by Lynn LaFleur
Madame laid her hand on Abby’s forearm. “Do not worry, cherie. Jacqueline, with our dressers and cosmetologists, will meet you at four. If final alterations are needed, Jacqueline will complete them at that time. The others will do the rest. Monsieur will find a delicious goddess awaiting him.”
Abby Granger Horton, a deliciousgoddess. She wasn’t sure even her fairy godmother could pull off that one. “Thank you so much. Merci.”
“Enchante, Mademoiselle, au revoir.”
Chapter Six
The morning sped by in a blur. The phone never stopped ringing, and customers poured in. At one point, Abby wondered if a bus had pulled into town and dropped all of its passengers right on Love In Bloom’s doorstep.
Even the little bell above the door sounded tired and tinny.
By one o’clock, Abby’s hand ached from writing orders. She hadn’t had a spare minute to think about the dancing slippers she’d shoved to the back of the shelf below the cash register or the dress that would turn her into a delicious goddess. Instead, her hands, still sore from the thorns of last night, now bore paper cuts and more broken nails. Some goddess she’d make.
She was heading back to the workroom with a fistful of new orders when she heard the bell jangle for the umpteenth time in the last hour. “Be right there,” she called over her shoulder, dropped the orders into the in-box next to Judy’s worktable, and dashed back to the showroom.
Instead of a customer, Carlton stood waiting, another box in hand—a much smaller box—and another card.
Abby clapped her hands and laughed. “Carlton, we have to stop meeting like this.”
He smiled at her tired joke and handed her the card. She opened the flap. The message, written in Brett’s bold hand, jumped out at her.
Bling to add sparkle to a magical evening! Until tonight, B
Abby’s pulse raced, along with the heat rising on more than her cheeks and throat. The delicate place between her legs, already thrumming with anticipation, confirmed she was ready for all of the magic of Brett.
She slid the card back inside the envelope and took the box Carlton held out to her.
“Mr. Kincade will be by to fetch you at six o’clock.”
She nodded, although her fingers itched to rip the paper off the box. “Six it is.”
As soon as the door closed behind Carlton, Abby heard two sets of footsteps galloping up the hallway.
“Okay, what is it this time?” Ronn came to a sliding stop beside her, Judy at his side. He rubbed his hands and nearly drooled the words, “Oh, this is too, too—”
“Open it, open it,” Judy urged. “I can’t wait to see what that man’s done now.”
Abby shook her head. “You two ever heard the word privacy?” She tried to sound stern, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
“This isn’t a privacy issue,” Judy declared. “It’s sharing information we need to know.”
“I won’t bother to ask why.” Abby tossed the bow aside. The paper followed.
“Whoa, look at that!” Judy exclaimed at the sight of a jewel case made of silver and crystal. Inside, a circle of pearls, square cut beads of onyx, and what surely had to be faux diamonds lay fastened to a bed of white velvet. Inside the circle, the jeweler had attached matching drop earrings.
Abby had seen a necklace and earring set like this before, on one of the web sites featuring Erté’s wearable art. “These can’t be real.”
“Why not?” Ronn took the case from her, walked to the window and studied it. He lacked only a jeweler’s loupe to complete the picture.
“Because there’d be a five-figure price tag attached, that’s why.” And heaven only knows the emotional price tag that includes.
Judy joined Ronn at the window. While he held the box securely, she fingered each pearl, each square of onyx and the diamonds.
“If you haven’t guessed by now,” Judy said, “Brett’s not exactly poverty-stricken.”
“And I’m not for sale.” An unsettled feeling churned in the pit of Abby’s stomach. She scrunched the wrapping paper into a ball. “If that’s genuine Erté, and not a department store knockoff, it’s going back. Shoes are one thing, even the dress is too much.” She took the case from Ronn and snapped the lid shut. “This is way over the top.”
“I wouldn’t worry that he spent his fortune on the dress, hon.” Ronn headed back toward the workroom. “Madame’s good, but Seaside ain’t exactly Paris.”
Judy snorted. “And Madame ain’t exactly French.”
“What does that mean?”
