?

Chapter 4

M ax had every intention of calling Portia that night when he got back from his meetings in New York. Unfortunately, Toni’s number rang up on Max’s phone just as his driver pulled up . It had to be another one of her emergencies, he thought to himself, actually considering ignoring her call, but ever since Max got involved with the ex-cover girl, he realized she was a string of calamities and bad judgment calls, and for some inexplicable reason, Max felt a bit responsible for her.

The beginning stages of their relationship, Toni was a thrill a minute. Not only was she a popular and spectacular-looking mannequin with an abundance of acquaintances that Max enjoyed meeting, but also a flirty and lusty partner. Toni was always ready for sex, any kind of sex. She never really asked Max for anything in the way of money, for she had fair enough of her own because the year before, Toni had been awarded a major cash settlement from a bizarre and ill-timed three-week marriage to this elderly Romanian count. Toni was the type who always turned out okay, even when it was raining shit. So when she snagged Max Garrett’s attention, she knew her independence would be a turn-on for him, so she never asked him for gifts, flashy entertainment, or to be taken places, for she’d been just about everywhere already. Her highly visible modeling career took her plenty of places, and Toni ran with a wild crowd, so she was not thirsty for amusement. What she wanted was the affection and companionship of Max Garrett. Her giant wish was to be his Mrs.—have Max make an honest woman out of her. As for Max, Toni was a fascinating generous lover at first, adept and bawdy, knew how to tease a man and turn him on. She was most willing to do and explore anything for the visceral thrills and was rumored to have a penchant for rougher-than-usual sex. Max was not there for that.He was a gentle easy-going kind of lover and much preferred to luxuriate in the activity rather than create fuss and theatrics, although there was a great deal to be said for Toni’s amazing talent at giving incredible blow jobs. On more than one occasion, when they were in the Garrett limo, Toni surprised the stayed and conservative Max by leaning into his lap and swiftly taking him to full orgasm or by magically disrobing herself and mounting Max and bringing him to a rousing climax. Be it orally or whatever, Toni didn’t give one damn to what his driver saw. She loved shocking people with her sexual bravado. But lately, that was not really going on. Over the past months, Max and Toni had drifted in opposite directions. Toni was behaving erratically and drinking way too much. It was something Max could not tolerate and was losing interest in their relationship while Toni, on the other hand, wanted to move into the Garrett penthouse.

Never gonna happen! was his credo.

Yeah, Toni, what is— Max’s voice betrayed his impatience, and a male voice cut him off.

Yeah… Mr. Max Garrett? said the voice in thick Brooklynese. This is Detective Randall, New York City Police Department-Narcotics Division. He paused. Yeah, we’re holding a Ms. Toni Arzan for possession of drugs, pills and cocaine. She was picked up during a raid atta party in Manhattan at the home of…

Blah, blah, blah—Max went deaf. This was the final blow. He couldn’t take any more of her shit.

The young detective had taken pity upon Toni during the raid at a drug dealer’s posh town house where Toni was part of the fray and recognized the jet-black hair and dark blue eyes of the famous cover girl because his own girlfriend was a big fan of Ms. Arzan’s. So when Toni beguilingly finagled Detective Randall to call Max Garrett for her, he, Randall, was accommodating and agreed to cut through much of the red tape, saying he would manage to detain Ms. Arzan if Garrett could produce some sort of written documentation from a judge, or of the like, and then Arzan could be released into the custody of Garrett, himself, or whatever judge or congressman Max could find. Max made a call to an old acquaintance, the Honorable Bittsy Ashworth, who just happened to live on Park Avenue.

About three hours later, Max and Dave Metcalf, his own legal eagle, had a washed-out and sullen Toni Arzan in their custody and on the Garrett Enterprises helicopter headed toward Northwestern Pennsylvania. Judge Ashworth recommended Max to take Arzan to this no-frills but private rehab/sanitarium in the boondocks of the state. The agreement for Ms. Toni Arzan was clearly stated for her to voluntarily enter into a solid six-month rehab program in exchange for her release from the New York City Police Department and to have all charges dropped.

