See You In My Dreams Page 2

  The lawyer shook his head and gave a wry laugh. “Only you would consider hiring a street kid for your agency.” Then shrugging, Ned admitted, “Cleaned up, she'd be pretty enough, but I still think you've lost it."

  Jolie's response was more to the point. “I cannot believe you made such a scene, running after a prostitute."

  Taking a deep breath and counting to ten, he turned and faced Jolie. “I don't believe she's a prostitute. She has an air of innocence about her."

  “You are a romantic fool, always seeing things in people that aren't there,” Jolie said with a sniff, smoothing the lush fur of her mink.

  Ah, there you have it, he mused, wondering exactly what he'd seen in Jolie. True, his booking agent was beautiful, sensual and, most of all, persistent, but she lacked the intriguing combination of natural beauty and innocence he'd witnessed moments earlier. “She has quite a unique presence, in spite of her dirty face and clothes. She has great potential, and I'm never wrong. She and the agency will prosper together."

  “I never knew you slept with your models,” Jolie hissed. “Making an exception in her case?"

  Outraged, Max protested, “Don't be ridiculous.” Jolie had gone too far. “She's too young. She'll need to be guided and groomed carefully."

  “Max, you're already in over your head,” Ned's wife, Laura, interjected. “However, given the right circumstances, I agree with you ... about her potential anyway."

  Max sketched a bow to Laura. She had been one of his agency's top models until her marriage to his best friend. “Merci, for your vote of confidence, madame."

  Thankfully, further discussion was halted by the arrival of a taxi. Before stepping into the cab, Max looked around for another glimpse of the bedraggled beauty who, only minutes before, had caused him to brace a pimp in her defense, then chase her down the avenue like a demented Sir Lancelot. Disappointed, he saw no sign of her.

  Still, she might meet him at the diner. He hoped she would—before something bad happened to her, as it most assuredly would if she stayed on the streets.

  Max ushered Jolie into the cab. Sliding in beside her, he realized he had no feelings whatsoever for his booking agent and wondered if he'd ever had any.

  “Max?” Her whining tone grated on his ear.

  “Yes?"

  “Do you really mean to attempt to turn that homeless person into a model?"

  “Yes."

  “Well, I suppose I was a little rash,” she began, patently trying to appease him. “I mean, the agency could probably provide her with something in the way of a living. Maybe some catalog work?"

  “Never mind. Time will tell,” he said, brushing her off. He was determined ... and he was the boss. All he wanted to do was call Maman and tell her about his plans. He would need his mother's approval. More than her approval, he needed her cooperation if they were to transform his street waif into a supermodel.

  ~ * ~

  The next morning Nikki reached into her pocket and made sure the hundred-dollar bill was still there. That little piece of green was a warm reminder that someone gave a damn—enough to see she wouldn't go hungry or freeze to death. She'd never had so much cash ... ever. Instead of paying for a room for the night, she had pulled her jacket tighter around her body and headed for the safest place she knew, St. Anne's Shelter. It turned out that The Professor had lied. The shelter had room after all.

  Par for the course, the Director, Sylvia, had encouraged her to call her mother and go home, but Nikki wasn't having any of it. That was the main problem with shelters. The do-gooders always tried to tell her what to do—like go home—and that was the last thing she'd ever do. So earlier that afternoon, after much discussion about her dinner plans, the Director let Nikki take a long, hot shower.

  Afterwards she dressed, then ran a comb through her damp hair. It felt good to be squeaky clean for a change. Sylvia had even given her a pale blue sweater to wear. True, it had a couple of small holes, but they weren't visible, as long as she wore her treasured, black leather jacket.

  Nikki dug in her jeans pocket and pulled out the business card. Well, Maxim Devereaux, I hope your job offer isn't your idea of a sick joke. Yet she remained leery of his true motives. Suspicious? Definitely. But being suspicious had kept her alive, ‘til now. More likely, he wanted something else. Why would a swell guy like him just up and offer to help someone right off the street? Crap. He probably wouldn't even show up, but at least, she was a hundred bucks ahead ... and she could make that last a long time.

