Butterfly of Venus Page 2

  Elizabeth met up with her friend in the hair salon, where Effie was having her dark hair cut into chunky layers. Elizabeth caught Effie’s eye in the mirror and mouthed, with an expression of horror, “Anal bleaching?”

  Effie laughed. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

  Shaking her head in disbelief, Elizabeth sat down, opting for a boring trim. Her long thick hair was blow-dried and straightened until it hung like a shiny auburn waterfall down her back. Next came makeup. Elizabeth usually chose a natural look, but the makeup man raved so much about her huge green eyes that she allowed him some leeway. When she finally slipped on a simple black dress and a diamond tennis bracelet that accentuated her slim wrist, she had to admit she looked pretty damn good. She could pass for twenty-nine, easily.

  * * *

  Effie’s penthouse had its own private elevator. As the door slid back, a crowd roared, “Surprise!” Elizabeth acted suitably amazed. She hugged Effie and entered the lush suite, where waiters were already circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. A glass of champagne was placed in her hand. Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel flattered by the compliments flowing her way. She moved around the luxurious room packed with friends and colleagues, chatting and laughing, enjoying the soft jazz playing in the background and the tinkling sound of people drinking and having a good time.

  Suddenly, a hand flapped in front of her face. She turned around. It was Manny.

  “Boss. You look good enough to turn a gay man straight.”

  “That’s a real compliment, Manny. Thanks. Is Damon here?”

  “Of course. He’s over there.”

  Elizabeth looked across the suite to see the backs of two men who were admiring the view. One had his arm around the other.

  “Come on,” said Manny, taking her hand. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Elizabeth allowed Manny to lead her through the throng. “Elizabeth Harding, meet the love of my life,” said Manny. “This is Damon, my partner. And this is his cousin. I told you about him: singer, songwriter and talent extraordinaire Declan Thomas. Gentlemen, meet the boss.”

  Normally, Elizabeth would have been annoyed at Manny for mentioning Declan’s talent in a social situation, but as the man turned towards her, she caught her breath. Declan Thomas was tall, with a faint trace of adolescent skinniness, although his shoulders were broad. His face, perfectly symmetrical, was topped with a thick mop of dark hair that fell over his forehead and curled around his neck. A strong, straight Roman nose divided high cheekbones. His eyes, set slightly wide apart, were the bluest blue she had ever seen. He grinned at her, a slightly lopsided curve to his mouth, revealing perfectly even white teeth. A faint shadow of beard gave him a grungy, sexy look. His shirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint of smooth, muscled chest, was wrinkled. He extended long fingers to shake her hand. His voice, soft and low, was filled with a flirtatious confidence that seemed almost mocking.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Harding.”

  Feeling as if she were operating in slow motion, unable to tear her eyes away, Elizabeth extended her hand. Declan Thomas was truly breathtaking. As their fingers touched, an electric shock sparked between them, jolting her from the dreamlike state she had unwittingly entered.

  “Ouch,” she laughed. “Static.”

  “Yeah,” he replied with a laugh, “I’m shocked as well.”

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur of wine, laughter and clever banter. She caught Declan staring at her a couple of times, and once he raised his glass to her in a silent toast.

  * * *

  Elizabeth woke the next morning with a hangover. She must’ve drunk way more champagne than she had intended, because all she could think about was piercing blue eyes. God, Elizabeth, she told herself, you are losing it. Declan Thomas is a kid. He can’t be more than . . . what, twenty-eight? This was clearly some kind of ridiculous schoolgirl infatuation, except she wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was now officially forty, a mature woman who knew her own mind, a woman people depended on to keep the star machinery going and pay their bills. Elizabeth resolved to put Declan Thomas as far from her mind as possible. She would pass him over to Hunter, the firm’s watchdog, and let him decide if Declan was worthy of representation.

  Elizabeth grabbed some juice and an Aspirin. She remembered Declan saying he had a gig coming up. Hunter would be going, not her. Definitely not her. She gave herself a shake. What she needed now was a cold shower, followed by a long walk beside the lake. After that, she would return to being sensible, practical Elizabeth Harding.

