Juicy Secrets

by Victoria Ashton

  Us? Liz screamed inside her head. She felt her heart begin to thud hard.

  Parker turned and noticed her standing there. “I have to go,” he said into the phone in a flat voice. “I’ll talk to you later.” He snapped the phone shut and looked at Liz with hollow eyes.

  “Parker,” Liz said, “who were you talking to?”

  “No one. Let’s not talk about it,” he said. He took her arm and steered her back inside. He made a beeline for the drinks table and grabbed a beer. Downing it quickly, he scanned the room. “Music sucks.”

  “Parker, what is going on?” Liz asked, hating how whiny her voice sounded.

  Parker didn’t even look at her. He just picked up another beer. “It’s a total nothing, Liz.”

  “But—”

  “Drop it,” Parker snapped.

  Liz stared at him, shocked by his tone.

  He poured a glass of champagne and handed it to Liz. “I believe this is what you were drinking,” he said, sounding normal again. Actually, Liz realized, he sounded as if he was trying really hard to sound normal again. Like it was an effort.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the glass. She noticed the new bracelet dangling on her wrist. A moment ago she had been delirious at Parker’s considerate gesture and extraordinary gift. Now, she didn’t know what to feel. One minute she had been on top of the world with Parker, and then something happened to plummet her right into misery.

  And worse—she was starting to get used to it.

  “Wasn’t that the best party?” Emma said. It was early Saturday evening, and the goody bag the little girl was lugging off the elevator was so overloaded, Adrienne had to help her drag it into the Warners’ apartment.

  “Sadly, Emma,” Adrienne said, “I totally agree with you.” It was a pathetic day when a sixteen-year-old had to admit that the eight-year-old birthday party she attended was more fabulous than her wedding would probably be. And definitely more fun than my date with Graydon will be tonight.

  “Normally I find birthday parties juvenile,” Emma said, hoisting the bag onto her bed. “But this one surpassed my expectations.”

  “I know you aren’t crazy about Jessica Carmichael, but her family is important to your parents,” Adrienne said. “Aren’t you glad your mother made you go?” She hoped Emma would start being more open to play dates. It would make being her nanny a lot easier. Now Adrienne was all the company Emma had—and it meant Adrienne had to really stay on her toes.

  Emma ignored the question and pulled a three-pound box of Jacques Torres chocolates from the bag. Next she held up a CD of the band that had played at the party.

  “That band was great,” Adrienne said. “How did the Carmichaels manage to get them to play for a pack of eight-year-olds?”

  “I think her dad owns the band,” Emma said. “Or the studio that produced the band. Or the country the band is from. Something.”

  “Ah,” Adrienne said with a nod. Made sense in Warner-land. “You unload the rest of your loot while I run your bath. It’s almost bedtime.”

  Adrienne walked into Emma’s bathroom and turned the gold-plated taps shaped like swan’s heads. As the tub filled, she poured in the Annick Goutal Eau d’Hadrien bubble bath the little girl liked. At thirty-eight dollars for a miniscule bottle, it was a far cry from the Mr. Bubble Adrienne had used at Emma’s age.

  Water filled the marble tub, the heat making Adrienne’s skin feel moist.

  I’d better be careful, she thought. If I don’t get out of here, my hair will frizz up and I’ll look goofy for this stupid date with Graydon.

  Adrienne caught sight of herself in the mirror and a slow smile spread across her face. She turned on the hot water in the sink, letting it run.

  Emma opened the door to the clouds of billowing steam. “Are you trying to cook me?” she squeaked.

  “Come in!” Adrienne said, giggling. “Quick, close the door!”

  “What are you doing?” Emma asked.

  “I’m helping you with your bath.”

  “I don’t need help with my bath,” Emma said indignantly. “Besides I don’t consider boiling me helping.” She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. “I should write this down.”

  “Write what down?” Adrienne asked.

  “Your erratic behavior,” Emma explained. “You generally exhibit basically normal teenage behavior. But now and then you manifest tendencies of mania that indicate possible mental disturbance.” Emma dashed out of the bathroom.

