Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 2

Sofi

Itake the subway downtown and walk briskly to Roman Hurst’s headquarters. Located on the southwest corner of Broadway and Canal, the imposing three-story limestone building looks more like an old bank or a library. An elaborate pediment sits above the entrance, which is flanked by two neoclassical Corinthian columns. As I get closer, I see the words “In God We Trust” inscribed above the massive bronze door along with the date the building was erected: 1907. The Beaux-Art era. I know a lot about architecture from being a Fine Arts major.

My stomach knots with dread. As if I’m not anxious enough, second thoughts bombard me. Maybe I’m at the wrong address. I pull out my phone from my backpack and double-check. Nope, this is it. I’ve come to the right place. There are no windows on the front side of the intimidating edifice, but on the Canal side, arched double-story windows face the street, the curtains drawn. Nowhere is there a sign for the House of Hurst. Just the street number 123 right above the door, next to which there’s an intercom and what looks to be a security system.

My heart thudding, I hit the button on the intercom. It buzzes. Anxiously waiting for someone to come to the door, I review the questions I’m supposed to ask Roman. That’s if he doesn’t see through my masquerade.

I press the buzzer again, and as my finger lifts off the button, the door swings open. A handsome, green-eyed woman, who looks to be in her mid-fifties, faces me. She is quite tall, her graying ash-brown hair tied back in a simple chignon. Her slender figure is clad in a white jacket that resembles a lab coat and a simple knee-length black skirt. Thick, black opaque stockings cover her legs. And on her feet, she’s wearing sensible, laced-up black shoes. The rubber-soled, non-skid kind you might find at an orthopedic shoe store. Her only burst of color is a worn yellow cloth tape measure around her neck.

She gives a small smile. “You must be Ms. Albright.” Bearing a pronounced accent, her voice is warm and inviting, matching the kindness in her face. With her high cheekbones and striking features, she must have been a great beauty in her youth.

I gulp down a breath and haphazardly throw my phone back into my backpack. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Enchantée.I am Madame DuBois.” I surmise she must be French as she ushers me inside. “Monsieur Hurst is expecting you.”

My eyes go wide as I step into a vast atelier with soaring ceilings. Women, who look like clones of Madame DuBois, are buzzing about the open, obviously gutted space. Maybe a dozen in total. To my surprise, there’s not a sewing machine in sight; all the women are painstakingly working by hand. Some are bent over ironing boards, hand-steaming fabric while others are seated on high-back chairs hand-sewing buttons. Yet others are gathered around a large drafting table, cutting and pinning patterns. Shelves filled with see-through plastic containers of accouterments—sequins, feathers, threads, trims, needles, pins, and more—line the stark white walls and mingle with bolts of assorted black fabrics, all lush and shimmering. The recessed lighting is bright, but the mood is intense and focused. If it weren’t for the hiss of the steamers, you could probably hear a pin drop. My eyes circle the studio, taking in the breathtaking black gowns, in various stages of completion, that drape dress forms scattered on the shiny marble floor. I’m in awe but don’t show it.

“Where is Mr. Hurst?” I ask my escort, anxiety rising.

“He is upstairs in his private living quarters. He would like to meet with you there. We’ll take the elevator up.”

Nervously, I adjust my backpack and let her lead the way. My eyes shift left and right as I follow her to an ornate elevator that must be the original with its old-fashioned floor dial. She pushes the up button and the polished bronze door glides open. She allows me to enter first and then presses the floor marked two on the button panel. There are four floors altogether, including a basement. The door closes and the richly paneled carriage ascends slowly to our destination before opening again.

I follow Madame DuBois out, stepping into another two-story space. Unlike the brightly lit studio below us, the walls are lacquered black and thick, floor-to-ceiling obsidian curtains mask every window, blocking out any trace of sunshine. The room is minimally furnished, a mix of sleek black leather, glistening glass, and polished nickel, the pieces symmetrically arranged on the high-gloss ebony floor. Along one wall, there’s a built-in bookshelf, filled with reference books and catalogs. The recessed halogen lighting is muted, but enough to illuminate a tall onyx vase filled with white fragrant flowers—gardenias—on the large coffee table. As well as the artfully hung black-and-white photos of a stunning woman dressed in sumptuous black gowns. My gaze sweeps across the room and I wonder: What kind of man lives here?

