Chapter Twenty-two

“Downward-facing dog is a perfect pose to help with overall energy,” Benita said as she gently lifted Pia’s hips toward the ceiling. “I do not, however, recommend this once you’re in the third trimester.”

On all fours in the middle of her office, Pia tried to calm herself by breathing deeply and silently pushing away her anxieties. Switching into child’s pose, she sat on her legs and with torso and arms stretched over her head, rested her body and tried to figure out how she’d gotten into the uncomfortable position of being the company mouthpiece for issues important to Valen Bellamy.

Harmon Goldstone’s request—rather, demand—prior to Benita’s arrival was really putting a strain on her so far successful attempt to ignore Valen Bellamy’s advances. Until now, things had gone fairly smoothly. In her two meetings with the candidate, she’d represented herself and the company well, so well that following their breakfast in Greenacre Park a spray of every purple flower in Mother Nature’s garden arrived. A secretly thrilled Pia, touched by his thoughtfulness, did not want to encourage his attention. It killed her to send an official note thanking him and requesting that he cease sending gifts. And after two weeks of her refusing to answer any of his calls or e-mails, Valen finally got the message and ended his campaign for her attention while escalading his bid for the U.S. Senate.

Just because she refused to see him didn’t mean that Pia had not been actively following Valen’s stumping. In the latest poll, just five months away from the midterm election, he was still trailing behind the popular Democratic incumbent by twelve percentage points, but he was making steady progress. His campaign speeches extolling the benefits of four of the five pillars of the Bellamy Plan, which called for fiscal responsibility, energy independence, and education and health reforms, were gaining impact throughout the state. Pia had been waiting to hear the announcement regarding his family values tenet, but no public unveiling had been forthcoming. She now knew why.

After nearly a month of hearing nothing further on the issue, Harmon Goldstone was back to unwittingly pushing the two of them together. And this time he’d upped the pressure significantly.

Reston T. Walker, a staunch Republican and New York media mogul, was keenly interested in not only the purchase of SunFire but also the success of his party’s candidate. Now, in a move instigated by Walker’s office, the SunFire PR department had decided to coordinate an event, a VIP fundraiser hosted by Pia, at which Valen Bellamy would announce his “Respect Yourself, Be Respected” campaign. The only hiccup in the plan was Valen’s refusal to participate. Harmon’s phone call this morning had been a direct order for Pia to persuade him to appear.

Now, after totally blowing off Valen Bellamy—both his thoughtfulness and his politics—Pia felt as if she were dangling from the high wire by her big toe, and she was hoping like hell that the man would at least agree to see her.

“Keep breathing,” Benita said as Pia struggled to maintain her form. “Okay, let’s get into your relaxation position,” she then instructed. Pia lay on her left side and tried to clear her mind and simply relax into the moment. God knew she was going to need this calm to take her through the rest of the day.

Twenty minutes later, Benita was off to her next client and Pia was back at her desk, going over budgets for the Pharrell shoot. As usual, the phone was ringing nonstop, and each time it rang Pia tensed, reminded that she really needed to place the call.

She pulled from her desk the card with Valen’s private cell number. She stalled another few minutes, keeping herself busy by turning the card over and over again in her hand. The buzz of the intercom interrupted her mental preparation.

“Yes?”

“Chica, just call the dude,” Dee’s voice insisted.

“What are you doing? Watching me through the walls?”

“Yeah, so watch what you’re doing under your desk,” Dee ribbed.

“Nasty freak,” Pia responded, laughing.

“Celibate chicken. Just call him.”

“I will, and for the record I can’t be so celibate. I’m thirteen weeks pregnant and my name is not Mary.”

“And how do I know this for sure? You’re not showing. For all I know you cooked up this story to make me believe you finally had sex.”

“You’re nuts. Stop bothering me with your insanity. Don’t you have work to do?”

Pia turned off the intercom and before she could talk herself out of it dialed Valen’s phone number. It rang twice before she hung up. She got up and crossed the room to the water dispenser and filled her glass before the buzz of the intercom called Pia back to her desk.

