Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 4

At 6:45 AM, Elodie was standing on the curb outside her crumbling apartment building, shivering violently.

She had done her best. She really had. She was wearing her "good" dress, a charcoal grey sheath she’d bought for a funeral two years ago, and a blazer that she hoped looked professional, even if it was missing the bottom button. She had even tried to tame her hair into a sleek bun, though several rebellious curls were already fighting for freedom in the wind.

A sleek black car turned the corner, gliding silently over the slush. It wasn't a cab. It was a Bentley. It looked like a shark prowling through the grey waters of Queens.

The car stopped directly in front of her. The back window rolled down.

Alistair Sterling looked out. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that the sun hadn't fully risen yet. He looked impeccable, rested, and expensive.

He lowered the sunglasses, his grey eyes sweeping over Elodie from her wind-blown hair to her scuffed boots. He didn't say hello. He didn't say good morning.

"Get in," he said. "Before you freeze to the pavement."

Elodie scrambled into the backseat. The interior smelled of leather and that crisp, fresh air scent that seemed to follow Alistair everywhere. It was blissfully warm.

"Good morning to you too," Elodie muttered, rubbing her hands together to get the circulation back.

"Drive," Alistair said to the partition. The car pulled away smoothly.

Alistair turned to her. He didn't stop looking. His gaze was critical, clinical, and entirely uncomfortably prolonged.

"What?" Elodie asked, self-consciously tugging at the hem of her blazer. "Is there spinach in my teeth? I didn't eat breakfast."

"The meeting is at the Pierre Hotel," Alistair said. "We are meeting with Commissioner Vance. He is seventy years old, extremely conservative, and holds the keys to the zoning permits for my waterfront project."

"Okay," Elodie said slowly. "I'll take notes. I have a notepad."

"Vance judges character by presentation," Alistair continued, as if she hadn't spoken. He gestured vaguely at her outfit. "You look like you are going to a court hearing for a parking violation."

Elodie bristled. "This is my best dress. And for your information, it’s vintage."

"It’s polyester," Alistair corrected. "And it’s depressing."

He tapped the intercom button again. "Change of plans, Arthur. Go to Madison Avenue first. Vallon’s."

"Yes, sir," the driver replied.

"Wait, what?" Elodie panicked. "We have a meeting in forty minutes! And Vallon’s? That place is... I can't afford a sock from there, let alone a dress."

"You aren't paying," Alistair said, returning his attention to his phone. "I am protecting my investment. I can't have my good luck charm looking like a bad luck omen."

"I am not a charm," Elodie snapped. "I am a human being."

Alistair glanced at her sideways. A ghost of a smile,or maybe just a smirk, touched his lips. "Debatable. Human beings don't usually cause stock markets to rally simply by holding hands."

Vallon’s was closed. The windows were dark, the 'CLOSED' sign prominent on the gilded glass doors.

Arthur pulled the Bentley up to the curb. Alistair got out, buttoning his cashmere coat. Elodie followed, feeling like an imposter.

Alistair walked up to the glass doors and simply knocked once.

Immediately, the lights inside flickered on. A woman in a sharp black suit hurried to unlock the door.

"Mr. Sterling!" she exclaimed, looking flustered but delighted. "We weren't expecting you so early. I was just coming in to do inventory, I don't know what made me unlock the main door..."

Alistair didn't explain. He just stepped inside, pulling Elodie with him by the elbow.

"I need her dressed," Alistair said. "Breakfast meeting. Elegant but understated. She needs to look like she belongs at a table where decisions are made."

The woman, Madame Vallon, presumably, turned her gaze on Elodie. She looked her up and down with the same clinical eye as Alistair.

"Good bone structure," she murmured. "Petite. We need to lengthen the silhouette. No black. It washes her out."

"Blue," Alistair said suddenly.

Elodie looked at him. He was wandering toward a rack of silk scarves, looking bored.

"Ice blue," he clarified, glancing back at her. "To match the season."

Madame Vallon clapped her hands. "Perfect. Come with me, chérie."

Elodie was whisked away into a dressing room that was larger than her entire apartment. For the next twenty minutes, she was poked, prodded, and draped in fabrics that felt like water against her skin.

Finally, Madame Vallon handed her a garment bag. "This one. It just arrived yesterday. It hasn't even been cataloged yet. It’s fate."

Elodie stepped into the dress.

It was a soft, pale blue wool crepe dress with long sleeves and a high neck, modest but fitted in a way that hugged every curve she had. It ended just below the knee. It was simple, architectural, and devastatingly chic.

She turned to the mirror. She barely recognized herself. The girl in the mirror didn't look like a walking disaster. She looked... capable. She looked beautiful.

There was just one problem.

"Um, Madame?" Elodie called out. "I can't reach the zipper. It’s stuck."

There was no answer. Madame Vallon had bustled off to find shoes.

"Hello?"

The curtain swept open. But it wasn't Madame Vallon.

Alistair stood there. He had removed his sunglasses. He froze, his hand still gripping the velvet curtain.

Elodie gasped, clutching the front of the dress to her chest. Her back was to him, the dress gaping open from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, revealing the creamy skin of her spine and the strap of her beige bra.

"I... I called for help," she stammered, her face heating up.

Alistair didn't back out. He didn't apologize. He stepped inside the small dressing room and let the curtain fall shut behind him.