  ~ * ~

  At seven, Nikki pushed open the fingerprint-smudged glass door of Sally's Diner. She stepped onto the chipped black and white tiles and took in the evening crowd. At least twenty customers were hunched over their plates, hoovering their dinners. Sally's food was supposed to be pretty good, and she could personally vouch for the quality of their scraps. She glanced around and saw faded pink walls highlighted with touches of graffiti. At least the steel tables and countertops looked clean. Booths, covered in cracked maroon vinyl, ran along the side wall and in front of the window.

  Man, what a dump, she thought. I really fit in.

  Then she saw him.

  The man named Maxim stood up and signaled for her to join him. He wore a black suit, with a black overcoat that almost reached his knees. Taking her time, she walked to the rear booth, checking him out as she did. His face was angular and thin, and he didn't look as if he were a happy man. But he had a hint of a dimple in his strong chin, as if someone had taken a fingertip and lightly touched warm wax.

  As she moved closer, she saw crystal green eyes glowing under thick, dark eyebrows. His chestnut hair was brushed behind his ears, but a curling strand had escaped and lightly skimmed his right temple. His hair made him look romantic, like a knight from some fairy tale. Of course, she was a little too old for make-believe, and there was that witch who could still foul things up. Maybe she'd mixed up her fairy tales with The Wizard of Oz, but it didn't matter.

  She drank in the sight of her hero as if he were her last drop of water on a hot day. While she walked toward the booth he'd claimed, she felt some curious glances from Sally's patrons. Maybe they wondered what she was doing in the diner and if she had the money to pay for her meal. More likely, they were curious about why the hunk in the back booth was wasting his time with her. So what? She wondered the same damn thing, too.

  “Mademoiselle, I'm Maxim Devereaux. We weren't properly introduced last evening,” he said in the silky, accented voice she remembered from the night before.

  She stared for a moment, unsure how to respond. “Nikki,” she said tersely. Then, deciding she sounded rude, added, “...short for Nicole.” She extended her hand, the unaccustomed gesture awkward. Jeez. What if he didn't want to touch her?

  He took her hand and held it in his strong one, his solemn expression never changing. “I'm sorry we didn't have the opportunity for introductions. Shall we sit down?” He gestured to the open booth. “I would like to discuss representing you."

  Representing her? What did he mean by that? Nikki jerked her hand from his. “I don't do that kind of thing.” She decided she'd sit down and listen to whatever line he was getting ready to lay on her. Like her Mama always said: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

  “No,” he protested, shaking his head. “I mean no disrespect. My business is a legitimate one. I gave you my card last night.” He pulled the card case from his pocket and removed another card, which read DEVEREAUX AGENCY, Maxim Devereaux, CEO.

  Running her fingers over the card, she felt the thick, textured stock on which it had been printed. The engraved lettering felt rich even to her, as uneducated as she was in the finer points of such things.

  The streetwise Nikki blustered, “I know where I can get a thousand of those printed for twenty bucks. Your fancy card doesn't mean squat to me."

  The first hint of a smile came to Devereaux's face. “Of course, but will you stay and dine with me so that we may talk about your future? Su
rely you understand your life here on the streets is dangerous and limited, and I can offer you something better."

  “Yeah, right. And all dogs go to heaven; it never rains in Southern California, and the check is in the mail."

  “Nikki. May I call you Nikki?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  “Sure, call me anything you like, just don't call me late for dinner.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Nikki wanted to crawl under the table. She had this awful tendency to crack jokes whenever she was nervous. Of course, on the streets that nervous habit had saved her butt a time or two.

  However, she managed to look him in the eye. His mouth had quirked up on one side, as if maybe, just maybe, he understood how uneasy she felt, right here, right now, with him.

  “Nikki, please take me seriously. Models are my business, and I think you will earn a great deal of money for yourself and for my agency as well. But since you are so reluctant to discuss business, shall we have dinner first?"

