“Darling, let me help you find something,” offered Chaz, coming to my rescue. “You seem distracted.”
That was a fact.
I continued to listlessly scour through the dozens of dresses. “They’re all so short, Chaz.”
He rolled his eyes at me. “That’s the point, Jenny-Poo. They’re fuck-me dresses. You know, you seriously need to change your look. Sometimes you dress like someone’s mother.”
I cringed. He was right. I was not very adventurous when it came to fashion. And I definitely didn’t dress with sex appeal in mind. I lifted a sparkly pink number off the rack. My size—four. “What about this one?”
“One of my faves, but not right for tonight. An art gallery opening requires an LBD.”
I arched my brows. “An LBD?”
He shook his head with amused disbelief. “A little black dress, honey.”
I watched as he shuffled through the dresses until he landed on one to his liking; he yanked it off the rack. A smile lit up his face. “Perfection. This one is calling your name.”
He held it up in front of me. It was itsy bitsy and strapless. Folding it over his arm, he pivoted on his heel and told me he’d be right back. In a flash, he returned with a pair of sparkly black stilettos with spiky six-inch heels that looked like they could stab someone. “They’re your size. Try these on with the dress.”
“Where’s the try-on room?”
Chaz grinned sheepishly. “Darling, this is not a department store; it’s a friggin’ studio. The try-on room is right here. Off with your clothes.” A sweeping hand gesture accompanied his command.
Hesitantly, I stripped off my sneakers, jeans, and crew neck sweater. Clad in just my cotton bra and panties, I was practically naked. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, but then I reminded myself Chaz was gay and more like a brother. And he probably saw a lot more flesh with his daily slew of fitting models.
I slipped on the dress and the shoes.
“Oh my God. That’s so amazeballs on you!” It was Libby, with a handful of little black dresses strewn over her arm.
“Really?”
“Girlfriend, take a look at the new you.”
Libby led me to a nearby full-length mirror. Unsteady in the killer heels, I held on to her shoulder. Chaz pranced behind us, belting out “I’m Too Sexy.”
Removing my glasses, I gawked when I saw my reflection. Wow! The LBD accentuated every little curve in my body and made my long legs look impossibly longer with the six-inch heels on my feet. I did look unbelievably sexy.
“Bradley better have you on a tight leash tonight,” teased Libby.
“Nah, sis. This girl needs to get unleashed.”
Chaz’s words whirled around in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t my reflection that filled my head. It was the image of Blake Burns.
The art gallery was located not far from our house on chic Melrose Avenue. While we could have easily walked there, I was glad Chaz was picking us up in his Jeep. The thought of walking in my six-inch heels scared me. Given how accident-prone I was, the possibility of tripping and breaking my ankle was a reality.
While the event began at six o’clock, we showed up at seven—fashionably late as Chaz put it. We were not the only ones. We stood in a long line of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and Ranger Rovers, not to mention a few Bentleys, Rollses, and limos—waiting our turn for a valet to take our vehicle. Paparazzi were lined up outside the gallery.
“Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by her handsome date.
“Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.
Oh my God! Brangelina!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.
Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood power couple in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on Entertainment Tonight. My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.
We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”
I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this über-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.
“We just got here,” I muttered.
“Well, I want to leave soon.”
My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?
“Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.
“Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”
Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”
He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.
Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.
I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundreds of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled Portrait of Delilah at Noon. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.
A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”
Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.
“What are you doing here?” I gasped.
“The artist’s son, Jaime Zander, is my best friend. I want to introduce you to him. He’s the head of the advertising agency that’s doing our upfront presentation.”
“I’d love to meet him,” I stammered, soaking him in.
God, he looked delicious! In head-to-toe black: tight-ass jeans that hung low on his hips, an unzipped leather battle jacket that broadened his already broad shoulders, and a T-shirt that clung to his defined pecs. Sexy black leather boots finished off his ensemble. I quickly shifted my vision back to his face, staying away from anything below his waist. His eyes burnt into mine.
“So answer my question about the painting.”
I swiveled around to take another look. My eyes absorbed the subtleties and innuendos. “It moves me. I can tell the artist was extremely in love with his former wife. There’s so much passion in his strokes.”
“Very impressive and perceptive. You must have taken quite a few art history courses in college.”
“I only took one.” My voice was shaky. “So, what does the painting do for you?”
“It makes me hot.”
