Читать книгу Enchanting Melody - Robyn Amos - Страница 8

“Funny, but you don’t strike me as the wall-flower type.”

Will snapped out of his reverie to find himself the target of an unabashed feminine once-over. Standing only five foot five in her glittering three-inch pink pumps, his appraiser craned her neck to take in his full length.

Parkview’s club floor lounge was teeming with trendy singles that Friday night, but all Will could think about was the Knicks game he was missing. His new wide-screen TV had been delivered earlier that week. At that moment, he should have been watching the Knicks clobber the Bulls in high definition.

Abby, the planning-committee chair—hoppedup on a latte—had cornered him at the gym again this morning. She wouldn’t let him get back to the stair-climber until he’d agreed to attend the mixer.

“Wallflower.” The word tasted flat in his mouth. “Is that what I am?” he asked the beautiful young woman.

“You’ve been nursing that same drink since you got here, and you’re holding up this wall as though the roof were caving in. So, yes, you’re behaving like a wallflower.” She sipped from the flared lip of her Cosmopolitan glass. “Is that really how you planned to spend this evening?” she asked with a sidelong glance.

He’d planned to spend the evening with the Knicks, but it was too late for that now. In that instant, Will made up his mind to make the best of the situation. His brother had been right—he needed to start living the lifestyle he’d worked so hard to afford.

He followed his new friend to the bar where he discovered her name was Valencia. As he bought her Cosmopolitans, she regaled him with her escapades as an interior designer for several big-name celebrities. He listened, smiled, flirted mildly and even took her number when she offered it.

As Will rode the elevator down to his apartment, he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

He tried to brush the feeling away as he entered his apartment. Valencia was just what he needed right when he needed it—a professional woman who shared his tastes and desires. She was beautiful and petite with smooth dark skin and a trendy haircut. Just his type.

So why did he feel so…disinterested?

Dropping Valencia’s card on the coffee table, Will grabbed his remote. There was still time to catch the end of the game. He stared blindly at the screen until his gaze drifted back to the phone number scrawled across the top of the card. On some strange level he felt as though he should have been with Melody.

But that was ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything wrong. They weren’t even dating. Yet, his mind finished silently.

Did taking her out for an extended dance lesson qualify as a date?

Will wasn’t sure, but it surprised him how much he was looking forward to finding out.

Melody threw down her pencil in frustration and pushed away from her art board. She was supposed to be finishing the panels that introduced the Ambassador story line. Instead she kept absently sketching the angles in Will Coleman’s face.

His face was handsome in all the conventional ways, but that wasn’t what stirred her artist’s fascination. It was the war going on behind his eyes.

He had the makings of a comic-book hero—boy-next-door good looks with a little something extra. The hint of a secret identity, maybe? With her pencil, she darkened his brow into a brooding look. The eyes always showed the strain of a double life.

Snatching the sketches of Will from her drawing board, she shoved them into a drawer. She was projecting qualities on to him that didn’t exist. Will wasn’t a superhero—no matter how perfect she made him out to be.

And she didn’t have time to waste inventing new comic-book characters. She’d gotten up early that morning to get some work done before her house became overrun with wedding paraphernalia. Stephanie had begged her to let them use her apartment to address wedding invitations.

Melody had just started to get a rough outline of the Ambassador’s first panel when she heard the doorbell ring.

Her heartbeat sped up as she crossed the room to get the door. “Bass,” she said, feeling both relief and disappointment. “What are you doing here? My sister will be here any minute with her bridesmaids.”

Bass leaned against the doorjamb, clutching his skateboard and a bag from CompuCity. “And good morning to you, too. I stopped by to check out the first draft of the Ambassador sketches. You said they’d be done this weekend.”

Embarrassed at her lack of progress, Melody continued to block the entrance. “Since when do you get out of bed before noon on a Saturday?”

“It was an emergency. My motherboard blew up right in the middle of a Web site redesign.” Bass looked over his shoulder to survey the empty hallway. “So what brings Bridezilla and her merry minions to your humble abode?”

“Stephanie’s apartment is being painted and my mother—the etiquette Nazi—claims the Rush name will be dead in New York if we don’t mail the invitations Monday. So you stand at the gateway to wedding hell.”

“What about one of the other bridesmaids? Don’t they have apartments?”

“I’m the maid of honor.” She hung her head in mock sorrow. “It’s my cross to bear.”

“Well, this won’t take long.” He tried to look past her into the loft. “Show me the sketches and I’ll be out of here before they arrive.”

“Actually…” She grabbed his arm, pulled him into the room and slammed the door behind him. “Now that you’re here, you should stick around and keep me sane. In a few minutes this place will be filled to the rafters with fancy stationery and ribbons.”

Bass stumbled backward into the closed door. “Thanks, but I think I’d rather get a root canal from my blind uncle Harry.”

Before Melody could respond, the doorbell rang again. “Too late. They’re here and you can’t escape.”

