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The moment she stepped from behind the screen, she was covered in a smock, sat in a chair and set upon by far too many hands touching her hair, her face, her fingernails. The lights made everything more intense, hotter, scarier, and when someone said open, she opened her mouth, and someone else tugged her hair so she would bend her neck just so.
Her personal space had never been so invaded. The scent of many breaths and colognes went from cloying to unpleasantly sticky, and if this didn’t end soon, she was going to have to do something, stop them somehow.
“Hey.”
Charlie’s voice cut through, and in two, three heartbeats, those things that had been touching her, brushes, fingers, nail file, eyelash curler, pulled back. Bree sighed with relief, saw that she was gripping the armrests of the makeup chair so tightly with her unpolished hand her knuckles were white.
She watched him in the mirror, felt his hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t even ask,” he said. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I had lunch.”
“That was what, eight, nine hours ago?”
“About.”
His eyes narrowed in the mirror and he turned to face Sveta. “How long until she’s ready?”
“Five minutes. Nails on her left hand. Mascara. Lipstick.”
“Hold off on the lipstick. Finish the rest. I imagine you haven’t eaten, either. No, don’t look at me like that, you have to eat something. There’s a spread in the kitchen. Enough for everyone.”
Before he looked back at Bree, he squeezed her shoulder and smiled. “It’s not drippy stuff, but I’d keep the smock on, anyway. Just in case. We can talk about tonight’s shindig while we eat.”
She nodded. Calmly. Touched by his consideration. She hadn’t realized her panic was hunger. Mostly hunger.
Unable to turn, she was still able to watch him as he went to the men’s suit rack, grabbed one from the middle and went out. At the doorway, he turned and winked at her.
Before she could even smile, her hand was grabbed and the camera clicked and clicked and clicked.
THE BEST PART OF THE evening postshow was Bree, but even she hadn’t been distracting enough to prevent Charlie from thinking about his parents. He’d put a call in to Rebecca, but it hadn’t been returned, and his thoughts just kept circling back to this afternoon. How dare they think he was so spineless he’d cross the line into promoting the Winslow agenda on his blogs. God damn, that pissed him off.
He looked up as a Pyramid Club waiter came by with vodka shots. He’d done it again, let his attention wander, although at this point, there wasn’t much more to be seen. Bree was standing against the black brick wall, looking beautiful in her purple dress, in her impossible heels, surrounded by newshounds and fame seekers.
He’d warned her it would happen. This morning’s blog insured that Bree was now on the B-list, which could stand for “by association.” He had the feeling it wouldn’t take her long to stand on her own, though.
Most of the real celebs were huddled outside in the smoking zone, freezing their asses off while they dished about everyone inside, and he should go join them, at least for the few minutes he could put up with the fumes. But Bree was far more enticing.
She held up her glass of pineapple juice, but it was her shining smile that told him he’d made the right choice.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asked after he’d dodged drinks and drunks to get to her.
“Dizzy with it,” she said. Shouted. The noise level at these things was going to make him deaf before he was forty.
“It’s late. We should go soon.”
“Whenever you like.”
It wasn’t actually that late. Just past midnight. But she had work in the morning, her sidebar to write. And he wanted some time with her where they weren’t talking about who to schmooze, who to avoid. He held out his hand.
Cameras flashed as they went toward the exit. It wasn’t a surprise that they were stopped several times, but it didn’t take long to get the limo.
Once inside, he slid to the corner and waited for her to scoot next to him. Instead, she pressed up against the other door. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look … chilly.”
“No,” she said, tugging down her skirt, avoiding his eyes. “I’m good. Maybe you could call ahead to your building, give them an ETA for a taxi?”
“We’ll take you home.”
“I have my clothes at your place.”
“You’re wearing your clothes.”
She looked at him. “Right. I forgot.”
He moved closer to her, concerned. “What’s going on, Bree?”
She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“What?”
“You’ve been jumpy all evening. I admit I haven’t seen you at many events, but when I have you’ve seemed like the most relaxed person in the room. Not tonight. Actually, I felt as though something was off at your place.”
He shifted away from her, not one hundred percent comfortable that there was someone else who could read him. There weren’t many. Naomi. Rebecca. His college roommate. Charlie liked it that way. It had taken him a long time to cultivate the image he needed for the job, and Bree from Somewhere, Ohio, had already pierced his carefully crafted exterior in more ways than he cared to think about. He considered changing the subject for the rest of the ride home, making it clear she’d crossed a firm boundary.
Instead, he met her gaze. “My folks came by today.”
