Читать книгу Playing Her Cards Right - Jo Leigh - Страница 17

THE STYLIST, SVETA BREVDA, was tall and manic and thin as a whippet, and she wielded her opinions with an iron fist. The first stop—at Dior!—taught Bree to strip quickly, stand straight and keep her mouth shut.

She’d stopped being self-conscious about being naked by store seven. Didn’t matter who was in the dressing room. Salespeople. Friends of salespeople, men, women.

For all she knew the pizza delivery guy was standing by the exit, nodding as he studied her slipping into a skintight dress with absolutely nothing beneath it as if he were picking out curtains. But the clothes were …

Bree had lost her adjectives. That’s how fantastic the clothes were. And the accessories? Good Lord, she’d died and gone to heaven. Even though the shoes tortured her feet, she couldn’t breathe in the two dresses that were honestly a size too small, and she was turned and bent and paraded around like a show pony, but the torture was totally worth it because she got to keep everything.

Even the bit where the silver-haired dresser from Prada stuck his hand down her bodice and lifted her bare breasts. Now there was a blog entry.

All this done at the speed of a montage: cabs were hailed seconds before they stepped out doors, clothing selections were made preternaturally and perfectly, and she finally understood the worth of a good stylist.

The only thing missing was Charlie. She kept wanting to tell him things, to see his reaction, to feel his hand on the small of her back, but he was working, and she was, as well. Only this work made her feel like a model—despite the fact that every article of clothing had to be shortened—and like a prom queen. But mostly like someone had made a mistake that would be corrected momentarily.

Charlie wasn’t the kind to make mistakes of this magnitude. Yet it would have been better if she could have talked to him. She’d texted in cabs—the only time she’d been able to—but he was in a meeting, so his response would have to wait.

CHARLIE HAD TO WORK TO KEEP his expression mild, to speak as if his parents dropping by wasn’t something unwelcome and entirely too coincidental given his talk with Rebecca last night. He’d always liked Rebecca so much. She’d been his ally, his cover, his friend. Her betrayal hit hard and low. Shit.

“We’re not here to take up much of your time, Charles,” his father said, his gaze scrutinizing the living room. He—both his parents—were busy cataloging every change, the new lamps, the slate that had replaced the bricks around the fireplace. They’d only been to his place a few times over the years. He preferred meeting in neutral territory, although he went to family gatherings, typically one per year, wherever it was being held. He didn’t shut his parents out completely.

“You’ve undoubtedly seen that Andrew is starting his campaign in earnest,” his father said, his voice modulated and soft. That had been one of the earliest Winslow lessons. Speak softly. Make them listen. “We’re very pleased with the endorsements he has now, but the committee is budgeting media advertising, and naturally, your blog group has come up.”

So it hadn’t been Rebecca. Charlie didn’t acknowledge his father’s remarks. Another lesson he’d learned at his father’s knee. Never give anything away, not in expression, in tone, or in posture.

The Winslows were the quintessential image of subdued elegance. Nothing his parents wore was ostentatious, but everything was meticulously selected to evoke their status. The most expensive watches, Italian handcrafted shoes, tailoring from the finest hands in several countries.

His parents commanded respect, and made everyone who wasn’t family feel small and insignificant. Polite to the extreme. They radiated power and privilege.

Christ, what they had tried to do to him. He was sure they wouldn’t mention that it should have been his campaign, if only he’d not been so rebellious.

“We would very much like to utilize the family connection in the two most appropriate blogs, Dollars and NYPolitic.”

“No,” Charlie said. “I’m not going to promote the family agenda on my blogs. It’s inappropriate, given I think Andrew would be a monumentally bad choice for the senate.”

His phone buzzed again, and he took it out of his pocket to find another text message from Bree. He couldn’t read it now.

“We’re not asking for a change of editorial direction or for you to give your personal endorsement,” his mother said. “Simply space for featured ads. It would mean significant revenue.”

He stared at his mother, knowing she was irked that he hadn’t offered them drinks. It was only polite, the right thing to do, even for uninvited guests. In her home, nothing of the sort would have ever happened.

He smiled as he looked around. This was his home.

