Читать книгу My Front Page Scandal - Carrie Alexander, Carrie Alexander - Страница 6

1

ONE GOOD YANK and the biker dude’s distressed designer jeans came off.

Brooke Winfield glanced at the featureless bulge between his legs, reminded of playing dolls with her sisters. Joey was always the first to strip the Ken figurine to his plastic skin and make indecent overtures to the girl dolls, while Katie held disco parties for hers. Brooke didn’t actually play at all. She’d been more concerned with designing the dolls’ wardrobes and staging elaborate scenarios in their dream house.

“Thirty years old and I’m still dressing dolls,” she said to the nude male mannequin while she folded the jeans. With his boyish chest and aquiline nose, he was too high-fashion to make a believable biker dude. A leather bandanna and the tattoos she’d painted on his slender forearms were only surface dressing.

Brooke caught a glance of herself in the mirror on the back wall of the display area. The surface was what people noticed. Her surface, as usual, read ninety percent Boston conservative and ten percent creative—today, signified by the jangly tin fish earrings she’d bought last year at the Bazaar Bizarre, a punk-rock arts-and-crafts fair.

Ten percent. Brooke knew that it was time to flip those numbers. Recently, she’d decided that she was finished with conforming to the Winfield rules and expectations. She didn’t want to wind up like her deceased mother, who’d hidden the truth about her previous life right up to the end to fit in with her conservative in-laws.

With a sigh, Brooke returned to dismantling the window. It, at least, had caused a splash, even though the display sold only the illusion of rebellion. Three-hundred-dollar jeans weren’t changing anyone’s world. Certainly not the trendy Bostonians who thought nothing of slapping down the plastic to buy a fashionable garment they might wear only once.

She unscrewed the mannequin and lifted the torso and limbs onto the trolley, then climbed back inside the window display. O.M. Worthington was an historic, ultra-exclusive department store on Newbury Street. It catered to longtime customers, with personal services and the promise of remaining unchanged since the Mayflower.

Alyce Simmons, the head fashion buyer, had enlisted Brooke’s help to push the stodgy store into a more profitable era. Their first collaboration, the leather-heavy Gaultier window display, had caused a few raised eyebrows among the staff, as well as the store’s clientele. The only reason they’d gotten away with it was that Old Man Worthington himself had approved the concept. Even an octogenarian could see that the store must boost their youth appeal or they’d never make it to their third century.

Brooke stripped the female mannequin next, starting with a Cruella-meets-Anna-Wintour wig. She paused to twirl the sleek ebony bob on her finger. Her impulse was to pop the wig over her own bland, brown hair, which remained scraped into a tidy bun after twelve hours at work. She wasn’t the kind of woman who had wild, untamable hair. She didn’t even have tendrils.

Nor did she follow her impulses.

Except for the security guard, she was alone in the store. Tall curtains had been drawn across the street window, enclosing the display area in complete privacy. She could do anything she liked and no one would know.

Normally, what she liked was to complete her work as efficiently as possible. After every task had been check-marked on her clipboard list, she’d go home to a comfy evening of hot chocolate, L.L. Bean goose-down slippers, and an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. If she was feeling restless, she might break out her watercolors and work on a pretty landscape or floral still life.

Boring.

“So why not?” She patted her hair. Do the unexpected, for once in your life.

The past few months had been rocky. Her mother had passed away after a lingering illness. Her sister, Katie, had fallen in love with a man that Brooke had once dated. She’d turned thirty and had suddenly realized that her life was not challenging or exciting or even fresh.

Thus, she came to the decision to indulge herself a little, to try new experiences, maybe meet a few men who didn’t look as though they’d stepped directly out of the pages of Young Bostonian. But all she’d done up to now was buy a tank of tropical fish, say a firm, “No, thank you,” when her Great Aunt Josephine had asked her to chair a Ladies’ League clothing drive and reluctantly agree to become a member of Martinis and Bikinis, a somewhat scandalous social club for women.

Katie had joined the group first, after all three Winfield sisters had received invitations in the mail. She’d become enthusiastic about the Martinis and Bikinis directive of challenging women to step out of the box by issuing them dares—wild tasks such as finally telling off your sexist boss or riding in a convertible with your own top down. After Katie’s rousing success with the club, she’d encouraged her sisters to step up and discover their own inner wild woman. She claimed that the experience was the cathartic release they needed.

Only the extensive martini menu had enticed Brooke. Her wild woman remained on snooze alarm.

She frowned. “Time’s up, sister. Tonight you live up to your Martinis and Bikinis membership pledge.”

