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“You’re lovely as you are, but you could be lovelier.
I spent a summer working at a froufrou spa in Santa Barbara. I learned all kinds of brilliant tricks there.”
“Like what?”
“Your hair. It’s curly, right?”
“I think frizzy is a better description.”
“No, seriously, will you take it down for a sec?”
Bree pulled the ponytail band from her hair with shaky fingers. The heavy mass fell—frizzily—over her shoulders.
“Oh, yes. You’ve got lovely ringlets in there. We just have to set them free.”
“How do you do that?”
Elle smiled mysteriously. “We need to gather a few tools.”
It was nearly four in the afternoon by the time Elle was satisfied with her work. They’d spent an hour in the sun while Elle filed and polished Bree’s nails, and they waited for artfully applied lemon juice to scorch highlights into Bree’s hair.
Next, Elle conditioned her hair. She’d rinsed, then applied yet more conditioner—gloppy handfuls of it—and made Bree swear she’d never let her hair dry without conditioner on it again.
While Bree dripped conditioner onto the wood floors, Elle rifled through her wardrobe, tut-tutting and holding items up to Bree’s complexion. In despair, she marched Bree—hair still damp—out the door and down to Union Street, where she encouraged her to try on, and ultimately buy, three very expensive new bras and several mix-and-match pieces from a trendy boutique. Elle made the whole thing so enjoyable, Bree felt as if they were BFFs out for an adventure rather than two women who’d only met the night before.
Once coordinating shoes were found, they hurried back to the apartment where Elle applied a loose powder all over her face, “to brighten you up a bit,” as she said. She brushed light blush over Bree’s cheekbones, and smudged gray-green shadow around her eyes. A touch of rose-pink lipstick gave a subtle punch to her color, without making her look like a clown.
“Your hair’s finally dry.” Elle arranged it about her shoulders. “Why don’t you look in the mirror?”
Half afraid of what she’d see, Bree made her way across the studio—no small feat in the heeled ankle boots Elle had talked her into.
A long mirror hung behind the bathroom door, and she inhaled as she pulled it open.
She squinted for a moment, looking the image up and down. Then she laughed aloud. “Who is that woman in my mirror?”
“It’s you, babe.”
“Not possible. This woman is trim and elegant, and has silky ringlets with blond highlights.”
“It’s all you. Standing up straight is a big part of it. Tall girls like you often stoop because you’re afraid to stand out. If you do those yoga poses I showed you just once a day, you’ll really see a difference in your posture.”
“It never would have occurred to me that clothes which fit could make me look thinner!”
“You have a gorgeous, curvy figure and you should show it off.”
“Who knew?” Bree grinned at her reflection. “And I swear on my life, I’ll never let my hair dry without conditioner again.”
“That’s my girl. So, when are you seeing Gavin next?”
Three
Gavin called on Sunday and invited Bree to a gallery opening on Tuesday night. A photography show. Said he wanted her opinion of the artist’s work.
Naturally, she said yes.
For the opening she chose a wrap dress in a dark eggplant color that was subtle and dramatic at the same time. The cut flattered her hourglass figure—who knew she had one?—and made an asset of her height. For the first time in years, she wore heels, which probably made her about five foot eleven. She’d bravely “washed” her hair using only conditioner and it had come out shockingly well—a mass of shiny ringlets. As she sparingly applied some of the subtle makeup Elle had left for her, she wondered how Gavin would react.
At seven o’clock on the dot she heard a knock on the private door to her studio.
Heart pounding, she crossed the slippery wood floor as gracefully as possible in her heels and pulled it open.
“Hi, Br—” Gavin’s mouth fell open.
“Hey, Gavin.” She smiled. “How was work today?”
“Great. It was really good.” He blinked, and peered at her curiously. “You look different.”
“Just a little.” She shrugged and turned into the loft. Part of her wanted to laugh out loud. “New dress.”
“It looks stunning on you.” His voice was deeper than usual. He looked devastating himself, in dark pants and a white shirt with a barely visible gray stripe.
“Thanks. Let me get my bag.” She slung the small beaded vintage purse, which used to belong to her mom, over her shoulder. “I’m looking forward to the exhibit.”
