Page 15 of Tempting Eden

Ms. Rochester was planning a huge pre-opening party to tout the luxury condominiums, and my guest list had already swelled to capacity. I had booked the bar and balcony overlooking the Gulf at a swank hotel near the Belle Mar construction site. It was sure to be a huge to-do, and I wanted to make it as perfect as I could for Ms. Rochester. She had been grooming clients, burning up the phone lines throughout the Southeast, courting both new and old money, and even up North, netting the snowbirds.

Beach real estate had come back with a vengeance after the bubble burst almost ten years ago. People were hungry for a piece of the coast, and it was our job to make them pay handsomely for water views and high-style amenities. The penthouse suite was going to list at $4.5 million, supposedly a record for real estate along the Florida Panhandle.

I had checked the Belle Mar build site on satellite, but in the images it was still just an expanse of sand and scrubby trees. I scanned the map, noting the ebb and flow of the coastline, the little inlets and large bays. I wondered what the water would look like. Did pictures do the waves justice? I’d never actually seen the ocean, never been anywhere even approaching a body of water that size. Abandoned quarries and some rivers were as close as I ever got, and even I realized those were raindrops compared to the deluge of the Gulf. I intended to take a canvas or two with me, see if I could start a rough sketch of the surf and the sky. It would be a pathetic first attempt, no doubt, but I had to begin somewhere.

Ms. Rochester burst through her glass doors, looking ready to either make or break the design meeting. I could never tell which with her.

I followed her to the large conference room. She took the chair at the head of the table and seemed almost regal with the uptilt of her chin. She wore a turquoise sweater and a short gray skirt. Something about the heels she wore that day made her ass appear even nicer, rounder. She’d flitted around my desk, getting ready for this meeting and making it hard for me to concentrate on my job. Her green gaze would light on me sometimes, as if she were trying to catch me looking. Not a chance. I was no amateur.

She drummed her fingernails on the conference table, making a resonating tapping sound. “I hope you brought me what I asked for, Bess. If not, we’re going to have a poor pre-opening party this weekend. That means you don’t get paid.”

“I think you will be pleased,” Bess, the lead designer of Xiao & Co, said with a gracious smile.

Bess Xiao was a tall, dark-haired beauty. She wore a short white dress and black high heels which accentuated her willowy figure. Her lips were painted blood red so she appeared brighter, large than life, and she’d captured her dark hair in a high ponytail. She was almost more work of art than human. Her movements were fluid, practiced, as she set the room and dimmed the lights for her slideshow.

Ms. Rochester tossed her hair over her shoulder in a definitively feminine—yet somehow forceful—move. “Then by all means, let’s get on with it.”

Bess started her presentation, displaying various concept drawings and computer-generated images of the finishes and views occupants could expect to find in Belle Mar. She narrated in a clear, low voice.

On almost every slide, Ms. Rochester would have a comment to “change this,” or “I don’t like that,” or “why would we go with gold instead of silver here?” Bess answered each question as her assistant feverishly typed notes, taking down every word and change that came from Ms. Rochester’s mouth. I didn’t envy her the job.

Where Ms. Rochester quibbled, I saw nothing but opulence. To me, the images were nothing short of amazing. They represented some sort of fairytale place where everything was made of glass, chrome, and gleaming stone. Fireplaces and chandeliers, fur rugs and leather couches…these things were expected, normal, in this world. It was fantastical.

Though I was admittedly dazzled, Ms. Rochester remained critical, finding some perceived flaw in the pocket doors, or the type of crystal in the lighting. She was attuned to every detail, every tiny piece of design. I wondered why she hired out the work in the first place when she seemed more than capable of bringing it all together on her own.

When the slideshow ended, Bess opened a large black case full of samples. Squares upon squares of fabric were neatly lined along both sides of the box. She and Ms. Rochester went back and forth on which top grain leather to put on the chairs for the model, which fabric for drapes, what to use on the accent chairs. It was serious business between them, but absurdly so, given the topics were prints or solids, paisley or damask. I wanted to laugh. I didn’t.

Both women were bent over, focusing on the tiny samples. Ms. Rochester’s auburn hair fell into her face. Her sweater gaped open a bit, showing me her nude bra underneath. I shifted in my seat to enjoy the view more. Some wardrobe malfunctions were better left unmentioned and simply enjoyed.

They went through each box just as methodically as the first. The next case had bits of stone arranged as if marching in line. Another case contained a hundred different knobs and drawer pulls. Another, sheets of wallpaper. It reminded me of all the ingredients required to bake an outrageously pricey cake. One that no doubt looked far better than it tasted.

Ms. Rochester was utterly meticulous in her choices, and once she’d made a decision, she stuck to it. Bess nodded here and there, agreeing or capitulating at times, though I often couldn’t tell which. I enjoyed being a silent spectator, watching them choose every detail right down to the size and shape of the doorstops. Ms. Rochester got to the last case, one lined with moldings in several patterns. She picked out a few, frowned, and then picked out a few more.

“Bess, should we even do coffers? I mean, don’t they seem stuffy?”

“They are making a big comeback right now, actually. I just did a piece on them for theJournal-Constitutionliving section. They are, of course, a bit more traditional than the look you’re going for, but I think they would give the condos a little more eclectic flair.”

“You say ‘eclectic,’ I hear mismatched.” Ms. Rochester wrinkled her nose.

“Well, of course it’s up to you.”

Ms. Rochester turned to me. She held up two moldings, one done with an acanthus leaf and another in a simpler, more angular style. “Jack, what do you think, between these two?”

First world problems.

I studied her proffered options. “I’d go with the more art deco piece, if it were me. You seem to be going mid-century mod a bit on the fixtures and the pulls. The kitchen is of course, full-on modern, and the rest of the rooms lack any traditional elements. Like Bess said, the coffer is traditional, but if you give it an art deco angular look, it would give a nod to older tradition with the quirk of earlier century design.”

The air seemed to have left the room as Ms. Rochester, Bess, and Bess’ assistant all stopped and stared. Ms. Rochester’s mouth quirked a bit; she was trying to stifle her smile.

I shrugged. “I took a few design and art classes at Alabama.”

“You certainly have an eye,” Bess said and gave me a once-over. I felt like it was the first time she actually saw me, though her look was more predatory than anything else. She was beautiful, by far one of the more beautiful women I’d ever seen. All the same, she didn’t spark anything inside me.

I dropped her gaze and picked up Ms. Rochester’s.Herattention was what I wanted.Herinterest. One look and I saw I had it. Wanting Ms. Rochester was trouble, and I’d already had more than my fair share. But she was the sort of trouble I couldn’t pass up—headstrong, confident, and sexy as fuck. Bending her to my will had been a goal of mine since the first moment I saw her outside the Galway building, her red hair glowing in the sun and her long legs eating up the sidewalk toward me.

“This one.” Ms. Rochester chose the art deco molding and held it out to Bess. Even as she moved, she never took her eyes off me.

“Okay then.” Bess took the molding. “That’s decided. I think we’re done here. I’ll get back to Atlanta right now, get everything you’ve selected sorted out, and send by personal courier to…?”

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