  First, she must phone Effie to thank her for the party. They’d stayed up late talking and quaffing champagne after all the guests had gone. She’d justified the overindulgence by reminding herself that forty was a big deal.

  Effie picked up after two rings. “Hey there, mama,” said Effie. “How’s your head this morning—or should I say afternoon?”

  Elizabeth looked at her watch. It had stopped at 10:45. “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes after one.”

  “Oh, that’s awful.”

  “Not really,” said Effie. “You needed those hours to repair the damage.”

  “I do feel a bit damaged,” conceded Elizabeth.

  “Damaged but happy?”

  “Thanks so much, Eff. It was a fabulous party.”

  “You did a lovely job of pretending to be surprised.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, although you were a little less subtle about a certain young man.”

  Elizabeth felt blood rush to her cheeks. “What do you mean?”

  “You could hardly take your eyes off him. That singer, the young guy who came with Manny and his boyfriend.”

  “You mean Declan Thomas?” said Elizabeth. Just saying his name aloud sent a small shiver down her spine. She feigned nonchalance. “Strictly professional interest.”

  “Uh-huh,” replied Effie in a disbelieving tone. “So you won’t be going to his gig at the Drake this Thursday? He invited me, too.”

  “No, I . . . I’ll probably just send Hunter.”

  “Mmm-hmm. So, what did he write on the card he handed you before he left?” Effie rarely missed a thing.

  “His new cell number,” lied Elizabeth. “He just moved here from Montreal. Anyway, thanks again, Effie. You’re a pal. It was a wonderful party.”

  Elizabeth had a vague recollection of Declan handing her a card. She dove into her evening bag. There it was. On one side was a line drawing of half of Declan’s face and the word “Strings.” On the other side was his contact information and a single word printed in neat black lettering. Elizabeth peered closely. If she was not mistaken, the word was written in ink from an old-fashioned fountain pen. It said, “Come.” Declan Thomas was an intriguing young man indeed. It had been a while since she’d gone out to a club to see a client. Maybe she would go after all.

  * * *

  The first part of the week went by in a whirl of activity at the office. Plans were made to set up a European tour for Clam. Europeans were more receptive to jazz, so ATM booked the trio into several high-class venues in London, Paris and Berlin. Elizabeth also dealt with the monstrous ego of Franco, a singer who referred to himself in the third person as “Mr. Wonderful.” Refusing to talk to anyone other than Elizabeth, Franco took up a great deal of her time. She had recently secured him a position on the panel of Big Break, a television show for wannabe performers. But being a judge on the show wasn’t enough for Franco. He insisted that Elizabeth get cameos for him on dramatic series because he felt his public wanted to see him, as he put it, “stretch himself.”

  Franco was on his fourth marriage to yet another homely woman, this one a nurse. He deliberately chose women whose looks wouldn’t steal the limelight away from him.

  Elizabeth sighed. Franco was a pain in the ass, but a lucrative one.


  The star breezed into Elizabeth’s office holding a chihuahua named Killer. This was Killer number five. Franco didn’t have a lot of imagination when it came to naming pets.

  “Darling, darling Elizabeth,” cooed Franco, stroking the dog’s bony skull. He put the animal on the floor and air-kissed Elizabeth’s cheek. It was well known that Franco disliked physical contact. Elizabeth marvelled at his skin, spray-tanned a deep orange in violent contrast to dyed black hair. He was seventy but never acknowledged being more than sixty.

  “Mr. Wonderful is upset that his last rider didn’t include foie gras for Killer,” pouted Franco, looking dolefully at the rat-like dog sniffing around the floor. “Poor snookums. He was forced to eat hamburger.”

  “I’ll get the riders double-checked for you, Franco. How’s the show going?”

  “Mr. Wonderful is perfect on Big Break. He is a great, great judge.”

  Elizabeth’s agency had an agreement with the show. Winners received a one-year contract as part of their prize. Several had gone on to massive success. It hadn’t been difficult to get “Mr. Wonderful” the gig on the panel. Franco was still regarded as a star by the public. He had a long history of writing hit tunes for himself and other performers, but his voice was beginning to fray. It was just as well if he didn’t sing too much, and ATM still got a cut of any TV deals.

