by Hope Tarr
Ross hadn’t quite looked at it like that. “Well, if you’re sure I won’t be imposing.”
“Not a bit. I can hardly wait to tell the folks back home.”
…
The first of the “folks” Macie called was Franc. Cuddled up under her comforter several hours later, she whispered into her cell phone, “It looks like Maddie’s shoes will be getting a test drive after all. I’m going to a ball, or at least to a banquet, on Saturday.”
“That’s great, love, who with?”
It was a natural question. People didn’t typically attend banquets without a plus one. Still, she took a moment before admitting, “Ross Mannon.”
She thought back to his earlier shyness, which she’d found refreshing, endearingly so. Then again maybe playing shy was his M.O. and hitting on the help his secret weakness. Samantha had mentioned someone named Mrs. Alvarez. Visions of a Jennifer Lopez lookalike flashed through Macie’s mind and inexplicably she felt…jealous. She made a mental note to look up Ross’s former housekeeper, maybe have a chat with her, assuming she was still in the area.
Franc sighed. “I’ve seen his photos. He’s yummy.”
“I know how you love to match make, but this is work,” Macie insisted, wondering which of them she was trying hardest to convince. “I’m on assignment, remember? This dinner will be my first chance to observe him in the field among his peers.”
Franc chuckled. “Whatevs, Margaret Meade. Fill me in on the deets starting with what you’re wearing.”
“Good question,” she admitted. “Other than your shoes, I didn’t pack anything formal.”
“Sounds like little Miss Cinderella needs to take herself shopping,” he said.
“I’m going first thing tomorrow.”
Fortunately The Shops at Georgetown Park were a short drive away. Housed in a former nineteenth century tobacco warehouse in the tony Georgetown historic district, the upscale mall was certain to deliver on a banquet-worthy dress. Whatever she got, it would have to be killer, striking the perfect balance between subtle and sexy.
Because although Saturday night might not be a date in the true sense of the word, a part of her wanted Ross Mannon to wish it was.
…
Saturday night rolled around before Ross knew it. He’d delayed putting on his monkey suit—tuxedo—until the last possible minute, yet still he was the first one ready. Macie had disappeared into her room a little over an hour ago and had yet to surface. But he didn’t mind waiting. Black-tie affairs weren’t his thing, and award or not, he wasn’t in any rush to get to this one. Besides, hanging out gave him the opportunity to log in one-on-one time with Sam. Even though she was grounded, he wanted to make sure she didn’t feel shunned. Unlike the Internet, TV was still on the menu of sanctioned pleasures. He settled next to her on the sectional sofa to watch the movie she’d already started.
Caught up in Back to the Future, he lost temporary track of time. A soft, manufactured cough carried him back to the present. He looked back over his shoulder—and felt the breath rush from his lungs.
Martha Jane stood on the living room threshold wearing a little black cocktail dress and not much else. The hemline didn’t exactly qualify as a mini, but it hit above the knee. A twinkle caught his eye. Almost against his will, he followed the beacon downward, his gaze skimming long, shapely legs and trim ankles to slender feet shod in red high-heels beaded with brilliants.
Ross leaped up, the remote slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. “You look…”
Wow came to mind, but he reminded himself that mature, mid-thirties men didn’t use words like that, at least not anymore. He drove his gaze back up to her face, doing his damnedest to bypass the swell of bosom set off by her dress’s modest scooped neckline, and confirmed it wasn’t only the shoes that sparkled. Her gaze meeting his had him thinking of sapphires.
“You look really hot,” Sam said for him, pulling her gaze from the TV and giving Martha Jane the once-over.
Martha Jane let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks, Sam, that’s very nice of you to say.” Composed as she was, Ross didn’t miss that she was blushing, an adorably endearing reaction given how gorgeous she looked.
The movie forgotten, Sam rose up on her knees and peered over the sofa back. “Those are really good shoes. Can I borrow them sometime?”
“Absolutely not,” Ross answered for her.
