They entered a small meeting room turned dressing room. Several older women tittered in the corner over a woman in a white dress who couldn’t seem to get her zipper up, while another woman stepped into a cascade of bright red sequins.
Jessica rushed up to Christiana. “Wow, Chris, you look good.”
“Yeah, can you believe a Herrera?” Avery answered.
“Well, look what we have for you. It’s so hot!” Jessica held up a mass of midnight blue ropes. “It’s a crocheted dress. All the rage.”
Christiana raised her eyebrows and turned to Avery to protest. “No way. I am not wearing that.”
Avery sighed. “Chris, be a team player here. Come on. Try it. Trust me.” Avery snuck her hands underneath Christiana’s arm to fiddle with her side zipper.
Avery knew fashion, so it wouldn’t be ugly. Christiana just wished there was more of it.
“What do I wear underneath?” Christiana asked.
“That’s the best part,” Jessica squealed. She lifted up a red, lacy strapless bra, embedded with crystals. “It’ll peek through, like fireworks in the night sky.”
Christiana reluctantly took the crocheted material, bra and thong.
“You are going to have every man wanting you,” Jessica sang.
Christiana stepped out of the puddle of blue fabric at her feet and slipped behind a tri-fold screen. She peeled off the lingerie Jonathan had sent over and replaced it with the gaudy thong and bra. At least they were the right size, if you could call the thong barely covering her mound a “fit.” Sarah was right about one thing. Red was not her color.
She slipped the crocheted fabric over her head and pulled it down to cover her ass. The fabric, stretched, reached mid-thigh. Whether it would stay there when she walked was another matter.
Christiana stepped out from behind the screen. Avery and Jessica gave each other a look.
“Oh my God, it’s perfect,” Jessica said.
Avery smiled. “It’ll be the highlight of the show, Chris.”
“Oh, come on. You can see everything. I can’t.”
Avery spun her around to face the mirror. “Yes, you can. It’s just enough. All eyes will be on you.”
“Avery—”
“Woman up, Christiana. Jesus. But, hey, if you’re not brave enough to wear this, I can put you in some boring white gown that will make you look like everyone else. Fine by me, but don’t come boohooing to me when you find out you’ve blown a chance to wear something this hot.” She ran her hands over Christiana’s hips to emphasize her point.
“Where’s your mom? She should see this, first, don’t you think?” Coco Churchill had been the event’s committee chair for a decade and was usually running around the dressing room in her tall heels, barking orders in her high-pitched voice.
“Coco couldn’t be bothered with the models this year. She let me decide everything. I think I might go into this, as a profession.” Avery leaned into Christiana’s ear. “I am really good at this. Trust me.”
Sarah had said the same thing during Jonathan’s dress-up day. Well, Avery had nailed one thing. No one would not notice her in this outfit. She only hoped the one man tonight she needed to captivate, would.
Christiana studied herself in the mirror. How bad could it be? So far everything new she’d tried this summer had worked out—sort of.
Jessica peered over her shoulder. “Those are real Swarovski crystals on the lingerie. They’ll twinkle in the light when you move.”
“You-know-who is out there, ya know,” Avery whispered.
Coco walked up to them. “Ladies, ladies, please move faster.” She turned to Christiana. “Why, Miss Snow, well, no time. Avery, I need you backstage, now.”
Loud hip-hop music erupted from the ballroom. Laughter and clapping ensued. The show had begun.
A line of twittering women lined up along the back wall to exit the dressing room for the catwalk. Jessica positioned Christiana between a woman in a long, red sequin sheath and another in a frothy white dress with layers of pearl-beaded tulle and lace. “You’re second to last. The fireworks are always at the end of an evening, right?”
The woman behind her leaned toward Christiana’s ear. “Unless there’s a wedding dress involved. That’s always the last look in a collection, the show stopper.” She gave Christiana a warm smile.
Christiana took a deep breath and followed the other women out the door to the backstage.
