Читать книгу: «Playing Her Cards Right», страница 3

Bree opened her clutch, not wanting him to see her kit, or, heaven forbid, his trading card. She snatched her phone and saw she had a message from Rebecca.

U there yet?

Bree grinned.

!!!!!!!

Knew U 2 wld be gr8

We’ll talk tomrw I u for this!

You’re welcome. Knock m dead!

Charlie tried to sneak a peek, and she helped him by turning her screen.

He pulled his own phone out of his jacket pocket. Of course it was something amazing looking. Might have been a BlackBerry, she thought, latest gen at the very least, if not some exotic model not available to the public. Unlike her second-hand first-gen iPhone.

He was amazingly fast with his thumbs. Dexterous. But his texting couldn’t hold a candle to how expressive his face was. He grinned in a whole different way than he had a moment ago. None of that sweet, reflective rumination. Now he was the very picture of high amusement, his head tilted to the side, his eyebrows raised in either surprise or delight, possibly both. Or maybe something completely different, but this was the night for believing the best, right?

Before she put her phone back, she turned it so she had his face framed for a quick photo. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going home with some physical mementoes from tonight, and no, blisters from her incredibly high heels didn’t count.

As she reached to put her cell in her bag, it hit her. Why she was here. Why Rebecca had given her Charlie’s card. What the whole deal was.

A favor.

First night out with Rebecca, Bree had spilled her five-year plan all over the conversation. Her dreams, the steps, the obsession. Rebecca hadn’t told her she was related to Charlie. Hadn’t seemed to be aware of Fashion Week at all. That sneaky …

Which meant Bree had better pull her expectations down another fifty notches. She wasn’t really on a date with Charlie. She was on a favor. Those two things ended in completely different ways. Favors didn’t extend to the bedroom.

Charlie put his phone back in his jacket pocket just as her phone beeped again. “It’s going to be crowded in there. I’ve just sent you my number. If we get separated, text me, and I’ll find you.”

She had Charlie Winslow’s cell phone number. She could be excited about that. It might be a one-off, but so what? Just because it was a favor didn’t mean it wasn’t the biggest kick of her life.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Great. Am I likely to lose you?”

“Not if I can help it—ah, we’re here.”

The door next to Bree opened as Charlie slipped her glass from between her fingers. In yet another spectacular fairy-tale moment, she stepped onto a red carpet. She hadn’t flashed anyone, she hadn’t tripped and she managed not to let her jaw drop even when flashbulbs popped all around, blinding and thrilling in equal measure.

Charlie took hold of her arm above her elbow, and that was good because she really couldn’t see a thing. People around her were shouting, “Over here!” and “Look up!” over and over, and she hadn’t anticipated so much noise. Whenever she watched this part on TV it was silent, a voice-over, then a cut to a commercial, but here it was loud and scary and intrusive.

Charlie’s hand squeezed gently as he escorted her toward a towering white tent, which she knew was the Fashion Week venue in Damrosch Park. The area was huge, with runway shows from morning till night, cocktail parties, dining areas, meeting rooms, press rooms.

She’d been here, to Lincoln Center, but on the other side, with the fountain and the Met and the magic staircase. To be here now, when the whole complex was dressed up in its fancy best, when to get inside the tents should have been impossible for a girl like her, was a lot to process.

Thank goodness for Charlie’s steadying hand. What world was she in that the most comforting thing around her was Charlie Winslow? She honestly couldn’t tell if she was trembling more from the freezing cold or the excitement.

There was so much to look at between flashes of light, she was shocked to step inside. There was a line, and because this was the real world, there were metal detectors to go through. No one seemed to mind, though. Security was tight, and the slower pace as they were herded forward gave her a chance to catch her breath, only to lose it again as she got a load of who she was standing near.

Charlie’s breath warmed her neck as he leaned in close. Goose bumps. Everywhere. Down her spine and up her arms. When his voice followed, low and warm, her own breath hitched and her eyes may have rolled up in her head for just a second. Probably in a minute she’d get with the program. She wouldn’t feel faint from his touch, or by standing one person away from her favorite designer on earth. The problem was, she couldn’t decide what to stare at—the clothes or the designers themselves. Oh, God, there was the model who was on the cover of this month’s issue of Elle, and good God almighty, that was the star of her favorite CSI, and Bree was so grateful for Charlie’s arm.

“You’ll never see more food go to waste than you will at this party,” Charlie said in that same intimate whisper he’d used in the limo. “I don’t think any of these people actually eat. They do chew a lot of gum, though. Ketosis. It’s a breath thing, not that you’ll ever hear about it in Vogue or W. People who don’t eat may look fantastic on camera, but their breath could kill a buffalo. Be warned.”