“According to your aunt, Madame’s real name is Clara-Jean Fletcher, and the only Paris she’s ever lived in is in Texas.”
“You mean she’s not a real dress designer? That I’ll be wearing that muslin sack tonight?”
She put an arm around her shoulders. “Madame or Clara-Jean or whatever she chooses to call herself, is an excellent designer. She’s dressed the wealthy of Seaside for more than twenty years, including your aunt until they had their big falling-out.”
“What was that all about?” Abby still clutched the jewel case.
“Something probably so silly and insignificant neither of them remembers.” Judy took a deep breath. “Their differences aside, Madame does superb work. And no matter how much grief I give him, Brett Kincade is one classy dude.” She pointed to the necklace and earrings. “Are those genuine? I don’t know, but I’d bet all the money this shop took in today once you’re dressed you’ll look exquisite from head to toe. So who cares what’s real or what isn’t, or what’s too much or too little? Don’t think about tomorrow. Think about tonight and have the time of your life.”
Abby had little time to think after that. Between walkins and phone orders, she found only a minute or two to wolf down the container of yogurt she’d brought for lunch and, later, an apple.
At three, Judy ordered her home. “Duvalier’s gang will be knocking at your door at four. Look at you.”
Abby glanced down at the palms of her hands. They’d turned red from wringing them. Her lower lip stung too, from nipping at it every time things grew too hectic. With the high humidity inside the shop, her hair frizzed into tight little curls.
“Go home now, Abby. Take a nice soak in a warm tub and drink a cup of hot tea. Rose always stocks chamomile. Otherwise you’ll be a wreck by the time Brett shows up.”
“What do you mean, ‘will be’? I’m a wreck right now.”
“All the more reason to get the heck out of here.”
“What about the shop, and the phone? It hasn’t stopped—”
Judy stepped behind the counter and nudged Abby aside. “Do you think I’ve never manned the desk? Here.” She stooped down and retrieved Abby’s shoes and the jewel case.
“But I promised Aunt Rose I’d take care of—”
“Didn’t you promise Brett you’d be a good date? We have enough folks in back to cover the phones. We’ll take turns staffing the showroom.” She rested her hands on Abby’s shoulders. “Listen to me, my friend. With the kids in high school and with college looming, there’s no way Butch and I will ever afford an evening at Whispers. At least not until we’re so damned old we won’t remember what to do when we get there. Go, have an unbelievable time, then let me live it vicariously through you.”
*
Thoughts of quiet time, chamomile tea and a long soak in a warm tub disappeared when Abby turned onto Rose’s street. Already parked in front of 221 Roxbury Park Road stood Madame Duvalier’s silver RV and a small fleet of SUVs in front and behind the behemoth. Abby had to squeeze Rose’s BMW between them to pull into the garage.
Jacqueline, a dresser and two seamstresses from Duvalier’s, a makeup specialist, a hair stylist, and a de Sade wannabe who, Abby quickly and painfully learned, was there to wax her within a hair of her life. For two-and-a-half hours, they fussed and fumed, argued and cajoled, and never once asked Abby’s opinion. Worse, they insisted on no mirrors.
Cinderella had the righ
t idea, she thought. One wave of a magic wand, and to quote Madame Duvalier, voila! Standing, lying, opening and closing her legs, raising her arms, bending, squatting—all in the name of beauty. Ha!
At precisely five forty-five, with fifteen minutes to spare, the crew disappeared in the same swarming fashion they’d arrived. Only Jacqueline and the hair stylist, whose name Abby could not remember, stayed to apply the finishing touches.
“You’ve been a wonderful sport about this, Ms. Horton,” Jacqueline said. “We’ve crammed several days of work into a few hours.” Jacqueline carefully removed the dress from the garment bag. “I know it was tiring, but I hope this will make up for it.”
“Oh, Jacqueline, it’s amazing.” Black silk and satin. Long sleeves with cuffs trimmed with onyx beads to match her necklace and earrings. A deep V, also trimmed in onyx, dropped to an empire waist that flowed into a draped A-line skirt. It was the most beautiful creation she’d ever seen.
