Kitabı oku: «Dressed to Thrill»

ONE

Tara Marie Fitzpatrick Devine knew how to behave badly. Very badly. She made it her business to work hard, play hard and then read the hard online copy of her triumphs. It was quite simply the most delicious way to promote herself in the dog-eat-dog world of international fashion. And tonight—the culmination of a whole season of glamorous graft—tonight, her wild streak was shining like neon body paint in a nightclub-dark room.

‘But what am I going to do?’

Barely aware of the feet that drummed beside hers under the table in the shady booth, Tara dipped into her clutch and pulled out her compact. Another streak of siren-red over her pout while she was still sober enough to care.

‘You’ll be fine,’ she managed to say, looking at her reflection in the tiny mirror.

The thick slicks of liquid eyeliner were almost perfect—crazy that she had never rocked this look before—it was so, so burlesque!

‘But I’m sure he’ll be on his way here next! And if he catches me here…after I told him I was going straight home…’

Tara replaced the lipstick in its little case. Honestly, there was no getting through to this girl.

‘Fernanda.’

She swept a glance from the now resting silver platforms to the mouthwateringly beautiful face of Fernanda Cruz—the sexiest Spanish teenager to grace the runways and the tabloids in a decade. Her brown mane hung sexily over one eye and her fuchsia silk mini-dress rode high on endless thighs. The girl looked as if she had never even heard of the word carbohydrate.

‘What?’

Tara pointed her lipstick at her.

‘You need to stop this. First of all, you’re not even sure if he’ll definitely turn up. Secondly, if he does…and—let’s face it—it is quite likely, then you need to stand up to him. Tell him to get out of your life and stop acting like the overbearing, macho pain in the ass that he is.’ She flipped open the compact again and checked her slightly wonky teeth for lipstick, rubbing at them until they squeaked. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done anything wrong, Fernanda. It’s only an after-party! ‘

‘But you don’t understand. My brother Michael rules the family. If he is here, I’m…’ She mimed being garrotted.

‘And he has to realise that a life in fashion these days means you have to promote yourself—be seen, get papped, kiss Harry…’

‘But I’m his baby sister, Tara! And he hates it. Hates all of it. He wants me to study to be an accountant or something. He thinks models are airheads and designers are fakes.’

Tara’s snapped her clutch closed with a little more attitude than was necessary. She knew all about the über-dominant Michael Cruz, Fern’s brother and legendary King Machismo. Ten hours earlier, as Fernanda had sublimely showcased Tara’s funkiest spring/

summer dresses on the runway of her London show, her sickeningly handsome brother had sat in the front row, looking as bored as if he were watching paint dry—the dull shades.

And, though no one had dared tell Tara at the time, the press had been all over it. Photos of him in his immaculately tailored suit, with his perfectly masculine jaw and utterly uninterested expression had hit every online fashion site within moments. Thank heavens his other sister Angelica had shown enough enthusiasm for the whole row. And had been kind enough to drop that she was ‘considering’ commissioning Tara to design her wedding dress. That just about made up for the arrogance of the man!

‘Fern, honey, we’ve worked hard. Our careers are just taking off. For me, this party is as important as the show. And for you it’s what you’ve been looking forward to for the last month. And we’ve got it all to do again in two weeks’ time in Paris! Cha-ching! So if he is here we’ll tell him to…to go and count his own beans—and we’ll mingle and dance and see what column inches we can capture. Come on!’

She grasped Fern’s hand and pulled her to her feet. All six feet of her size zero frame only served to highlight Tara’s own whipped cream curves. Fattest woman in fashion. Overeater von Tease. Yep, she’d heard them all. And sometimes it hurt—of course it did. But she’d learned long ago that even if she ate air and drank dew she was only ever going to be voluptuous. So she’d put her voluptuousness to good use—she knew how to enhance a cleavage and minimise a belly better than any bra or pair of magic pants.