Martha Jane sent him a smile. “I hope this is formal enough.”
She gestured to indicate the simple but stunning dress. Or maybe it was just a regular dress and the thing that made it so eye-popping was that it was wrapped around her. She would look terrific in a bag—or, better yet, a bed sheet.
“You’re…perfect,” Ross said, his gaze going down to her legs.
Long and shapely, until now they’d been half hidden by the modest knee-length hemlines she usually wore. Their sudden bareness seemed to hint at a host of possibilities, most of them rated R. What would it feel like to slide a hand upward along her silky thigh and investigate whether or not the getup included lacey black garters? He jerked himself from the hinterlands of fantasy. What was the matter with him? This woman was his housekeeper and Sam’s de facto nanny. She’d kindly consented to help him out by being his dinner date for the evening. She deserved his utmost consideration, restraint, and respect, and instead he was behaving—misbehaving—like a hormone-crazed adolescent who’d just gotten hold of his first Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
The soft smile she sent him did funny things to his insides. “Thanks. So do you, very dashing.”
He tugged on his French cuffs though, like the rest of the tuxedo, they hit exactly where they were supposed to. Growing up, he’d never expected to own his own tux, let alone an Armani. Back then he would have assumed Armani was an Italian pasta dish.
A mental picture of his first rental, the powder blue polyester with a ridiculously ruffled shirt he’d worn to his junior prom, flashed into his awareness, and it occurred to him he should spend more time being grateful for just how far in life he’d come.
He glanced down at his watch. “The cocktail reception starts at six.” Hating small talk, he usually skipped the drinks prelude to the evening and arrived for the dinner seating, but now he found himself looking forward to it all. Glancing back at Samantha, he said, “Do your old man a favor and don’t burn down the building while we’re gone.” Ignoring Sam rolling her eyes, he turned and offered Martha Jane his arm. “Shall we?”
…
Held in the historic Hay-Adams Hotel in Lafayette Square, the Heritage Foundation dinner started like a Cinderella evening. Staring out the car window at the grand Italian Renaissance-styled landmark, the path from curb to colonnaded entrance draped in red carpet, Macie had to remind herself that she was on a mission and that nothing about this night was real. Not for her.
Handing his keys to the parking valet, Ross climbed out, came around to the passenger’s side, and opened the car door. “Nervous?” he asked, offering Macie his arm.
“A little,” she admitted. Stepping out amidst the flash of cameras, she took a moment to smooth her skirt before tucking her arm in his.
Though she’d covered celebrity events in New York, she’d never actually walked a red carpet before. Being at center stage versus observing from the sidelines was definitely a different feeling.
“You don’t need to be.” Reaching over, Ross laid his free hand atop hers. “You’re stunning.” The smile he flashed brought out the cute crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Heat hit her in the face for the second time that evening, and she could no longer ignore the obvious. She was blushing. Just when had she become a blusher? Was she playing her part so well that she was actually becoming Martha Jane Gray? Or was it that being with Ross Mannon brought out the hopeful girl she’d once been, the one she’d put so much energy and effort into burying?
She ducked her head, the sudden shyness in no way feigned. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
As always, retreating into character was the best way she knew of grounding herself. Deliberately goggle-eyed, she asked, “Do you think we’ll see Newt Gingrich?”
Ferrying her toward the arched doorway and inside the ornate lobby, Ross hesitated, looking a lot less enthused than she would have expected. “If he’s in town, he’s probably here.”
“Ooh, do you think he’d let me take his picture for my momma? She just loves Newtie.”
The look he sent her was positively pained. “I don’t know. I can ask him…although to be honest, I’m not really a fan.”
That surprised her. “Because you disapprove of his personal life or you dislike his politics?”
Ross didn’t hesitate. “Both,” he said, steering them toward the elevator.
Cramming on with the other formally attired guests, she bumped against a distinguished elder statesman.
“My apologies, young lady,” he said in a gravelly Kansas accent, though it had probably been her fault.