The space suddenly felt microscopic. The air was thick with his scent and the sudden, spiking tension.

"Turn around," he said. His voice was rougher than usual.

Elodie turned slowly, keeping her back to him. She trembled.

"It’s stuck," she whispered.

"It’s not stuck," Alistair murmured, moving closer. She could feel the heat radiating off his body. He was inches away. "You’re just tense."

His fingers brushed her bare skin.

Elodie stopped breathing. The contact was electric. The rose gold bracelet, which she had transferred to her right wrist, flared hot instantly.

Alistair’s fingers lingered on her spine. He wasn't zipping the dress yet. He was tracing the line of her vertebrae, a slow, deliberate touch that made her knees buckle.

"You have a freckle," he noted softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs on the back of her neck. "Right here."

He pressed his thumb against the spot between her shoulder blades.

A wave of warmth flooded Elodie’s body, half magic, half pure arousal.

"Alistair," she breathed. It was the first time she had used his first name.

The sound seemed to snap him out of his trance. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet room. With a quick, decisive motion, he pulled the zipper up. The teeth interlocked smoothly, sealing her into the dress.

He stepped back, his hands retreating to his pockets.

"Turn around," he commanded again.

Elodie turned.

Alistair looked her over. His eyes were dark, dilated. He looked from her eyes to her lips, and then down the length of the dress.

"Well?" she asked, her voice shaky. "Is it acceptable?"

Alistair looked like he wanted to say something else. He looked like he wanted to rip the dress right back off her. But he blinked, and the iron mask slammed back down.

"It will do," he said curtly. "Let’s go. We’re late."

The Pierre Hotel restaurant was a sea of white tablecloths and hushed conversations.

When Alistair walked in, heads turned. When Elodie walked in beside him, wearing the ice-blue dress and a pair of cream heels Madame Vallon had produced, the heads stayed turned.

Commissioner Vance was waiting at a corner table. He was a bulldog of a man with a white mustache and a frown etched into his face.

"Sterling," Vance grunted, not standing up. "You're cutting it close."

"Traffic," Alistair said smoothly, sliding into the seat. He gestured to Elodie. "May I introduce my... associate, Miss Rose."

Elodie smiled, extending her hand. "A pleasure, Commissioner."

Vance looked at her hand, then at Alistair. His frown deepened. "Associate? Is that what we're calling them these days?"

Alistair stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"I heard about the fiasco at your lobby last night," Vance said, picking up his tea. "Water damage. Chaos. And now you show up with a pretty young woman who looks like she walked off a runway." He huffed. "I value stability, Sterling. Family values. Your playboy reputation is a liability to this city."

Elodie saw Alistair’s jaw tighten. He was about to snap. If he snapped, the deal was dead.

Elodie acted on instinct.

She laughed. A soft, warm, charming laugh. She reached out and placed her hand over Alistair’s clenched fist on the table.

"Oh, Commissioner," she said, her voice dripping with affection. "You have it all wrong. Alistair isn't a playboy. He’s actually quite a romantic."

Alistair’s head snapped toward her. Vance looked skeptical. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," Elodie lied, interlacing her fingers with Alistair’s. She squeezed his hand. Please work, she prayed to the bracelet. Please work.

"He’s just shy about it," she continued, gazing adoringly at Alistair’s shocked face. "He spent all morning helping me find a dress because I spilled coffee on mine. He didn't want me to feel embarrassed." She rubbed her thumb over Alistair’s knuckles. "He takes very good care of the people he... cares about."

The bracelet hummed.

Vance watched them. He looked at their joined hands. He looked at the way Alistair, realizing the game, softened his expression and turned his hand to hold hers back.

A shift happened in the air. The tension broke.

Vance’s mustache twitched. "Well," he grumbled, but his eyes were kinder. "A man who looks after his woman is a man I can respect."

He opened the folder on the table. "This zoning permit. I’ve had some reservations about the height of the new tower..."

"I think you'll find the new blueprints address those concerns," Alistair said, his voice smooth and confident. He didn't let go of Elodie’s hand. In fact, he pulled it onto his lap, hidden under the tablecloth, and rested his palm possessively on her thigh.

Elodie’s breath hitched.

"Let’s take a look," Vance said, pulling a pen from his pocket. "You know, my wife loves that color blue. Reminds me of when we met..."

Ten minutes later, the permits were signed.

"You lied," Alistair said as they walked back to the car. The wind was whipping around them, but Elodie felt flushed.

"I improvised," she corrected. "And it worked. You got your permits."

Alistair stopped on the sidewalk. He turned to face her. "He thinks we are together. Romantically."

"So?" Elodie shrugged. "We’ll never see him again."

"On the contrary," Alistair said, his expression grim. "He just invited us to his annual Christmas Eve Charity Ball. Tomorrow night."

Elodie’s eyes widened. "And?"

"And," Alistair stepped closer, shielding her from the wind with his body. "He expects to see the 'happy couple'. If we don't show up, or if he suspects it was a ruse, he can revoke the permits before Monday."

He looked down at her, his gaze intense.

"Miss Rose, it appears your job description has just expanded."

"To what?" she whispered.

"You aren't just my assistant anymore," Alistair said. "For the next twenty-four hours, you are my girlfriend."