Page 4 of Perfume Girl
How could so much go wrong so quickly?
In a daze, I walked toward the storeroom cupboard that was ajar and cautiously stepped inside. My Orris root oil was gone, my most expensive ingredient flown in from abroad. I backed out and spun around, realizing all my formulas were gone.
I still had my notes.
Right?
As long as my ledger was untouched I could replicate my creations—including the one that was two years in the making. Each minuscule drop carefully documented in that ledger, each tincture extracted, each combination of bourbon vanilla, rare spices from Tibet, roses from Penzance.
Every day of the last two years dedicated to not only running this place but crafting a wondrous fragrance. I had perfected its top notes and painstakingly tweaked its base notes until I’d captured a scent with all its complex mysteries. More than this, I had invoked an ethereal experience, a profound sense of being.
Hurrying over to the cabinet where I kept my ledger, I reached out and grasped the drawer handle, knuckles taut with tension. I stole a few seconds to stir my courage. The formula was so elaborate it had been impossible to memorize.
That ledger had to be in here.
As this truth burned through me, I inhaled a desperate breath and pulled open the drawer.
THERE WAS ONLY ONE WOMANI would allow to derail my Monday. Though, admittedly, The Artisan Cafe was a decent choice for lunch, so this spontaneous meeting with Penelope would at least be bearable.
Dealing with my sister was at times entertaining and other times strained. Our personal visions for our company clashed with the same fervor as the Cuban blood surging through our veins, albeit third generation. Penelope’s volatile temperament and my more reasoned outbursts saw us flashing hot and cold and everything in between. Of course, running a multi-million dollar business meant that passion was the bedrock of our success.
Here, in the outside seating area, I waited for the concierge to tell me which table would be ours. Beyond, upon still waters, a yacht sailed by and I took a deep, envious breath of fresh air, wishing it was me out there on that never-ending blue expanse.
The serenity here wouldn’t last.
The tables would fill with diners and all of them would be vying for the best view overlooking Bel Harbor with its stretch of Atlantic.
“Sir, your table’s ready,” said the young waitress, ending my daydreams.
Turning, I threw the petite blonde a warm smile and she froze for a beat. This wasn’t an uncommon response. My heritage had awarded me a light golden complexion, and my raven locks contrasted appealingly with my hazel eyes. Today I was wearing a bespoke suit tailored with extraordinary skill and cut to highlight my physique. I took more amusement than I should have from towering over her, reveling in her soft blush when I flashed a wicked grin.
“I have a great table for you with the best view.” She licked her lips seductively.
Okay.That was an interesting development; her tongue was pierced and that shiny bauble promised no end of pleasure. I gave her another heart-stopping smile.
She spun around and led the way.
I strolled the short distance across the patio wondering why my unpredictable sister had chosen to meet here rather than our South Beach office.
“Thank you,” I said graciously as I sat. “Someone is joining me.”
“That’s fine.” Her gaze flitted to the empty seat. “Can I start you off with a drink?”
Start me off?
Those years at Eton in England had garnered me with an unquestionable arrogance when it came to the use of language—after my highbrow education where I’d sat in classrooms beside future kings, sons of presidents, and the men who would become Dubai’s finest leaders. I’d returned to South Beach bearing unrealistic expectations that no mortal could live up to. British aristocracy had threaded its way beneath my skin and I still hadn’t shaken it.
While there, I had been taught to favor luxury over austerity, pleasure over pain, and had been exposed to an addictive level of power. It left me with expensive tastes in all things, including sex. I liked my pussy gold-plated—a woman who could match my intellectual sparring. But not a relationship…not even close. I preferred the “fuck me hard and call me if you want” kind of lover. The non-clingy, no commitment necessary type.
“Start me off”girl may have tempted my diabolical side but she was too sweet to ravage. And although my imagination ran wild with how I could bring this flirty bud to blossom, my demands would no doubt leave her weak, needy, and addicted to a level of passion she hadn’t earned. Wallflowers needn’t apply.
Though that blush on her cheeks was alluring, and I couldn’t deny the soft scent of vanilla gave off the impression of pure innocence. What followed were the rakish notes of bubblegum—fucking bubblegum. She was wearingPlay With Me,a scent that made me die inside each time I caught a waft.
“Water. Still.” And as it was Penelope’s habit to be late I reached for the menu and considered an appetizer. “Sparkling water, too, please.” My sister would be out of breath and thirsty, or at least she’d feign she was for keeping me waiting.
I set about conducting business on my iPhone, as time was too valuable to burn.
The waitress returned with our drinks and casually slid a coaster toward me. It had a phone number on it. Hers, I assumed.
