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“I remember you saying a bunch of stuff. I don’t remember me saying anything at all. Most particularly that I wanted to participate in such nonsense.”
“Oh, but you do, Isobel, whether you want to admit it now or not. Think of the tremendous challenge involved. I know you love the idea, deep down. Admit it!”
Isobel crossed her arms and shook her head. Vehemently.
“Don’t you see? Dustin Fairfax would be a test of your true strength as an image consultant.” Camille raised her hands to emphasize the mental marquee board. “I mean, they make gorgeous hunks into ugly bums all the time in the movies. Don’t you think you could do the opposite for one poor man who needs what only your special brand of fashion sense can bring to him? He’ll be a new man!”
Isobel admitted—in her heart, anyway—that she was intrigued, despite every bone of sense in her body screaming to the contrary. Something about the whole setup just didn’t seem right, though she wasn’t sure what was bothering her.
It sounded innocent enough on the outside, but something…
“How old is this man?” she asked after a slight but pregnant pause.
“Dustin?” Camille asked, her eyes gleaming with the victory she sensed was coming.
Isobel was quite aware Camille knew her better than anyone. They’d spent their whole lives together, been best friends forever. Camille would know that once Isobel capitulated in the least, she had her bagged and roasted for sure.
Camille certainly looked like a tiger hunter in full triumph, stripes sighted down her scope.
“Well, I know Addison is thirty-three,” her friend supplied thoughtfully. “And since Dustin is his younger brother, I would guess he’d be about thirty, give or take a year.”
“And what, exactly, is wrong with him?” she asked, feeling as if she ought to be taking notes. “I have to know the truth, here, if you want me to help.”
“Oh, nothing’s wrong with him, really,” Camille exclaimed with a high laugh. “Addison said he’s just—flighty. That’s the word he used.”
Isobel raised one eyebrow. Here, she suspected, was where the roof caved in.
“At least by Addison’s standards, Dustin doesn’t dress very well. He’s not sophisticated. That shouldn’t be a huge challenge for you.”
“He’s not a homeless man or something like that?” Isobel was still cautious. Too much about this story still didn’t mesh. Something was off just a little, though she couldn’t put her finger on just what it was.
She gave Camille a hard, serious stare. “Dustin is aware this is going to happen to him? He has agreed to work with me?”
“He happens to own a small flower store on the 16th Street Mall. Retail, you know? He’s successful, in his own way, I guess, though he’s a long way from the clientele you’re used to working with.”
Camille paused, running her tongue along her bottom lip. “And as for your other question, he hasn’t exactly been told. Yet.”
Isobel opened her mouth to argue but Camille held her hands up to cut her off.
“As soon as you agree, Addison will make sure Dustin knows to expect you. It’s all been arranged, but Addison didn’t want to speak to his brother about it until I’d finalized things with you.”
“What if Dustin says no?”
“He won’t,” Camille said with a firm nod. “He might want to, but he won’t. You see, there’s money riding on this venture. Apparently quite a lot of money.”
“He will get a lot of money if he learns to dress well?” Isobel asked, stymied. “But deep down he really wouldn’t want to do this. Is that what you’re really telling me?”
“It’s complicated,” Camille explained with a patient sigh. “Addison was left to execute his father’s will, and Izzy, the poor man is beside himself, with the situation being what it is. I feel so sorry for him. What a predicament!”
“Go on,” Isobel urged, not at all certain she wanted to hear more.
“Apparently their father was afraid Dustin would squander his inheritance away instead of doing something useful with it. Addison is terribly worried about his brother. I guess he’s kind of stubborn, and he’s definitely his own man. Marches to the beat of his own drummer, so to speak.”
She paused, clasping her hand over her heart in the melodramatic way that was uniquely Camille’s. “Can you imagine the tremendously heavy burden their father left on poor Addison?”
“How so?”
“Addison was named Dustin’s trustee in the will, even though Dustin is a full-grown man. You can imagine how Dustin felt. And Addison certainly didn’t ask for the formidable task of bringing Dustin into line. According to the terms of the will, Dustin has certain obligations to meet—delineated by his father—in order for Addison to release the funds to his brother.”
“He has to learn to dress well?” Isobel asked again, befuddled. “In order to get his hands on his rightful inheritance?”
None of this made the least bit of sense, and Isobel was beginning to feel very much as if she’d stepped into another dimension.
What kind of a man was Dustin, that his father would put such insane demands on him?
One thing she knew for certain—she would balk at such radical and unusual demands being placed upon her. If Dustin were half the independent spirit Camille had described him to be…
Camille laughed. “No, of course not, silly. He has to make a splash in society or something outrageous like that, and of course clothes make the man, right?
“It’s a good start,” Isobel said with a laugh and a shrug. I’d be looking for a little more than that in a man.