“Yes, Darlene.”

“Valen Bellamy is on line one.”

“But how? The phone didn’t ring.”

“I know.”

“Why did you call him?”

“Because you were being such a weenie about it, and if this doesn’t happen then Harmon is going to fire you, and if you get fired I lose my job and then Hector won’t get the car I’ve decided to buy him as a welcome home gift. So, I repeat: Valen Bellamy is on line one.”

“Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“I can’t do that. You called him. Now, for once in your sorry, no-dating life, pick up the phone and talk to him. If you don’t, I’ll tell him you can’t come to the phone because you’re having a hysterical pregnancy.”

“You are so fired,” Pia said, shutting off the intercom and taking a deep breath. She counted to three and picked up the extension. “Hello, Valen.”

“I was beginning to think that you’d called and put me on hold just to reiterate that you weren’t speaking to me,” he said. Pia’s brain went into overdrive trying to decipher his tone. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed or disinterested, but either one could be a death knell to the mission at hand.

“Sorry about the wait. I had to deal with someone in my office. How are you?”

“Confused,” Valen said, not giving an inch.

“And you have every right to be. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Really?” he said, his voice thawing ever so slightly.

“Yes. You were so thoughtful about sharing your favorite spot in New York with me. I thought I should at least reciprocate.”

“I’m listening,” Valen said.

“Will you meet me tomorrow night?”

“What’s tomorrow? May twentieth? Sorry, I’m in Buffalo.”

“Thursday? Any time is good for me.”

“I’m on campaign stops in Westchester County all day, and then back in Manhattan for a black-tie fundraiser at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My schedule is out of control for the next two weeks—make that five months.”

Pia hadn’t fully recognized his scheduling constraints, and time was running out. If she didn’t get him nailed down quickly, the date would be gone and so might she.

“What time is your event at the Met over?”

“Probably around eleven.”

“How about you meet me afterward?”

Pia’s suggestion was met with a sigh and an elephant-size pregnant pause. A thousand reasons that he might turn her down ran through her head. She was trying to decide between spite and another woman when his voice, turning from professional politician to scorned suitor, assaulted her ear.

“You know, Pia, the truth of the matter is that I’m no longer interested. I appreciate all of your help, and I wish you the very best. Take care.” And with that he was gone.

“Damn” was all she could say as she hung up the phone. She was embarrassed by his rejection but at the same time more determined than ever. Yes, her job may be on the line, but now so was her pride. As far as she was concerned, Valen Bellamy had just issued a challenge, and immediately Pia decided on her strategy. He might be pissed and his ego bruised, but he liked her and she would make full use of her tactical advantage. Pia intended to pull out and dust off every last one of her feminine wiles and use them to bring Valen to his knees.

Okay, Pia Jamison, weapon of mass seduction, it’s time to get your flirt on. And Mr. Bellamy, find your white handkerchief and hunker down, ’cause brotha, it’s on!

She swung her chair around to her computer and went online. Within minutes, she’d found the perfect image.

“Dee, come here,” she requested.

“What’s wrong?” Dee asked, scurrying into Pia’s office.

“Nothing’s wrong. I need you to take this to the art department and tell them I need an eight-by-ten by five o’clock,” Pia said, handing her the computer printout.

“This is beautiful. What’s this all about?”

“We’ve just declared war on Valen Bellamy.”

“You two just get more interesting by the minute. Oh, Becca Vossel is on the phone. She says it’s personal,” Dee informed her.

“I was just talking about her last week. Ask her to hold a minute.” Pia wanted the time to decide whether to reveal her big news.

Why not? she decided.

“Hi, Becca, sorry about the wait. I was in the middle of something.”

“Do you want me to call back?”

“No, girl, this is actually a perfect time to chat. I don’t have to be at a lunch meeting for another half an hour. How are you doing?”

“I’m good. How about you?” Becca asked.

“I’m pregnant. Due in November and really happy.”