“Ms. Albright?”

A rich baritone voice interrupts my mental ramblings. My head jerks up and my stomach lurches.

Striding my way is the most beautiful man I’ve ever set eyes on. Tall, maybe six-four, lean and muscular. With a shock of raven-black hair and a layer of equally dark stubble, his features pure masculine perfection. Except for the black patch that covers his right eye, which somehow adds to his allure. His other eye is the color of a blue flame, the color aglow against his swarthy complexion and all-black attire—a cashmere crewneck sweater that hugs his muscles and fine wool pleated trousers perfectly tailored for his imposing body. Soft black leather loafers that match his belt adorn his feet, and I notice he’s not wearing socks.

At the sight of him, my knees grow weak, my body heated. My breathing grows labored, and my mind turns to mush. I have the sudden need to sit down before my spaghetti legs give out. I’ve seriously never felt this way in my entire life.

“Ms. Albright?” he repeats, bringing me out of my stupor and back to the moment.

“Yes,” I splutter, noticing for the first time the matte black folder in his right hand.

“Good,” he says, lowering himself onto the oversized leather couch. He places the folder on the coffee table next to the flowers. An expensive-looking black fountain pen is clipped to it. “Please have a seat.”

Semi-catatonic, I plunk down onto one of the club chairs across from him. For sure not one of my most graceful moves, but at least I didn’t collapse. I’m still having trouble breathing, his searing gaze making me feel more lightheaded. More heated. More at unease.

“Can Madame DuBois get you anything?”

A fan!I shake my head.

“Are you sure?” He studies me and I feel as if he can see right through me. “Perhaps a sparkling water?”

Though my throat is dry as a desert, I pass with a shaky “no, thank you.” He, too, passes on a beverage and dismisses the attentive woman, leaving us alone. Classical music, I think Chopin, plays softly in the background.

Not one bit more relaxed, I set my backpack on the floor and cross one leg over the other. My companion’s one eye travels up my colorful butterfly-print tights and I can see him smirk. My legs squeeze together, trying to quell my nerves and the distracting tingles dancing between my thighs. He reaches for the folder.

“Before we begin, Ms. Albright, which, by the way, is a very fitting name for you, I need you to sign an NDA.”

“An NDA?” I stammer, although I’m relieved he thinks I’m Harper. In my frazzled state, I honestly forgot I was impersonating her.

“A nondisclosure or confidentiality agreement. That everything I say will stay confined between us.”

He slides the agreement along with the fountain pen—a Montblanc—across the table. I scan the contract, the words a blur, and quickly sign and date it in the space allotted on the bottom, trying my best to imitate Harper’s loopy handwriting. I set the pen back down on the table and he returns them to the folder.

“By signing the NDA, you also agree to only ask the questions I’ve pre-approved.”

I nod. “Of course.”

“I will only answer those questions. There are to be no additional personal ones. I safeguard my privacy and personal life. One query about either, and this interview will immediately be terminated.” He pauses and his fiery eye once again burns into me. “Understood?”

“Yes.” My voice is so unsteady and subdued I hardly hear myself.

His searing gaze stays on me. “One more thing. I will need your phone. Please place it on the table.”

“Why?”

“Just another safeguard to protect my privacy.”

Panic creeps into my bloodstream. “But all the questions I want to ask you are on my phone.”

He dismissively shrugs. “There aren’t that many. And I’m sure since you wrote them, you must know what they are.”

Oh God! I hope I can remember them. If I ask something that wasn’t pre-approved, I’ll be out of here before I can say boo. And screw up everything!

“The phone, please,” he says curtly as another wave of panic crashes over me. With a shuddering breath, I reach for my backpack and fish inside it for my cell. My fingers find it quickly. In a last-ditch attempt to hold on to it, I tell the foreboding man facing me that I planned to record our interview on my phone and take some photos.

His brows knit together. “Yet another reason to surrender it. I don’t want anyone to see what I look like or hear my voice. Now, Ms. Albright, can we stop wasting time?”

Reluctantly, I slip the phone out from my backpack, trying desperately to remember the questions Harper sent to me. Why on earth did I agree to this? A nerve-wracking mixture of remorse and apprehension swirls in my gut. Damn Harper! Damn me!

