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“We?”
“Rebecca, Lilly, me. You?”
“That’s a big crowd. Maybe we could whittle it down?”
It was tempting; of course she wanted to be alone with him, but that he’d even suggested it made her thoughts even more confused. “We’ve been missing each other, what with parties and appointments and things. I can understand if you’d rather not join us.”
“No. I’d like to.”
Well, damn. Why would he want to join them for drinks? Rebecca! That had to be the reason. “Good. You can help us put up the food. It’ll go faster.”
“Swell,” he said, and she smiled at his put-upon tone. “Now that you know I make such great tea, you’ll want me in the kitchen forever.”
Bree’s laugh stuttered, and a flush hit Charlie’s face. She walked faster, so fast she had to look over her shoulder to say, “It won’t kill you. I promise.”
He’d come to a full stop. “I’m taking your word for it,” he said, going for humorous, but not succeeding.
She made herself focus on food prep, and not the jumble in her head.
THE BAR WASN’T FLASHY. Most of the patrons were in business wear like Bree and her friends. She’d be willing to wager every last one of them was asking themselves what the hell Charlie Winslow was doing in a less-than-swanky pickup bar on a Wednesday night.
If she read him correctly, he didn’t seem to mind. He had hailed their cab, insisted on paying for the short trip, then walked them inside as if this was the next stop on the Fashion Week tour.
The women in the place eyed him with undisguised hunger, the kind of looks that would make a statue blush, and all she could think was I was with him the other night. Naked.
She had to stop that right now.
They scored a booth in the back, and Charlie scooted in next to her, pressing against her from knee to shoulder. It would have been easier if he’d kept his coat on, but no, it was just him in his close-fitting white shirt, narrow black pants, and his hot body, clenching the muscles in his thighs and his biceps—
“Bree?”
“Hmm?”
“Drink?”
“Ah. Yes. Tequila Sunrise, please. Heavy on the sunrise.”
“Got it.” Charlie scooted out, and she instantly felt more relaxed. Jeez, didn’t the man understand personal space?
Lilly leaned across the table the moment he walked away. The music wasn’t deafening but it still made her have to shout. “Oh, my God, Bree, why didn’t you tell me you were dating Charlie Winslow?”
“I’m not. Not really.”
Lilly gave Rebecca a sharp look before she turned back to Bree. “I don’t understand.”
“The whole setup is a blog gimmick to get new readers. No big deal.”
“Yeah,” Lilly said slowly. “Tell it to someone who hasn’t seen him look at you.”
“Seriously, Lil? Come on. Would a guy like him honestly want to date a girl like me?”
“Yes!”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Bree blinked at her friends. Of course they would say that. What was the alternative? “Yeah, you’re right. He could do so much better?” “Anyway,” she said, waving off the both of them, “it’s great. I get to go to Fashion Week parties, and he’s publishing some of my pieces, which will make my bosses sit up and notice. I take a giant step up the ladder to success. Everybody wins, especially me.”
Rebecca cleared her throat, and Bree reluctantly met her gaze. She did not seem pleased. “Why is Charlie here tonight?” she asked.
“Blog stuff.”
“Since it’s written for the internet, wouldn’t it have been easier for him to, I don’t know, send that stuff to you over the internet?”
Bree opened her mouth, but she had no answer.
EXCEPT FOR THAT WHOLE Psych 101 speech from Rebecca outside the church, Charlie had a great night. The food prep part he could have lived without, although no, that had been great, too. Rebecca was right about one thing—he hardly ever did normal stuff anymore. No grocery stores, no shopping in general, not when it was so easy to get everything delivered or picked up by his housekeeper.
He went to screenings or premieres, not movies. He was sent advance copies of books and films, invitations to parties from New York to Milan, Paris, London, Dubai, L.A. He didn’t barhop, and tonight had been the first time in ages he’d had drinks with real people in a regular bar instead of with celebrities behind some form of velvet rope.
He’d liked everything from the music on the jukebox to the raucous laughter from the après-work crowd. He’d been reminded of the old days when he was just starting out with his first blog. The only part that wasn’t great tonight had been at the end. Putting Bree in a taxi. Alone. And then hailing a cab for himself.
He consoled himself with the fact that tomorrow would be killer busy for his latest blog contributor. After a full eight hours at her day job, she’d be on the run with the stylist, then they had an art exhibit party to go to, which didn’t begin until ten. She’d be lucky to get four hours sleep, and because he was a selfish bastard, he’d kept her out too late tonight.
He hadn’t wanted it to end. But end it had, as all things did, and in a week, give or take, his time with Bree would be a memory. If it worked out, he’d use her for the odd column, and they’d run into each other at cocktail parties and openings. But he’d move on. That’s what he did. What was for the best.
He thought again about what Rebecca had said. That his family felt slapped by what he did for a living was their problem, not his. He’d told them all the way back in high school that he wasn’t going to fall into line. The idea of him going into politics had been ridiculous. They should have known that without him having to smear it in their faces. But they’d only seen what they wanted to see.
His answer might have appeared radical to anyone outside the family. Getting arrested in a public scandal his senior year in college was, he’d admit, a dramatic move. But Rebecca, of all people, should have understood. He’d done what was necessary. His success had been a matter of skill, planning and yes, luck. Why wouldn’t he want to continue to thrive? It would have been nice to be with Bree. He couldn’t deny the attraction. But she didn’t fit. Not as anything except a temporary gimmick, a sidebar, a tweak on the blog.
And his bed. Good Christ, she’d fit there.
He stared at the window as the cab pulled up to his building. Life was about choices. Some tougher than others. Hell, she was just a girl. He’d learned long ago not to romanticize sex.
10 (#ulink_e28b5a17-d6bb-5101-bc95-60a51aa671cd)
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.