  “I’m glad it’s working out, Franco.”

  “Mr. Wonderful is so very, very happy. Don’t forget, foie gras.” As an afterthought he added, “From France.”

  “Absolutely. Where else?”

  Air-kissing her again, Franco swept out, trailing the scent of expensive cologne and hairspray.

  * * *

  Thursday evening arrived before Elizabeth could give much thought to what she would wear to Declan’s performance at the Drake. It was a hipster scene, something Elizabeth hated. Effie wasn’t going. She told Elizabeth, mysteriously, that she had a date, but wouldn’t elaborate. Elizabeth invited Hunter and Manny, but both begged off, Manny for an anniversary dinner with his boyfriend and Hunter because he’d made arrangements to check out another act. Elizabeth would go alone.

  She rooted through her closet, which was filled with expensive suits and dresses. Finally, she found a pair of black skinny pants that showed off her long legs. She added a pair of black biker boots with silver buckles, a grey suede bomber jacket, silver hoop earrings and a thick silver bracelet. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and outlined her eyes in black kohl. She hoped it all added up to a hip look, or at least one that wouldn’t be too out of place. Then she admonished herself for caring. She was rich. She was powerful. Fitting in was something that had never concerned her, yet here she was examining her reflection like a teenager going on a first date.

  Ridiculous, she told herself. You’re being absolutely ridiculous. Declan Thomas is interested in representation, that’s all. If his talent matches his looks, he could be a great catch for ATM.

  Having made up her mind that the outing was strictly business, Elizabeth decided to take a cab. A car and driver would draw attention to her. She wanted to be inconspicuous, just in case Declan Thomas’s act sucked. That way, she could slip away unnoticed and not return calls if he should try and get in touch with her.

  She pulled up outside the Drake around nine thirty. Delighted that she was personally checking Declan out, Manny had called the club for her and learned that Declan was scheduled to start at ten. A crowd of twenty-year-olds was hanging around outside smoking, many of them girls in improbably short skirts and teetering heels or thigh-high boots—definitely the young look of the moment.

  Elizabeth hadn’t notified Declan that she was coming, so she was surprised to find her name on a guest list. A giant of a bouncer stamped her hand and told her to go in. She held on to a silver railing, part of the club’s art deco charm, and made her way downstairs to the lower level. A mediocre folksinger was wailing away, finishing up his set. The room was crowded with people, mostly jammed around the bar. They were young, hip urbanites with enough cool to intimidate anyone. Several of the girls wore loose woolly toques or fedoras, while some young men sported thick-rimmed black glasses and scarves tossed carelessly around their necks.

  Elizabeth pushed her way to the bar and ordered a beer. She was about to pay when a hand touched her shoulder. A seductive voice said, “I’ll get that.” She turned and found herself swimming in the denim blue of Declan’s eyes. He was taller than she remembered and even more handsome.

  He flashed his slightly crooked grin at her. “Now we can get this party started.”

  Did he mean because she was there? Was he waiting for her? Surely not. He hadn’t known for certain she was coming. He must simply mean it was almost ten o’clock and time to go on.

  Words caught in Elizabeth’s throat. She managed a feeble “Nice to see you again.”

  “And you, Ms. Harding.”

  Declan guided her through the crowd to a seat beside the stage. Her arm, where he was touching her, felt electrified. Maybe she was having a heart attack. When he let go, the tingling sensation of electricity stopped.

  “Call me Elizabeth.”

  “We’re going on in a minute. Excuse me, but there are a couple of things I have to do first. Perhaps I’ll see you afterwards?”

  Elizabeth nodded, glad the lighting was dim so he couldn’t see her flush. She took a gulp of beer. Hopefully, the alcohol would help settle her nerves.

  The folksinger finally left, to a smattering of polite applause. A brief break followed, during which three musicians got on stage and plugged in their instruments. Next came the drummer, who seated himself behind his kit and crashed a cymbal. Where was Declan?