ON MADISON AVENUE, BREE and her posse stopped again, this time for shoes. Or maybe a bag, she wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t help that Sveta’s accent—she was from Belarus—was nearly unintelligible. Bree mostly nodded and tried to keep up and not prostrate herself at the temples of fashion—Versace, Chanel, Anna Sui. Those were the kind of stores that only had a few items artfully displayed in minimalist snobbery. Where excellent champagne was served by stunning hostesses who knew every detail of the design and manufacture of the clothing on display. The music was always … interesting. Nothing you’d hear on Top Ten radio, because you could get that at the New Jersey malls.

The price tags made her hyperventilate. And even though the selections for her weren’t the top-of-the-top-of-the-line, they were still extravagantly outlandish. Truly, she was in another world, someone else’s life. Charlie’s world. As she snapped another photograph of herself in a pair of heels that would likely cripple her after five steps, she reminded herself that she was a visitor. A tourist. Nothing more.

CHARLIE’S FATHER STOOD and even he couldn’t control the way his rising blood pressure reddened his face. “Andrew is family, Charles. He’s a Winslow. We’ve allowed you to set your own course, have your fun, but this is our legacy you’re tampering with. I won’t have it.”

Charlie moved closer to the door, to the closet where he’d hung their coats. “Huh. It’s good to know some things don’t change. You continue to hold on to the ludicrous belief that you have any influence over me or my life. It’s nice having our own traditions.”

“Charles,” his mother said, as affronted as his father, but less flushed. “That’s enough. We are your parents.”

He approached them and held out his mother’s coat. “Thanks for dropping by. I hope you had a nice vacation in St. Barts.”

She looked at his father who took both coats from Charlie. He didn’t quite rip them out of his son’s hands. But it was close.

“This will be remembered, Charles,” his father said.

“I hope so.” Charlie led them to the door. When it was closed behind them, he was still buzzing with anger. He needed to cool down, get Zen about the visit, about the message. He wished Bree were here.

He’d never mentioned his parents to Bree, hadn’t asked about hers. They weren’t friends. Yeah, he was comfortable with her. Okay, that didn’t happen much anymore. But no. He wasn’t going to talk to Bree about his parental issues. Jesus.

He pulled out his cell phone, and clicked on the earliest of her text messages. He was grinning by the time he got to his office.

FINALLY, THEY HAD MORE THAN enough clothing to get her through at least a week of parties. The most extravagant was the Marchesa gown for the Courtesan premiere. The evening dress, pinned to fit her body by a bevy of seamstresses, was so out of her league it hurt.

It was almost eight by the time the cab arrived at Charlie’s. Sveta didn’t need to announce herself. The staff at the front desk nodded respectfully as the doormen helped bring in bag upon bag upon box. Bree rested against the mirrored wall of the elevator, then took a few deep breaths before they entered Charlie’s home. Her gaze went immediately to the hallway leading to his bedroom, and the reality of their new arrangement made her ache. Then he stepped into the atrium, and everything else became background noise.

He smiled widely when their eyes met. She shivered as he came closer, knowing he would touch her, and that she was allowed to touch him back, even in front of Sveta and the doormen. Such a mixed blessing. She could touch, but not have.

Bree didn’t regret her decision about keeping the relationship out of the bedroom. It was the right decision, the mature way to go. It also completely sucked. “This is too much,” she said, as she looked into Charlie’s dark eyes. His hands went to her upper arms, and his palms ghosted across her skin down to her wrists and back up again. He kissed her, on the lips, yes, but the moment there was a hint of heat, he backed off. She wondered whom he’d kissed her for. Sveta? The rest of the team? Had to be.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s part of the gig.”

“Charlie, I saw the price tags.”

He smiled. “Most everything was free.”

“Nothing’s free. I know it’s barter, but I’m not even famous.”

“You will be.”

“In a week? I doubt it.”

He walked her farther into his apartment as Sveta led the doormen down a hallway, her heels clicking so quickly Bree wondered if it would be rude to suggest a switch to decaf. “You won’t be on the cover of People,” Charlie said, “but you’re going to be known in the city, where it matters.”

He paused, his palm warm on her skin. When he spoke again, his voice tightened along with his fingers. “You’re with a Winslow now, and the Winslows are the very heart of power in this city, didn’t you know?”

Bree stopped. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she felt uncomfortable. What had happened during his meeting? He’d brushed aside her questions, told her everything was fine, but that clearly wasn’t the case.

