Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (30 page)

“I realize that. However, Sugar Rush also started as a family-run business, and Luke hasn’t forgotten that either. In fact, he feels so responsible for his siblings that Sugar Rush is even the reason he’s not married. He doesn’t have
time.
Warren and I have never been able to convince him to slow down, and he’s only gotten worse over the past year.”

After the paternity suit.
That was the final lock slamming into the wall Luke had built around his family and his heart. Though Polly had discovered a few weak spots in that wall.

“So what does this have to do with me?” she asked.

Julia’s gaze slid over her from head to toe, taking in her flour-dusted apron and messy hair.

“Clearly you’re a good influence on him,” Julia remarked, “despite this ‘penniless Victorian orphan and the wealthy duke’ romance you’ve got going on.”

Polly looked her up and down in a return assessment.

“You’re a Scorpio, aren’t you?” she asked.

Julia blinked.

“Mercury in Scorpio, I’ll bet,” Polly continued. “Moon too. It’s why you’re naturally suspicious. Expecting the worst in people. That’s how you form your strategies . . . you think all your suspicions are right and then plot accordingly. Mercury in Scorpio is also why you’re fearless. Except when engaged in a showdown with a bakery girl, in which case you turn tail and run.”

A very faint smile cracked Julia’s perfect face.

“And
you
,” she said, “are a Sagittarius. Moon in Scorpio. You possess an excess of emotional energy. And though you’re quick and self-reliant, you’re overly sensitive and defensive. Which is why you took me on, even though you know I can crush you like a bug.”

“Fixed sign.” Polly narrowed her eyes. “You think you’re always right.”

“Mutable sign,” Julia replied. “You have trouble finishing what you start.”

They locked gazes. A weird feeling rippled in the air between them—mutual irritation and grudging admiration. Julia scrutinized Polly again from head to toe.

“You’re scrappy,” she allowed. “I’ll give you that.”

“You’re snooty. I’ll give you that.”

Julia’s smile glinted again, sharp and white. She folded her arms and tapped her painted fingernails against her sleeves.

“Luke told me you haven’t taken any money from him,” she said.

Polly’s guard went up again. “I’m not a gold digger. And frankly, even if I were, do you really think Luke would be stupid enough not to see it?”

“So why are you with him?”

For a second, all the breath escaped Polly’s lungs. She couldn’t speak. It was a question she thought she’d known the answer to, but the more time she spent with Luke, the more she realized it wasn’t just about her having a new, exciting experience and fulfilling lost years. Every minute of every day, the answer revolved more and more around
him.

“We . . . have a good time together,” she managed to get out. “That’s it.”

Julia studied her with a stare as penetrating as a laser. “Are you going to the opening of the Manet exhibit with him this Saturday night?”

“He invited me, yes.”

“Good.” Julia paused and cleared her throat. “I can help you get ready for it.”

“Get ready how?”

“With your clothes, makeup, and hair.” She reached into her Prada handbag and removed a slim leather case. “I’m a personal stylist and consultant. And I’m very good at what I do.”

She opened the case and pushed a business card across the counter toward Polly.

“You’re a pretty girl,” Julia continued, “but the way you dress, and with your freckles and that mop-top hair, you’ve got a real Raggedy Ann vibe. I’d consider it a personal challenge to help you look presentable to Luke’s circle.”

“That is hardly a flattering offer.”

“No charge.” Julia turned and strode toward the door, her heels clicking sharply. “Call me for an appointment. You know you want to.”

“Are you this bitchy with all your clients?”

“You’re not my client,” Julia replied. “And this is me being nice.”

“Compared to who?” Polly asked. “The Wicked Witch of the West?”

“Please. Flying monkeys and a terrible sense of fashion?” Julia flicked a smile over her shoulder. “That witch was an amateur.”

IT TOOK ONE SLEEPLESS NIGHT
for Polly to come to the conclusion that if she was revamping Wild Child, she shouldn’t be afraid of revamping herself. Especially for a high-society museum gala.

And though the thought of being at the mercy of Julia Bennett was rather terrifying, there was no question Julia knew how to rock “personal style,” whatever that was, and high-class fashion. Polly, on the other hand, was happy when she found a shirt in her drawer that didn’t have chocolate stains.

And she was pretty sure that Pierre Lacroix maintained an impeccable appearance, even when he was making
religieuse au chocolat
and champagne truffles.

So Polly called Julia (grudgingly) and told her (pointedly) that she wasn’t about to pay for any of her pricy consulting or hairstyles or whatever else Julia had planned.

“That’s what
no charge
means, dear,” Julia replied coolly over the phone. “What time is Luke picking you up?”

“He’s not. He has a business call with China or whatever, so I’m meeting him at the museum.”

“God forbid he should put China on hold,” Julia muttered. “However, this will give us more time to work on you. The opening starts at eight, so you’d better be here at four. On second thought, make it three. We’ll need that extra hour.”

“For your voodoo curses, right?”

“
Art
takes time, Polly.”

“I’m not art.”

“You will be, as long as you wear what I tell you to wear and look how I want you to look. And for God’s sake, lay off the doughnuts and muffins.
Bloat
is never stylish.”

Polly didn’t tell Luke she was letting his aunt style her up, just in case she ended up on the lam for melting Julia with a bucket of water, but she showed up at the studio at three sharp on Saturday afternoon. A hair salon, boutique, and spa comprised the entire first floor of a private, refurbished building near downtown Indigo Bay.