A sudden chill ran down m
y spine and that familiar tingling sensation gathered between my thighs. I was heating up. Stay cool. I turned around to face him.
“Do all naked women make you hot, Mr. Burns?”
“Only beautiful ones.” He eyed me from head to toe. “And I must say, Ms. McCoy, you happen to look extremely beautiful tonight.”
“Thanks,” I stammered, all hot and bothered. I moved on to the next painting with Blake hot on my trail.
This painting was an early portrait of the artist with his wife. Her bare, contoured back faced me; the artist’s hand was tugging on her waist-length ebony ponytail, pulling her head back. It was called The Kiss. I stared at it wordlessly, mesmerized. A rush of emotion poured through my veins. My eyes teared up. I’d never been so profoundly affected by a piece of art. It was not what I saw that moved me, but what I didn’t see. His lips consuming hers. The fire. A flame of passion and desire. I could feel what Delilah was feeling all the way to my toes. My chest rose, my heart thudded, and my breath caught in my throat. All time stood still.
“Do you like this painting?” Blake’s soft voice brought me out of my trance-like state and back to the moment.
“I love it.” My voice was thin and watery. I knew what this kiss felt like. I’d experienced it. Only once. Blindfolded. With a beautiful stranger.
Blake’s warm hands splayed across my bare shoulders. His breath heated my neck. I was paralyzed. And then he whispered in my ear.
“It’s special, isn’t it, Jen—”
“Blake, I’ve been looking all over for you.”
A shrill, unfamiliar voice cut him short. Blake’s hands jumped off my shoulders. We pivoted on our heels at once. Facing us was a drop-dead gorgeous blond goddess, dressed in a low-cut, body-hugging black mini dress that revealed her melon-sized boobs, clearly fake, and mile-high shapely legs that were anchored in stilt-like shoes. She looked familiar to me—maybe a supermodel or actress.
Blake’s face flushed visibly as he gulped. “Kitty—”
“It’s Kat,” she hissed. “You know I hate when you call me that.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. I held back laughter. My urge to laugh was short-lived.
Kitty-Kat narrowed her predatory cat-green eyes at me. Her long, lacquered nails morphed into claws. I shuddered. I could mentally feel them dragging down my flesh. She hissed again. “Blake’s with me.”
She intimidated me. But worse, a bolt of jealousy shot through me. This was Blake’s type. Tall, blond, and gorgeous. Even in my sexy LBD and heels, I paled next to her.
“Well, I should be going.”
A triumphant smile snaked across Kitty-Kat’s full crimson lips. Blake looked flustered.
“Tiger, wait. Don’t go!”
Just as I was about to flee, Bradley returned with an iced tea in his hand. His eyes darted from me to Kitty-Kat to Blake.
“Why it’s you again,” he sneered.
“This is my boss, Blake—”
Bradley cut me off. “Oh, your boss? The one who practically bit off my fingers.”
I chewed my bottom lip, on the verge of laughter. What was wrong with me? I should be feeling sorry for my poor fiancé. Blake shot me a wry look and shrugged.
“It was an accident.”
Steam was coming out of Bradley’s nostrils. I could practically see it. His lips snarled, his shoulders hunched, and his hands fisted. He had a major anger management issue and could easily be roused.
He grabbed my hand and jerked me away. “I’ve had enough. We’re out of here.”
Wordlessly, I let Bradley drag me through the crowd, the tumbler of champagne still in my hand. I felt like hurling it at him. Only steps away from the entrance to the gallery, I turned my head to look back.
Blake Burns had not moved. His eyes bored into mine, and I realized they had never left me.
Chapter 15
Jennifer
The ride back to Bradley’s place was steeped in cold silence. Bradley was in one of his moods. His hands were tight on the wheel of his Prius, and his lips were pressed tight in a thin, tense line. Whenever he got into one of these bad moods, which lately was often, he preferred to listen to talk radio than to talk to me.
Nearing his Sherman Oaks condo, we made one stop on Ventura Boulevard at one of his favorite takeout restaurants. Vegan Delight. I waited in the car, with the engine running and radio still on, while Bradley plodded into the small storefront, located in one of the city’s many ugly strip malls. He didn’t even bother to ask what I wanted to eat. Which was okay by me because I didn’t have much of an appetite.
The program playing was one of those call-in shows. My ears perked up at the newest caller. Her name was Rose from Cerritos, and she was having fantasies about her boss. What should she do?