Toni agreed. She signed, and it was done—done, done, and over. Toni was being put into professional hands who knew exactly what to do with her addictions and issues. It was sad and shameful for such a pretty and potentially great model who could have parlayed all her beauty and guile into successful and fulfilling life, but that was not the case for Toni.

In the meantime, Max had lived up to his own personal guidelines to help out his friend and felt relieved of his duties toward Toni. Max felt free, finally free from worry and responsibility of this woman.

About 6:00 a.m., Garrett dragged his weary bones through the front door of his penthouse. He collapsed on the sofa in his den and slept for nearly the whole day. Upon waking later that same evening, he phoned Portia, but all he got was a disconnected line. He was pissed. Either her cheap little phone had broken down or she changed her number.

*     *     *

The following afternoon, Joe, Gordie, Bliss, and Portia and two of the other staff all received invitations to a Friday-night surprise party for Julie Lyndon, a beautiful blonde model that Boreman Studios had worked with on numerous occasions. She was a great model, and Joe loved working with her. The invitations stated clearly for a 7:00 p.m.-sharp arrival at Memire’s on Front Street, and for the sake of the surprise, the invitation requested no comparisons of invitations.

Hmmm… curious, Portia said out loud yet was delighted with the prospect. I am in need of a night out and a reason to in my Manolos or Valentinos… She grinned.

Joe and the others all said they would more than likely go, but Bliss was not so sure, something about going to Avalon, New Jersey.

The one thing that’s weird about this fancy invitation—Portia fanned the card in the air—it’s the timing… and by the way, I am liking the paper, nice paper it’s printed on… Why are we invited just a few days ahead of time? Were we a last-minute ‘add-ons’ or something? questioned Portia, and then she went back to her computer project.

*     *     *

The night of the party, Portia took great delight in getting dressed. The details of her outfit, from her summery little black dress with a lowish cut to the back and her spindly high and pointy toed Valentino black patents to her bronzy blond hair she straightened within an inch of its life to the yellow gold ear hoops for fun and a wide leather wrist cuff with brass studs for magnificence… was all for fun and flash! It was her intention to turn herself out as if she were on a photo shoot, and it worked. Portia was going to look better than Julie Lyndon for sure.

Portia looked hot, and she was pleased with herself. Although she was not a tall thin statuesque model type like Julie, she did have a fit and healthy figure with a bustline Pam Anderson would admire. That was the one feature Portia really hated about herself—her big boobs. Meanwhile, the girl still looked fabulous.

The taxi pulled up to Memire’s, but the place looked closed. Quickly, Portia pulled the invitation card from her purse to check the time, date, and place—all correct. Hmmm, she hummed to herself and climbed out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk looking around, hoping to see some folks who looked like they might be guests.

It was at that second a waiter opened the door to the establishment and greeted her warmly, Ms. Whittaker, and beckoned her inside with a sweep of his arm.

Portia scowled. What the heck? But she followed the young man inside anyway. It was romantically and dimly lit with cool scented air that wafted around her. The restaurant was in very old-school style, in maroon and black velvet, with lots of gold braid and curly décor. It was charmingly tacky for such a famous restaurant.

And no one was inside. No one except Max Garrett.

He was standing in the middle of the empty restaurant with his arms casually in trouser pockets. Portia’s heart leapt into her throat with shock and delight. There he was, all lean and tall and oh-so deliciously handsome in his dark suit and burned brown hair. He had a big wide smile.

So glad you came, Whittaker! he said and walked toward Portia, and as he came closer, he quickly explained why he’d been MIA over the last days, yet he was careful to not dwell too much on Toni and asked Portia to please pardon him. But I do want you to know I did call your cell, and that thing is worthless. It doesn’t really ring, just goes straight to a disconnected message… Then I thought it over and decided I didn’t want to talk to you on the phone cuz it would be too easy for you to turn me down again for dinner, so I drummed up this idea! Max proudly extended his arms wide and looked around then back at Portia. You okay with this, Whittaker? The place is all ours for the night. I rented it out! With that, Max reached for her hand and kissed it gently as