Bree giggled, and while it was true that everyone in the two long lines snaking into the tent was on the ridiculous side of thin, most of the people she saw were subtly chewing, or standing in such a way as to avoid being breathed upon.

Of course, she thought of her own breath now. She’d barely eaten today, too nervous.

“You’re fine,” he said, with a minty-scented chuckle. “Don’t fret.”

She smiled at him as they inched along. “I guess I’m not hiding my small-town roots very well, huh?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She gave him a knowing look. “I’ll try harder to appear blasé.”

“Don’t do that for my sake.” Charlie tugged her around even more, until they were facing each other. “I like that this is magical for you.”

“I’m a real novelty, huh?”

“Truthfully, yes. But a good one. I want to hear much, much more about your life before New York. I’m a native, and the way I was raised, you’d think there wasn’t anything between California and New York. I’ve never been to Ohio, although I’m reasonably sure I could point to it on a map. It’s at the bottom of Lake Erie, right?”

“Wow, I’m impressed. Yeah.”

“And where in Ohio did you grow up?”

She waved her hand at him and turned to check on the line’s progress. “You’ve never heard of it.” When she looked back, his smile was a bit crooked. “So that food you mentioned. Passed around on little trays? Buffet? Sit down banquet?”

“The first two,” he said. “There will be places to sit, tables all around, and here’s a secret. You can completely tell the pecking order by who sits, who stands and where those two things happen.”

Her eyes widened at yet another morsel of insider-y goodness. She felt as if he was giving her the ultimate backstage pass, and while she knew a lot of it had to do with manners and even more to do with Rebecca, there was a tiny flare of hope buried deep inside that perhaps he was letting her in because he liked her? A little?

Probably a good idea not to linger on that thought. She needed to be in the moment, enjoying the hell out of what she had. To ask for anything more was tempting fate.

4

CHARLIE COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off Bree. What had Rebecca seen that had made her believe this absurd blind date could work? That it was working was … bizarre. He never would have guessed he would find Bree enchanting.

Hell, that he found anything enchanting stretched credulity.

And yet, watching her reminded him what it was like when he’d had heroes. Though he’d never been as innocently enthralled by glamour as Bree. Given his background, how could he have been? His family was part of xenophobic wealthy New York, the inbred, insane inner circle that made disdain and dismissal an art form. So his heroes had been those outside the fold: sports stars, indie musicians who would never be mainstream, oddball scientists and computer hackers. The last, thank goodness, had actually set in motion key aspects of his life.

“Oh, God,” Bree whispered, her hand clasping desperately at his lapel. “That’s Mick Jagger.”

Charlie followed her gaze a few feet away to where the old warhorse stood, surrounded by his all-but-invisible-to-him entourage. The Rolling Stone hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, but there wasn’t a person in the tent, hell in the city, that would call him out for cutting in line.

“Huh,” Bree said, still staring curiously at the megastar.

“Better get used to that,” Charlie said, enjoying himself. The past couple of years, the novelty of his lifestyle had dulled. He rarely considered anything outside of the job. Who to interview, who to keep an eye on, who was ready for a career obit. Filling Bree in was fun. She’d been right. No way she could pass for bored. Not even close. “Almost everyone’s shorter than you think,” he continued, stepping closer to her. “The men, especially. Not the models, though, they’re giraffes, but the actors, the musicians? Most of them are even shorter than I am.”

“You’re not,” Bree said. She turned and laid a smile on him that made him feel like a giant. “I’m short. Ridiculously so. It’s awful.”

“Why awful?”

Her smile changed and the tips of her ears turned pink. “I’m twenty-five, not twelve. Everyone thinks I’m cute. And harmless. Like a baby bunny. I’ve had people pat me on the head. I mean, come on. Who does that?”

“Not me,” he said, holding his hands up and away, mostly because now that she’d said it, he wanted to.

“I want to take his picture,” she said, lowering her voice as she stole glances at Jagger.

“So? Take it.”

She shook her head. “And that would advance my agenda of being a bored new designer how? I’m already an outsider. I’d like to at least pretend for a bit.”

Charlie turned to the person in back of him, some guy he didn’t know, but who looked like he might be a reporter. “We’ll be back in a sec, okay?”

The guy nodded, and Charlie kept his grip on Bree’s arm as he crossed over to the other line, right smack in the middle of the rock stars’ party. “Hey, Mick,” he said, holding out his hand. “Charlie Winslow. I’d love to get a photograph with you and my lovely date. Do you mind?”

