Playing Her Cards Right. Jo LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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?”