  She gave him a half-hearted smile and nodded. At least, she wouldn't have to do without dinner. In spite of her major misgivings, she found herself relaxing in his company. He seemed sincere in his desire to help her. Besides, they were in a public place. She could always leave if he got out of hand. She picked up a grease-spotted menu.

  “You should have something substantial,” Max suggested. “Choose whatever you like."

  Nikki had often fantasized about her all-time favorite meal. She hadn't had anything like it since leaving home. Mama'd been a good cook, no quarrel about that. She eyed the menu; she was in luck. “Roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans and rolls,” she replied quickly, before he could change his mind. She licked her lips, thinking of an entire meal and all she could eat. Then he smiled at her again. Damn, she wished he'd stop. It made her nervous—like maybe she was going to be his all-time favorite meal.

  A short, heavy-set waitress in a wrinkled, pink uniform took their order, but Max ordered just like they were in a big fancy restaurant. At least, that was the way it seemed—so polite and genteel—even the waitress was giggling and batting her eyelashes at him by the time she left to give their order to the cook. Suddenly aware that she and Max were alone, Nikki chewed her lip, while her heart turned cartwheels in her chest.

  “You are a lovely young woman,” he said, watching her with piercing green eyes.

  Nikki shifted uncomfortably under his gaze and shrugged. “I guess I'm all right."

  Max smiled at her again and said in an incredulous tone, “You're more than all right. Has no one ever told you before? I can't believe it."

  “Just men trying to get me to screw ‘em. I'm still wondering if you're any different."

  Max blinked at her frankness. “You haven't decided yet?” he asked gently.

  “No.” If telling the truth lost her the dinner—tough. She wasn't going to lie. And just because he turned her insides to jelly, she wasn't about to let down her guard either.

  “But I am too old for you, Nikki. Besides I don't make it a habit to get involved with my models."

  She eyed him cynically. “So? My age doesn't mean much to the men down here."

  Her companion's face hardened for an instant, then turned sad. “No,” he agreed, “I don't suppose it does."

  “How old are you?” Nikki asked, drumming her fingers on the plastic tablecloth, continuing to study him closely. “I mean, you don't look all that old to me.” She studied him a moment longer, then added, “I'd say you're maybe thirty-five."

  Max's eyes widened at her response. “I'm twenty-eight, but I've had a difficult life. I guess it shows.” He shrugged, a wry expression crossing his face.

  “You don't look it.” Nikki snorted, then grinned. “Gotcha."

  A smile flashed across Max's face. “And you? How old are you? Must I guess?"

  “I turned sixteen in August,” she said, tilting her chin proudly.

  “So young,” he murmured, frowning. “How long have you been on the streets?"

  Her answer was interrupted by the waitress serving their dinners. Once the waitress had left, Max asked again, “How long?"

  She paused long enough to swallow her first bite of roast beef and replied, “Three months.” Too hungry to care about manners, she attacked her plate of food. Sister Mary Luke from school would've been right chuffed to see the way her worst pupil was stuffing it down.

  Once her hollow belly felt less empty, she stopped and took a deep breath, then took the time to watch Max while he ate. After a bit, she attempted to copy his precise, polite style of dining. He chewed with his mouth shut and didn't try to eat it all at once. No elbows on the table, either. She remembered having better manners, but they were a bit rusty. In her world, elbows were good for knocking someone out of the way from the best garbage cans.

  Maxim intrigued her, but she tried to hide it. While she ate, she remained undecided about his true motives. She supposed he would show his true colors soon enough. In the meantime, he seemed a little on the quiet side—maybe he was shy. He'd appeared confident enough on the street when he'd gone after The Professor, but now he was sort of ... well, different. His hands looked strong, but manicured. He probably had other people to do his dirty work or whatever passed for dirty work in the modeling biz. His mouth looked gentle and kind, but she'd been on the streets too long to be taken in by looks alone.

  “You will need a place to stay,” he announced suddenly, pausing in the act of buttering a piece of roll, “until you are old enough to support yourself and live alone."