Jacqueline smiled wickedly and turned the hanger. Abby gasped at the low cowl that plunged to her waist in back. She would be covered from her wrists to her shoulders, and almost naked from waist to chin.
“I can’t go out in something that…that…”
Jacqueline grinned again. “Revealing?” She opened the back zipper, which Madame had carefully hidden inside a fold of material. “The dress will look entirely different on your body. But first.” She took a small package wrapped in tissue from the bottom of the garment bag. “This.”
Abby cautiously parted the tissue to find a tiny swatch of bright red tulle. A thong so skimpy, she wondered why Madame had bothered with it at all.
Jacqueline’s eyes sparkled. “A gift from Mr. Kincade. He dropped it by the shop this afternoon.”
Just the thought of Brett shopping for this brilliant red confection made Abby’s hands tremble. She held it in her fingertips, seeing that someone had painstakingly hand-embroidered the eyelash trim. The strings were made of ruched silk, and like a cherry atop an ice cream sundae, a bead of onyx dotted the back bow. A touch, no doubt, Madame added. Inside Clara-Jean lived the soul of a true Frenchwoman.
Abby stepped into the thong, now understanding why Ms. de Sade had done such a thorough job of waxing.
“Now these.” Jacqueline handed her a pair of black silk hose, thigh-highs with tops trimmed in red lace. “Your slippers?”
“Over there.” Abby pointed to the far end of the bed, where boxes, bags, tissue paper and soiled towels lay heaped in a pile.
Jacqueline took the T-straps pumps out of the box. “Have you tried them on yet?”
“I couldn’t resist.” Abby stepped into them and turned in a circle. They were as soft as marshmallows, almost as soft as the thong resting against her mound.
“Let’s get you into this.”
The hair stylist hovered nearby while Jacqueline slipped the dress over Abby’s head and guided it along her hips. “Perfect, perfect,” she clucked, giving the material a little tug before stepping back for a final inspection. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Can I look now? I’m dying to see what you’ve done to me.”
Jacqueline took Abby’s hand and led her to the forbidden mirror. “What do you think?”
Speechless, Abby turned slowly, first to the left and then to the right. “Who is that woman? That can’t possibly be me.”
“As Madame promised, you look magnifique.”
The stylist had somehow tamed Abby’s natural curls. They no longer stood out like porcupine needles. Instead, she’d drawn them back into a sleek chignon, anchored in place with a sterling silver clip. The drop of the earrings swayed when Abby moved her head. The stones sparkled like precious gems in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window tops.
Jacqueline draped the necklace around Abby’s neck and set the lock. The length of it fell farther than Abby realized, enough to rest on her breastbone, drawing the eye straight to the tantalizing soft white mounds of her breasts. The V of the neckline had been cut to show a precise amount of flesh, almost to the areolas, but not quite.
Madame had sewn support right into the lining. Against Abby’s skin, the cups felt feathery soft, yet firmly supported her. The designer had promised a hint of her breasts, a generous hint, high, lush and enticing.
The sleeves molded her arms, emphasizing the grace and elegance with which she carried herself. Tonight she’d look and walk—no, float—like the classic dancer she’d always yearned to be.
Abby folded her arms across her breasts and hugged herself to prove that the image of the woman in the mirror really belonged to her. She swayed a little, and watched the hem sway with her. A perfect fit, a perfect dress to dance the night away.
She wondered if Brett liked to dance. The man who’d written the review of Whispers had said he and his date lacked the courage to tango. Would Brett?
She smiled in spite of her jitters. Hard to imagine a man who fearlessly plowed through a line of three-hundred pound defenders on a quarterback sneak, gracefully leading her in the intricate steps of the tango.
Abby looked in the mirror again. Her makeup was dramatic, yet flawless. Her eyes stared back at her, larger and darker, her cheekbones cleverly defined. She’d never worn lipstick as dark or as bold as this shade. She liked what she saw.
“You look fantastic,” the stylist said. “A goddess from head to toe.”
“Thank you both so…”
The front door chimes sounded.
