Free Butterfly by Rochelle Alers

holding an umbrella when Seneca walked out of the brownstone. He extended his free arm, and she looped her arm over his suit jacket as he led her down the stairs to the black Mercedes Benz parked at the curb.
    The rain that had started earlier that morning was tapering off to a light drizzle. In deference to the weather, she’d changed outfits several times until deciding on a black pencil skirt, black patent leather pumps and a red blouse with a mandarin collar piped in black. Upon closer inspection one could see tiny embroidered butterflies on the silk fabric. The black obi sash accentuating her tiny waist pulled her winning look together. She’d taken the time to flatiron her hair, styling it into a bohemian knot. Her only jewelry was a pair of pearl studs. With the warmer weather she tended to go bare-legged, but today she wore a pair of sheer black nylons.
    Smiling, Seneca thanked the black-suited chauffeur as he opened the rear door; she sat on the leather seat, then swungher legs around. Having a driver at her disposal was a far cry from trying to flag down a taxi in the rain. She’d discovered that taxis mysteriously became as scarce as hen’s teeth whenever it rained in New York.
    Earlier that morning, she’d had a lengthy conversation with Luis, giving him an update on Booth’s dinner party, her becoming godmother to her nephew and the scheduled lunch date with Booth at La Grenouille. What she hadn’t told Luis was that she’d gone with Phillip Kingston to his hotel suite.
    She could hear the excitement in Luis’s voice when he told her she was about to make it big. Then his tone changed when Seneca promised him that they were to be a package deal. He’d told her not to worry about him, but that was something she couldn’t do. If it hadn’t been for Luis she never would’ve given modeling a passing thought. Now she was on the threshold of signing with one of the premier agents, who’d promised to make her a supermodel.
    Relaxing against the supple black leather seat, she detected the lingering scent of Booth’s cologne. He’d sent his car and driver to pick her up. Why, she mused, did she feel like a lamb being led to slaughter? Shaking off the uneasy feeling, she stared out the window at the passing landscape as the driver took the Seventy-ninth Street transverse road through Central Park to the east side. The uneasiness fled, and Seneca was in complete control when she was escorted through the doors of the exquisite dining establishment and ushered to Mr. Gordon’s favorite table.
    Her vermilion-colored lips parted in a warm smile when he rose, hands extended, to greet her. His hands were cool, soft. “The restaurant is lovely,” she whispered against his smooth-shaven jaw. La Grenouille was a garden where food just happened to be served.
    Booth stared numbly at Seneca before a smile parted his thinlips. He still found it hard to believe that she was even more beautiful in person than in her photographs. She was like a rare D-colored diamond. Seneca Houston was flawless.
    “You are lovely, Seneca,” he said, pulling out a chair at the table and seating her while he lingered over her head longer than necessary. She lowered her chin, the demure gesture enchanting. He stared at the coil of hair on the nape of her long, slender neck. How he longed to place his mouth against the velvety skin to see if she tasted as good as she looked.
    “Thank you, Mr. Gordon.”
    A scowl replaced his smile as he retook his seat. “Please call me Booth.”
    Seneca peered at Booth through her lashes. His navy-blue suit with a faint pinstripe must have set the agent back several thousand dollars and there was no doubt his shirt and silk tie hadn’t come off a department-store rack or shelf. His fingernails were square-cut and buffed. Booth Gordon was the epitome of sartorial splendor. The exception was his hair. It was too long and much too oily.
    “But you’re old enough to be my father,” she said in a quiet