Читать книгу The Bridal Chronicles - Lissa Manley, Lissa Manley - Страница 12

After she met Ryan at the Beacon and signed the release, Anna had her long-awaited meeting with Mr. Lewis, the president of Perfect Bridal. He’d seemed impressed with her designs, but admitted he was concerned about her lack of design credentials and virtually unknown name. She left the meeting with his promise to contact her in a few days when he’d made a decision about which designer he would feature exclusively in his stores.

Feeling deflated, and a bit desperate, she’d headed back to her hotel, thankful the meeting hadn’t been a total disaster. Mr. Lewis hadn’t recognized her, something she always worried about when she wasn’t able to wear her disguise during business meetings.

As she’d driven to her hotel after dropping her soiled wedding gown at the dry cleaners, she had decided that the decision she’d made to sign the release and let the picture go to print had been the right one, for both her and Ryan. If Mr. Lewis saw the picture in print, he might view her as more established and be more inclined to choose her designs. Ryan’s charity would benefit. It seemed like a win-win situation.

The next day, she spent most of her time in her hotel room, working a new design that featured lots of taffeta and delicate Italian lace, then munching on the healthiest snacks she could find in the hotel vending machine. As she worked, concentrating on the square neckline and bell-shaped sleeves, she ignored thoughts of Ryan clamoring through her brain, absolutely determined not to remember how his hair had looked like dark honey in the sunlight. How his tux had hugged his well-honed physique. How his electric-blue eyes had zeroed in on her, making her pulse speed up.

She drummed her drawing pencil on the table, her lip clamped between her teeth, looking at her sketch. She raised a brow. The clean lines, defined by the taffeta skirt, looked right, and the overall medieval look appealed to her, but the empire waist and the dimensions of the neckline, which she’d been working on for an hour, were off.

Frustrated, she tore off the page to expose a clean sheet of paper. Blue eyes appeared in her brain…

Darn. Why was she unable to get Ryan out of her mind?

She dropped the pencil and fidgeted. She then scraped her thumbnail clean of the French manicure nail polish that she’d painstakingly applied last night while watching old Brady Bunch reruns on TV, fantasizing about growing up in the Brady’s normal—or her skewed perception of normal—household.

Her phone rang and she jumped. Ryan? Eyeing the phone, she chided herself for thinking he had any reason to call her and snatched the handset up. “Hello?”

“Miss Simpson?”

“Yes?”

“This is the concierge desk. Pierre’s Dry Cleaning is here to deliver your cleaning, but there’s a bit of a problem. Would you mind coming down to clear this up?”

She breathed a sigh of relief that it wasn’t Ryan, only to suffer a spurt of anxiety over the wedding dress. “I’ll be right down.”

A few minutes later, she hurried across the lobby to the concierge desk. The dress was one of only a few she’d brought with her. It was made of lots of delicate satin, fragile lace and intricate beadwork, and the matching veil was fragile, as well. She fervently hoped the dry cleaners hadn’t ruined or misplaced it. “I’m Miss Simpson. You have my dry cleaning?”

The older, gray-haired man behind the desk smiled. “Ah, yes, miss. Thank you for coming down.” He held up the large dry cleaning parcel, then pointed to the receipt. “As you can see, the receipt from Pierre’s clearly stated you had left two items, yet only one item was returned.”

She nodded, frowning slightly. “Yes, I did leave two items.” She unzipped the heavy plastic garment bag. “A dress and a veil.” She carefully moved the bead-encrusted dress aside and let out a breath when she spied the spidery veil tucked inside. “And they’re both here.”

“Ah, good. Just wanted to be sure.” He motioned for a young man, presumably from Pierre’s, to come forward. “Everything is in order.”

The short, blond young man looked at her, squinted, then pointed to her face. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you from Philly?” He cocked his head to the side and squinted. “Aren’t you some rich dude’s daughter? I used to live there, and my girlfriend cut out newspaper pictures of you and taped them all over the place, trying to get her hair to look like yours.” He shook his head, smiling appreciatively. “Man, she never even came close. Didn’t you used to be a brunette?”

A chill skipped up Anna’s spine. She reached up to her head. Darn. She’d left her room in such a hurry she’d forgotten her hat and glasses.

He continued staring, then snapped his fingers. “Anna Sinclair, right?”

Her stomach twisted into a panic-induced knot, she ducked her head, grabbed her dry cleaning and mumbled, “Must be somebody else.” She took off at a sharp clip across the lobby, wondering how she could have been so stupid as to forget her hat and glasses.

One quick trip to the lobby without her disguise and some dry cleaner deliveryman had recognized her. Granted, he was from Philadelphia, and she was much less well-known here in Oregon. But his recognizing her still bothered her.

While she waited for the elevator, chewing on her lip in the unladylike way her father hated, one thought blazed through her brain. She absolutely couldn’t afford to risk her identity and a chance to realize her dream, as Anna Simpson, by allowing the picture of her and Ryan go to print, even if Mr. Lewis might view the extra publicity as positive.

Even if she felt incredibly bad that she couldn’t help Ryan’s charity.

Oh, how she wished she’d put this all together before she foolishly agreed to fill in for the missing model.