Still, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. She waited for the elevator doors to close and then turned to Ross and announced in a deliberately high whisper, “Oh…my… goodness! I just brushed Bob Dole. Bob Dole! Yowza!”
The retired U.S. Senator and former presidential candidate was indeed the gentleman standing close by. Catching his eye, she shot him a very “Macie Graham” wink. She was probably—okay, definitely—overdoing the hayseed act, but she was having so much freakin’ fun, why stop? She glanced over at Ross, expecting him to be mortified. Instead the corners of his mouth twitched. Damn, but he wasn’t mortified at all. Far from it, he was holding back…laughter!
The cocktail reception was in full swing when they stepped inside. Ross snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing server and they moved about the room, mingling while a pianist played standards such as “Stormy Weather” and hits from various Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals. A sit-down dinner in the Thomas Jefferson Room followed. Beautiful mosaic tiles laced with vines and rich pale marble provided an understated yet elegant backdrop for the eight top tables covered in sumptuous cream and gold linens, each crowned with a floral centerpiece of red and white roses. A skylight and floor-to-ceiling windows opened out onto the terrace from which the White House, Lafayette Park, and St. John’s Church could be seen.
The dinner service about to begin, Ross led Macie to their table at the room’s front. Their five tablemates, already seated, were all other award recipients and spouses, he explained. Introductions were made, ranging from stiffly polite to warmly cordial. Macie shook hands with the president of an Ivy League university, an iconic film actor known for his cop and cowboy roles, and a retired Supreme Court justice. Macie hated to admit it but she was impressed—and shy at being so out of her element.
Subsiding into the chair Ross held out, she glanced to the sole unclaimed seat. “It seems we have a mystery guest,” she whispered.
Was it her imagination or did he stiffen? “Sometimes contributors buy seats to get their names on the program and then arrive late or not at all,” he said, dropping into the chair beside her. His voice sounded almost…hopeful.
Pre-printed menu cards were provided for each place setting. The meal would comprise five courses, each dish prepared by a different chef and paired with a unique wine. Macie could see she’d be skipping the first course, a white truffle-infused foie gras mousse. She might not be a vegetarian but eating the livers of force-fed geese was too much bad karma to risk bringing down.
A silent army of tuxedo-clad servers appeared bearing bottles of chilled white wine and silver trays with their first courses. Ross passed Macie the bread basket. “If you somehow haven’t noticed, I’m a meat and potatoes man—and I like to think my meat has had a decent life, or at least a fair fight.” He slanted a loveably lopsided smile and Macie felt her heart warming.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a roll and picking off a pat of the rose-sculpted butter.
After the foie gras, things looked up. Overall the food was far better than the rubber chicken Macie had expected. Then again, at eight thousand dollars a plate and sixty grand a table, it ought to be. They were just finishing their entrée of sake-marinated black cod when Macie spotted a tall, striking brunette striding toward them. Even from half a room’s length away, Macie instantly recognized the floor-scraping black chiffon gown as Dior—and its wearer as internationally famous fashion photographer Francesca St. James.
Resisting the impulse to slink low in her seat, she took a deep drink of pinot grigio and focused on clinging to her calm. There was no point in being paranoid. She’d met the Brit just once—and briefly—the year before on a fashion shoot for the magazine. Shooting the spring fashion issue in Central Park in mid-winter had tested everyone’s patience, especially that of the gooseflesh-covered models, but Francesca had been unfailingly upbeat and professional, somehow managing to evoke everyone’s best work despite record-breaking cold and the caterer running out of coffee. At the time Macie had been rocking a retro red spiral perm and glitzed out grunge vintage wear. With her new look, surely Francesca wouldn’t recognize her.
Ross pushed back his chair and politely rose. “Frannie, you’re just in time for dessert.”
Frannie? It took Macie a moment to put it all together but once she did…Ross’s ex-wife was Francesca St. James? Holy shit, it couldn’t be…could it? Macie glanced at Ross to gauge his reaction but beyond a barely noticeable deepening color in his cheeks, his expression was impassive.