And, now that the fashion elite had begun to show interest, getting some mainstream press was her next mission. Hence the headline-grabbing dress from her show—she’d styled it The Seven-Year Bitch: Marilyn meets Madonna. Though maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to go this short when there was nothing surer than a cringe-worthy ‘getting into the limo badly’ photograph appearing in the morning’s news feed. More column inches, and even more reasons for Team Devine back home to decry her. Devine girls were supposed to put up and shut up—two of her weakest skills…

The DJ changed and the music turned darker. Tara saw Fern head onto the dance floor with some up-and-coming young cutie and wandered off herself into the throng, smiling and air-kissing the other bottom-of-the-food-chain celebrities. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved back out to the foyer—keen to avoid having to chat with her Dutch financier, easily the most boring man on earth. But when her breath seemed to catch as a gulp of fizz hit the back of her throat, and the faces of the crowd all turned, she realised that someone very A-list had just arrived.

Everything in Tara Devine’s life happened at a million miles an hour. Her brain processed thoughts that her mouth duly delivered. Which sometimes led to problems. Like when she didn’t actually know what she’d just said or done until two seconds too late. But here—now—she felt as if she had slipped into slow-mo. She watched, transfixed, as the foyer seemed almost to fade and there, stalking along the red carpet, was the arrogant alpha himself. Michael Cruz. Incorporated.

As the camera flashes whited out the space he turned his head slightly, as if a mildly irritating noise had sounded. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was as tall as she had imagined, his physique as perfect. And, though she rarely dressed men, she just knew what lay under the cut of cloth on his back. The ripple of muscle over the perfect masculine ratio of shoulders to waist was flawless.

One hand was at his hip, pushing back his jacket, and the perfect illumination of a white silk-linen shirt gleamed. He turned, paced, and took something handed to him by one of his security team. He slipped it into his pocket, seemed to search out the faces closest to him, and then…

And then a flash of intensely dark eyes landed on her. He scanned her, and her heart raced the moment his gaze probed and zoned over her. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her chest and she instinctively lifted her arms to shield herself. He turned full body to face her as he continued to stare, his eyes sliding down, over and up her legs.

The cameras whirred and flashed, people were talking, calling out to him, capturing his appraisal of her. And then, with what seemed infuriatingly like a condescending smirk, he turned away, dismissing her.

Tara felt colour rush up her chest and burn her cheeks—the stab of childhood sensitivities all over again. It had been a long time since anyone had pierced her armour. And that made her even angrier—how dared he? She made to step forward, to tell him what she thought of him—him and his dull, dark, bespoke suit. He was here in the hub of one of the most creative cities in the world, at one of the most exciting times—when the eyes of the fashion media were trained upon young talent—and he was being openly dismissive of anything other than twenty-four-carat conservatives just like himself.

She had checked him out—the media darling, yet another poacher turned gamekeeper whose definition of art was as narrow as his totally on-trend, no-risk tie. There was no way anyone other than the beautiful people would get a foothold in his world. Old money and limb length spoke more than any genuine talent. As far as she could see.

As if to prove her point, a little posse of coltish runway girls circled him, giggling and preening and flashing their thigh-gaps like currency. He brightened and slung arms round two who snuck right under his

‘Daddy’s home’ embrace. Their coquettish display was vile. Sometimes the sisterhood let itself down so badly.

‘Tara, querida! How lovely to see you again.’

Tara turned to see the third member of Club Cruz glide her way towards her. The outrageously elegant Angelica: dream customer and media-savvy goddess of style. Oh, yes. Let the Lord be thanked for the double X chromosomes in the procreation of generation Cruz.

‘Angelica!’

Air-kiss, air-kiss and smug glare right over to the arrogant alpha himself. He caught her look and made no effort to hide his calm assessment of the scene. Stood with his adoring troupe, relaxed and controlled. And who could blame him—the way they were practically licking the air around him?

‘Angelica, you look beautiful—as ever. Let me see.’ Tara stepped back to scan the perfect ensemble, ‘You wear couture so well. It’s a shame your brother is rocking the boring businessman look, though.’

Angelica laughed lightly and preened politely, linking her arm in Tara’s and stepping into the party. ‘Michael is putting up with this for me. He doesn’t really like the scene any more. But he does enjoy some of the benefits.’

She flicked her eyes to where he stood, acknowledging his current difficulties with amused acceptance.

‘This is the third party we’ve been to and his ego must be bigger than the bar bills. All these beautiful young girls and so few men for them to flirt with. Well, men who like women, that is.’

Tara scanned her fellow partygoers, nodding her agreement. There was more oestrogen in the room than you could shake a fluffy pink wand at. The legions of gay best friends didn’t quite boost the already depleted testosterone levels. Even the men in the celebrity underclass were over-preened, with their shaped, tinted brows and oily orange complexions. Really, really not a turn-on.