“Me, too.” She turned to see him staring at her, a furrow between his brows.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, no.” He blinked. “No, nothing at all.” He glanced lower, taking in the soft drape of her new dress over her hips. Her skin hummed under his hungry gaze.
He does find me attractive.
The feeling was utterly new, a strange and surprising thrill. She pulled her shoulders back, trying to maintain the posture Elle had showed her, and to hide the fact that her pulse was still pounding and her palms sweating, despite her composed appearance.
Gavin cleared his throat. “My car’s downstairs.”
They walked into the Razor gallery arm in arm. She was only a couple of inches shorter than him in her new heels. Eyes, once again, turned to stare. But this time they weren’t glares of female indignation that she—lowly and insignificant plain Jane—was on Gavin’s arm.
No, this time the men were looking, too.
Bree tossed her curls behind her shoulders as she accepted a glass of white wine. “Shall we look at the images?”
Even her voice sounded sultrier, as if overnight she’d morphed into a more sophisticated version of herself.
They looked closely at the photographs. Large digital prints of people, mostly at parties and nightclubs, the colors highly saturated and intoxicating. “I can almost hear the music,” she said, looking at a couple entwined on a dance floor, perspiration gleaming on their barely clad bodies.
“That’s why I like Doug’s images. They invoke the other senses. I’m hoping he’ll do a vodka campaign I have in mind. It’s hard to make a flat piece of paper say ‘drink me,’ but I think this guy could pull it off.” He pointed the artist out to Bree—a short, skinny guy with numerous piercings, a goatee and an air of manic enthusiasm.
“Now, he looks like an artist,” she whispered. “Maybe I need to pierce my nose. What do you think?” She tilted her head, fighting the urge to grin.
“Definitely not. Your nose is absolutely perfect already.” Gavin’s warm gray gaze rested on her face. Her skin sizzled slightly under the heat of his admiration. “Your eyes are green.”
“Yes.” She blushed. “I got contacts.” Elle had talked her into trying tinted ones.
“They’re cute. And I can see you better without glasses in the way.”
“Aren’t we here to look at art? I’m starting to feel self-conscious.”
Though she had to admit it was a good feeling to be admired. When Gavin went to get them fresh glasses of wine, a tall man with spiky blond hair approached her and made small talk about the images.
The look on Gavin’s face when he returned was priceless.
He had to get Bree out of here.
Gavin tried not to scowl at the punk who’d horned in on her while he turned his back for a moment. He recognized the guy, a Finnish video editor with a tinny laugh. They’d worked together on a storyboard. “Hey, Lars. How’s it going?”
“Good, Gavin. Good.” He turned his gel-crusted head back to Bree. “So you’re a photographer, too?”
“Yes.” Bree smiled sweetly. Gavin hadn’t noticed how full and lush her lips were before. Lust mingled with irritation in his veins. “Well, kind of. I haven’t actually done a professional shoot yet.”
“Bree and I were just heading out to dinner.” His statement was more of a growl than he’d intended.
Every man in the room was looking at her. And who could blame them? The richly colored dress draped her curves in a way that should be illegal. In her heels she was probably the tallest women in the room, and with the regal tilt of her head and her cascade of shiny gold-tipped curls, she shone like a goddess.
“I’d love to take a quick peek at the images in the next room. Lars was just telling me about them. They’re portraits of the artist’s friends.”
Gavin decided he’d like to tell Lars a thing or two. But he resisted the primal urges surging in his blood. “Sure, let’s go look.”
He slid his arm through Bree’s, claiming her, and guided her across the floor. He couldn’t resist scowling at one dark-haired charmer who shot Bree a look so flirtatious it was downright tacky.
“Oh, look at this sweet couple,” she exclaimed. He peered into a small square-framed image. A pair of teenage lovers were wrapped in each other on a park bench.
Gavin could readily imagine being in such a clinch with Bree. Her lush curves called out to him, urging his palms to explore their hills and valleys.
Arousal surged through him, and he tugged his gaze from Bree’s breathtaking cleavage back to the artwork at hand. “Very nice,” he murmured.
She tossed her cascade of curls behind her shoulder. He could almost swear her hair looked totally different last time he’d seen her. It had been tied back—maybe that was it.