“No way, you couldn’t pay me—”

Melody opened the door and Bass lost the ability to speak. Two statuesque models preceded Stephanie into the apartment. He promptly flopped onto the sofa and crossed his ankles on the black trunk used as a coffee table.

“Where should I put these?” Stephanie huffed as she held out two large shopping bags filled with boxes.

“Over there.” Mel pointed to the large wooden craft table that doubled as her dining table. The varnish was long gone and it was stained, paint-splattered and grooved, but she loved it more with each new flaw.

Melody was about to shut the door when she heard the elevator yawn open at the end of the hall. Out of habit, she stuck her head out to see who’d gotten off. Her breath caught. It took all her strength not to jump back into her apartment and slam the door.

Swallowing, Melody wiggled her fingers in a halfhearted wave and turned to her sister with gritted teeth. “You did not tell me Mother was coming to this thing.”

Her sister at least had the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t? I thought you knew she was bringing Vicky.”

Dutifully, Melody waited by the door to greet her mother who flung her arms wide and brushed right past her. “There’s the bride,” she cried as she flitted across the room to envelop Stephanie.

Mel’s gaze connected with her youngest sister Vicky’s. They both rolled their eyes and shared a private smile. Reaching out, Melody wrapped an arm around her sister’s neck and tugged her into a tight hug.

At seventeen, Vicky was turning into a real beauty. She’d recently decided that she wanted to grow her hair to her waist like Melody’s. It currently hung just past her shoulders, and Mel was certain her baby sister would tire of the idea before it could get as far as her back.

Vicky was heavily influenced by both of her older sisters—a bit of a tomboy like Mel, with a knack for shopping like Stephanie. And, of course, she carried the full weight of their mother’s expectations on her shoulders.

All Rush women had been groomed to be role models in the African-American community. Beverly Rush presided over any and every minority-related organization or charity in the tri-state area. For her, image was everything, and today was no exception. She was the picture of elegance in her pearl-gray pantsuit, which perfectly complemented the silvery strands in her stylish bob.

Later, as the girls were all perched around Mel’s big art table addressing envelopes by hand because her sister insisted on the “personal” touch, Melody knew this was one area in which she excelled.

Having paid her dues hand-lettering comic books, Mel was confident her penmanship was beyond reproach. She addressed her first envelope in calligraphy, underscoring the last line with an elegant flourish. “How’s that, Stephanie?”

“Oh, Melody, that’s fabulous. If we didn’t have nearly five hundred to do, I’d ask you to do all the invitations. Doesn’t that look great, Mother?”

Melody winced instinctively, but couldn’t resist sliding her gaze in her mother’s direction. Beverly Rush got up and circled the table to stand behind her—Mel presumed to study the envelope up close.

Instead, Beverly grabbed a handful of Melody’s ponytail and wrapped it around her hand. “You are going to cut this for the wedding, aren’t you? It would take Francisco hours to force all that hair into a bun. You don’t want to take time away from the bride on her wedding day.”

Vicky gasped and Stephanie shouted, “Mother, stop it! I’d rather die than ask Mel to cut her hair for my wedding.”

Her mother released Melody’s hair and returned to her seat. “Well, Francisco is a genius. I’m sure he’ll think of something.”

Melody gripped the edge of the table. Two more months. She only had to endure this for two more months.

Bass came from the kitchen with the hors d’oeuvres she’d prepared. He passed finger sandwiches like a white-gloved waiter instead of a Web designer wearing black fingernail polish. He lingered beside Lana, the Nordic blonde, who took two sandwiches, much to everyone’s surprise.

Melody suspected that Lana had a crush on Bass despite the disapproval of the other model, Jessica. Earlier she’d heard Lana remark to Jess that Bass resembled rocker Dave Navarro.

Beverly picked up a sandwich and sniffed it. Sensing the forthcoming snide remark, Melody cried out, “Don’t eat them, Mother. They’re loaded with carbs.”

Both models dropped the sandwiches like poison. “They’re not low-carb?”

As Will guided Melody into the Franklin Hotel, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Melody Rush was proving to be anything but predictable. Part of him had thought she would show up in army boots and a black shroud. Instead, she came to class in a brown broomstick skirt, black silk peasant blouse and slinky gold sandals. Her long tresses had been braided into three sections and then wrapped into a knot on top of her head.

She didn’t exactly blend in, but a sore thumb she wasn’t. It wasn’t her attire, but her mood that was most surprising. In the short time he’d known her, he’d never seen Melody so quiet. This entire evening had probably been a mistake. What had he been thinking bringing Melody so far out of her element?

“Are you okay?” he asked as they rode the elevator down to the ballroom. “You’ve been quiet ever since we got into the cab. If you’re not up for this, we can—”

“No, I’m fine. I’m sure this will be fine.”

But, to Will, she looked anything but fine.

They entered the ballroom where it was already starting to get crowded. Several couples glided around the room as the live band played a waltz.

Fearing that Melody would panic and bolt, Will kept his hand firmly on her back. The trouble was, the feel of her back, warm to his touch through the thin silk of her top had him wishing they were in a room that wasn’t quite so public.