  Elizabeth looked around and saw him across the room, deep in conversation with a stunning young woman with long dark hair and a T-shirt that spelled “Rock Chick” in sequins. Elizabeth could tell from their body language that they were having some kind of altercation. Declan seemed frustrated and kept running his fingers through his hair. Finally, as he was turning away, the girl pulled him back, planting a fierce, ferocious kiss on his lips.

  Elizabeth stifled a small gasp. Declan clearly had a girlfriend. Why wouldn’t he? He was young, gorgeous and quite possibly talented. Elizabeth felt ashamed of herself. How on earth, even in her wildest fantasy, could she possibly think a guy his age would be interested in her? It was preposterous. Thank God she hadn’t made a fool of herself. Clearly their relationship was going to be strictly professional. That was just fine with her. She could handle professional. It was where she felt comfortable. It was where she excelled. Still, if she were honest, she’d admit to feeling the tiniest twinge of disappointment. Declan was simply trying to further his career. But the sooner she came to terms with it, the better for her psyche.

  Elizabeth sent a mental thank you to the dark-haired beauty now scowling on the edge of the crowd. Declan jumped gracefully onto the stage. The usual few seconds of whining feedback assaulted everyone’s hearing before a sound technician sorted things out.

  “Sorry about that, guys,” said Declan, picking up a guitar and slinging its strap over his shoulder. “We want your feedback, but not that sort.” He seemed immensely comfortable. “I am Declan Thomas, and we are Strings.”

  A bevy of young women surged towards the stage, swaying to the music. Oh God, let him be awful, thought Elizabeth. I don’t think I can stand to be around him. But God wasn’t listening. The band played with compelling rhythm and skill. The drummer was spot-on. The steel guitarist was haunting. But the truly outstanding performer was Declan Thomas. He played keyboard first, then guitar. His voice was self-assured, perfectly pitched and extremely confident. The crowd was pumped. Elizabeth watched a hundred pairs of glossy lips mouthing the words as Declan sang. They were clearly huge fans, and no wonder. Declan was good. In fact, he was more than good. Elizabeth half-closed her eyes and imagined she saw a faint shi
mmer of success surrounding him. Goosebumps shivered on her flesh. This guy could sing. This guy was talented. This guy was going to be a superstar, and she, Elizabeth Harding, could make it happen.

  But one thing she knew for sure: there was never going to be any romance between them, ever. If the dark-haired babe was Declan’s girlfriend, it made absolutely no difference to her. It was going to be business all the way. She’d made up her mind, and once Elizabeth Harding made up her mind, nothing short of a miracle could change it.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth drummed her nails on her desk in frustration. It was Monday afternoon, three days since she’d been to the Drake. Declan Thomas still hadn’t called. Last Thursday, the dark-haired “rock chick” had made a rush for the stage as soon as the set finished. Elizabeth left the bar without speaking to him. Instead, she left her card with the house manager, asking Declan to get in touch. Normally, such a request would be jumped on. Most musicians would gladly kill to be represented by ATM.

  She buzzed Hunter.

  “Yes, Elizabeth?”

  “No word yet from Declan Thomas?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Hmm. If he calls, put him through at once.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, and can you make sure foie gras is included in any future rider for Franco?”

  “Foie gras?”

  “It’s for his dog.”

  “Of course.”

  Elizabeth sighed and hung up. Sometimes she hated being the boss. Deference could be annoying. But Hunter was good at his job. He had an eye for talent that matched her own. Thanks to him, they’d recently signed Valentina, a seventeen-year-old girl from Whitby whose single, “Baby Mama,” had started at the bottom of the charts and was now at number ten. The stars these days were getting younger and younger. Soon, she expected, they’d be making deals with toddlers in diapers.

  Damn Declan Thomas anyway. Why hadn’t he called? She was eager to sign him to ATM. With their enormous machine behind him, he could be a hit in no time and, with a fifteen percent commission on any deals, could significantly add to the revenue of the company. Maybe he hadn’t received her note. She called the Drake and checked with the house manager. Yes, he’d personally put her card in Declan Thomas’s hand.