Jonathan had given Mark strict instructions to get Peter Snow home that evening. After watching the man down his fifth glass of cabernet, no way would Peter go home with Christiana alone even if taxicabs lined the club entranceway for such a situation. He might stop at a bar on the way home. No, let Mark drive Peter home in his limousine. Jonathan would get Christiana home in his own car, also nestled safely in the parking lot downstairs in case he needed to make a break from the paparazzi. Photographers always followed the limos.
Or maybe Jonathan wouldn’t take Christiana home at all. He’d take her to his own bed. He’d been separated from her for three days, and already he’d crushed his resolve to stay away until Saturday.
His fingers had hovered over his phone every few minutes, tempted to call Christiana and demand she meet him somewhere, anywhere. He stopped himself each time.
Christiana must be backstage. He hadn’t seen her all night. Last weekend she’d shared that Avery roped her into helping in the dressing room the last three years. No wonder he’d never run into Christiana before. He was certain Avery ensured her friend sat hidden backstage most of the time.
Completely inappropriate music thumped from the speakers. He had to admit the crowd seemed to enjoy the change in pace though. Chamber music and Washington Opera singers belting out arias accompanying young models gliding down the runway had grown stale.
Jonathan ran his fork through the remains of his tiramisu and half-heartedly listened to Sarah entertain Congressman Pickard on her right. She read Jonathan well. She could tell he was in no mood to be lobbied by a colleague seeking support.
“You’re distracted,” Sarah said into her glass of wine.
“A little tired. It’s a busy time.”
“You’re not going to tell me it’s an election year, are you? That’s kind of like talking about the weather around here.”
Jonathan smiled at her bull’s eye.
“Or perhaps you’re thinking of someone?” Bull’s-eye a second time.
A large hand enclosed Jonathan’s shoulder.
“Son, Sarah.” His father’s unmistakable voice sent Jonathan’s last good-mood molecule to the floor. Brond Senior leaned down and kissed Sarah’s cheek. Jonathan rose out of courtesy and extended his hand, which his father took roughly.
“Your mother and I are seated with the Blanchards. Jesus, what a mess. But loyalty is loyalty, right?”
Loyalty. As if his father understood the meaning of the word.
His father turned to Sarah. “Your mother has someone you should meet.”
“I’ll bet.” Sarah threw Jonathan a knowing look. Claire wouldn’t rest until her daughter married and grew round as a basketball with some business mogul’s child.
His father’s practiced smile fell into a facial expression of practiced concern. “Jonathan, we need to talk. Soon.”
“About?”
“Want you to set me straight on a few rumors.”
“I thought you took little stock in gossip, Father. Besides, as you can see, I’m here with Sarah, doing my duty.” Jonathan sent his hand to his heart in mock sincerity.
“Which is doing neither of you any good. Claire’s cousin over there’s been asking about you.” He threw his chin to his table where a woman sporting a Washington-approved blond bob smiled back at Jonathan’s quick glance.
“Spending a little time with Marla Clampton would be good for everyone, all around. Get your reputation back on track.” He leaned in closer. “Marla would be good for you. She knows her worth.” He emphasized the last words as if
imparting some secret of the universe, as if his own past with women provided the model for relationship advice.
His father squeezed his shoulder and then turned his face to the other people sitting at the table. “Well, I came over to say hello to my favorite son. I see the show’s starting. Must get back.” He leaned into Jonathan’s ear, “Jay, come pay your respects to Blanchard. He understands mistakes, and if you don’t listen to your father, well, he may have some advice for your situation.”
My situation?
Christiana snuck a peek from a side curtain and found Jonathan sitting at a table banking the runway. Sarah sat next to him.
Stiff taffeta fabric brushed the back of Christiana’s ankles. When she turned, Avery stood smoothing down the front of the ivory, bejeweled wedding dress.
“You changed your mind,” Christiana said.
“My mom thought I should be the last one down. Ya’ know, a last hurrah as a model and all.”