Tara’s men were edgy, dark, beta. And invariably in her past. The last real relationship she’d had, with a sensitive, eyeliner-wearing musician, had been during college. The relationships she had now were with champagne and investors. Oh, and the media. Her biggest flirt of all.

‘I was wondering if you had seen Fernanda, actually.’

Angelica’s tone still had its feather-lightness but Tara could sense a little edge of concern.

‘I thought she was staying home, but maybe she has come here with you?’

Tara looked around. Fern hadn’t been with her for quite some time now. ‘She is here—she went to dance. But if she knows Michael’s here she’ll be hiding out in the toilets. She had a major meltdown earlier. He must have some hold over her.’

Angelica steered them through to the dance floor, smiling as she passed the partygoers and securing them two glasses of champagne from a conveniently placed table.

‘He means well—just worries about her because he is responsible for her. It was never easy for him, being guardian to two orphaned girls.’

She patted her arm as Tara vaguely recalled their back story. Something about him halting his own highly successful model/actor/presenter career when his mum and stepdad were killed in a car crash. Overnight he’d gone from number one Euro party boy to serious, silent and sober. What was it her Irish granny used to say? ‘A young tart an old nun makes.’ Or something like that. Yes, there was no doubt that his condescending aura was just reformist hot air.

‘He thinks everyone in fashion is self-serving and nasty or stupid—because he had such a bad experience when he was younger. You should meet him. Help him put his mind at rest. Oh, and we must have that chat about my dress.’

The very words Tara had been longing to hear. She swallowed her gushing mouthful of thank-yous and smiled coolly. ‘Of course. Any time you like. I won’t be heading to Paris for a week.’

‘Lovely…’ Angelica sounded distracted. She unlinked her arm and squeezed her hand. ‘I think we should go and find Michael. Maybe you can convince him to stay on here while I take Fernanda home. Discreetly.’

She nodded to where Fern, locking lips with her cutie, was swaying in time to some bassy, carnal music. The fact that she didn’t seem to care who saw her grind her hips and lose herself in his mouth kind of screamed that she had kissed goodbye her inhibitions along with several glasses of booze.

Angelica rolled her eyes ever so slightly. ‘He won’t like it if she’s been drinking. He’s so protective of her, and it would save a load of heartache if he never had to know.’

Actually, Tara thought that a hell of a lot more heartache would be saved by telling him where to get off—but each to their own.

She squeezed Angelica’s hand back. ‘I’m on it.’

Helping her friend and getting more into Angelica’s good books made a whole lot of sense, too. The only downside was that it was going to mean actually communicating with the grade A-is-for-ass, macho man. What on earth did they have in common? Spain’s one-time boy idol, all grown-up and gone cerebral. Who only spoke in words of five syllables in the language of the super-successful.

Maybe it would be simpler if she dropped her clutch and twerked for him. It was rumoured that he still spoke that particular language, and maybe then she’d be able to hold his attention long enough for his sisters to get out and away from his overbearing presence.

She had. She’d escaped—or rather, she’d plotted and executed her plan. Walked away when the time was right. And if she could do it any woman could. It was the best thing that had happened to her. Ever. Honestly. When she ruled the world she’d arrange for all the arrogant bullies to be herded together and thrown in a pit. And Michael Cruz would be the perfect trophy for the top.

She stomped along, in the wake of Angelica’s smooth glide, back to where Michael and his guardette of honour were still lending their eye-blinding beauty to the club photographer. She watched a couple of the better-known runway girls strike poses and got the feeling he wasn’t really keen to play any more. But his smile, when he used it, was as dazzling as his sisters’—and, heaven help her, for a moment she could only stare at the masculine beauty of it all.

And then he turned it on Angelica, and warmth crept over his face. So he had a heart?

He eased himself away from one photo op right into another as he greeted his sister. Then he distanced himself from all the white noise as he guided her—only her—with a proprietorial hand on the small of her back, to the bar. Was he being a deliberate jerk or did he truly not know that Tara was behind them?

She could really take it or leave it. This whole, keeping up with the Cruzes, thing. It was taking her well away from where she wanted to be. There were some very interesting new faces and Mr Arrogant had diss’d her twice already—three times if you counted the show today.