She plopped the wig onto her head, tugged it into place, then bent to study herself in the mirror she’d shattered to create an urban mosaic for the display. Her reflection in the jagged shards was different, but the change wasn’t radical. She still wore her professional armor—a cashmere-knit top, tailored pants and low-heeled leather pumps.

Brooke’s eyes went to the bald female mannequin, frozen in a naughty pose with an upthrust derriere, hands spread on the section of the wall that had been bricked with styrofoam and sprayed with graffiti. A minidress rode high across its thighs. The bodice was about exposure, not coverage, with narrow bands of leather that crisscrossed the figurine’s slim torso and flat, hard breasts.

An altogether outrageous dress.

Brooke contemplated. Did she dare go for it?

She’d fantasized about twirling around the store at night in a borrowed Dior gown and satin slippers, but that scenario wasn’t far outside her comfort zone. She’d been to scores of charity events that required dressing to the nines.

But a leather minidress? That was worthy of the Martinis and Bikinis club.

“I won’t buy it,” she said to her reflection. “I’ll only try it on.”

She stripped the mannequin in no time. But then the thought of revealing herself hit home, and she froze. Nudity was out of her comfort zone.

Don’t be a wimp. She kicked off her shoes. Slowly unzipped her pants. As the garment slid down her thighs, she comforted herself with the knowledge that no one was watching except the blank-eyed mannequin.

The Martinis and Bikinis mantra spurred her on. She stepped free of the trousers and stood shivering in her bikini underpants. I can do it. I can dare.

Katie had transformed her life in the month since she’d jumped headfirst into the Martinis and Bikinis experience. Brooke wanted to take the same leap.

“I’m trying,” she murmured. Granted, dressing up in secret was minor by comparison. But it was a start, especially for her. She’d been holed up in the family home in the suburbs since her mother’s death three months ago. She’d needed time. Time to adjust to the loss, the loneliness…and the stunning revelation that her mother had given a baby up for adoption before Brooke and her sisters were born.

The discovery that Lindsay Beckham was her half-sister had hit Brooke like a thunderbolt. She was still dealing with the aftereffects, including sorting out what it meant to her identity as the eldest Winfield sister—the responsible one, who had always done her best to follow her mother’s example and live up to the high expectations of the rest of the family.

Resolutely, she put all that out of her mind and doffed her sweater. Prickling with goose flesh, she pulled the minidress over her head. The wig slipped down over her eyes and she pushed it back, skinned the dress past her hips, then peered into the fractured mirror.

She looked ridiculous. The Gaultier dress wasn’t designed to be worn with socks, a bra and any type of underwear that offered more coverage than a thong. She’d thought she could go halfway in the transformation, but to get the full effect, she would have to take everything off.

Everything.

A quick peek through the drapes at Newbury Street reassured her. The high-end shops and chichi galleries were shut down. A nightclub and a couple of restaurants were doing business in the adjacent blocks, but at this hour, none of their customers were likely to linger near the Worthington windows.

Brooke was safe, she was secure, she was alone. “And something tells me that you’re missing the point,” she muttered. Ah, well. Baby steps.

She eyed the mannequin’s stilettos. Baby steps were the only way for her to walk in five-inch heels.

With her undergarments and socks off and the shoes on, she returned to the mosaic mirror to examine her reflection. Much better. She adjusted the leather straps. The dress was a standard sample size six, which should have fit. Either she’d been sucking down too many hot chocolates or the dress was designed to make even a slender shape like hers appear voluptuous. Her modest breasts were mashed together, cleavage bulging out in every direction. And her legs—oh, my. She’d always been the tall one of the family, but in the towering stilettos, her legs were a mile long.

She pouted at her reflection. “Yeah, baby. You’re sex on stilts.”

Pah. Brooke yanked off the wig. Absurd. She hadn’t had sex since she’d moved back home. And as long as truths were being told, if only to herself, she could admit that from her scalp to her toes she dreaded the day when it was her turn to take a Martinis and Bikinis club dare.

The blast of an engine and the screech of tires in the street ripped Brooke’s attention from the mirror. She stuck her head through the opening in the drapes in time to see a speeding red and black motorcycle completing a sharp U-turn on Newbury. Luckily, the street was nearly empty.

The bike shot past the store, its back end slewing out of control. The driver cut the front wheel into the skid—too late. The motorcycle slid across the pavement and into a lamppost. The driver hit the sidewalk like a bag of wet cement. His helmet flew off, bounced hard a couple of times and rolled to a stop in the gutter.

For a couple of seconds, Brooke was too stunned to move. Neither did the driver. Then his hand lifted off the sidewalk and waved for help, before flopping flat again.