Christiana had to give Coco credit. She left no chance untaken to show off her daughter as a potential wife available for purchase.
Avery smiled. “Don’t look at me like that. No one’s going to pay any attention to me after they see you in your glory.”
Christiana pulled the netting over her hips, feeling the stretch of the crochet slip down and then recoil. Well, there was no turning back now.
“Jonathan Brond will certainly see a new side to you,” Avery said.
Christiana returned her attention to the runway. Her turn was coming up, and she didn’t have time to respond to Avery’s words.
Avery leaned over her shoulder. “Whatever you do, don’t trip.” Christiana kept her eyes forward. She had no intention of stumbling, even if the dress rode up her entire ass.
Jonathan turned his eyes to the stage as a woman in a red gown stepped onto the stage. He found the overabundance of red in the room irritating, like rivers of blood moving through the ballroom and clotting at each table. A woman in a fluttering white lace dress walked down the aisle next. It calmed him a bit. Jesus, his nerves must be on edge if fashion had an impact.
He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass, still full, wondering what his father meant by his situation. His father and he were nothing alike, especially when it came to women. Jonathan’s life may have been filled with short-term relationships, but he ensured every one of his past lovers could count on him as a friend, forever. He also ensured their reputations—and his—remained intact. His father, however . . .
Sarah touched his arm in silent commiseration. He must be telegraphing his misery.
“You like that one?” he asked. Fashion was as good a topic as any to keep things light.
“Are you offering to buy it for me?”
“If you’d like.”
“No. I prefer something bolder.”
He smiled. “I know.”
The music changed to a sultry hip-hop beat. A female voice started half-rapping, half-singing. The song title, “No Panties Coming Off” by Trina, slipped into his mind, as Christiana stepped to the end of the runway.
Holy fuck.
Christiana paused at the end of the runway for several seconds, like she had seen Avery do so many years when she modeled. Avery called it “presenting,” letting the audience really admire what you’re wearing before you start to move. She said it helped them catch up to what they were seeing. Christiana put her hand on her hip and caught a flash of crystal on her breast in her peripheral vision.
She kept her head high as she stepped forward.
The slick runway surface slowed her pace. Her hips were swung out by the leisurely stroll, but she wouldn’t fall down. She set a hand on her hip and pulled her shoulder blades down her back. Jessica had said the bra would resemble Fourth of July fireworks, so no use hunching over to hide their sparkle.
As she reached the center of the runway, a guy’s wolf whistle broke through the loud driving music. Then, as if a dam broke, more catcalls from men erupted. She slowly pivoted at the end of the runway. A loud “Yeah” from the back almost made her stumble.
Now facing away from most of the crowd, she could glance around more. She darted her eyes down to Jonathan’s table and caught his glacial expression. His eyes looked past her, as if concentrating on a speck on the wall.
She’d made a mistake.
Avery stood in her wedding gown at the end of the runway, a sweet smile plastered across her face. The contrast between the two of them struck Christiana in the chest. She cursed herself for being so inside her own head, she hadn’t noticed. She presented the slut. Avery would glide down the runway as the Madonna, the perfect woman for any eligible man seeking the perfect Washington wife. The kind of woman Jonathan would marry.
The wolf calls quieted as Avery descended toward Christiana. The music changed. Moonlight Sonata. It was the perfect backdrop to Avery’s modern take on class and style.
Christiana brushed past her. “Don’t trip, Avery.” It was a wimpy warning shot. But Christiana couldn’t muster more at the moment, knowing Jonathan bored holes in her back.
“I never do,” Avery whispered in return.
No, she never faltered. Christiana’s father said she could learn from Avery, told her to watch how she navigated her world with such ease and grace. Avery’s real talent lay in setting the stage before taking it over.
“Okay, Jay, lay down your sword. She looked fantastic.” Sarah leaned back in her chair. She had assessed the situation clearly, unlike Jonathan’s pride, which blinded him to the most basic understanding.