Camille giggled. “After I told Addison about you, he thought you’d be the perfect person to bring Dustin around. You, of all people, can guide him in making a true contribution to society. Those are the exact terms of the will. Can you believe it?”
“I see,” Isobel said under her breath, though she wasn’t sure she did. The idea was intriguing, of course; definitely intriguing. The thought of transforming a scalawag of a man into a prince would be a challenge, but it also sounded kind of fun.
“Okay,” she said after only a brief pause to consider the short-and long-term ramifications of her decision. She didn’t want to examine her own motives too closely. “I’ll do it.”
She didn’t ask how much money she would make. She was taking on this project for the challenge, and she trusted Camille that the time she spent would be worth her weight in gold. Literally.
And she was surprised by how excited she was at the prospect of making over the erstwhile Dustin. It had been a long time since she’d done something truly stimulating, and her heart was pounding with anticipation.
“I knew this was something you’d want to do,” Camille squealed, throwing her arms around Isobel’s neck and dancing her around in dizzying circles. “Oh, how wonderful for you!”
“Wonderful for me?” she asked, laughing at her friend’s excited antics. “I thought Dustin was the one to benefit from this deal.”
“Oh, he will,” her friend agreed immediately. “He most definitely will. But won’t it be such fun for you, as well? Admit it. You love the idea. Pygmalion at its best.”
“I suppose the idea has merit,” she agreed. “I do have one condition, however, and I refuse to take on this project unless it is met unconditionally.”
“What’s that?”
“This Dustin guy—he has to go into this experiment with his eyes wide open. If he doesn’t agree to the makeover, if he is not comfortable with the idea of working with me or if he expresses doubts or disinterest, I do not want to move forward with this.” Isobel listed items on her fingers. “The project must all be conducted on the up-and-up, with everything laid out up front for Dustin and for me. No surprises and no reluctant subjects. Do you understand what I’m getting at here?”
“I’ll speak to Addison immediately,” Camille assured her, obviously trying to rein in her high, excited tone and appear more businesslike and reserved. It didn’t fool Isobel for a moment.
Her friend continued, gulping in air to remain calm. “He said he would be the one to speak to Dustin about it and firm up the final details. After that I’ll be able to let you know when and where you two can meet and get the ball rolling toward Dustin’s new look. He’s got to agree. He just has to.” She winked. “Especially when he meets you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isobel squawked, feigning offense and pressing her lips together to keep her smile hidden.
“Why, you’re so pretty you’ll knock his socks off. And then, my dear friend, you can replace them with preppie argyles.”
“Oh, I just love it when I get to play fairy godmother,” Isobel teased, waving an invisible magic wand through the air. “But this sounds just a little too weird to be real.”
Camille laughed and whirled about on her toes like a ballerina. So much for her businesslike demeanor, Isobel thought, smothering her grin. She didn’t know where her friend got all her energy, but she wished just a little of it would rub off on her.
“There’s a first time for everything, Izzy,” Camille said, clapping her hands in anticipation. “And you, my dearest friend in all the world, are going to be the best thing that ever happened to Dustin Fairfax. He won’t even know what hit him.”
Chapter Two
Dustin lifted the drumsticks into the air, adjusting his grip on the wood so he could play the drum set that curved around the stool on which he sat. He closed his eyes and with a flick of one drumstick, adjusted his backward black-and-purple Colorado Rockies cap to keep his curly black hair out of his face.
His music of choice, at the moment, anyway, was a trumpet-licking jazz CD he’d picked up over the weekend. Eclectic was the only way to describe his taste—in music, or in anything else he had a strong opinion about.
The drum set was new—or at least, new to him. A friend who had been a drummer in a high-school band was getting rid of it to make room for a baby crib.
Dustin had grabbed the opportunity and bought the set for a song. He’d never played a percussion instrument in his life, but he figured now was as good a time as any to learn.
It wasn’t the first instrument he would have taught himself to play in his life.
How hard could it be?
He made a couple of tentative taps on the snare drum with his sticks, and then pounded the bass a few times with the foot pedal.
Smiling with satisfaction, he began pounding in earnest, perfect rhythm with the beat of the jazz CD. He didn’t care at the moment whether or not he sounded good. He was only trying to have a good time. Technique would come later, with many strenuous hours of practice, he knew.
He sent a timely prayer to God that the insulation in his house would be sufficient to keep his neighbors from knocking his door down with their complaints about the horrible din.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, someone clamped his hand tightly on Dustin’s shoulder.
Dustin made an instinctive move, standing in a flash, turning and knocking the man’s hand away in one swift motion of his elbow and then crouching to pounce on the unknown intruder.
“Hey, take it easy,” Addison said with a deep, dry laugh Dustin immediately recognized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I tried knocking, but you couldn’t hear me over all that racket. Sounded like the roof was caving in or something.”
Dustin chuckled.