“Each item of clothing is going to get a lot of mileage in the blogs,” he said, letting her go. His voice had changed back to something less strident, more like Charlie. “In addition to your sidebars, I’ve got some fashion insiders who’ll be plugging them for weeks to come. I guarantee there will be ready-to-wear versions in Macy’s by April.”

Bree forced a smile even though she knew he was upset, that this last speech was him getting his bearings again. But she had no right to ask him to be honest with her, to tell her a single thing about his private life. “I’ve already worked up a quick first draft of what it was like to be fitted by a big-league design team.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

Sveta’s clicking heels announced her entry into the living room. “You come dress now.”

Bree checked with Charlie.

“It’s a media room. Used for these kind of things.”

“You style up all your women?”

His lips parted, but Bree hurried to follow Sveta, not wanting to know his answer.

The room itself gave it away, though. There were mirrors, hair and makeup stations, clothing racks. A lot of those racks held men’s clothes, but there were women’s, as well, all stunning. In a shocking nod to propriety, there was a changing screen in a corner. There were also people. Five people—one of them was a photographer she’d seen at the Mercedes party. His assistant was fussing with lights. Off to the side were giant rolls of backdrops, like bolts of material, ready to be swung into place for any kind of photograph.

There was even a sewing machine in one corner, which Bree longed to check out. It was most probably the Ferrari of sewing machines and would make her so jealous she would weep for a week.

“Change,” Sveta said, holding up the purple jacquard V-neck dress they’d picked up from the Victoria Beckham collection.

Bree obeyed, as if she’d dare do anything else. It was a matter of moments to slip out of her office wear into the magnificent cocktail dress, especially because her only undergarment was her own bargain basement thong. Beige on purpose.

The moment she stepped from behind the screen, she was covered in a smock, sat in a chair and set upon by far too many hands touching her hair, her face, her fingernails. The lights made everything more intense, hotter, scarier, and when someone said open, she opened her mouth, and someone else tugged her hair so she would bend her neck just so.

Her personal space had never been so invaded. The scent of many breaths and colognes went from cloying to unpleasantly sticky, and if this didn’t end soon, she was going to have to do something, stop them somehow.

“Hey.”

Charlie’s voice cut through, and in two, three heartbeats, those things that had been touching her, brushes, fingers, nail file, eyelash curler, pulled back. Bree sighed with relief, saw that she was gripping the armrests of the makeup chair so tightly with her unpolished hand her knuckles were white.

She watched him in the mirror, felt his hand on her shoulder.

“I didn’t even ask,” he said. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“I had lunch.”

“That was what, eight, nine hours ago?”

“About.”

His eyes narrowed in the mirror and he turned to face Sveta. “How long until she’s ready?”

“Five minutes. Nails on her left hand. Mascara. Lipstick.”

“Hold off on the lipstick. Finish the rest. I imagine you haven’t eaten, either. No, don’t look at me like that, you have to eat something. There’s a spread in the kitchen. Enough for everyone.”

Before he looked back at Bree, he squeezed her shoulder and smiled. “It’s not drippy stuff, but I’d keep the smock on, anyway. Just in case. We can talk about tonight’s shindig while we eat.”

She nodded. Calmly. Touched by his consideration. She hadn’t realized her panic was hunger. Mostly hunger.

Unable to turn, she was still able to watch him as he went to the men’s suit rack, grabbed one from the middle and went out. At the doorway, he turned and winked at her.

Before she could even smile, her hand was grabbed and the camera clicked and clicked and clicked.

THE BEST PART OF THE evening postshow was Bree, but even she hadn’t been distracting enough to prevent Charlie from thinking about his parents. He’d put a call in to Rebecca, but it hadn’t been returned, and his thoughts just kept circling back to this afternoon. How dare they think he was so spineless he’d cross the line into promoting the Winslow agenda on his blogs. God damn, that pissed him off.

He looked up as a Pyramid Club waiter came by with vodka shots. He’d done it again, let his attention wander, although at this point, there wasn’t much more to be seen. Bree was standing against the black brick wall, looking beautiful in her purple dress, in her impossible heels, surrounded by newshounds and fame seekers.

He’d warned her it would happen. This morning’s blog insured that Bree was now on the B-list, which could stand for “by association.” He had the feeling it wouldn’t take her long to stand on her own, though.