Francesca struck a casual pose that accentuated every nuance of the body-grazing gown and the apparently cellulite-free figure beneath it. “Darling, do I look as though I eat dessert?”
“Good point,” he said, leaning in to kiss her offered cheek.
Watching them, Macie felt her mood flag and not only because she feared discovery. Ross’s ex was everything Macie wasn’t, the real deal, not a chameleon, not a fake. Unlike Macie, Francesca didn’t have to chase trends or hide behind costumes. She was her own woman and she set her own style. Alongside her, Macie felt not so much understated as dowdy, especially with her vintage red shoes, her statement accessory—the one material thing that made her feel like…her—hidden beneath the table.
Ross stepped back and pulled out the vacant chair. “Coffee, then?”
Fabric swished as Francesca gracefully slid into the offered seat. “An espresso would be divine.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He turned and beckoned for their server.
Francesca’s cool, catlike gaze studied Macie from across the cloth-covered table. “You must be the house—Ross’s date.”
“Yes, I’m Martha Jane.”
“Ross mentioned you recently relocated from New York. Pardon me for asking, but have we met before?”
Macie shook her head. “I suspect we travel in very different circles.” A glamorous fashion photographer and a humble housekeeper would have little chance of meeting socially.
Francesca’s red mouth pursed. “Darling, I’m a photographer. I may forget a name but never a face, especially one as striking as yours.”
Heart thrumming, Macie shrugged. “They say everyone has a body double.”
French manicured nails lightly drummed the tabletop. Francesca’s gaze held. “No matter, it will come to me in time.”
Macie thought again of Francesca’s On Top shoot. The Brit was a consummate professional, not a diva but certainly a perfectionist. From one model’s slightly feathered lipstick to the dime-sized wad of frozen chewing gum marring their otherwise pristine park path, no detail had escaped her. It was only a matter of time before Francesca remembered her and the other shoe—make that red slipper—dropped.
T
he chicory aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the space. Trays of desserts were passed about. The emcee stepped up to the podium.
“Tonight is a very special evening to honor those individuals and program initiatives that exemplify the American values and principles that the Heritage Foundation has espoused since our founding in 1973. For his tireless—and at times spirited—defense of the American family, we honor Dr. Ross Mannon as our Republican of the Year. Dr. Mannon, please join us onstage to accept our sincere thanks—and your award.”
She snagged Ross’s gaze and, going with her gut, she smiled. This time it wasn’t Martha Jane who smiled. It was Macie, all Macie. Beneath the table, he suddenly reached for her hand and squeezed it. And then just as suddenly, he was breaking hands and pushing away from the table, standing and striding through the aisle between tables to the podium. Gaining it, he turned to face the seated audience, his grace and aplomb stealing her breath. He shook the presenter’s hand and accepted the statuette.
Drawing the microphone toward his mouth, he began. “My fellow Americans, the greatest American virtue can be summed up in a single word: character. Our unflappable integrity, our honesty…”
Integrity, honesty…suddenly Macie knew that if she stayed to hear the end of his acceptance speech, she’d never be able to go through with it. Operation Cinderella would be as good as finished and her career with it. She had to get away and think.
She shot up from her seat, bumping against the table and causing coffee to slosh onto the expensive linens. Dodging Francesca’s surprised stare, she grabbed her evening clutch and made a beeline for the exit.
She could catch a cab back to Ross’s condo. Later she could say she’d felt suddenly sick. It wasn’t far from true. She made it through the hotel lobby and outside to the cab queue before her right foot gave way. What the fuck? Bending down, she saw the velvet-covered heel had split straight through—so much for any supposed fairy-tale magic or silver screen mojo.
Tears welled. Wishing she’d thought to wear waterproof mascara, she forced them back. When had she suddenly become so stupidly sentimental? It was only a shoe, after all, not a dream and certainly not a fairy tale.