Читать книгу Unveiling The Bridesmaid - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

HE WANTED HER to what? Hope stepped back and then again, eyeing Gael O’Connor nervously. But he lost interest the second she uttered her emphatic refusal, turning away from her with no attempt to persuade her. Hope could see her very presence fading from his mind as he began to scroll through his phone again, muttering names speculatively as he did so.

Maybe she should just go, try and arrange this wedding by herself. She looked around, eyes narrowing as she took on the vast if largely empty room, the huge windows, the high ceiling, the view... This much space, on the Upper East Side? Hope did some rapid calculations and came up with seven figures. At the very least. Her own studio would fit comfortably in one corner of the room and the occupant probably wouldn’t even notice she was there. Hunter had said that his stepbrother could get her into all the right places and this address, this room, Gael’s utter certainty that he commanded the world indicated that her brother-in-law-to-be hadn’t been lying.

Hope cleared her throat but her voice still squeaked with nerves. ‘Hi, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Hope McKenzie and I’m here because your brother—stepbrother—is engaged to my sister.’

He didn’t look up from his phone. ‘Which one?’

‘Which what?’

‘Stepbrother. I have...’ he paused, the blue eyes screwed up in thought ‘...five. Although two of those are technically half-brothers, I suppose, and too young to be engaged anyway.’

‘Hunter. Hunter Carlyle. He met my sister, Faith, in Prague and...’

‘Hunter isn’t my stepbrother. He was,’ Gael clarified. ‘But his mother divorced my father a decade ago, which makes him nothing at all to me.’

‘But he said...’

‘He would, he clings to the idea of family. He’s like his mother that way. It’s almost sweet.’

Hope took a deep breath, feeling like Alice wrestling with Wonderland logic. ‘As I said, he’s engaged to my sister and I was wondering...’

‘I wouldn’t worry. I know he’s young. How old is your sister?’

Was she ever going to say what she had come here to say? It had been a long time since she had felt so wrong-footed at every turn—although being asked to strip by a strange man at nine a.m. would wrong-foot anyone. ‘Nineteen, but...’

He nodded. ‘Starter marriages rarely last. There will be a prenup, of course, but don’t worry, the Carlyles are very generous to their exes. Just ask my dad.’ Bitterness ran through his voice like a swirl of the darkest chocolate.

‘Starter marriages?’ This was getting worse. Was she going to be able to formulate a whole sentence any time soon?

He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To ask me to stop the wedding? I wouldn’t worry. Hunter’s a good kid and, like I said, the prenups are generous. Your sister will come out of this a wealthy woman.’

Hope’s lips compressed. ‘My sister is marrying Hunter because she loves him.’ She pushed the part of her brain whispering that Faith had only known Hunter for six weeks ruthlessly aside. ‘And I am sure he loves her.’ Based on a two-minute conversation through a computer screen but she wasn’t going to give Gael O’Connor the satisfaction of seeing her voice any doubts. ‘They want to get married, here in New York, two weeks on Thursday and they asked me to organise the wedding.’

Gael’s mouth pursed into a soundless whistle. ‘I wonder what Misty will say to that. She prides herself on her hostessing skills.’

‘I believe she is holding a party on Long Island shortly after. A small and intimate wedding, that’s what Faith’s asked for and that’s what I am going to give her. But it’s going to be the best small and intimate wedding any bride ever had. Hunter thought you would be able to help me but it’s very clear that you are far too busy to get involved in anything as trivial as a starter marriage. I won’t bother you any more. Good day.’

Head up, shoulders straight and she was going to walk right out of here. So she might not have Gael O’Connor’s connections; she had a good head on her shoulders and determination. That should do it.

‘Hope, wait.’ There was a teasing note in his voice that sent warning shivers through her. Hope was pretty sure that whatever he wanted she wasn’t going to like it.