  “Oh, yeah? And just where did you have in mind?” A pang of regret sickened her. She'd been right all along—another lech, just like all the others.

  “No, you don't understand.” Max reached across the table and touched her hand. Nikki felt a decided tingle slither up her spine and down again.

  “I want you to live with my mother, Renée, for the time being. I have already told her about you, and she is willing to accept you as her protégée."

  “You want me to live with your mother?” Was he nuts?

  Max nodded. “Oui, I mean, yes. My maman—my mother—was a mannequin in Paris, before she founded the agency, but she is retired now."

  “A mannequin, like in a store window?” Nikki asked, puzzled.

  A quick smile crossed Max's face. “No. In French, mannequin means model. Forgive me, I still sometimes use the language of my birth. Sorry, my English is not perfect."

  “Well, it's a lot better than mine,” Nikki replied quickly, feeling shy. She didn't want the grand man seated across from her to think she was criticizing him.

  “Thank you. I have been in New York only since the fall of last year, and the language is a challenge."

  She hesitated, then asked, “Why did you come to New York? Like, Paris is supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world."

  “It is true. Paris is my home.” Max glanced down at his plate for a moment. “But Paris holds too many memories for me—unhappy ones—you understand?"

  She rushed to apologize. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stick my nose into something private."

  “It's all right. My wife died two years ago ... a traffic accident in Paris.” Nikki's dinner companion's eyes darkened, and he appeared to retreat in time. “After my wife died, my mother retired, and I took over the agency. I often think she retired to keep me from dwelling on my loss.” He gave Nikki another of his sad smiles. “Since then, she has devoted herself to caring for my daughter, Alexa."

  “You have a kid? Wow.” Nikki tried to picture this stylish man as a father. In spite of her earlier teasing, he really didn't seem that much older than she was. Jeez. Her knight in shining armor was a daddy too. Her fairy tale was getting more screwed up, the more she thought about it.

  “Yes, Solange and I married when we were young, but our families had known each other for years. She was very beautiful—tall and blonde, a little like you,” he added, glancing down at his plate again.

>   “Was she a model?” Nikki asked. Tall and blonde like me? Uh-oh. Now he's getting weird. She continued studying him while he talked. Don't let him be some kind of pervert, she prayed.

  “No, our daughter was born and was only two when my wife died. Alexa doesn't remember her mother, at all—only the photographs."

  Tears welled in Nikki's eyes as she thought of the young husband and small child. “That must've been awful."

  Max nodded his head. “There were many nights my daughter cried for her maman. She was too young to understand.” He paused and lay his eating utensils across his plate, his dinner half-eaten.

  To Nikki, it seemed he needed someone to talk to more than he needed a meal ... or a new model.

  “A year after my wife died, I moved to New York,” he continued. “It has proved to be good for the business, but there is still an office in Paris. Things are, as you say here in the US, ‘looking up.’”

  She giggled at his use of American slang. “Yeah, cool."

  Max shifted the focus of the conversation to her. He began questioning her background. “Why are you on the streets, Nikki? You are so young. Why did you run away from home?"

  “No big deal,” she responded, not wanting to go into the details. Instead she toyed with the small amount of food that remained on her plate.

  “You can tell me,” he pressed, his voice encouraging confidence, as he offered her a crooked smile. “I'm not easily shocked."

  Sighing, she gazed into his eyes. She debated for several moments, then the truth spilled out in a rush. “I didn't like school, so I ditched it. When my mama found out, she told me to get a job or get out, but nobody would hire me ‘cause I was still fifteen. So, I got out."

  “That's terrible. Are you sure your maman wasn't using reverse psychology to encourage you to return to school? She must be very worried."

  Nikki retorted with a bitter laugh. “Well, I haven't seen my face on any milk cartons, if you know what I mean.” Noticing the puzzled look on his face, she hastily explained. “They put pictures of missing kids on milk cartons, signs on buses, stuff like that."