Abby’s hand flew to her waist, where a paralyzing attack of butterflies struck her.
The chimes rang again.
“Shall I get it?” Jacqueline offered.
“I need to take a deep breath.”
Abby glanced in the mirror one last time then took Jacqueline’s hands. “How can I ever thank you? I feel like Cinderella on her way to the ball.”
“By not keeping your Prince Charming waiting.” She took a step back to make room for Abby’s exit. “We’ll tidy up and lock the door behind us.”
Abby dashed down the stairs, grabbed the beaded handbag she’d found in Rose’s closet and flung open the front door.
The smile froze on her face. Her joy and excitement shattered. It wasn’t Brett who stood waiting at the door.
“Carlton?”
“Good evening, miss.“
Was that embarrassment she saw in his face? Oh, God, I’ve been stood up. Brett sent Carlton to deliver the message.
She looked over his shoulder, at the smallish limo idling in the drive. Anger and hurt warred in the pit of her stomach. “Where’s Brett?”
“Mr. Kincade sends his apologies, miss.”
This can’t be happening!
“His afternoon meeting ran long. He went home to change and will meet you at Whispers.”
Did he hear relief whooshing through her? Surely it had to sound as loud as a freight train.
“Will he be very late?”
Carlton broke into a wide grin. “I see you haven’t had the pleasure of defying death while riding in the Porsche.”
“Not yet.” Not ever. Not if she went home on Monday.
“Please pardon my forwardness, miss, but you look quite fetching this evening.”
Quite fetching? If she read his expression correctly, especially when he’d lost the battle to keep his eyes from scorching her breasts, she knew he saw hot, not fetching. Hot was good.
“Why thank you.”
“I’m sure Mr. Kincade will be quite dazzled.” He looked back at the car. “If you’re ready.”
“After you.”
Chapter Seven
Brett noticed the temperature had dropped a few degrees while he waited for the company’s limo to arrive at Whispers by the Sea. The valet had taken his car ten minutes ago, leaving him without keys to rattle in his pants pocket. Otherwise, he’d be jangling them to blow off some of the pent-up energy he’d been riding all day.
Of all days for Jordan to schedule a late meeting. She claimed she hadn’t heard him tell
her no calls or appointments after three.
He sighed and paced a few more yards before turning back.
Sometimes he wondered if Jordan did things like this deliberately, although he couldn’t imagine why. One day he’d call her on it but not tonight. Tonight he planned a magical evening with a woman who made every woman he’d ever known look like tarnished silver next to precious gold. That was precisely how he planned to treat Abby, and pleasure her until she begged for mercy.
Big talk, big guy.
He hadn’t been this nervous since the Heisman ceremony. When they’d finally called his name, he’d tried to look cool and casual. Instead, he could barely breathe or talk. He’d wanted that trophy so badly, had played so hard to earn it. How sweet the moment.
Tonight, another moment sweeter still.
He tugged at the cuff of his starched shirt sleeve and looked at his watch. Almost 7:00. She should be here by now. Should have arrived at least twenty minutes ago.
“What time do you have, Trin?” he asked the doorman, who waited a few feet away. “I think my watch is running fast.”
“Six-fifty, Mr. Kincade.”
He nodded his thanks and began pacing again.
This was worse than waiting for his first pro start. Twenty-three, cocky and so caught up in his own celebrity, he’d never considered anything but a sure victory. He still cringed at the memory. Five sacks, a fumbled snap and two interceptions had definitely put things into perspective.
Deep in thought, Brett did not notice Trin walk up alongside him. “I believe your guest is arriving.”
Brett looked up, grinning and relieved. Now he could admit it—he was worried Abby had changed her mind. Worried he’d gone too far with the clothes and jewelry and scared her off.
Abby struck him as genuine, not the sort of woman a man had to ply with flowers and bling before she said yes. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to share everything he had with her. Had since the first moment he saw her.
And now she was here.
Trin walked to the curb while Carlton slowed the limo to a stop. Brett, as if cemented in place, watched the doorman open the rear passenger door and extend his hand to Abby.