The memory of her as she walked away caused him to shudder. He'd given Red his number, slipped his business card in her handbag. Red never called. Why not-he'd asked himself on many occasions. He considered himself stupid to dwell on this a second longer. Warner wasn't religious but he thought about the Biblical proverb, "For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her." G.o.d aside, his head required a new screw to put it back on tight.
"Monsieur Warner, they issued a tracking number for this ticket item." Brigitte stepped forward, placing the note on the counter and then returning to her stance in the hallway.
"Merci." He didn't want what just happened to circulate amongst his staff. Especially if Brigitte gossiped about Truman Enterprises' CEO whacking off in the treatment room. He hoped to change the subject and her mindset before he left. "What are your plans this summer while the resort hibernates?"
Her face warmed up. "A few of us from the spa are going to Hotel du France on a spa mobile tour for beaute treatments."
"I'll be in Cannes for the festival as well. I hope to see you." Although he found the Cannes beaches too celebrity-centric, Warner always enjoyed his time in France.
Hotel du France remained Truman Enterprises' most profitable property. How? The rooms were always filled to capacity during the Cannes Film Festival by corporate event sponsors.
"Did you want your ma.s.sage, Monsieur?" She stepped into the room, hopefully putting his recent "door locked, beating off" session behind her.
"My back is better. I've changed my mind, thank you though." He needed a cold shower.
"I'll leave you be to get dressed. See you in Cannes, Monsieur Warner." Brigitte closed the door on her way out.
"Au revoir." Warner wondered if he'd ever see Red again. He took the ticket off the counter. It read, "Barth/Red/Dec30/Vajazz."
Who are you, Mademoiselle Red?
Judith Leiber's Clutch May 17 Times Square, New York, NY This blows serious chunks.
Like all the others that year, Taddy's week rolled over into one big blur filled with work. Her elliptical grew dusty. Every night, she intended to leave the office early and attend Gilad's Pilates cla.s.s but never made it on time. She'd also no-showed two Botox parties hosted by Dr. Fa.s.senbender.
There were only two men she'd seen on a regular basis.
The first was her San Juan beefcake chauffer, Jose del Torro. In a fire-engine-red Cadillac Escalade with her firm's slogan, "Get fame, get glam, get Brill, Inc.", detailing the doors, Jose drove Taddy wherever she needed. From her downtown meeting in the financial district with her clients' investors to the garment district to help select designs and patterns for her fas.h.i.+on brands, Jose was there.
Jose had a wife and five kids. They were
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