Most of the real celebs were huddled outside in the smoking zone, freezing their asses off while they dished about everyone inside, and he should go join them, at least for the few minutes he could put up with the fumes. But Bree was far more enticing.

She held up her glass of pineapple juice, but it was her shining smile that told him he’d made the right choice.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asked after he’d dodged drinks and drunks to get to her.

“Dizzy with it,” she said. Shouted. The noise level at these things was going to make him deaf before he was forty.

“It’s late. We should go soon.”

“Whenever you like.”

It wasn’t actually that late. Just past midnight. But she had work in the morning, her sidebar to write. And he wanted some time with her where they weren’t talking about who to schmooze, who to avoid. He held out his hand.

Cameras flashed as they went toward the exit. It wasn’t a surprise that they were stopped several times, but it didn’t take long to get the limo.

Once inside, he slid to the corner and waited for her to scoot next to him. Instead, she pressed up against the other door. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You look … chilly.”

“No,” she said, tugging down her skirt, avoiding his eyes. “I’m good. Maybe you could call ahead to your building, give them an ETA for a taxi?”

“We’ll take you home.”

“I have my clothes at your place.”

“You’re wearing your clothes.”

She looked at him. “Right. I forgot.”

He moved closer to her, concerned. “What’s going on, Bree?”

She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“What?”

“You’ve been jumpy all evening. I admit I haven’t seen you at many events, but when I have you’ve seemed like the most relaxed person in the room. Not tonight. Actually, I felt as though something was off at your place.”

He shifted away from her, not one hundred percent comfortable that there was someone else who could read him. There weren’t many. Naomi. Rebecca. His college roommate. Charlie liked it that way. It had taken him a long time to cultivate the image he needed for the job, and Bree from Somewhere, Ohio, had already pierced his carefully crafted exterior in more ways than he cared to think about. He considered changing the subject for the rest of the ride home, making it clear she’d crossed a firm boundary.

Instead, he met her gaze. “My folks came by today.”

She certainly looked startled by his admission. She wasn’t the only one. He barely knew this woman. And yet … “They’ve wanted me to go into politics,” he said. “Ever since I was in high school.”

“Really?”

“The Winslows have had political influence throughout the generations. It was time to prepare a new senator from New York. Long-term planners, my family.”

“Obviously you weren’t enthused about the prospect?”

“No. I wasn’t. It didn’t matter to them, though. I was taught from an early age that we had an obligation to do public service. That our privileged life meant we had to dedicate ourselves to a larger cause, that what we wanted was immaterial. Which sounds great in theory, noble and philanthropic. But it had more to do with keeping the family in the top tier of society than philanthropy. My destiny was supposed to include law school, the Harvard Law Review, a prestigious firm, municipal office, a seat in congress, then the Senate. Carrying the standard of the Winslow heritage.”

“Wow, I can’t see you as a lawyer. Forget a politician.”

His smile was wry. “And what, you’ve known me for a week? What does that tell you about my family?” He stared out the window for a beat. This true confession business felt as awkward as wearing someone else’s clothes. “Not that I don’t believe in public service, I do. I take that seriously.” He faced her again. “What I didn’t want was to live a lie.”

“So you decided to become an internet mogul?”

“Sort of,” he said, aware his automatic half grin said more than most of his conversations with women he’d slept with. “I didn’t expect the blogs would become this big. Not complaining. I was in the right place at the right time. I wanted to be independent.”

“It’s worked. You are. And quite successfully.”

“Yes. It’s worked. It’ll continue to work.” He studied his hands. He was the one who was supposed to unsettle his companions. He was very good at it, and Bree wasn’t even trying, so whatever this was, it wasn’t a power game. No, he had opened another door for her. Game changers, these exceptions. It made him nervous.

Allowing his parents to rattle him was frankly embarrassing. They didn’t for the most part. He’d just been caught off guard, that’s all. But telling Bree about it? Jesus.

“So their visit was uncomfortable?”

He reached over and took Bree’s hand in his. She was cold, dammit. “It was brief,” he said. “I made my point. Have I said how beautiful you look tonight?”

She stared at him, at their hands, then back at him. “Yes, several times. Thank you.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

She sighed as she tugged her hand free. “It’s not that I don’t want to …”

He nodded, leaned back. Incredibly tired all of a sudden. Maybe he was coming down with something.