She certainly looked startled by his admission. She wasn’t the only one. He barely knew this woman. And yet … “They’ve wanted me to go into politics,” he said. “Ever since I was in high school.”
“Really?”
“The Winslows have had political influence throughout the generations. It was time to prepare a new senator from New York. Long-term planners, my family.”
“Obviously you weren’t enthused about the prospect?”
“No. I wasn’t. It didn’t matter to them, though. I was taught from an early age that we had an obligation to do public service. That our privileged life meant we had to dedicate ourselves to a larger cause, that what we wanted was immaterial. Which sounds great in theory, noble and philanthropic. But it had more to do with keeping the family in the top tier of society than philanthropy. My destiny was supposed to include law school, the Harvard Law Review, a prestigious firm, municipal office, a seat in congress, then the Senate. Carrying the standard of the Winslow heritage.”
“Wow, I can’t see you as a lawyer. Forget a politician.”
His smile was wry. “And what, you’ve known me for a week? What does that tell you about my family?” He stared out the window for a beat. This true confession business felt as awkward as wearing someone else’s clothes. “Not that I don’t believe in public service, I do. I take that seriously.” He faced her again. “What I didn’t want was to live a lie.”
“So you decided to become an internet mogul?”
“Sort of,” he said, aware his automatic half grin said more than most of his conversations with women he’d slept with. “I didn’t expect the blogs would become this big. Not complaining. I was in the right place at the right time. I wanted to be independent.”
“It’s worked. You are. And quite successfully.”
“Yes. It’s worked. It’ll continue to work.” He studied his hands. He was the one who was supposed to unsettle his companions. He was very good at it, and Bree wasn’t even trying, so whatever this was, it wasn’t a power game. No, he had opened another door for her. Game changers, these exceptions. It made him nervous.
Allowing his parents to rattle him was frankly embarrassing. They didn’t for the most part. He’d just been caught off guard, that’s all. But telling Bree about it? Jesus.
“So their visit was uncomfortable?”
He reached over and took Bree’s hand in his. She was cold, dammit. “It was brief,” he said. “I made my point. Have I said how beautiful you look tonight?”
She stared at him, at their hands, then back at him. “Yes, several times. Thank you.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She sighed as she tugged her hand free. “It’s not that I don’t want to …”
He nodded, leaned back. Incredibly tired all of a sudden. Maybe he was coming down with something.
11 (#ulink_38c19888-5f13-5ea3-853c-e5411ba2cefa)
FRIDAY NIGHT CAME ALONG with a tux for the Courtesan premiere, and the only reason it was bearable was that Bree was in the media room getting prepped. He would check on her after he was dressed, although this time he’d made sure she’d eaten before Sveta snatched her away.
As he worked on his tie, he thought about the night ahead, pleased that she’d get to walk down a legit red carpet. A dream literally coming true, she’d told him.
The less sleep she got, he’d discovered, the more she revealed about herself. How when she was a little girl she would practice her Academy Award acceptance speech in front of the bathroom mirror, holding a bottle of shampoo or a hairbrush. She would very purposefully not thank whoever happened to be annoying her at the moment, which would sometimes be one of her siblings, a teacher, a friend or one of her parents.
It had made him laugh when they were slouched in the backseat of a limo, and it made him grin now. He could picture it so easily. He wondered if she’d always had short hair. Probably, given that she was so small. You wouldn’t want to hide any of that face, not with hair, not with too much makeup. Sveta had turned out to be the perfect stylist for Bree. People were taking note.
Her blogs were getting heavy traffic. Unique hits were much higher than with most of his new contributors, which made sense because this approach was fresh. Charlie had never asked one of his companions to post.
Much of the chatter was about the two of them, naturally. Were they? Weren’t they? There had been reports of Bree leaving in separate transportation at the end of an evening, and his place had acquired a few more paparazzi hoping to catch her doing the walk of shame in the morning. Speculation without confirmation was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
Bree had turned up on TMZ, PopSugar, Page Six, on almost every single one of his gossip feeds, as well as in the newspaper tabloids.
He slipped on his jacket, glad he’d chosen something so traditional. Beautifully cut, nothing radical. He wanted Bree to shine tonight. He had no idea what Sveta had chosen for her to wear, and he wondered how the stylist was going to top last night’s look. Bree had knocked his socks off when she’d made her entrance.
Come to think of it, every time he saw her she got to him. Having her so close, and so damned untouchable probably had something to do with it. Okay, a little interest from his cock, not good for the cut of his suit. Not good in a number of ways. She was off-limits. The statistics didn’t lie, and this new deal had increased NNY’s unique hits remarkably. It might kill him, but he’d keep to the script. Unfortunately, that meant touching. So much damn touching.