  Adrienne looked in the mirror with satisfaction as her hair slowly rose into its natural state of unruly frizz and her skin grew pink and blotchy from the heat.

  Emma reentered carrying her leather-bound notebook and a Cartier pencil. She studied Adrienne for a moment, then began to scribble furiously. “Could you turn the steam down?” she demanded. “My pages are shriveling up!”

  Emma wrote a few more sentences, then placed the notebook in the corner farthest away from the steaming tub. She took off her robe and carefully tested the water with one toe. “At least it’s not boiling,” she said as she slipped into the bubbles.

  “Is it all right?” Adrienne asked. Maybe she had gone a little heavy on the hot water. The mirror was now completely fogged over.

  “It’s nice,” Emma said, splashing bubbles at Adrienne.

  I wonder where Graydon is taking me? Adrienne thought as she leaned into the steam rising from the sink. If I play my cards right, I’ll be home and in bed before “Weekend Update” on Saturday Night Live. And this whole stupid date thing will be over with forever.

  “I’m getting pruney,” Emma announced. “Time to get out.”

  “So soon?” Adrienne asked.

  “Adrienne,” Emma whined.

  “Okay, okay.” Adrienne turned off the tap in the sink and helped the little girl climb out of the oversized tub. Adrienne made sure to splash herself with the bathwater.

  Emma clutched her now slightly damp notebook to her chest as she got into bed.

  “Don’t stay up too late writing,” Adrienne said, turning on the bedside lamp.

  “I won’t,” Emma promised. “I just have to get down how weird you are.” She tapped her pencil on her notebook. “I need to keep closer tabs on you in case you go psycho.”

  “Sweet dreams to you, too, Emma,” Adrienne said, smiling. While Emma wrote in her notebook, Adrienne shut off the overhead light and left the room.

  Cameron passed her in the hallway. “Your date has arrived,” she said. Her eyes traveled up and down Adrienne. “And I’d say he’s in for quite a surprise.”

  “Oh, I think we girls should keep boys guessing, don’t you?” Adrienne said.

  “I just hope Graydon is taking you someplace dark. Because looking like that, there is no lighting that can flatter.” Cameron turned and strolled down the hallway to her room as if it were a runway lined with photographers.

  Adrienne walked out to the Warners’ enormous entry hall. The setting sun glowed through the skylight and was reflected in the mirrored walls and chandeliers, bathing Graydon in soft pink light. Maybe once he gets a look at me, he’ll run screaming into the night, Adrienne thought. Oh, please please please.

  “Here I am!” Adrienne announced. Graydon turned, and Adrienne grinned up at him, her hair frizzed into a reddish Afro, her ultracasual, long jersey skirt clinging to her legs, her oversized cotton shirt lank and loose. Her skin was blotchy and damp, and her hands were red and chafed from the hot water of Emma’s bath.

  Graydon grabbed her hand, pulling her to him. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “Eau d’Hadrien. Very sophisticated.” He smiled. “Or is that Eau D’Adrienne?”

  Oh, puh-lease, Adrienne thought, stepping away from him. “Okay, Graydon,” she said. “Let’s get this date over with.”

  Now Graydon looked surprised. “Don’t you want to go change?”

  “You don’t like my outfit?” Adrienne said. “I’m so hurt.”

  “But—” Graydon stopped himself and shrugged. “You’re the boss
. Let’s go.”

  When they stepped outside, Graydon nodded to the Rolls-Royce waiting at the curb, chauffeur at the ready. “The car’s right here.”

  Adrienne got into the fancy car, reluctantly admiring its highly polished wood interior and inhaling the scent of the soft leather.

  “So,” Graydon said, slipping in beside her. “Are you ready to take a trip to another world?” He pulled a bottle of Veuve Clicquot from an ice bucket and poured two glasses of champagne.

  Adrienne snorted. “Yeah, right. I’m not going anywhere ‘otherworldly’ with you.”

  “How about Moscow?” Graydon asked, handing her the crystal flute of champagne. “It’s definitely different.”

  Startled, Adrienne spilled champagne on the leather seat. He has got to be kidding me. She stared at him, her green eyes wide with horror. “You’re not serious?” she demanded. “Moscow? As in Russia?”