She was just about to let them all get on with it when she saw him turn round. Not fully round, but grudgingly, and then, as if he was giving alms to the poor, he gestured that she should catch up with them.

If there was a DEFCON higher than one she might just have reached it. Who the hell did he think he was? Did every female he met just fall at his feet, or—worse—into line? Not this one. He might look like the man of everyone else’s dreams, but he was her personal idea of a nightmare come to life.

‘Tara. I don’t think we’ve properly met.’

He didn’t think they’d properly met? Really?

She could just see Angelica’s dazzling smile through the haze of red that had fallen around her. Play it cool, play it cool. Don’t give him the control. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

She lifted the glass she was almost crushing in her hand and took a long sip.

He gave a little indulgent, half-cocked smile and then walked towards her slowly, hand extended. ‘I’m Michael—Angelica’s brother. And Fernanda’s. Pleased to meet you.’

Oh, he was good. But she was better. She paused, set her drink with very deliberate care on little elbow-height table closest to her, and turned back to face him.

‘Yes, I’m sure you are. You were at my show today.’ Just in case he thought he would try to gloss over his rudeness. ‘You didn’t really seem to get it. Fashion not your thing?’

Well, he probably didn’t have a lot of women launching conversations with insults, so that might explain his slight double-take. But he covered it well and took her hand. A very warm, very appropriate handshake. No crushing, just firm and male. Very, very male.

His eyes bored right into hers. Combative. He let go of her hand. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ve sat through quite a number of runway shows this week. Wouldn’t say it’s been the best use of my time, but…it filled a few hours.’

‘And created a few million for our economy,’ Tara added, sweet as the pie she’d like to throw in his face.

And it was such a yawningly attractive face. Some might even get swept up in the masculine brilliance of the angled cheekbones and defined jaw. Eyes that were slightly almond-shaped and as fathomless as his mood. Lips that were full and dark red, but too hard to be feminine. Lips that she suddenly imagined could give a whole load of pleasure.

Dangerous. Oh. Yes.

She swallowed and forced her thoughts back on track. ‘I often think some people forget just how much is involved in the creation of one dress.’ She fingered the skirt of her own, unintentionally inviting his appraisal.

Damn, but he didn’t think twice about giving it. Was there no end to the gall of the man?

‘We were both thrilled to be at your show, Tara. Your designs really are beautiful. And you have the perfect body to show them off.’

Angelica’s sparkling tones cut through the heavy air that was swirling between them. ‘You are so wonderfully hourglass. You know, I was reading the other day that we are all turning into rectangles. Can you imagine? Straight up and down. No waists to speak of. No wonder you are the toast of the week, sweetie. All us skinnies want to look as feminine as you. Isn’t she just adorable, Michael? Oh, look, there’s the photographer. We must give him a snap. Michael—you there, arm round Tara. Perfect.’

Angelica buzzed and fluttered and placed herself on Tara’s other side as the cameras flashed. And even though she was still fizzing at the easy way he was glossing over his arrogance Tara knew that now wasn’t the time to challenge.

Because now he was moving right into her space, extending his arm. Even as her eyes fell on the mouth that twisted into that slight smirk she had just seen. Even if this time the smirk was eclipsed by the pure male sensuality of his lips. And, though she hated that predictable shadowy stubble, defined jaw look, her eyes widened as the up close and personal space of Michael Cruz became shared with her.

She felt his arm circle her waist and draw her to his right side. Firmly. He held her firmly—as if he had every right to wrap his big arm around her and pose her in the camera glare. As if it was totally fine for him to pull her so close to his body and cause fireworks in her nerve-endings. Could everybody see what she was feeling? How embarrassing! Since when was Tara Devine reduced to a puppet by anybody?

She really didn’t want to run with that particular thought…

His grip on her waist was tight and unequivocal. She was just a full-fat version of the calorie-free hors d’oeuvres he’d sampled five minutes earlier. And she hate, hate, hated that he could do that to her.

* * *

Michael felt sure the muscles in his face would spasm any moment now. After the day he’d had, these brutal after-parties were the last thing he needed. But what the hell? He saw Angelica so little that he could stomach hanging out here, since it seemed to be such a big deal to her. Though he hadn’t figured on winding up next to this pocket Miss Whiplash: Tara Devine, wildest little firecracker in the box, renowned for her partying, her comic book curves and her utter lack of self-control.