She whirled and made a balletic leap out of the elevated window display, forgetting the stilettos until she landed with a jar to both ankles, sharp enough to bring her to her knees.

“Gus!” She staggered up, waving at the security cameras as she sprinted past the floor displays to the front doors. If the night watchman was making rounds, he might hear her calling. “Gus! I need help. There’s been an accident.”

She slammed into the doors. They were shatterproof glass, mullioned, with heavy, ornate latches. Locked, of course, and she didn’t have the key since she came and went through the service entrance around back.

The ancient cage elevator churned toward the first floor. Gus must be on his way, bless his heart.

Brooke rattled the latches, then cupped her hands around her eyes and tried to see down the street. A taxicab drove by, slowing as it approached the scene of the accident. Thank God. Help had arrived.

The elevator ground to a stop and Gus pushed back the grate. “Please hurry,” Brooke urged as the older man scurried across the gleaming terrazzo. “A motorbike crashed on the street. Unlock the doors for me, then call nine-one-one for an ambulance.”

“Yes, Miss Winfield.” Gus gave her a funny look as he juggled through his keys.

The dress. She crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her armpits. There wasn’t time to worry about the skimpy garment now. Fortunately, Gus was a good egg. He wouldn’t tell on her.

He shoved the door open. She raced outside, her heels tapping on the wide stone steps of the main entrance as she trotted down them. The cab had stopped at the curb. Its driver knelt beside the injured man, who was trying to sit up. “I’m fine,” he insisted. His arms flailed. “Let me be.”

Brooke dropped to her knees. “You’re disoriented,” she soothed, reaching for his shoulder to cajole him into staying down. “Keep still. You’ve been injured.”

He roughly pushed her hand away. His hair was dark, shaggy and disheveled, his face bloody.

“Nine-one-one’s busy,” Gus called from inside the store. “I’m on hold.”

The accident victim’s wild eyes settled on Brooke. “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.

“Of course,” she said evenly. The poor guy was out of his mind. “An ambulance will be on its way very soon.”

A couple of vehicles cruised by, the drivers gawking at the scene. Each time, the motorcycle driver flinched. He raised a shaking hand to shield his face from the curious stares. “Just help me stand up,” he begged.

“That’s not a good—” His jarring weight snapped Brooke’s mouth shut. He’d leaned heavily on her shoulder as he got to his feet. She rose with him, wrapping her arms around his denim jacket and solid body as he staggered. “Please sit down. You’re not thinking clearly. You have to see a doctor.”

“So we’ll go find a doctor.” He looked dazedly at the idling cab. “This’ll do.”

“But—”

A man with a camera jumped out of one of the passing cars and pushed through the small crowd that had gathered. The biker lurched toward the cab, taking Brooke with him as he collapsed into the back seat. She was in an ignominious position, sprawled halfway on top of him by virtue of their tangled arms. A shock of cool air between her legs reminded her that she wore absolutely nothing beneath the dress. Horrified, she unwound herself and managed to shimmy the leather down over her clamped thighs while also shoving the man’s legs into the cab.

He hung his head off the edge of the seat, his face deathly pale beneath the streaks and spatters of blood. With a groan, he closed his eyes.

The driver climbed behind the wheel, passing the motorcyclist’s helmet and keys over the seat. “Where to? Mass General?”

Brooke hesitated in the open door of the cab with her arms wrapped around the helmet. She shouldn’t leave the store, not in the purloined dress. But the man needed help. Another blinding flash from the camera settled her decision, especially when the photographer began cursing and shoving to make his way toward the cab for a better angle.

She slithered into the backseat and yanked the door shut. “Emergency room. Step on it.”

COLOR AND LIGHT SWIRLED through the darkness inside David Carerra’s closed lids. He floated. The psychedelic pond catapulted him through time to the old swimming hole back home in Georgia. He’d learned to hold his breath until he could stay submerged in the green murk of a silent underwater world for minutes at a time, where there was nothing to hurt him except the snapping turtles that glided away at his approach. When he’d surface, the live oaks would waver against the shock of a blinding sky, distorted by the droplets spangling his lashes. He’d flip over onto his back and float for what seemed like hours, until Maribeth, his father’s common-law wife, would realize the boy was gone and start screeching his name.

Jaden. Jay-aaay-den, you come home now.

Bile rose in his throat. He pushed through the thick water, spitting out the poison as he reentered a harsh, cold world.

“Christ,” said a distant voice. “I’ll never get the smell out.”

“How does a twenty-dollar tip sound?” asked a second voice. Female, nearby.

“Fifty’d be better.”