‘Pose for me and I’ll help you give your sister the perfect wedding. I can, you know,’ he added as she gaped at him. ‘My little black book...’ he held up his phone ‘...is filled with everyone and anyone you need from designers to restaurateurs. You do this and your sister will have the wedding of her dreams. And that’s a promise.’ His gaze swept over her assessingly, that same lazy exploration that made her feel stripped to the skin. She shivered, her heart thumping madly as each nerve responded to his insolence.

Mad, bad, definitely dangerous to know. She was horribly out of her depth. ‘I...look, this isn’t something you can just throw at someone. It’s a big deal.’

A small smile curved his mouth. It didn’t reach his eyes; she had a sense it seldom did. ‘Hope, life modelling is a perfectly respectable thing to do. Men and women of all ages and body shapes do it day in, day out.’

She cast a quick glance at the canvases still facing out, at the exposed flesh and the satisfied, confident gazes. ‘But these aren’t men and women of all ages and shapes,’ she pointed out. ‘They are all women and they are all beautiful, all sexy.’

‘That’s because of the theme of the show. If Olympia had been a middle-aged man then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’ll be quite intensive. I’ll need a week or so of your time, first a few sketches and then the actual painting. The first session is the most important—I need to know that you’re comfortable with the pose, with the jewellery you choose and its symbolism. The tricky bit is finding the right mood. The other models have spent some time thinking about their past, about their sexuality and what it means to them; the original Olympia saw sex as business and that comes across in her portrait. She is in control of her body, what it offers.’

Which meant, she supposed, that he thought she could portray sexuality. Awareness quivered through her at the idea. Awareness of his height, of the lines of his mouth, the steeliness in his eyes. It was an attractive combination, the dark hair, such a dark chocolate it was almost black, and warm olive skin with the blue-grey eyes.

Eyes fastened solely on her. Hope swallowed. It had been a long time since anyone had intimated that they found her sexy. Attractive, useful, nice. But not sexy. It was a seductive idea. Hope stared at the red couch and tried to imagine it: her hair piled up, pulling at the nape of her neck, the coolness of a pendant heavy on her naked breast, the way the rubbed velvet would feel against the tender skin on her thighs and buttocks, against her back.

How it would feel to have that steely gaze directed intently on her, to have him focus on every hair, every dimple, every curve—Hope sucked in her stomach almost without realising it—every scar.

Hope’s cheeks flamed. How could she even be having this conversation? She didn’t wear a bikini, for goodness’ sake, let alone nothing at all. If she could shower in her clothes she would. As for tapping into her sexuality...she swallowed painfully. How could you tap into something that didn’t actually exist? Even if she had the time and the inclination to lie there exposed she didn’t have the tools.

‘You’re talking to the wrong woman.’ Her voice was cold and clipped, her arms crossed as if she could shield herself from his speculative sight. ‘Even if I wanted to model for you—which I don’t—I don’t have the time. I have a job to do, a job which takes up twelve hours of every day and often my weekend as well. I have no idea how I am going to sort out a wedding in less than three weeks and still keep Brenda Masterson happy but, well, that’s my problem. I will manage somehow. I don’t need or want your help. Goodbye, Mr O’Connor. As you don’t consider Hunter to be part of your family I doubt we’ll meet again.’

Hope swivelled and turned, heading for the door, glad of the heels, glad of the well-cut, summery clothes and the extra confidence they gave her. She was new Hope now, new Hope in New York City. She had time to invest in her career, a little money to invest in herself and the way she looked. Any day now she would try her hand at salsa or Zumba or running, join a book club and go to interesting lectures. So she had missed out on being a young adult? It wasn’t too late to become the person she once dreamed of being.

But first she would organise her sister’s wedding. And not by taking off her clothes and posing for some artist no matter how much she liked the way his eyes dwelled on her. Eyes she could feel follow her as she crossed the room, and pushed the button to summon the lift. Eyes that seemed to strip her bare and see straight through the thin veneer of confidence she had plastered on.

