Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“I would like to learn more about your aesthetic,” he said. “I love anything well-executed, and lately understated elegance has been in short supply.”
We returned to the hotel in the car Price had hired for me, keeping up a steady stream of conversation. Vinod was excited when he learned I’d recently graduated from the Norton School of Art and Design, and told me a little about his work in a fashion design firm in Mumbai. We were on the elevator heading upstairs before I realized I didn’t really know these two men. I’d been so excited that someone was interested in my work that I hadn’t considered whether it was safe or reasonable to invite them to my room. It wasn’t even my room, it was Price’s room.
But in my ten years as an escort I’d developed a sixth sense about people, and Vinod didn’t have a shred of evil about him. This might be my only chance to pick up a client, so I decided it was worth the risk.
When I keyed into the room, Vinod didn’t even react to the grandeur of the furnishings and the breathtaking view. He exuded wealthy privilege. He must be so rich. I took out the small case of samples I’d brought just in case an opportunity like this arose. Jino lingered a few feet away, but Vinod leaned over the array of delicate pieces and took them in with an avid gaze.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said in his clipped accent. “These are simple but beautiful. Elegance defined.”
“I’ve always believed less is more.” I dug for a tie pin half the size of his, made of smooth polished silver with one dark pearl set into the tip. “Try this. It’ll look great with the color of your coat.”
Vinod took off his pin and handed it to Jino, and slid my pin into the smooth black silk of his tie. It wasn’t an everyday look. It looked fancy, even regal, but it fit Vinod’s style.
“There are matching cuff links,” I said, fishing them out. “And a ring.”
“How beautiful these are. You made them?”
“I make everything.”
“Why haven’t you been snapped up by some big fashion house?” he asked, his brows coming together in a dark line. “This is inspired design. So novel, so simple, and yet so striking.” He fiddled with the cuff links and finally held out his wrists so I could help him. That was when the door beeped and clicked, and Price walked in.
He stopped just inside, taking in Jino first, and then Vinod. I saw a flash of anger, then a rueful scowl as he crossed his arms over his chest. I was putting together the words to explain how I’d met them and why they were here, when Vinod walked to Price and greeted him by name.
“Ah, Mr. Eriksen. Of course this little visionary belongs to you.”
“Yes, that one’s mine,” he said. “What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Sushil.”
“The pleasure is mine. Are you in town for the architecture conference?”
Price nodded, looking between the two of us. Jino had gone to sit on the couch. “I have to admit,” said Price, “you’re the last person I expected to find in my hotel room. What are you doing here? How do you know Chere?”
“I found her in the Modern Impressionists wing.” Vinod looked at me fondly. “She was in tears over something she’d encountered there, so I couldn’t fault her for barging into me, even if she almost knocked me down.”
Price’s gaze met mine. Maybe I looked guilty, or maybe he just knew. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew Simon’s painting was in the Louvre, and that he was a modern impressionist. It was all I could do not to flinch under his prolonged regard. Meanwhile, Vinod continued relating the story of our collision in the museum, and his travails with his tie pin, and how I’d come to the rescue with my “ground breaking designs.”
Come to his rescue? Ground breaking designs?
I stood like someone lost in a dream as he showed Price the cuff links he’d tried on, and the ring. Price showed Vinod his cuff links, also of my design. The Indian man clapped a hand against his heart and said, “She is so raw. So fresh. We need an eye like this. We need designs like this.”
“You need them for whom?” I asked.
“For whom?” Vinod made an expansive gesture. “For everyone, my dear. For the entire world.”
“Vinod,” said Price. “Would you and Jino care to join us for dinner? I’d love to catch up.”
* * * * *
Only Chere could go to a cavernous French museum, bewitch an eccentric multi-billionaire by almost knocking him over, and then invite him back to our room without even knowing who the fuck he was.
Vinod Sushil was an Indian fashion magnate, overseeing hundreds of brands and boutiques throughout central Asia and the Far East. I knew him from my time in Mumbai, from years of contact within the Indian design community. We’d spoken together at decadent parties and glittering charity events. He’d been there when they’d opened my bridge, congratulating me on the culmination of a three-year project.