“Fifty,” she agreed, without conviction.

David moved his tongue in his mouth, checking for loosened teeth. The taste was as foul as biting into an old raw beet. “Ackkk.”

The woman’s face appeared near his. “You’re conscious.”

“Urgh.”

“What’s your name?”

Jaden. Jaden David Jackson.

She gave him a pat. Had he spoken? “Never mind,” she said in a voice as gentle as a breeze whispering through the loblolly pines. “We’re almost at the hospital. They’ll take care of you.”

“Hospital?”

She leaned over him again. “Your motorcycle went out of control on Newbury Street. You’re in a cab, on the way to Mass General.”

David struggled to line up the sequence of events in his muddled brain. “So who are you?”

“Brooke Winfield. I work at Worthington. I saw your crash from the window.”

He didn’t know what Worthington was, but he figured the name of a street corner sounded about right, given her style of dress. If she leaned over him one more time, a nipple would pop out.

He gave an especially pained groan, but she didn’t lean any closer. Shucks.

“I’m feeling better,” he lied.

“Can you sit up?”

“If you help me.” Her bare arms encircled him and he put his face in the nook of her shoulder and neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of female flesh. His mind cleared another few degrees.

Maybe not a street corner. She was too…clean.

She put the flat of her hand against his skull and pushed his lolling head upright. He caught a glimpse of black night and neon city lights before closing his eyes again. The rhythm of the cab’s wheels thrummed beneath him. Comforting, except for the acrid whiff of fuel. His stomach churned.

“Better?” Brooke cooed.

“Sure.” He squinted, focusing on her face instead of the pounding in his head. He’d been in an accident. He remembered it now: Leaving the hotel for the bar where he and Rick raised a few in lament of a broken marriage. Word of their presence buzzing, spreading. Paparazzi arriving, chasing him down. He’d opened the throttle of his bike, not caring about the danger, as long as he got away.

Killing himself was one way to do it.

He looked at Brooke’s long bare legs and swallowed the grit on his tongue. “Did they get pictures?”

“One or two.” She tugged at the hem of her dress, which was hovering at indecent-exposure level. “Are you famous?”

“Notorious.” He tried to grin at her, but the effort felt sickly rather than cocksure, so he let his face drop into the nook again. She was soft and silken against the abraded skin on his cheek.

“We’re here,” the cabbie said, slowing to make the turn toward the emergency entrance. A siren blasted a two-second warning nearby.

Brooke pushed his head back up and smiled with encouragement. “Can you walk, or should I ask for a wheelchair?”

With fuzzy eyes, he studied his rescuer. She seemed beatific. A heart-shaped face held shining eyes and pink lips that stretched wide when she smiled and puckered when she frowned with concern. Strands of caramel-brown hair curved against her cheeks and the long, graceful neck that smelled like powder and sunny meadows.

Above the neck, an angel of mercy. Below…

Born to sin.

“You don’t look good,” she said, putting a palm to her chest as she moved away. “I’ll get help.”

“No, no, I can walk.” He followed her out the car door—hell, he’d have followed her anywhere—wobbling only a little as he stepped onto the pavement and got his feet under him. The lights were too bright and the sounds too loud. He winced and clutched at Brooke for support.

She was as tall as him in her high heels. Maybe taller. She had to bend slightly to fit her shoulder solidly beneath his outstretched arm. Behind them, the driver had gotten out to circle the cab and shut the door. He cleared his throat as he handed over the helmet.

“Oh, yes,” Brooke said, taking it. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money with me, but if you’ll give me your name—”

“My wallet.” His voice sounded as raspy as his face felt. “Back pocket.”

The helmet pressed against his ribs as she reached around. Her fingers felt along his backside until they found the wallet. He grunted, enjoying the groping just a little despite his pain.

She got him straightened out again before flipping the billfold open. The thick wad of cash made her hesitate. “Umm…”

“Give him a hundred.” David waved at the cabbie. “Sorry, pal. Thanks for your help.”

An emergency room attendant wheeled a chair toward them. Brooke was still staring into the wallet. “David Carerra,” she read off his license. “I’ll be damned. You’re David Carerra, the baseball player?”

The attendant pried David loose and guided him into a wheelchair. He raked back his tangled hair. When his hand pulled away, blood glistened on his fingertips.

Brooke’s mouth was agape. He winced, knowing he was losing her. “That’s right, David Carerra. Like I told you—I’m notorious.”

“IS IT TRUE?”