  “Not exactly,” Graydon said. “But close.”

  “I-I don’t have a passport,” Adrienne blurted.

  Graydon smiled at her over his champagne flute. “You don’t need one.”

  The Warners’ private jet, Adrienne remembered. Of course.

  She shut her eyes, forcing down her panic. This would be totally like him, she realized. The over-the-top grand gesture. Whisking her off without a thought about how she would feel, and worse—putting her in a situation where she would be trapped alone with him. In a foreign country!

  The idea of being helpless and dependent on Graydon destroyed all her efforts to stay calm.

  Instinctively, Adrienne reached for the door handle. All she could think of was escape–even if it meant jumping out of a moving car in the middle of traffic.

  Graydon laughed and grabbed her hand. “We may be only inching down Fifth Avenue, but I’m still not going to let you hurl yourself out into the street.”

  “I am not leaving the city with you,” Adrienne said firmly. “Much less the country.”

  “You’re really something, Adrienne,” Graydon said. “A lot of girls would be thrilled to go out with me.” He shook his head. “Fine, so you’re not, and I know it. I forced you into this, but you might at least try to have a good time. You’ll never have to do it again. Besides, you might actually have fun. I’m not such an ogre.”

  “Jury’s still out on that,” Adrienne muttered.

  Graydon slid farther away from her on the seat. He held up his hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “I’m cool, Queen of all Nannies. Just relax, okay?”

  “Ooooh-kay,” Adrienne said cautiously. “So, where are we going?”

  “I told you,” Graydon said, his devilish smile returning. “Moscow!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Moscow on the Hudson

  Adrienne kept her eyes on the streets outside, trying to figure out where on earth Graydon was taking her.

  What is he up to? she wondered as they rode over a bridge from Manhattan into Brooklyn. Adrienne’s stomach churned as she watched the streets grow dark and deserted. She peered out the windows, trying to get her bearings. She moved as far from Graydon as she could, fear making her throat tight. Will the chauffeur help me if Graydon tries something awful?

  The signs on the stores indicated they were now in Brighton Beach, a neighborhood far out in Brooklyn—nearly to the ocean. As the Rolls slowed, Adrienne didn’t see any beach—all she saw was enormous, deserted-looking warehouses.

  I’ve watched enough CSI with Emma to know that this totally looks like the scene of a crime, Adrienne thought.

  “That’s it,” Adrienne said firmly. “I’ve had enough! Where are we? What are we doing out here?”

  “You’ll see,” Graydon said.

  Graydon’s little mysterious act seriously pissed her off. “Tell me or I won’t get out,” Adrienne threatened.

  “Fine!” Graydon threw up his hands. “This is only the hottest, coolest, little-known famous club in Brighton Beach!” He rolled his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you.”

  The car drove around one of the dark warehouses and parked. Adrienne now saw that the building up ahead wasn’t empty. In fact, there was a crowd at the entrance.

  “You should have told me,” Adrienne said.

  “What did you think I was planning?” Graydon asked. He looked at her expression and added, “On second thought—don’t answer that.”

  They walked up to the brightly lit entrance. Dozens of well-dressed couples stood outside, waiting to be allowed in. The women were model-thin, and all seemed to be draped in Versace or Dolce & Gabbana, the men in hip suits.

  The bouncer spotted Graydon and immediately lifted the velvet rope. “Meester Varner!” he greeted in a heavy Russian accent. “Good eeevininng!”

  That’s right, Adrienne thought, remembering what she knew about Brighton Beach. There’s a big Russian immigrant population out here.

  “Dobrei vecher!” Gradyon replied, shaking his hand.

  Graydon speaks Russian? Adrienne stared at him.

  When they entered the huge space, Adrienne gawked at the surroundings. The place was an old movie palace, and the gilded balcony still stretched around the room. The former orchestra area was now a huge dance floor surrounded by tables and chairs, and the band and DJ were up on the old stage. The room was packed: rich-looking Russians with their model-type girlfriends were doing shots at the bar or dancing, or nibbling appetizers. A smattering of older couples sat at tables looking like regulars enjoying the Russian atmosphere. The tables were covered with so many bottles of vodka and champagne and sumptuous hors d’oeuvres that Adrienne was surprised they didn’t collapse.

