Читать книгу The Personal Touch - Lori Borrill - Страница 13

CLINT OPENED the door wearing flip-flops, tan cargo pants and a Hawaiian shirt, which on further inspection, had barely conspicuous UCLA emblems printed among the palm fronds. It was classic California weekend attire, but coupled with his good looks and perpetual aura of wealth, he looked less like a typical beach bum and more like a guy who’d just spent the weekend kicking back with Jimmy Buffett.

He scanned her over and flashed that million-dollar smile. “You look beautiful.”

It was a compliment he’d probably tossed to dozens of women at his door, but she still couldn’t help the giddy thrill. As if the cutest boy in class had finally turned his attention to the studious bookworm parked next to the teacher’s desk.

She shook it off and reminded herself that this was a business meeting. It would be bad enough having to fake her way through this night; she didn’t need to get carried away with the idea this was a real date.

Because when she stepped through the door and into the foyer, she realized how ridiculous that notion was.

She’d been surprised when pulling up to the address. From the front, the house looked like a simple mid-century modern with nice but modest landscaping. But when he opened the door and she crossed the threshold, she realized the facade was only a portal to a level of extravagance she’d never witnessed without having to pay for the tour.

Immediately upon entering, her eye was drawn through a vast great room to the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that showcased a spectacular view of the city. To her right, a soaring stone fireplace made the backdrop for a print that was unmistakably Warhol, and she didn’t even want to get a closer look at the Picassoish looking piece that centered the ebony wood dining table.

“I hope you like steak,” he said. “Carmen said you weren’t a vegetarian.”

“No,” she replied absently. “Steaks are fine.”

She counted three separate seating areas, each adorned with sleek modern furniture that would have made Alan drool. Heywood-Wakefield, Eames, Knoll, all the classics were here as well as the contemporaries responsible for reviving the minimalist, modern style of the 1950s and 1960s. The colors were bright, the layout meticulously arranged so as not to compete with the showcase of the room, which was the view of West Hollywood.

Margot had always had an interest in design and had even taken some courses in college. And though this particular style was far more Alan’s taste than her own, she couldn’t help but appreciate what she’d walked into—not to mention the amount of money in the room.

She tried not to gawk, knowing that to pass herself off as one of Clint’s real dates she’d have to eventually close her mouth and push her eyes back in their sockets. But it was hard. She’d known the man was rich, but even Alan’s friends—the bulk of whom came from big money—didn’t hold a candle to this.

“Did you have trouble finding the place?” Clint asked.

Her gaze went to an oversized glass mobile that reflected prisms of colored light onto a stark white wall. “I just followed the cast of Cribs.”

Clint laughed. “I doubt MTV would be interested in me.”

His modesty was cute, but it didn’t keep her from feeling insignificant and entirely out of place. Having spent the bulk of her life in military housing, she couldn’t imagine living somewhere like this. She doubted she’d ever get past the sensation that some day the real owners would come home from their villa on the Riviera and wonder what the hell she was doing in their house.

And she was expected to pretend she was actually dating this man?

He led her through the room, and when she got closer to the Warhol, she had to ask.

“That’s real, isn’t it?”

She didn’t know how she could tell. Maybe only because it had a different look from the Warhol prints she’d seen at the local poster shops.

He shrugged. “I like art,” he said, making her feel even more like a wide-eyed social misfit.

She had the fleeting fear this was all a big mistake. There was no way Clint’s mother would believe he’d actually date a woman like her. Not that Margot walked around with an inferiority complex. She was simply a realist. She’d been around L.A. long enough to know that guys like Clint didn’t go for regular working girls who barely knew the difference between Gucci and Prada, who wouldn’t consider shooting up Botox or shoving silicone in their boobs, and were revolted by the thought of intentionally throwing up a perfectly good meal.

It just didn’t happen. Which meant not only did she have to convince his mother to use her services, she had to do it all while selling the notion that she actually belonged in a place like this.

Suddenly, five times her regular fee seemed like a pretty reasonable deal.

“My mom’s on the terrace. Come on out and I’ll fix you a drink.”

He must have noticed that she needed one, and once again, she had to mentally pull herself together. Her father hadn’t raised her to freeze up with fear. On the contrary, he’d spent most of her life preaching that in his line of work, fear got you a bullet through the head. He used to say that if a kid could overcome fear in the jungle of Vietnam, she could overcome anything the streets of America could throw at her.

She stood for a moment and imagined him in the room with her, urging her along, even though in reality he was probably in his underwear, tipping back a Budweiser watching FutureWeapons reruns on the Military Channel. But still, it calmed her, and she managed to cross the room and step onto the back terrace without ogling anything else.