“Whoa. I guess that workshop worked for you after all.”

“It did. How’s it working for you?” Pia asked, ready to move the conversation forward.

“Okay, I guess. I just need a little advice. I met this bartender, Nico Jones,” Becca said, telling Pia the story of their meeting while leaving out most of the sordid details. She knew Pia wouldn’t approve of the silk panties drink or the ring trick, thinking they were seedy manipulations designed to lead Nico down a road that Becca may not be ready to walk. But they got her noticed and brought home one very pertinent point that Pia refused to consider: Guys her age—guys like Nico—weren’t sophisticated gentlemen looking for sophisticated ladies. They wanted hot women who loved to party. “He’s amazing and I thought he liked me. I gave him my number, but he hasn’t called me and he said he would but it’s been three weeks and I haven’t heard a word. I don’t know if I should call him or not. So what did I do wrong?”

“Well, sorry to say it, but if a guy hasn’t called you three weeks later, he’s not going to. You have to chalk that up to one of those heat-of-the-moment things.”

“That’s what Cris said. He started quoting that stupid book, He’s Just Not That into You.”

“How can he be? You two just met. He barely knows you.”

“But he seemed to really like me—you know, all the eye contact and smiling back,” Becca insisted, refusing to follow Pia’s logic. “And Pia, he’s amazing.”

“You keep saying that, but you never say what exactly is so amazing about him. I mean, how much time have you spent with him? Alone?”

“Not much. But I love the way I feel when I’m around him. When he looks and talks to me, he makes me feel like I’m the only girl there.”

“He’s a bartender. It’s his job to flirt with the girls and buddy up with the guys. You said he wanted to hook up and he took your number but still hasn’t called. It sounds like Nico was just trying to get into your panties.”

Pia’s words made something inside Becca snap. “And what if he is? And what if I just want to get into his?”

“If that was the case, why didn’t you just stay and wait for him?”

“Because I didn’t want to then. But what if I did? What’s so bad about liking sex? And about wanting it even if you aren’t in love? You sound like my mother: ‘Only bad girls have sex outside of marriage, and the worst of them like it,’” Becca mocked. “Well, I don’t want or need that kind of advice. I’ve had enough of that lecture to last a lifetime.”

Becca’s angry response put the brakes on Pia’s preprogrammed speech on sex and morality. How many times in her two decades of having sex was irresistible lust the reason she’d dropped her drawers and her inhibitions? How old was she before she began supplementing her romance novels with erotic literature in a quest to balance out her good girl values with her bad girl desire? And how many years had it taken—celibate or otherwise—to realize that being a bit of a naughty girl could be a very nice thing?

Becca was right. She didn’t need more lectures on how to preserve her saintly self; but rather, she needed to hear how to grow and maintain her sexual self in a healthy, responsible manner. The last thing the world needed was one more mixed-up woman whose sexual curiosity had been muted and turned into guilty timidity or, worse yet, raging promiscuity.

“Becca, you are so absolutely right. Girl, it’s taken me twenty years to know what you’re already beginning to figure out. You’ve got to live your own truth—not your parents’, not your preacher’s, and not some conservative political movement’s. Ultimately, it’s your life, and at the end of it you want your choices to be the ones that you lived to love or regret.

“So, here’s my advice to you. On top of everything that you learned from the WMS workshop, here are two more things that you may find valuable: One, always trust your gut. If it doesn’t feel right at decision time, it probably never will, so when in doubt…pass. And two, it’s better to regret something you did than something you didn’t do. If you remember the first, the second will usually work out.”

“But what about calling Nico?”

“I still say no. Not a good strategic move. Go back to the bar and get him to notice you again. Keep some mystery about you. Men like a chase as long as they feel encouraged.”

“Thanks, Pia.”

“If Nico is what you want, go for it. Just always respect yourself and be clear about what you’re getting into. Don’t have too many expectations. And above all, Becca, safe is sexy. Be smart. These days lust can do more than change a girl,” Pia said. “It can kill you.”