Polly was greeted not only by Julia but by a team of male assistants whose names all ended in O—Marco, Antonio, Stefano—and women whose names ended in A—Anisa, Dawna, Isabella. First the women made her strip down to her skivvies before coming at her with enough tools and products to fill a warehouse.

Polly was waxed all over, including places where she didn’t even know she had hair, then her skin was exfoliated, conditioned, moisturized, massaged, and plucked. Julia walked around issuing orders like a general, commanding her to try on at least a dozen gowns—“
The latest
,” she informed Polly—and designer shoes.

Polly modeled clothes that were probably more expensive than her debt and savings combined, while Julia and the assistants circled her with comments and critiques.

“The mermaid style doesn’t flatter her hips.” “Nice around the bust.” “Orange isn’t her color.” “With her figure, she needs an A line.”

They decided on a black-and-gray gown that hugged her breasts and torso before flaring around her hips into a soft waterfall of silk and lace. Polly had barely had time to admire herself in the mirror before Julia sent the gown off to be altered to her figure.

Then Julia led her over to a chair in front of a lighted mirror, where another small army of stylists waited. Julia and a hairstylist named Enzo walked around her, flicking at her hair and discussing the “split ends,” “frizz,” and “heavy length” of her locks while a cosmetologist recommended certain color choices for eye shadow and blush.

Polly silently congratulated herself for not saying a word as she read a Martha Stewart magazine and let Julia and her cohorts have their way with her.

And when she finally stood in front of the full-length mirror, polished to a shine, she couldn’t believe she was looking at herself.

“So.” Julia stood behind her, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed as she raked a final, critical eye over Polly’s figure. “I told you I was good.”

She’d been right. Polly looked . . . amazing. They’d cut, shaped, and straightened her hair, so it fell in a thick, shimmering curtain to her shoulders, and added sun-streaked blond highlights. The cosmetologist had beautified her face with subtle colors that brought out the dark brown of her eyes, the angles of her cheekbones, and made her lips look as if she had just been kissed.

And the gown! It hugged her in all the right places, with the V neckline displaying a perfect amount of cleavage. Diamond earrings glittered against her hair, and a gold diamond necklace made her neck look swan-like. Her shoes were satin flats embellished with a crystal (“Manolo, though I don’t trust you to wear heels gracefully,” Julia had remarked), and they complemented the gown perfectly.

Everything about her glowed—her hair, her skin, her eyes, even her French-manicured fingernails.

“Wow,” she finally said.

“To be sure.” Julia smiled, this time actually displaying her perfect teeth.

Polly couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. This version of Polly Lockhart looked like a princess. A woman who could sail through Paris with self-assurance and not be intimidated by famous chefs or learning a new language.

“My mother would have loved what you did with my hair,” she told Julia. “She was always telling me I should take better care of my hair.”

“Mothers are often right.”

As Polly gazed at herself in the mirror, a weird emotion tightened her throat. She blinked.

“Don’t you dare ruin your mascara.” Julia snapped her fingers at Anna, who hurried over with a tissue and a beaded handbag that matched Polly’s gown.

“Twirl,” Antonio said.

“Twirl?”

He nodded and smiled, making a circling gesture with his forefinger. Polly didn’t think she had ever twirled in her life, but she did then. She stood on her tiptoes and spun in a circle, her gown flaring out like a cloud. She wanted to dance like Cinderella at the ball—all she needed was Prince Charming to guide her. Or Luke Stone.

That strange feeling filled her chest again. She stepped away from the mirror.

“I don’t know how I’m going to drive in this,” she remarked.

Dawna and Enzo chuckled.

“She’s not joking,” Julia told them dryly.

“Why would I be joking?” Polly asked, though she secretly dreaded the thought of driving her old VW van while wearing this. She would be a pearl inside a cranky old oyster.

“My dear, Luke sent a car to take you to the museum,” Julia replied. “I told the driver to pick you up here rather than your apartment.”

“Don’t forget to hold up your gown on the stairs,” Marco advised.

“Have a wonderful time, darling!” Enzo added. “You look magnificent.”

All the assistants cheered and clapped as Polly sashayed to the door, making her feel like she was walking the red carpet. She stopped to thank them before Julia guided her outside to where a sleek, black Bentley town car waited, the driver standing beside the open door.

“Enjoy yourself.” Julia narrowed her eyes and adjusted Polly’s décolletage. “Just try not to destroy the illusion that you’re glamorous and sophisticated. In other words, don’t open your mouth.”

Polly looked up to make a smart retort, only to find Julia watching her with amusement. Very faint, but there nonetheless.

“At the risk of sounding sappy,” Polly said, “thank you.”

“I told you I was good.” Julia tilted her head to the car. “I’ll be there a bit later, so I’ll keep an eye on you. Go.”

Before Polly did something embarrassing, like hug the other woman, she got into the car and settled against the plush leather seats. Through the tinted window, she saw the group of assistants waving as the car pulled away from the curb.

Better be home by midnight. This car will turn back into a VW van, and I’ll be Raggedy Ann again.

Limos and town cars crowded the front of the Fine Arts Museum. Spotlights glowed on the huge banners advertising the opening of the Manet exhibition, and women in glittering evening gowns and men in tuxedos walked up the wide, marble steps to the entrance.

Nervousness tightened Polly’s stomach. She thanked the driver and followed the stream of guests up the stairs. Halfway there, she stopped. Luke stood next to one of the Roman columns lining the front of the classical building.