“Please turn it off,” he orders. “Or I will do it for you.”

Bossy.I do as he asks. Not waiting for the butterfly screen saver image to fade to black, I set the phone on the table.

“Begin.” Another sharp command.

My heart pitter-patters. I fiddle with my lucky butterfly pendant, stalling for time as the questions spin around my head. Luckily for me, the artist in me is a keen observer and I can remember almost everything I see.

Still on edge, I haul in a shaky breath. Here goes, but before I can fire off a question, he stops me.

“Ms. Albright, I assume you will be writing down my responses verbatim. Have you brought along a notebook and pen as any good journalist would do?” The words “any good journalist” are barbed with sarcasm. Does he suspect my charade?

“Of course,” I reply with faux confidence, reaching back into my bag for my sketchpad and Pentel pen. I always carry them with me, never knowing when inspiration will strike. I find them readily. Holding the pen, I place the notebook on my lap. He glimpses it, and the thick inky brow above his good eye arches like a crow’s wing.

“Hmm. A sketchpad? That’s quite an odd notebook for a journalist.”

I let out a nervous laugh as I uncap the pen. “I like to doodle. It works for me.” Quickly, I leaf through several pages filled with color-pencil sketches of various butterfly species until I come to a clean page. I feel his eye on me.

“Very well.” He crosses one long leg over the other, sinking deeper into the couch while he awaits my first question. My body rigid, I swallow past the tightness in my throat.

“What inspired you to become a fashion designer?”

“My mother. She was a seamstress, who once worked for the House of Dior in Paris. She taught me how to sew at an early age. She also taught me to recognize the beauty of fine fabrics and the importance of hand-sewn buttonholes that can take a good hour to make as well as the art of hidden seams. I also learned how to cut and stitch patterns. Many wealthy women came into her shop and I saw firsthand the allure of finely made clothing, especially haute couture. When my mother’s arthritis finally betrayed her and prevented her from working anymore, I took over. Going beyond what she did, I designed custom-made dresses for her demanding clients, who adored them and kept coming back for more.”

Self-made.I quickly jot down what he tells me, wanting to ask him if his mother is still alive. Knowing that question is not on the list, I refrain, but he reads my mind.

“By the way, my mother is no longer with us. She died from heart disease when she was fifty-two and sadly never saw my success. I was only eighteen.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say with sincerity, thankful that both my parents are alive and well. I do the math in my head. Since I read on the subway ride he’s thirty-eight, that was twenty years ago. His gruff voice cuts into my calculations.

“Let’s move on.”

Controlling. Impatient.“What inspires you?”

“Sadness.”

My eyes widen, clashing with his. “Sadness?”

“There is beauty in sadness. It’s a pure emotion. You can fake happiness, but you can’t fake sadness.”

Profound. There is an inherent truth to what he is saying. I know from my own experience, thinking back to my beloved pet Buddy. Of how much I cried when I let him go.

“Next,” he says, not allowing me to dwell on the memory or ponder his words.

Evasive.“Why do you only do couture?”

“Haute couture,” he corrects. “My gowns are one-of-a-kind and completely hand-sewn from start to finish.”

“Oh.” I must sound like a complete idiot. Oblivious to my ignorance, he answers my question.

“There are four kinds of women. Those who dress to have men look at them. Those who dress to have other women look at them. And those who dress for the world to look at them. I design for the latter.”

“What’s the fourth kind?” I brave, thinking that he owes me a complete answer.

His good eye stays on me, once again traveling down my body. A smirk crosses his lush lips. “Those who dress for themselves and don’t give a shit about what others think of them.”

Perceptive.Well, I know what category I fall into. My whole life I’ve dressed to the beat of my own drum, not caring if my boho style offends anyone. I’m certainly not his type. That’s for sure. I continue.

“Why do you limit yourself to black?”

“For me, things are either black or white. I prefer black. Black enables my clients to focus on the beautiful form of my gowns. The lack of color enables them—as well as myself and staff—to notice every detail. Black stands out in a world filled with light.”

I get what he’s saying, my mind flitting to the stunning gowns displayed downstairs, the stark white walls illuminating their magnificence.

“Every woman should own at least one beautiful black dress,” he adds. “You never know when someone is going to die and you will need to go into mourning.”