He checked his watch, made sure he had what he needed in his pockets and then went into the living room. He glanced at the open door in the atrium and wondered why he hadn’t taken Bree across to his office. It wasn’t that far to the other side of the elevator. Then again, they hadn’t had much time for anything but work.
He heard Sveta in the hallway, and swung around in anticipation of Bree’s entrance. Damn. She did it again. Like a slap on the back of his head.
She was a vision. So much for not getting excited tonight. He would have to put his cock in a straitjacket to pull that off, and yeah, he did not need to be thinking that when she was walking toward him with a smile that made him forget how to breathe.
Her white-and-purple dress was a structured strapless design that looked like origami. It drew his gaze to her face, then right to the bare stretch of skin from her long neck down to the top of her bust. Her waist looked tiny, her legs slim yet curvy, and with that smile and those smoky eyes, no one would be able to look away.
Jewelry would have been redundant.
“Well?” she said, her shoulders moving in an almost-but-not-quite shrug.
“You’re gorgeous. You’ll be the most beautiful woman on the red carpet.”
Bree blushed, rolled her eyes. Charlie let her think he was talking her up.
He took her hands in his and kissed both cheeks. Very European. All business. Not close to what he wanted. He’d kissed her on the mouth that first night, when he’d barely known her, and now he ached to take her mouth again, to taste her, and not only her lips.
“We have a half hour before we go. Want a drink?”
“Just water,” she said. “As excited as I am, I’m so incredibly tired I’m afraid a sip of booze will have me passed out for the night.”
“Can’t have that.” He nodded at the couch. “Sit. I’ll bring you water, then take care of the rest of our group.”
“Tell them again how wonderful they are, will you? I did, but I think they think I have to say it. I don’t. They’re magicians.”
How could he not like her? She was the anticelebrity, the cure for New York cynicism, complete with authentic goose bumps and unabashed excitement. But even he could see she hadn’t exaggerated about how tired she was. Not that anyone else would notice, but he’d been watching her for days, staring too frequently and too deeply. There was more makeup under her eyes tonight. He wondered if he should cancel tomorrow night’s club opening. Bree had to work for a few hours tomorrow morning, but then she planned to sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He doubted that would be enough.
He fetched her water as she made herself comfortable, a feat in that dress, on the couch. Then he conveyed her compliments along with his own to the team and saw them to the door. The limo would be arriving any moment.
He could see Bree’s dark hair over the edge of the couch, and he needed to remind her to bring her other shoes for when they got back in the limo. How women walked in those ridiculous heels …
Bree had rested on the leather sofa with one leg curled up under herself. The glass, now empty, tipped at a thirty-degree angle in her hand. She was sound asleep.
After carefully lifting the glass from her fingers, freezing for a moment when she made a little low-pitched sound, he touched her bare shoulder gently. “Bree? Bree, we have to leave now.”
She mumbled something and adjusted the side of her face on the back cushion.
He hated that he had to disturb her. He brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek. “Bree,” he said as he sat down next to her. He wanted to wake her, not scare her. “I know you’re tired, but it’s the premiere. Movie stars! Glamour! Lights, cameras, action!”
She tilted. Toward him. He repositioned himself quickly so she would land on the inside of his shoulder, not the bony edge. She slumped against him, the leg that had been tucked under now at a weird angle. While it looked ungainly and not very ladylike, it didn’t seem uncomfortable.
It was too easy to shift himself, to wrap his arm around her back, to hold her close, to inhale the smell of her. Slumping turned to snuggling and he sighed as he gave his next move some consideration. Then, with his free hand he pulled out his cell. He had to call Naomi, as he wasn’t adept at one-hand texting.
“You in the car?”
Ah, the voice. Car became cah, and he couldn’t stop his grin. “No,” he whispered.
“What?”
How she’d given that simple word such a swoop gave him equal parts joy and the willies. “We’re not gonna make it. Danny can take my place. Catch him quickly, though, ‘cause he’s not going to be dressed for it.”
“Why are you not going? Why are you whispering? Charlie, what have you done? It’s something about the girl, isn’t it?”
“Shhh,” he said, although Naomi’s voice over the cell wasn’t going to wake Bree. “She’s under the weather. It’ll be fine.”
“How’s it gonna be fine? You’ve got deadlines. You know how many comments you got today? Over twenty-five hundred. And you’re taking sick leave? What the hell, Charlie?”
“It’ll work out. Like always.”
“Yeah, well, it’s me you’re talking to, sweetheart, and ‘like always’ my ass.”