But more to the point—he scanned the room—thankfully Fernanda had been smart enough to leave all this well enough alone. At least she’d been as good as her word and stayed home. And, despite begging him to let her model this week, she seemed to have retained some of the self-control he’d spent the last sixteen years drilling into her. She was young, she was naïve. And she was allying herself to the vacuous people in this awful industry.

He’d be damned if the sense and intelligence she was blessed with would be wasted on all of this. The place was awash with drugs and drink—these parties always were. He’d had more than his fair share back in the day. And he’d be a fool to think there wouldn’t be predators trying to get his sister hooked up in it.

He glanced down at the mini sex bomb tucked beneath his arm. She seemed to have burst onto this scene overnight—and wasn’t it just typical that his two sisters found her so ‘engaging’. This woman had her own look, all right—strawberry blonde hair with strange streaks of platinum and gold, combed and pinned in a kind of soft beehive—not his thing at all. He could see the curve of her throat as it met the creamiest, most flawless skin of her décolletage. The swathe of ivory satin that skimmed the most talked-about society breasts just enhanced them even further, and he dropped his eyes to take them in again.

What the hell? He was a man.

Angelica was right. Tara’s waist, now that his hand had relaxed and splayed out against her hip, was actually much smaller than he’d thought when he’d ever thought about it—which was never. And her hips in that skirt—what little there was of it—were soft and round. The whole look reminded him of someone. Someone very feminine. Very sexy. She’d turned, was looking up at him, and her eyes were so blue, outlined in thick black make-up that she just didn’t need. Her lips… The reddest, fullest most swollen pout of a mouth he could remember seeing. She was saying something.

‘Yes, Fernanda is an amazing model. She has potential to be world-class—a real supermodel. I’ve booked her for another week. For Paris.’

The fog in his head suddenly cleared. If Fernanda thought he was letting her loose into this circus again she was out of her mind. He’d indulged her notions this once—let her get it out of her system. But no way was she making a career out of this—not when she had the potential to do something worthwhile with her life.

Time for a little distance.

He leaned in to whisper in Tara Devine’s ear. ‘You’d better unbook her, then. No way will my sister be working for you, next week or any other.’ He smiled as he spoke his words right into her ear, felt her stiffen. He lingered a little longer, and could have sworn she shivered. ‘I don’t know what she told you, but she has more important things to do than walk up and down wearing a bunch of crazy clothes.’

‘Wow, you really are a control freak!’ Tara hissed at him out of the corner of her mouth, even while she pouted and posed.

She was playing her coy little games for the snappers. The men in the room—the men who weren’t caught up in this fashion nonsense—were all posturing, their eyes trained right at her and her frankly ridiculous curves.

She smiled at them, turned in his grasp and cupped his cheek. ‘What are you so afraid of? That she’ll actually enjoy herself?’

She leaned right into his ear as she spoke and he felt her lips brush his skin and the press of her breast on his arm. So she wanted to play? He could live with another minute of her company if it taught her a lesson.

He caught her wrist, brought her insolent hand down sharply behind her, so that her back arched into him and the spill of those creamy breasts was even more obvious. She let out a little gasp and he trailed his eyes super-slowly right over her smooth silky skin. The bodice of her satin dress was so low and his view was so good. And damn it if the slow smirk he was feeling didn’t warm him all the way to his groin before he could turn back to the cameras.

He could feel the air in the room shift. He could feel the interest in the scene sharpen.

Your move, honey.

And, boy, did she move. Just as a TV crew arrived. Brilliant.

‘Well, guys, I think it’s safe to say that Señor Cruz has just shown us, in the most obvious way imaginable, that he’s a big fan of Devine Design. You all know that I had the best of times this week—my clothes are for real women, with real bodies. I design beautiful, feminine clothes for beautiful, feminine women. And, hey, sometimes even a super-smooth dude like Mickey here can forget his manners, but we forgive him. He can’t help it.’

She linked her arms through his and through Angelica’s. Angelica was smiling as if her face would split, and for all the world he thought Ms Devine was going to take a bow. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her little speech. He’d obviously upset her ego. Always the same—the brash types were the mushiest inside. So he’d give her this one, but he’d also make sure they moved well out of the range of any more cameras or reporters, just in case she got brave again.