The man shook Charlie’s hand, but only smiled once he set eyes on Bree. Then he couldn’t have been nicer. In fact, before they’d been there two minutes, Jagger had his arm around Bree’s shoulders and Charlie was taking the photo with her phone.

Bree looked thrilled to her toes even when Jagger copped a surreptitious feel during the photo op. Charlie wasted no time escorting her back to their saved place.

“I have to see,” she whispered, pressing buttons on her cell. “My hands are shaking. I’m such a dork.”

He took over the delicate operation, and she oohed and aahed at her fantastic luck. She was trembling with excitement and he would never have guessed. When she’d stood with one of the biggest celebrities on the planet, she’d appeared completely cool about the whole affair. Now her eyes hid nothing of her excitement. She grinned widely and clapped her hands together like a kid at the circus. Which, he supposed, she was.

Then they were at the security checkpoint, and there were wands and buckets and well-behaved guards. A short walk across a cold path, and they entered the main tent, the vast pavilion filled with music and chatter and laughter and a hundred different perfumes. Dresses that cost more than cars, faces that had been sculpted to the point of madness, lots of skin, lots of white teeth, and Bree looking like she’d arrived in Wonderland.

Charlie tried not to stare at her as they weaved through the crowd, as some chart topper sang her country tunes and photographs were taken. He sent a waiter for pineapple juice, and when he handed it to Bree, she blinked in utter bemusement.

It was too entertaining to last, because while he was on a date, he was also on assignment, and at least fifty percent of the guests at this shindig wanted their names on his blog tomorrow.

Normally this dance was one he could do in his sleep. Tonight, though, he wanted not just to include Bree, but feature her, make sure she met everyone she recognized. He wanted to see what she’d do, how she’d react. Unexpected. Completely out of character for him and puzzling, but nothing he cared to examine.

He felt drawn to Bree, which hadn’t happened in so long he’d almost forgotten it could happen. What was more interesting was that he couldn’t pinpoint why. If he had his way, he’d spend more time figuring out the deal with Bree than getting the dirt on the A-listers at the party.

“What’s wrong?” After a tour of the immediate area, complete with air kisses, handshakes, posturing and pumped-up drama, they found a spot as far away from the speakers as they could get. Yet even next to the side exits to the powder rooms and private paths, Bree had to shout.

“Nothing. You having a good time?”

“Yes,” she said. “Although I’m still in shock. It’s overwhelming.”

“It is. There are a lot of people wanting attention.”

“I see what you mean about the seats,” she said as she scooted closer to him.

He slipped his arm around her waist. Interesting, holding someone who was so small. He felt … protective.

“It’s as if every chair is a throne, exclusively for the most important kings and queens.”

He nodded. “Some of them have a seat for a lifetime, but not many. For most of them, it’s a limited run.”

“You could sit,” she said. “You probably do, don’t you?”

“Nope. I work the room. I may be recognizable to some, but my job here is to shine a light on the real celebrities. I’ll have to blog this in the morning, and if I don’t get it right, I’ll get dozens of calls and texts and emails from furious PR people telling me I’m a disgrace and I’ll never work in this town again.”

A waiter carrying champagne came by, and before Charlie could say anything, Bree touched his hand. “I’d like one, please.”

“Sure?”

She nodded. “It’s a champagne night.”

“You must be starving. I haven’t seen you eat a thing.”

“I’m too excited to eat. I shook hands with Tim Gunn!”

“I know,” he said. “He liked what you were wearing.”

“He did not,” Bree said, almost spilling her drink. “Why, did he say something?” She closed her eyes. “No, don’t answer that. You’re being sweet.”

“Yeah, but if he’d had a minute to notice, he would have liked your dress. You look stunning.”

She sighed. “I didn’t expect you,” she said. “To be honest, I’m not even sure what to make of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know I’m not at all what you’re used to. Yesterday, I saw a picture of you with Mia Cavendish. Then I saw her on the new Victoria’s Secret billboard in Times Square. Rebecca went way above and beyond doing me this favor, but you’ve made tonight incredible. A dream come true. I don’t even …”

He hadn’t thought of it in the car, or in line, or after the Jagger incident, but right now, he couldn’t think of anything in the world he wanted more than to pull this tiny person into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.

So he did.

BREE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN shocked by his lips, but she froze, stunned more completely than she’d been at being bumped by Jean Paul Gaultier. Charlie Winslow was kissing her. Softly. Teasing her with the tip of his tongue, waiting for permission to enter. She obliged.

He turned out to be a gentleman in this respect, as well. No thrusting, no swallowing her whole. Entering slowly, he gave her time to get used to him. To savor. She’d expected champagne but he tasted like mint, although come to think of it, she had no idea what the finish of champagne would taste like.