If he did paint her she knew it wouldn’t just be her body that would be bared for the world to see. It would be her soul as well. And that was a risk she would never be able to take.

‘Did you say you work for Brenda Masterson?’

She paused. One minute he was dismissing her, the next making her an outrageous proposal—and now small talk? She turned and glared at him, hoping he took her impatient message on board. ‘Yes, I work at DL Media. I’m in New York on a job swap as Brenda’s assistant.’ Brenda’s very late assistant. She was probably focussing that famously icy glare right at Hope’s vacant desk right this moment.

Gael kept her gaze as he pressed his phone to his ear, a mocking smile playing on his well-cut lips. ‘Brenda? Is that you?’

What? He knew Brenda? He had said he knew everybody but she didn’t think he meant her boss.

‘Hi. It’s Gael. Yes, I’m good, how about you? I’ve been having a think about that retrospective. Uh-huh. It’s a good offer you made me but there’s some work I need to do first, going through the old blogs, through the old photos.’ He paused as Brenda spoke at some length, her words indiscernible to Hope.

She shifted from foot to foot, wishing she had worn less strappy heels in this heat—and that she had catlike hearing. This job was her chance to be noticed, to stop being Kit Buchanan’s loyal and mousy assistant and to be someone with prospects and a real career—if Gael O’Connor messed this up for her she would knock him out with one of his own paintings...

‘As it happens,’ Gael continued smoothly, ‘I have your assistant here. Yes, very cute. Love the accent.’ He winked at Hope and she clenched her jaw. ‘It would be great if you could spare her for a couple of weeks to help me with the archiving and labelling, maybe start to put together some copy. Yeah. Absolutely. You’re a doll, Brenda. Thanks.’

A what? Hope was pretty sure nobody had ever called Brenda Masterson a doll before and lived through the experience. Gael clicked his phone off and smiled over at Hope. ‘Good news. You’re mine for the next couple of weeks.’

She what? In his dreams. And she was going to tell him so just as soon as she had the perfect withering put-down—and when she had answered the call vibrating insistently through her phone. Hope pulled the phone out of her pocket and the words hovering on her lips dried up when she saw Brenda’s name flashing on the screen. She didn’t need to take a course in fortune telling to predict what this call would be about. With a withering look in Gael’s direction, which promised that this conversation was totally not over, Hope answered the call, tension twisting in her stomach.

‘Brenda, hi. Sorry, I’m on my way in.’ Damn, why had she apologised? She hadn’t realised just how much she said ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ until she moved to New York where no one else seemed to spend their time apologising for occupying space or wanting to get by or just existing. Every time she said sorry to Brenda she felt her stock fall a little further.

‘Absolutely not. Stay right where you are. I didn’t realise you knew Gael O’Connor.’ Was that admiration in Brenda’s voice? Great, three months into her time here and she had finally made her boss sit up and take notice—not through her hard work, initiative or talent but because of some guy she’d only met this morning.

‘My sister is engaged to his stepbrother. Ex-stepbrother.’ She couldn’t have this conversation in front of him, not as he leaned against the wall, arms folded and an annoying Gotcha smirk on his admittedly handsome face. Hope walked past him, heading for the door she’d seen at the other end of the apartment. It might lead to his red room of pain or whatever but she’d take the risk. Actually it led to a rather nice kitchen—an oddity in a city where nobody seemed to have space to cook. It was a little overdone on the stainless-steel front for Hope’s tastes and ranked highly on the ‘terrifying appliances I don’t know how to use and can’t even guess what they’re for’ scale but it was still rather impressive. And very clean. Maybe having a kitchen was a status thing, the using of it optional.

She shut the door firmly behind her. ‘I don’t know Gael O’Connor exactly. I only met him today to discuss wedding plans.’