  “I told you we were going to Moscow!” Graydon shouted over the loud music. “It’s something, huh?”

  It sure is, Adrienne thought. She caught sight of herself in a mirror. And so am I! She frantically tried to calm her hair, raking through it with her fingers. I wanted to embarrass Graydon, but it looks like the only person who is embarrassed is me!

  “Uh, Graydon?” Adrienne said as they reached their table. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room to…uh…”

  “Freshen up?” Graydon asked. His trademark smirk returned, but this time it didn’t make Adrienne mad. She deserved it.

  Keeping her backpack with her, Adrienne made her way to the lavish gold-and-crystal-filled restroom. The other women inside stared at her.

  “Uzhastnaya,” said one woman to another, giggling.

  “What did you say?” Adrienne asked, knowing that she was not getting a compliment.

  “Dreadful,” replied the women’s friend. “Such a nice restaurant, and you come looking like…”

  “I know, I know,” Adrienne said. She studied herself in the mirror. Time for the extreme makeover.

  Adrienne opened her backpack. She pulled out makeup, hair gel, and a brush. The first thing she needed to do was tame her unruly frizz. She stuck her head in the sink, wet her hair, then slicked it back, pulling it into a sleek ponytail.

  Adrienne evened out her blotchy skin tone with light foundation, then gave herself dramatic eyes in khaki and gold, which brought out the red of her hair and green of her eyes. Natural lip liner and gloss completed the simple look. Adrienne could see the women around her beginning to nod in approval.

  Adrienne squinted at her reflection. Now the outfit.

  The oversized white shirt she’d borrowed from her father’s closet was completely shapeless, and her skirt was not a flattering length. What to do?

  Suddenly, Adrienne had an idea. She grabbed the stretchy waistband and pulled the jersey skirt up so the hem hit above her knees. Then she folded over the top of the skirt to make a wide, flat waistband that lay low on her hips. That works, she decided.

  She couldn’t just take off the man-tailored shirt, because the tank she was wearing underneath it had birthday cake stains on it. I know! She unbuttoned the shirt and took the two front corners, wrapped them once around her waist, then tied them on one side. In a final touch, she flicked up the collar. The
new style emphasized her small waist and looked as if she had actually put the outfit together on purpose.

  “Krasivaya!” exclaimed the women standing at the mirrors. “Beautiful!”

  “Thank you!” she said. She picked up a perfume off the counter and gave herself a quick spritz. At least now I don’t have to be embarrassed!

  Adrienne walked back to the table and, with great pleasure, noticed that many of the men were staring at her appreciatively. And the women weren’t shooting her dirty looks anymore.

  “Wow,” Graydon said, standing and pulling her chair out for her. “You keep a new outfit in that bag?”

  “Just tricks,” Adrienne replied.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Graydon said as he sat back down.

  “Just keeping you on your toes,” Adrienne quipped.

  By the time they’d finished their entrees, Adrienne had come to the astounding realization that Graydon wasn’t so bad after all.

  He was studying international business, had spent his summer sessions in Moscow, and had learned Russian while he was there. Clearly he wasn’t the slacker dope Adrienne had assumed he was. He liked the same bands she did, including a few almost no one else had ever heard of; he agreed Cameron was the pits; and he even loved to go to the same funky dive hamburger place near Columbia University that she did.

  She studied him over her dessert. Could I have been wrong about him?

  “Want to dance?” Graydon asked, as the band struck up a slow Russian song.

  Adrienne cocked her head. “Why not?” she said.

  They got to the middle of the dance floor, and Graydon took Adrienne in his arms. She braced herself for his usual groping, but his hands stayed exactly where they should.

  Wow, Adrienne thought as they slowly moved around the dance floor. This guy knows what he’s doing. Her ex-boyfriend Brian hated dancing—the best he would do was rock from side to side when his favorite metal bands played. But Graydon had the confident moves of a Fred Astaire or a Gene Kelly from the old black-and-white movie musicals her grandparents tried to force her to watch.