One flat palm touched her bare shoulder, his other hand pulled her closer, and the tentative portion of the kiss ended, as did all but the most basic of thoughts. He angled his head and settled in for a stay as they explored each other. It didn’t take long for her shoulders to relax, to feel comfortable enough to pull back for a breath and a peek, then return for more.

That hand on her shoulder moved across her back warming her wherever it touched. It wasn’t cold in the room, not with this many people, but Charlie’s touch felt hot, not only his hand, either. The bass from the band made the room vibrate but she was already quivering. Kissing Prince Charming did that to a person.

As if the night wasn’t spectacular enough.

She’d never forget this, the song that was playing, how she felt him moan even though she couldn’t hear him. It was dizzying, every part of it, and her hope that this was more than just a favor went from not daring to think it to letting the idea take a seat.

He pulled back, not very far. “As much as I’d like to stay right here, I have to work. I’ll warn you now, the people we’re going to meet won’t pay you enough attention. They’re working the room, as well.”

“I don’t mind,” she said truthfully. She expected nothing from this crowd. Which couldn’t be said about Charlie. She had to stop herself from touching her mouth like a lovesick tween, but God, he had great lips. No matter how she looked at it, there’d been no reason to kiss her, none at all, except he’d wanted to. There went her breath, and any hope of walking on her wobbly knees.

“A room this size, it’s going to take a couple of hours. Make sure at some point that you get something to eat. I won’t be able to look after you as carefully as I’d like, and we can’t have you keeling over from starvation. Grab things when you can, or duck out to the buffet. I’ll be holding my cell, so I’ll hear if you call, and we’ll find each other.”

She nodded. “Go. Work. Do your magic. I was always excited to read your Fashion Week blogs. You made me feel as if I was there.”

“Really?”

“Well, now that I’m here, not exactly, but more than enough. Don’t tell, but I like your reports better than the ones in W.”

He grinned. “Now you’re just being nice.”

“Nope.” She crossed her heart. “Mean every word.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go meet some famous people.”

Bree was tempted to pull him in for one more kiss, to make sure it had been real, but didn’t dare. Although it was hard not to imagine what it would feel like to walk across the lobby of his building, to go up in that elevator. Before her foolish notions got too carried away, she was reminded, quite spectacularly, of what she was doing now. A boatload of iconic symbols had come to life.

She felt like a Lilliputian in a world of Gullivers with Charlie as her guide. He led her through paths between tables, ice sculptures dripping and corks popping, and always, always the intrusion of cameras. Around the perimeter of the party, the different celebrity gossip shows had staked their territories, and their camera lighting bounced off the white of the tent making the entire arena glow.

They would walk two, maybe three steps, then stop as another celebrity, each one a surprise, approached Charlie. Interestingly, none of the familiar faces looked quite right. They were either better or shorter or skinnier or blonder than they looked in People or on TV.

Bree was good with makeup. Really. She’d made a point of learning the correct techniques at a beauty school near her college, but there was an element of magic to the faces that passed by. And the clothes …

She’d browsed through some of the high-end boutiques in Manhattan. D&G, of course, but a few couture houses, as well, showcasing their elegantly crafted suits and dresses, not daring to touch because each button or zip was worth more than everything she owned or would own for years to come. Now she saw those creations in motion, and it was poetry. No way to call it anything other than art. Each designer’s style was as individual as a Picasso or a Rembrandt. She felt humbled. And grabby.

Instead of touching the fifty-thousand dollar gown, she snagged some hors d’oeuvres. Prawns and sushi and filet mignon, each with a little napkin and dabs of aioli. If she hadn’t been an adult person standing next to famous people she wouldn’t have stopped shoving them into her mouth because they were fantastic. The champagne was chilled, and she should switch back to pineapple juice because even with the food her edges were sliding toward fuzzy.

She turned to Charlie, only Charlie wasn’t there. Not where she’d left him, but that had been before she’d followed the hamachi tray, dammit. She did a complete three-sixty, pausing as she saw clumps of celebrities, and that made her giggle, because certainly clumps wasn’t the proper collective. What was? A cavalcade of celebs? A coterie? An ensemble? No, a superficiality of celebrities. Ha.

Bree pulled out her cell phone, pulled up Charlie’s cell number and typed. You’re not here.

He could be anywhere, so it wouldn’t hurt to meander. Maybe get a small bottle of water. Her cell would vibrate when he texted back, so she could work on her Not From Hicksville Face as she gasped to herself.