Addison shook his head and laughed in tune with his brother. “The door was open, so I just let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”
Dustin wiped his arm against his forehead, as his hands were still tightly gripping the drumsticks. “Naw. Guess I was pretty distracted, messing with this thing.” He popped a quick beat on the snare drum for emphasis, then clasped both sticks together and jammed them in the back pocket of his jeans.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his suit-clad big brother. “What are you doing here, Addy boy?” he asked in genuine surprise.
Addison rarely visited Dustin’s small house, which was located in Wheatridge, one of the many sprawling suburbs of Denver. In fact, he’d never been there without a direct invitation first.
He had shown little interest in Dustin’s hobbies, or anything else for that matter. They had never been close, even as children. Addison was the jock, and Dustin the artist. It had always been that way.
Addison wasn’t fond of anything artistic, from drama to Monet. Football, baseball, soccer—these had made up Addison’s teenage world.
And Addison had always been the brains in the family, in Dustin’s estimation. As the CEO for a major financial corporation, and an important person in the Denver social scene, Addison didn’t have time to dabble with anything beyond the walls of his chic, downtown penthouse condo and lush corner office. His only interest in the arts as a successful adult was as his business required, and nothing more.
“I’ve come about Dad’s will, Dustin—specifically, the terms of the trust fund,” Addison said tersely and abruptly in the crisp business tone he always used. Dustin sometimes thought Addison hid behind that tone in order to keep his emotions on a back burner. The two brothers certainly weren’t as close as Dustin would have liked, though he put the blame for that more on his father than on Addison.
Dustin clasped his hands behind his back. His father’s will was not something he really wished to discuss, though he knew it was inevitable. It had to be done, and sooner rather than later. Addison was right on that one point, anyway.
Their mother had died when Dustin was fourteen and Addison was sixteen. He remembered her as a sweet, delicate woman who always smiled and always had an eye and an open hand for the poor and needy. She had kept the house full of laughter and singing, and always had a prayer or a song of praise on her lips.
His father, on the other hand, was as cold as stone, a strict disciplinarian who practiced what he preached—that God helped those who helped themselves.
Never mind that that particular “verse” wasn’t really in the Bible.
Addison Fairfax, Sr., had worked long hours establishing the firm Addison Jr. now led and held a majority interest in.
Dustin knew his father had wanted him in the company, as well. Addison Sr. had been bitterly disappointed when, as a young man following his own strong, surging creative impulses, Dustin took a different career path.
To Dustin, being boxed up in an office all day would be like caging a wild beast; and the thought of spending all day crunching numbers—especially anything to do with money—made him shiver.
It was enough just to balance his checkbook every month. That was not the kind of life for him, caged behind a desk with nothing but figures on paper for company.
He wanted to help people, but in another, more creative fashion. One on one, where he could reach out and touch his customers, smile and encourage them to smile back at him.
He pinched his lips together to keep his smile hidden from his brother’s observant gaze. It was an understatement to say that math had never been one of Dustin’s better subjects.
And so now it came down to his father’s last wishes, laid out plainly, literally in black and white. Dustin had been at the formal reading of the will. He knew what it contained, especially in regard to what he was expected to accomplish in order to win the coveted trust fund, which Dustin desperately wanted, but for reasons he would disclose to no one.
At least not yet.
And that was no doubt why Addison was visiting him today. It was up to his big brother, as trustee of the fund in Dustin’s name, to see that Dustin cleaned up, became a pillar of society and made a real contribution to the world in some way not explicitly drawn out in the will, but legal nonetheless.
Dustin knew Addison wasn’t thrilled with the job. He had enough responsibility with his own work without burdening himself with his younger brother’s supposed faults. But there was one thing Dustin knew about his older brother—he would follow his father’s dictates to the letter without question.
Even if Addison didn’t necessarily agree with the terms. Besides, it was legal, drawn up and finalized by their father, who’d known exactly what he was doing.
“You want the money, don’t you?” Addison asked crisply, his golden-blond eyebrows creasing low in concern over his blue eyes, all traits of his father.
Dustin had his mother’s curly black hair and green eyes. It was a startling contrast between the two brothers, and just one more way they were different from one another.
Dustin took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I do,” he said solemnly. “You know I do.”
That was as much information as he was willing to offer, which no doubt perplexed his older brother.
“Hey, Addy boy,” he said, cheerfully changing the subject, “you want a soda or something?”
“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” his brother responded through gritted teeth, shaking his head in warning.
“Why do you think I do it?” Dustin responded with a laugh.
“You little punk,” Addison said affectionately. He grabbed Dustin around the neck and scrubbed his knuckles across Dustin’s scalp, just the sort of roughhousing they’d done as kids. “Don’t forget I’m bigger than you. I can still knock your block off anytime I want.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Dustin challenged, grabbing his brother by the waist in what amounted to a wrestler’s hold.