‘You’ve obviously impressed him. Let’s keep it that way. I’m seconding you to work with him over the next two weeks. I want regular updates and I want him kept sweet. If you can do that then I can promise that all the right people will know how helpful you’ve been, Hope. It wouldn’t surprise me if you got your pick of roles at the end of this secondment here or back in London. After all, as you’ve probably heard by now, Kit Buchanan’s resigned from the London office inconveniently taking my assistant with him. Maybe we could arrange for you to stay here, if you wanted to, that is...’

Hope’s breath caught in her throat. Keep him sweet? Did Brenda know just what he wanted her to do? Was she suggesting that nude modelling was part of her job description? Because Hope was pretty sure she’d missed that clause unless it fell somewhere under ‘any other business.’

But Brenda had also tapped into a worry that Hope had been trying very hard not to think about. Her role in London had been working as a PA for the undoubtedly brilliant if often frustrating Kit Buchanan. Yet in less than three months he had fallen in love with Maddison Carter, her job-swap partner and owner of the tiny if convenient Upper East Side studio Hope was currently living in. And that had changed everything. She hadn’t expected to feel so lost when she’d heard the news, almost grief stricken. It wasn’t that she was jealous exactly. She wasn’t in love with Kit. She didn’t really have a crush on him either, although he had a nice Scottish accent, was handsome in an ‘absent-minded professor’ kind of way and, crucially, was the only single man under thirty she spent any time with. But Kit’s resignation meant that in three months she would be returning to a new manager—and possibly a different, less fulfilling role.

It was a long time since Hope had dreamed of archaeology; she’d pushed those dreams and any thought of university aside after her parents died, starting instead as an office junior at a firm of solicitors close to her Stoke Newington home. But when she had moved to DL Media three years ago Kit had been quick to see potential in his PA and ensured there had been a certain amount of editorial training and events work in her duties. There was no guarantee a new manager would feel the same way. But if Brenda was impressed with her then who knew what opportunities would open up? Hope took a deep breath and tried to clear her head. ‘Why does Gael need an assistant from DL Media?’ And why me? she silently added.

‘Because Gael O’Connor is planning a retrospective of his photographs and the blog that catapulted him into the public eye and I want to make sure that he chooses DL Media as his partner when he does so. I’ve been courting him and his agent for nearly a year and got nowhere. They say that his archive is incredible, that he could bring down careers, end marriages with his photos,’ Brenda’s voice was full of longing. ‘I can smell the sales now. This could be huge, Hope, and you could be part of it straight from the start. I want you to get me those photos and the anecdotes that accompany them. Help him sort out his archive and make sure that at the end he is so impressed he signs on the dotted line of the very generous contract we offered him. Take as long as you need, do whatever you have to do but get that signature for me. You have an in. He asked for you, your sister is marrying someone he’s close to. Anyone would kill for that kind of connection. Exploit it. If you do then I guarantee you a nice promotion and a secure future here at DL Media...’

Hope didn’t need to ask what would happen if she failed—or if she refused. Back to England in ignominy and coffee-making, minute-taking and contract-typing-up for the rest of her days. If she was lucky. But if she agreed then she was not only getting a huge boost up the career ladder but she would also be away from the office, out from under Brenda’s eye and could grab the time to sort out Faith’s wedding. Damn Gael O’Connor, he had her exactly where he wanted her.

‘Okay,’ she said, injecting as much confidence into her voice as she could manage. ‘I’ll do it. You don’t have to worry, Brenda. I won’t let you down.’

* * *

Gael couldn’t hear Hope’s conversation with her boss but he didn’t need to. Hope was as good as his. He’d met Brenda Masterson several times and he knew her type; her eyes were fixed firmly on the prize and she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone get in her way.

The kitchen door opened and Hope stalked through, her colour high but her eyes bright with determination. ‘I suppose you think you are very clever,’ she said. ‘Of course some might call it blackmail...’

‘Call what blackmail? Your boss wants my archive and I need help organising it. Seems like a fair trade to me.’ But Gael couldn’t stop the smile playing around his lips. ‘You should thank me. I’m much less of a clock watcher than Brenda. You might even get some wedding organising done while you’re here. In fact you can have today to get started. Consider it my wedding gift to the happy couple.’