Where are you? CW

Standing next to 1 of the Olsen twins. Not sure which

1. Doesn’t matter.

Not able to find you via Olsen twin. Something more stationary please? CW

Ah. Stella McCartney holding court.

Perfect. But can’t leave quite yet. Ten min. CW

Who are you with? Nvr mind. Ur busy.

Bree lowered her phone, but it dinged.

3 people who want in. 2 who’ll get in. 0 fun as U. CW

She flushed with pleasure, even though it was a line, nothing more, and yet she’d never delete that text ever.

The second she pressed Send, Bree panicked. It was a heart. She meant he was being sweet. Not—Oh, crap, he’d probably—

Um. I meant thank U.

CW

She exhaled, still freaked out enough to barely glance at the second Olsen twin. She switched contacts, and texted.

Rebecca, I screwed up.

How?

Sent him

???

SENT HIM !!!!!

No worries. He won’t mind.

But—

Hush. Trust me. & smile

The ding from a different text happened. Charlie.

Stay by Stella ETA 2 min CW

Bree decided to believe Rebecca and smile. Then she dialed the grin down from eleven to a reasonable five. Her heart, however, wasn’t so cooperative. It was a silly mistake, that’s all. Not even a mistake. A didn’t have to mean anything significant. She used it with her friends all the time, and they didn’t think she was declaring her undying love.

She was nervous, that’s all. The atmosphere, the date itself. The Olsens.

And what came next. What might come next.

As a sneak peek, the kiss held great promise. She liked Charlie more than she’d expected to, and he’d kissed her, so he didn’t find her repulsive or anything, so that was a point in her favor. Truthfully? She was equal parts good-anxious and insanely terrified-anxious about spending time alone with him. But first time—only time—sex with anyone was scary. So much potential for catastrophe. The was nothing compared to all the things that could go wrong.

She’d had her fair share of errors in the bedroom. The memories of which made her blush. But now was not the time to brood about mistakes made when learning the ins and outs, so to speak, of sex with relative strangers. It was the time to look for Charlie, to appreciate every single moment of being here, in this miraculous room, with a date that made her nipples take note, favor or not.

There were no twins at all around her now, but Ms. McCartney had a very large and enthusiastic crowd around her, and it was easy to see why. Although she couldn’t hear the designer, or even see her face very well, the people within ear and eyeshot were smiling. Not the kind of smile that made a person shiver, the kind that erased years and made it fun to eavesdrop. But there was Charlie, and his smile… .

God.

That was something. If it was fake, she’d take it, hands down over many other genuine things in life. Somehow, though, she didn’t think it was fake. No matter, she grinned back, honest as the day was long. It wasn’t that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. There were a number here tonight who would look better on a magazine cover. Of course, they were models, so that made sense. Charlie’s charm was in the reality of his face. There were lines, small ones, that would have been airbrushed out on a cover, but she liked them. They gave him character and made him look as suave as he was. They were smile lines, which were always a good sign. Especially on the King of Manhattan.

She liked that he was thirty-one. Men in their twenties could have … issues. Fine, no problem, she was in her twenties and could make lists of all the things she wished were different, so no throwing stones, but guys were boys longer than women were girls, that was a fact. Charlie would be a wonderful lover, she imagined as she met him halfway to the dessert spread. That kiss had been an amuse-bouche. The meal would be like heaven.

“You look relatively unscathed,” Charlie said. “I’m shocked.”

“Why?”

“I’d have thought every straight man in the building would have been all over you.”

“Stop.”

“Not a line,” he said. “I mean it. I’m stunned. I rushed. Although I figured you could take care of yourself.”

“Based on?”

“Everything I’ve seen so far. You and Mick Jagger, for instance.” Charlie slipped his hand across her lower back. “What would you like to see next?”

Bree met his gaze. “The view from here is fine.”

He sighed, and because there was a momentary pause in the music, she heard it. The live music had stopped a while ago, and now there was recorded stuff—the mix excellent. Of course they’d have a great DJ at a party like this.

“Tell you what. Let’s do one more circuit. I promise not to drag it out, no matter who we meet, but you’re allowed to linger as long as you like, anywhere you like.”

“Wow. That’s very generous.”

“I’m feeling magnanimous.” He nodded toward a waiter. “Pineapple juice? Champagne? Pastry?”

She held up her water. “All set.”

He hugged her closer and they began the procession, and she truly did feel like a princess. Her free hand ended up around his back, and somewhere around a very large ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s David that was a bit worse for wear, her head came to rest on his shoulder. There were a number of places she thought about stopping, because the odds of her seeing these people again were nil, but not even Michael Kors himself was enough to pull her out of the spell of being with Charlie, her one-night-only prince.