Eye Candy (City Chicks) (32 page)

"Did you bring that slinky dress?"

"What dress?" I asked, turning away from my selection of clothes long enough to wonder what he meant.

"The one you wore at that first party. Gray. Shiny." He cocked his eyebrows for emphasis. "Slinky."

Oh, that dress. "Yes I brought it. Why?"

His eyebrows dropped, hooding his lids in a seductive, bedroom-come-hither look. "Wear that."

My cheeks burned and I felt a rush of tingling heat shoot through every vein and nerve in my body. I had thought it too cold to wear such a revealing dress, but I was overheating now.

One look and I was a puddle.

"Oh," I said, breathless, "okay. Good, um, choice."

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away. To search through my belongings to find the one dress I now 
had
 to wear. The thought of wearing anything else evaporated along with my willpower, inhibitions, and capacity for rational thought. It was bad enough he already looked good enough to eat, now I had developed a gnawing hunger.

Finding the dress hanging neatly and unwrinkled in the armoire, I slipped it off the hanger and darted into the bathroom to change.

Dubble Bubble Damn, I forgot to grab the nude, seamless panties I needed to wear under this dress. All others either showed in bulges beneath the clinging jersey or cut my flesh into hills and valleys. Neither resulted in a streamlined sexy look.

Thumbs hooked through the waistband, I shimmied out of the black lace bikini I had been wearing with the intention of grabbing the right pair and slipping them on before we left.

When I emerged from the bathroom, slinky dress donned and smoky make-up applied, I found Elliot leaning against the door in a casual-but-ready-to-go pose.

He still wore the tailored black tux, but had replaced the stark white shirt with an unstructured one in a light blue that accentuated his eyes. The first two buttons were undone, displaying a delightful triangle of smooth, tanned skin. His hair was still a windblown mess from the stretch of driving with the windows down, but the disheveled look worked oh-so-well on him.

"Hey hot stuff," he greeted. "Ready to go?"

"Yes, just let me grab my clutch."

As I transferred a few essentials from my day bag to my chic black sequined clutch, I knew I was forgetting something.

And it felt important.

"Come on. I don't want to miss all the good champagne."

Oh well. If it was 
really
 important, I would have remembered.

"I'm ready."

Arm in arm we left, heading for the 
Corona Reale
 ballroom on the mezzanine level.

It wasn't until the doors closed on the elevator that I remembered what I had forgotten.

"No, I don't run much," I heard myself telling an up-and-coming Italian designer who seemed to be trying every possible bad pick up line ever written.

"Well you've been running through my mind all day."

I sighed, which he took as a sign of relent, and glanced around the room for a friendly face.

"Was your father a thief?"

"No," I answered. Momentarily excited to find a streak of platinum blonde until I found it was only that blue-eyed model, Nadika. "He was in advertising."

"Because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes."

Not yet pushed to the edge of being entirely rude, I tried diverting the conversation. "I design jewelry."

"I design ladies undergarments." He moved in closer and whispered in my ear, "Want to see."

I gasped, even as all the blood in my body rushed to my face. My hand instinctively pulled back to slap him indignantly across the face. "No, I—"

"There you are, angel."

Gavin took my hand and pressed a soft kiss to the warm center of the palm. I positively melted into his side when he swung an arm around my shoulders in a possessive, this-girl-is-mine gesture.

My sleazy, would be seducer took the hint and slunk away.

My grin couldn't have been brighter.

"Thank you," I offered as soon as he was out of hearing. "I never knew Italians were so fluent in bad pickup lines."

"Your salvation is my greatest pleasure."

Gavin bowed chivalrously, looking quite pleasurable himself in a scrumptious suit just a little lighter in color than my dress with a slight green tint that made his eyes glow. Blonde hair neatly combed and not a lock out of place. Cheeks flushed with little boy excitement. He looked just like his 
GQ
 cover shot.

"What all goes on at these fashionable after parties?" he asked.

"Well..." I glanced around the room, at a sea of the fashionable and fawning. "Some mingling. Some networking—like over there," I indicated a pair in deep discussion in the near corner, "they might be closing a deal on a big order."

"Or they might be arranging the time and place for their romantic rendezvous."

"Or that," I laughed. "If you hadn't interrupted, I might be doing that myself right now."

We exchanged meaningful looks. I exploded in laughter. Different from the kind I had with Elliot—those laughs usually bubbled out of me despite my best efforts to keep them in. This was a mutual laugh.

"And what about that?" Gavin asked, motioning to the center of the room. "What's going on there?"

"That," I whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, "is the most important aspect of a party like this."

A circle of guests surrounded Ferrero, each vying to congratulate him on the successful show. Ferrero stood in the middle, pretending to be humble and waving off their compliments. But even those untrained in the art of social modesty could see he was enjoying every second of it.

I looked away, unable to stare into the light too long without risking blindness. "The fawning."

"Aaah..." Gavin nodded in understanding. "In business we call it brown-nosing."

"Hey you two!" Janice's voice called to us like the whine of an airplane. Or a Long Islander reverting to her native, nasal accent. "Hi there lovebirds!"

She appeared in front of us, platinum tresses loose and flowing to her waist. Dressed in muted gold palazzo pants and a matching cowl-neck sweater, she looked more elegant than I had ever seen her. If not for the unfocused glint in her eyes. The unsteady sway in her walk. The half-empty tumbler in her left hand.

After the week-and-a-half she'd had, I guessed she was due a little alcoholic respite.

"Is the wedding back on yet?" she asked.