‘Is there even an archive or is this just some kind of ruse to keep me here?’

Gael stilled. He was so used to people knowing who he was, what he was, that the scorn in her all too candid eyes took him back. Back to the days before Expose. The days when he was nothing. ‘I see. You think this is a ploy to get you to pose? Get real, princess. I may have asked you to sit for me but I don’t beg and I certainly don’t coerce. Every one of those women over there...’ He nodded over at the canvases. ‘They came to me freely.’

Her forehead creased. ‘So why did you ask Brenda if I could work for you?’

‘Because I was planning on saying yes to Brenda’s offer anyway and this saves me the hassle of finding an assistant. Because I won’t mind how you organise your time as long as the archiving work gets done so this way you can pop out to look at venues or cakes or whatever else you need to do. Not to force you into anything. Nobody is keeping you here against your will, Rapunzel, there’s no escape ladder needed. You can leave at any time.’

Hope looked over at the chaise, a frown still creasing her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought...you said you wouldn’t help me with the wedding and then this all happened so fast.’

‘I’m not helping you. I’m giving you time but that’s all you’ll get out of me. I have a model to find and paint, an exhibition to put on and an archive to explain to you and oversee. The wedding’s your problem, not mine. Unless you change your mind about the picture, in which case I’ll keep my end of the bargain and help you but, like I said, your decision. It’s not part of your duties here. I have no interest in a reluctant subject.’

She took a visible deep breath, her eyes clouded, her forehead still wrinkled with thought. She was close to a decision but whether that decision was changing her mind and posing or walking out and telling him to go to hell he had no idea.

It was intriguing, this unpredictability.

‘If I said yes...’ She stopped, her eyes wary again.

He should be feeling triumphant. He almost had her, he could tell. But Hope McKenzie wasn’t like his usual subjects. They were all eager for him to tell their stories with his paintbrush—she was all secrets and disguises. ‘Before we go any further, I need you to know exactly what you’re getting into.’

‘I lie there and you paint me. Right?’ The words were belligerent but her eyes dark with fear.

‘It’s not easy being a life model. It’s a skill. You have to keep the same pose for hours. No complaining about being cold, or achy or hungry.’

‘Okay.’

‘I asked each model to wear some jewellery that meant something to them. Something very personal.’ He pointed over at one canvas. ‘That girl there, Anna? She’s wearing pins in her hair she wore on her wedding day. This lady, Ameena, she’s wearing gold necklaces and bangles gifted to her by her parents when she emigrated to the US.’

‘And they have to be naked. I mean, I would have to be. Totally. I couldn’t, instead of jewellery have a scarf or something. It’s just...’

‘Sorry.’ And he was. It wasn’t easy for even the most seasoned model to lie there so exposed to him and even though his other models had been enthusiastic about the project they had still found posing difficult, embarrassment covered in a multitude of ways, by jokes, by attempted seduction, by detachment.

‘That’s okay.’

It didn’t seem okay; her hands were twisting together in an attempt to hide a slight shake.

‘The last thing is probably the most important. If you model then I need you to think about sex. What it means to you, good and bad. I need you to think about that the whole time I paint you. I know that’s an odd request but it’s the theme of the paintings and it needs to show in your eyes, on your face. If it helps I can play any music you want, audiobooks, relaxation tapes—whatever makes you comfortable.’

It was odd, he’d had this conversation many times before and he had never felt so like some kind of libertine before. Every other model had known exactly why she was there, had volunteered for this. It was business, not personal.

But this time it felt horribly personal and he had no idea why.

‘Think about sex?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘It might be.’ Her colour was even higher, rivalling the red of the chaise. ‘You see, I haven’t actually...I don’t...I’m not...what I’m trying to say is...’ she swallowed ‘...I’m a virgin. So I don’t think I can lie there and think about something I know nothing about. Do you?’