Читать книгу Choose Me - Jo Leigh - Страница 10

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