Brooke gave her head a shake. She’d dozed off, huddled inside the injured man’s denim jacket, his helmet nestled in her lap as she sat up in one of the hard plastic chairs of the emergency room. She pulled back the sleeve to check her watch. Ninety minutes, it’d been, and still no sign of him. A nurse had told her to wait, but for how long?

“Yo, there. Is it true?” asked the man across from her. He was grizzled with several days’ growth of a beard. The ice pack applied to his left wrist leaked onto his Patriots jersey and moth-eaten gray sweatpants.

“Is what true?” Brooke tightened her knees, then lifted her hand to brush away the hair hanging in her face. What do you know—she had tendrils.

“You came in with David Carerra.”

She grimaced at the splotches of blood on the jacket cuff. “I guess so.”

“That turncoat son of a bitch.”

Brooke’s gut knotted. “What?”

The man tightened the wrap on his wrist. “Weren’t no Series for the Sox this year, y’know?”

“And you blame Mr. Carerra?” Brooke followed baseball at a once-removed distance. Her late father had gone to the games, occasionally with Joey or Katie, but he’d left Brooke out of the invitation after she’d taken along a sketchpad once too often.

Even so, she knew David Carerra. He was the pinch hitter whose home run had won the previous season’s World Series for the Red Sox. For a time, Carerra had been the toast of the town, a shaggy-haired rebel who’d stepped off the bench and become the city’s unlikeliest of heroes. Opinion had turned against him the past season. Even though he’d been elevated to a starting position and had been performing well, he’d suddenly quit the team at a midpoint losing streak. After that, the Sox had sunk even lower in the standings, a galling comedown after the championship year. Speculation about Carerra’s defection had run rampant the columns of the city’s sportswriters. Rumors had run wild among the stunned fans.

“He sure didn’t help,” the stranger said. “What’s with the guy, quitting like that? Steroids? Drink?” He looked her up and down. “Sexual addiction?”

Brooke’s thigh muscles squeezed even tighter. She pulled the jacket closed over her chest and gave the man a lofty look down her nose, using an expression and tone borrowed from her Great Aunt Josephine, who could drop the temperature of a Sub-Zero with one glance. “I couldn’t possibly say.”

“Yeah, well, you tell him he turned his back on a town that don’t forget.”

If I ever see him again. Brooke looked away. She had his wallet, jacket, helmet and keys. She had to see him again.

Feeling decidedly displaced from the ninety-to-ten ratio of her normal appearance, she rose up on the unstable spike heels and set her sights on the nurses’ station. Maybe Carerra had been admitted for overnight treatment and they’d forgotten to tell her.

She arrived at the desk without turning an ankle or splitting a seam just as the attending nurse hurried off to take care of a scuffle that had broken out in the curtained examining rooms. First a drunken lout bellowed, then came a shout and a crash. A knot of white coats hustled a patient from the area.

David Carerra. Over his shoulder, he gave the drunk a rude gesture, Southie style. Someone shoved a clipboard at him. He scrawled a signature, looked up and saw Brooke. A doctor was reeling off instructions, but Carerra brushed her off.

He walked over and stood before Brooke, his hands riding low on his hips. “Whaddaya know? It’s my angel of mercy.” His voice was thick and slow and sweet. She wondered what kind of medication he was on. “Hey, there, beautifulll.”

“I’m Brooke.” He’d pinned her with his eyes. They were bright green and hugely dilated. She felt her own widening. Even battered, disheveled and disgraced, David Carerra was too much man for her to take in. “Brooke Winfield.”

He smiled with only one side of his mouth—crooked and cocky. Sticky spikes of hair had flopped over the wide bandage wrapped around his head. “I remember.” His gaze dropped. “Especially the dress.”

She shuffled her feet together, clutched the jacket collar. “I don’t usually wear—” She stopped. He doesn’t need to know that. “This is yours.”

“The jacket? Keep it.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“They gave me painkillers. I’m comfortably numb.”

“Mr. Carerra,” the doctor interrupted. She handed him a prescription form. “You may have a headache for a few days, and you’ll need to clean your wounds properly.” She glanced at Brooke. “I’ll discharge him to your care. Our tests showed no sign of concussion, but it’s best if you keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours.”

Brooke blinked. “Me?”

David spread his hands. “Angel?”

“I couldn’t possibly—” Brooke’s voice halted again at the shock of hearing herself sound exactly like Great Aunt Josephine, even when she hadn’t meant to. While she wasn’t sure where to take the rest of her life, she knew that emulating her prim-and-proper aunt was not the way to go. And dressed as she was, with the city’s most rebellious bad boy in tow, there was no telling where the night might lead.

“Thank you.” She removed the prescription from the doctor’s hand. “I’ll look after him.”