It wasn’t just the hair. Something was very different about Bree. She’d been pretty in a quiet and unassuming way when they’d met. Now she was undeniably a knockout. Even the way she carried herself seemed altered. Before, her shoulders were rounded, apologetic. Now she threw them back proudly.
Her stiff evening gown had concealed her body at the gala. This drapey number revealed it in tantalizing detail—her backside was a work of art all by itself. His fingers itched to pull at the bow tied her waist and unwrap the delicious present in front of him. “Are you hungry?”
Because I know I am. And not for food.
And her father was going to give him a million dollars to marry her? He’d approached the renowned venture capitalist to discuss an investment in his proposed business, and Kincannon had shocked him with his own proposal: one million dollars and his still-unwed daughter. Gavin’s first instinct had been to refuse, but he agreed to meet her. Now, his good fortune seemed almost unbelievable. And he certainly didn’t want to blow it by letting some wiseass muscle in on his prize.
“Uh, sure. What did you have in mind?” She blinked, those rich green eyes shining in a way they hadn’t behind her glasses. “There’s a good Thai place about a block away.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.” He wrapped his arm firmly around her waist as they moved back to the main gallery. No way would he let another guy get his hooks into Bree Kincannon.
He shot a warning stare around the room. Hands off. She’s mine.
Her hips shifted from side to side under his arm, stirring heat in his groin. His pursuit of Bree was fast morphing from a business proposition into a personal quest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so aroused by a woman.
At the restaurant he requested a quiet table in the back room—a gold spangled festival of Thai kitsch—where they could talk undisturbed. He admired the rear view as he helped Bree into her chair.
She shook out her napkin. “The pad thai’s really good.”
“I’ll get that then.” He didn’t feel like reading the menu. He was far more interested in looking at her. A tiny silver heart hung from a fine chain around her neck, dancing dangerously near the enticing cleft between her breasts.
Now all he had to do was convince Bree he should be her future husband.
He poured some San Pellegrino into her glass. “Have you always lived in San Francisco?”
“We used to spend summers in Napa Valley when I was little, before my mom died, but other than that, yes. I’ve lived in the same house in Russian Hill since I was a baby.”
“That’s a lovely neighborhood.”
“I suspect that’s what my ancestors said when they built the house a hundred years ago. It’s lasted through several earthquakes and is big enough for me to share with my father without us driving each other nuts, so I’m very fond of it.”
“Is it strange still living at home with your dad?”
“I’m used to it, so it’s not at all strange to me. I’m sure some people think it’s a bit pathetic and that I should strike out on my own.” She sipped her water. “I suppose I will someday. When the moment is right.”
Phew. Gavin didn’t much fancy sharing a house with the old man. Especially since Elliott Kincannon was about to become his benefactor.
“Does your family live in San Francisco?” Her innocent question tugged him back to the present.
“San Diego, but I moved away from home when I was seventeen and never looked back. My dad wanted me to follow family tradition and join the military. He was furious when I applied to UCLA and got a full scholarship to study marketing. We had a big blowup and I left that night.”
“How awful! Did you patch things up?”
“It took about four years for him to give up his dreams of seeing me in a dress uniform covered in medals, but he’s happy that I’m successful doing something I like.”
“That’s all that matters, really, isn’t it? My dad couldn’t understand why I kept taking jobs at nonprofit organizations that paid me less than my age. I enjoyed the work and was glad to help. And since I already had a nice place to live, I didn’t need to rake in big bucks.”
“You’re lucky. I had a tough time right out of school. I was ready to take on the world and become CEO of General Electric, and my boss kept wanting me to file his papers and answer his phone instead.”
Bree laughed. “Trust me, it’s not much different at a nonprofit. Though there are less people so you have to pitch in more. I think it’s good to start at the bottom—then you get a chance to watch how other people do things.”
“And learn from their mistakes.”
“That, too.” Her bright smile flashed again, sending a charge of excitement through him. “Do you like working for Maddox Communications?”
“Sure. It’s one of the top agencies on the West Coast. We have some of the biggest clients in America.”
She cocked her head slightly. “Hmm, those are awfully generic reasons to like a place.”
“I like Brock and Flynn Maddox, too. They inherited the family business from their dad, but they’ve done a lot with it.”