“Did I say anything?”
“Yes, with every atom in your body.” She took another sip of wine. “Go see her. I’ll get myself home. By the look on your face, she’s going to need to hear you’re not mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“No, you’re enraged that your love was appreciated by many male eyes.”
“She is not—”
“Have you told your heart this?”
Jonathan rose, and Sarah grasped his wrist. “Remember she’s young, Jonathan. She’s trying to get your attention in the only way she knows how.”
“She’s smarter than that.”
“She’s desperate like that. Remember, you have a way of making women do things.”
Christiana threw off her four-inch heels as soon as she stepped behind the stage curtain. She had to get back into her blue gown as quickly as possible. She’d try and play this nonchalant. Perhaps sashay over to Jonathan’s table and say hello. Sarah’s fashion background would be a good way to start a conversation, check in to see how Sarah felt about the show.
Then she’d ask Jonathan to take her home. Her father wouldn’t mind. He’d be the last one to leave with the political bigwigs laid out like a smorgasbord. In the car, she’d convince Jonathan that her dress was a silly mistake and “no big deal.” That should work, right?
As she turned the corner, Jonathan’s chest stopped her advance. Words froze in her throat. She wished she’d conjured up a plan B because plan A wasn’t going to work. No way would he think what happened was “no big deal.”
He slipped off his jacket and pulled it around her shoulders, more gently than she expected. His grasp on her arm, however, matched the anger threatening to spill from his eyes like lava from Mt. Vesuvius.
“My dress. It’s in the other room,” she choked out as he led her down the hallway.
He didn’t answer, just continued to pull her through the crowd. Necks careened at their march. The jacket fell below her ass. From behind, her bare legs and bare feet made her look naked under his jacket—worse than the flimsy pieces of fibers she wore.
As they neared the entrance, Mark pushed himself off the railing and handed Jonathan a set of keys. “Last spot on the left.”
Jonathan turned to Christiana. “Put your shoes on.”
He steadied her long enough for her to slip on the torturous stiletto sandals before leading her through the parking lot. Distant traffic noise and the tree frogs sin
ging their songs were the only accompaniments to their walk. Twilight had fallen.
27
Jonathan pulled off the George Washington Parkway and into the Washington Sailing Club’s parking lot. It had taken him only twenty minutes in spite of the slow Fourth of July traffic due to lanes closed for parades and tourists who didn’t understand the web of one-way streets. The weather service had called for a storm to skirt the Potomac River and head out to the Chesapeake Bay. A sprinkling of rain and some choppy water would not cause any trouble for sailing—or his plans.
“I said I’d show you my boat.” Jonathan pulled into his reserved spot in the nearly full parking lot.
“You did?” Christiana sank further into his jacket and her indecent outfit if he could even call it an outfit.
“At our first dinner. The night you said you were interested in spending time with me.”
“Y-yes. I think I remember.”
He turned off the ignition and turned his eyes to her ashen face. Jonathan absorbed her apprehension. “Let me remind you then. It’s a beautiful evening for sailing, for seeing the fireworks.” He regarded the grey-blue water tossing the boats, tied to the dozen long docks that lined the small marina. Most sailors had already cast off into the choppy water.
“I don’t like the water very much.” Her voice was small, uncertain.
“But you were so brave tonight, Christiana. Let’s see how far your courage extends.”
“Jonathan, please.” A cry caught in her throat. “You’ve been so distant since the weekend. I wanted—” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I know what you wanted.” When he came around the back of the car, she was already out and jogging around the side. She slammed into his chest and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Please. Don’t be mad at me. I was trying—”
“I know.” He pulled her arms down to her sides.
Jonathan held her face with his eyes. He knew exactly why she strutted in fuck-me stilettos and a see-through dress. It wasn’t his fault, but he was responsible. He’d failed at his most important task—to help her feel her power. “Come with me.”
Elite (Elite Doms of Washington Book 1) Page 24