My jaw clenched and I positively felt Gavin scowl. I knew that Gavin-and-me-and-Elliot was a prime topic of conversation between Janice and Kelly, but that didn't mean she had to bring it out in public. Drunk or not.

"Hello, Janice." I spoke a little louder than normal, making sure my voice penetrated. Hoping to successfully change the subject. "Isn't this fun?"

She beamed like a little girl, eyes closed and chin thrust forward. "It's wonderful." 
Hic
. "Ferrero deserves such a celebration for his homecoming."

"His homecoming?" Gavin asked.

I rolled my eyes. Not once had I heard Ferrero himself say that he was Italian-born—probably because it wasn't true—but nearly everyone involved in fashion week believed him a native. I could pretty much handle the world at large thinking that, but Janice must have known the truth.

A woman couldn't work with him for nearly twenty years and not realize the accent faded in and out. That he ate more Coney dogs than 
cannoli
.

"Don't you know?" Janice jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest, missing by several inches. "Ferrero is from Milan. Originally."

"Oh," Gavin acknowledged, "I didn't know that."

"Yep. Well, from a little village just to the north. He moved to New York in his twenties to pursue his passion, but at heart he's always an Italian."

Some of her words slurred together and while she spoke she turned her head to make goo-goo eyes at the subject of her little fantasy. Not only was this not healthy, it was darn annoying.

"No, he's not," I interjected.

Both pairs of eyes turned on me.

"What do you mean?" Janice stepped closer.

There was a tremor of threat in her voice. She dared me to explain. To finish my thought.

"You know that Ferrero isn't from Italy," I said quietly.

Janice blinked several times, as if that speeded up her comprehension. "Of course he is," she argued. "He's from Milan."

"No," I said a little louder, "he's not."

She looked blank. Then started laughing. “You are such a kidder,” she wailed. She turned to Gavin, “Always joking, this one.”

I didn’t know what was more appalling: her misconception about my personality or her drunken dogmatic insistence that Ferrero was Italian. “He is not Italian.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Yes, he is.”

“No, he—”

“Yes!” she shouted, sloshing her drink onto the carpet with a grand gesture. “He’s from Milan!”

“No he’s not!” I shouted back.

She shoved her glassed at Gavin and, as he caught it before it fell, stuck her fingers in her ears and starting humming. “La la la. I can’t hear you.”

My frustration and determination met in a combustible mixture. "Franco Ferrero is not Italian! He's from South Jersey!"

Oh no. That was louder than I’d intended.

An instant hush fell across the crowded ballroom. All eyes were on me. A quiet wave of whispered gossip began near me and spread from guest to guest in a building wave. I watched, helpless, as the wave circled and neared the center of the room.

My eyes locked on Ferrero, I saw the brief moment of disappointment in his face as he heard the news.

The center of sudden and unwanted attention, Ferrero did the only thing he could in a situation like that. He laughed. He laughed, and the laughter spread. Following the same path of the gossip wave, the laughter swept the room and finally reached me.

I, too, laughed, knowing it was the only way to save face. Both mine and Ferrero's.

Before his attention returned to the nearest fawning fan, I caught a trace of pain in his eyes.

The look in Janice's eyes was closer to fury. She looked ready to scalp me. Maybe if Kelly had been close by she could have used those acrylic nails to do the job.

I expected her to scream, maybe yell, definitely launch herself at me with claws flying. Instead, she turned her back on me and walked away. As if I was so beneath her notice that she didn't even bother telling me off. Like an M&M Mini squashed to the bottom of your shoe; not the most pleasant thing on the planet, but definitely not worth the hassle of taking off your shoe and cleaning it off.

Gavin, still at my side, looked confused. "What just happened?"

"Can we get out of here?" I needed to be far, far away.

"Sure," he agreed immediately. "But will you tell me what's going on?"

I let him take me by the elbow and lead me through the crowd. "I just ruined a career."

Breaking into the less populated hallway and making for the stairwell, Gavin asked, "Whose?"

Sighing, I click-clacked down the stairs in my heels.

"Everyone's."

"You're drunk," Gavin declared.

Lifting my head off the table in the hotel bar, I winced as the walnut and gold interior swirled unsteadily before my eyes.

"Yup." Letting my head drop back onto the table, I smiled as the images in my brain stopped moved. "Def'nily dunk."

"Come on." He took my arm, pulling me to my feet despite my protest. "You need to get to bed."

No, I needed to go back in time and undo, oh, the last six weeks. From the moment I invented the non-existent boyfriend and until I opened my big mouth about Ferrero's nation of origin.

"Hey, how'd we get on th'elevator?"

Come to think of it, how'd I end up cradled in Gavin's arms? That's what I get for drowning my sorrows in sweet-tasting brandy. Stick to vodka, Lyd. At least you feel it going down.

"Your room or mine?" Gavin asked.

As he strode into the hallway, carrying me like a baby, my stomach turned. "Ungh. Mine. Def'nily mine."

The porcelain was calling me. And I was listening.

"Fine," he grunted and dropped me unceremoniously on my feet.

"Wha? Why'd you do that?"

"Go on to your boy toy. I'm not carrying you into his arms."

"Boy t—" Did he mean Elliot? "Elliot's not my— He's— Nothing's happened between us."

"Sure." The venom in his voice penetrated my brandy fog. "Men and women share beds all the time purely platonic-y."

Platonic-y?

"You're drunk, too."

"Maybe, but I'm thinking clearer and clearer." By now he was practically shouting. "If you want to climb into bed for some nookie then you have to choose. His bed or mine."