His morbid remark unsettles me. I inwardly shudder. What if my mom or dad suddenly died? What would I wear to their funeral? I don’t own a single black dress. In fact, not a single black anything, well, except for my sketch pens and a tube of black paint.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his intense gaze piercing me like a flaming arrow. I have to remember he is an artist like me. He can probably see more with one eye than most people can with two.

“Yes, thank you.” Composing myself, I quickly move on to the next question. Only a couple more to go.

“Why do you choose anonymity?” I learned from Harper when she first told me about the interview that the renowned designer is resolved to stay completely out of the limelight. Never once has he attended a press conference, agreed to be photographed, walked a red carpet, or taken the customary bow at the end of a fashion show. While the House of Hurst has a website, and fashion bloggers, online magazines, and photographers regularly feature photos of his collections, its founder personally has no presence on social media. Not on Instagram, Facebook, or Twitter. At best, a one-line description: Roman Hurst is the creator of one-of-a-kind haute couture gowns worn by the best-dressed women around the world. This interview, Harper told me, is his first one ever. An exclusive. He answers my question.

“It’s simple. I don’t want the public eye on me, but rather solely on my work.”

The brevity of his answer makes me think there’s more to it than meets the eye. No pun intended. This gorgeous, mysterious man is complex. An enigma. He is hiding something behind that eye patch and the urge to ask him what happened burns on my tongue. My wise father has always preached, “Eyes are the window to your soul,” and I have always believed him. To what is and what was.

“So that does it,” he says.

“Actually, there’s one more question.”

He arches a brow. “Really?”

I clam up. It’s not about his eye patch. I take a steeling breath and clear my throat. “Most men who design clothes for women are gay—”

“So . . . ”

“Um . . . er . . . ” I can’t get the question out.

“Are you trying to ask me if I’m gay?”

This time both thick brows lift to his forehead, causing it to crease. His good eye flares.

“I don’t recall that question being on the list.” The tone of his voice is challenging, borderline threatening.

I chew my bottom lip. Every muscle in my body clenches. Damn Harper! I bet she threw it in. It’s so like her to do something so outrageous. I should apologize, but my voice box has shut down. I can’t form words. I’ve blown it. Any second, he’s going to throw me out of here.

Instead, on my next strangled breath, a smug smile twists his lips. Like he’s mocking me. “You know what, Ms. Albright? I’m going to let you answer that question yourself. I think we’re done here.”

You’d think I would sigh with relief except when he uncrosses his legs, he draws my attention to his crotch. My eyes bug out. Holy moly! There’s a tent between his thighs that wasn’t there before. A big one! Swallowing down my shock, I flick my eyes to his face before he notices where they’ve roamed. No, he’s not gay. SO. NOT. GAY.

“You seem flush, Ms. Albright.”

I feel myself heating, my cheeks flaming. I squirm in my seat until my voice comes back to me.

“Um, uh. It’s gotten a little warm in here.” Who am I kidding? His living room felt like a sub-zero refrigerator when I first entered it, and I almost had to hug myself to keep warm. The only temperature that’s risen is my own.

“Yes, it has heated up a little,” he says wryly, another smirk curling his lips.

Not dwelling on the double entendre of his words, I stuff my sketchpad and pen into my backpack and stand up. He rises while I fumble to put the bag over my shoulders.

“Here, let me help you with that,” he says, stepping behind me. Effortlessly, he slips the straps of the bag over my shoulders. His long, graceful fingers graze my flesh as he adjusts them. At his touch, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my skin prickles.

“Thank you for your time,” I manage, my knees again growing weak.

“Would you like a tour of my atelier?” he asks. “Before you leave?”

“Another time,” I stutter. “I’m on deadline.” And my bones are liquifying.

Facing me, he nods. “Just let me know when.” His piercing blue eye burns into mine. Melting me. The sooner I get out of here the better.

“I will have Madame DuBois send over some archival photos from my collections that you can use in your article.”

“That would be great.” I’m already pivoting toward the elevator.

“I’ll see you out.”

“No, it’s okay. I can manage.”

Without another word, I scurry to the elevator, and as I push the button, I feel his one eye searing my backside.

The car can’t come fast enough. When the door slides open, I hurry inside.

Every particle of my being . . .

On fire.