The host listened attentively as she ranted on about her wildest fantasies. Tearing off his clothes. Sucking his dick. Fucking his brains out. Her voice grew tearful as she revealed how much she secretly loved him, having no clue if the feeling was reciprocal, especially since he was married. Poor Rose. She was sobbing. I so felt for her. My stomach twisted painfully as the image of my own boss, Blake Burns, flashed in and out of my head. That gorgeous face! That hard, sculpted body! That magnificent cock! I craved them all. Stop it, Jennifer. But no matter how much I mentally slapped myself, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and imagining . . .
Just as the host was about to give advice to Rose, the car door swung open. Bradley scooted inside with a bagful of takeout. He turned the radio off and backed up the car. The pungent smell of curry and garlic filled the air, and I began to feel nauseated. As Bradley took off, I lowered my window and inhaled some fresh air to clear my passageways. And to clear my mind of the fantasies dancing inside it. When we pulled up to Bradley’s condo, Blake Burns had just ripped off my dress in my fantasy world. I had totally lost track of place and time.
In a haze, I followed Bradley into his condo. He flipped on the light, illuminating a roomful of monotone brown furniture that looked like it came out of a furniture-for-rent catalog. Actually, it did.
Bradley set the food down on a Formica counter that divided the kitchen and the living room.
“I’m going to put my pajamas on,” he mumbled, already heading to the bedroom down the hallway. “Help yourself to some food.”
Listlessly, I ambled over to the counter and removed the three containers of Vegan Delight from the brown paper bag. I tore open the lids. Upon eyeing the vomiticious (yes, that made-up word again) concoctions of strange looking vegetables disguised in assorted brown sauces and inhaling their unpleasant, incongruous aromas, I decided to pass on dinner and plunked down on the massive brown corduroy couch. It faced the built-in plasma TV—the one thing in the condo Bradley had splurged on. Bradley loved to watch TV—especially reruns of the nineties shows he’d grown up with. Home Improvement was his very favorite. He’d seen every episode dozens of times, yet each time he watched one, he bellied over in laughter as if he’d never seen it. Our mutual love for television—especially the shows from our childhoods—had been one of the things that had brought us together and bonded us, but his obsession with them was now a door that shut me out of his life.
In a flash, Bradley was back—in his crisp blue and white striped Brooks Brothers pajamas (last year’s splurgy Christmas present) and with a carefully arranged plateful of Vegan Delight. He plopped down next to me, with the plate on his lap and his legs stretched out on the oak coffee table facing us. With one hand, he shoveled forkfuls of the saucy mush into his mouth, while the other, with the bandaged fingers, deftly channel-surfed until he landed on Teen Nick. His eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his face.
“Yabba! My favorite episode of Kenan and Kel is on.” He noisily masticated his hodgepodge of food.
Big whoop. I inwardly sighed. Kicking off my heels, I bent up my knees and curled my arms around them. Yet another romantic Saturday night with Bradley. My mind wandered. What were Libby and Chaz doing? Were they still at the art gall
ery? And what was Blake doing? The thought of him hanging with that blond buxom predatory beast sent a shiver to the base of my spine. Why should I care? He was my boss. He was entitled. I was engaged. Period. I glanced down at my engagement ring, the luster lost in Bradley’s dimly lit shades-of-brown living room.
Halfway through the episode, Bradley’s landline rang. The phone was located on the counter where he’d set the bag of food. Setting his now empty plate on the coffee table, he jumped up to get the phone. Eager for a distraction, I studied Bradley as he took the call. The expression on his face and tone of voice alternated between extreme pleasure and extreme distress. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, ending the call, oblivious to my eavesdropping. After filing to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he returned to the couch.
“A patient?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yep. She’s in desperate need of a filling but can only come into the office tomorrow morning due to her job. Hope you don’t mind.”
A Sunday? I half-smiled. “Sure, no problem. A patient’s needs come first.”
And lately they had. Broken promises. Broken dates. He’d even missed my engagement party. I mentally pinched myself, reminding myself that Brad was consumed with building his dental practice. Building our future. We were just going through a challenging phase. That’s all. I lovingly gave his hand a squeeze. To my surprise, it was cold and clammy.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Unforgettable: The Complete Series (A Sexy Cinderella Standalone Love Story) Page 64