“I think I sort of understand the money reasoning,” I said. “What I still don’t understand is why you need me.”
His stony look emphasized the sharpness of his words. “Because Helen and Robert’s lawyers are currently in charge of the family trust, and they’re threatening to deny Mom her fair share.”
I blinked. “Holy crap.”
“Yeah.”
Before I could stop myself, the word vomit attacked again. “Is everyone in your family a paranoid control freak?”
Blake glared at me.
“What? It’s a legitimate question at this point.”
He gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. “My mom’s not. I hope not to be, if I can help it.”
“Good,” I said.
We pulled up to Juni, where someone who I presumed to be Blake’s personal valet walked over to the car. He opened my door for me, and I had one foot on the pavement when Blake shot out his arm and grabbed mine. “You haven’t given me an answer.”
“I don’t have one yet, Blake,” I said, tugging out of his grasp. If he was ever going to manhandle me, it was going to be when we were both naked, and not a moment sooner.
“I’d like an answer before the end of the week.” Blake didn’t seem like he needed one by then. It was more like he wanted one by then, as a matter of courtesy.
It wouldn’t take me that long.
“Fine.” I thanked the valet and walked in without waiting for Blake.
6
Even though I had spent several evenings in the company of Helen and Robert and knew them to have a taste for premium food, tasting menus and seven-course meals weren’t part of my normal experience when eating out, so the whole experience was slightly intimidating every time it happened.
That being said, it was nothing if not fun to enjoy the decor and ambiance of the high-rolling life, and Juni played into my tastes perfectly. Sharing a home in an Art Nouveau era brownstone with the boutique guest house called the Hotel Chandler, it was an exercise in self-restraint not to take out my camera and catalog the entire experience. I knew the Forsythes wouldn’t approve.
Dad and Lana gave me big hugs. Helen and Robert air-kissed my cheeks. Grandma Bee and Grandpa Niles were excited to see their next to oldest grandchild, and I was just as happy to see them. I couldn’t believe they had made it to their 50th year of marriage. They were still bubbly and eternally optimistic and chatty in the way older and wiser people sometimes are after getting only half of the Stupid out of their systems before their thirties, and I couldn’t wait for all of the funny stories about them everyone would tell at the anniversary bash. We Hills were an eccentric bunch, and that made for nothing if not interesting parties.
None of my cousins or aunt and uncle were in town yet, so it was just the eight of us. That was probably for the best — I hardly kept up with the conversation, I was so caught up in deciding whether or not to accept Blake’s offer.
Sitting next to him for over two hours didn’t help matters.
When the food came, I dove in with gusto, eager to have an excuse not to catch the first generation up on the humdrum of my everyday life.
Was Blake trying to screw me over? It didn’t seem like it, because he would have egg on his face the moment he tried to ‘expose’ me and claim that I was trying to steal Forsythe money. Besides, if that were my motive, wouldn’t I have suggested the plan in the first place? I supposed he could lie about who approached who, but it would still taint him.
Then there was the relationship with my Dad and Lana and my grandparents. I didn’t know how badly they’d take it, but I’d be wise to have aspirin handy when they found out.
Would Dad ever trust me again if he figured out we were faking it just so Blake could get back at Helen and Robert? How long would I have to fake being in love with a man I was already secretly in love with but openly hated?
Helen and Robert might figure it was best to cut their losses and have me involuntarily committed.
And Blake. It was hard enough not to beg him to believe me, to forget everything and run away together. Could I play at having feelings for him and not lose myself along the way?
That didn’t even touch on my most secret desire: to have a child with him.
I should have asked him for a baby, I thought cynically. Or money for fertility treatments. It would have been fun to see how fast he scrambled out of his own car.
Being able to turn him down was contingent on finding alternatives, and at the moment, I only had two: Helen and Robert.
“Jenna.”
“Yes?”
Dad had nudged me with his arm. I realized everyone at the table was waiting for a response from me, presumably to a question I had missed. “Helen asked you if you had an idea where you wanted to shop for your dress to the party.”
“Oh!” I dabbed at my mouth. “I haven’t really had time to investigate which stores would have outfits appropriate for—”
“Not surprising, since you don’t live here, dear,” cut in Helen. “Normally I would suggest Michael’s Consignment, since most of the unique one-off pieces pass through there at one point or another and have only been worn once, but since you’re nowhere near a size six,” she said with a chuckle as the other two women froze and the corner of my eye twitched a little, “there’s no sense in hoping something will drop into your lap at a boutique store. You’ll go to Bergdorf Goodman’s.”
I had the sense not to ask anything about the store, but Lana didn’t feel so restrained. “Mom, are you sure that’s a good idea? Jenna’s not exactly accustomed to your shopping habits.”
“Nonsense!” Helen scoffed and waved her arm dismissively. “My stylist will accompany her and make sure she’s taken care of.” She fished a card out of her clutch and handed it to me. “Call Sylvia immediately after dinner. I’ve booked her up until the anniversary. She’ll be expecting your call.”
I took the card and smiled. “Thank you, Helen.”
Lana looked pensive on my behalf, but I decided it was one less thing to think about.
Much later, after the Forsythes had spent more on the wine alone than I made in an entire year, Robert started to talk about an investment he had made in some offshore construction venture. It had to be the booze talking, because Helen was quietly jabbing him under the table and trying to steer the conversation to something else, but Robert was having none of it. She might have forgotten that he was the descendant of robber barons and had as much clout in his name as the Forsythes had in their wealth, but he certainly hadn’t, and Robert wasn’t about to let her forget that just because her name was the one they used publicly didn’t mean he wasn’t in charge. With one look, she stopped pestering him and fell silent.
The waiter poured her another glass of wine. It would be the first of many refills.
The rest of us were treated to a lesson in the politics of billion-dollar real estate projects gone wrong. Backroom deals with lobbyists and congressmen, shady contractors, migrant workers paid badly — it was an investigative reporter’s wet dream, although I’m sure without a recording of the event, none of it could be proved. All the same, the way Robert glossed over certain subjects made me uneasy, and he seemed far from the eccentric but harmless power broker I had encountered up until then. It was chilling.
Dad and Lana tried to brush it off afterward, and Grandma Bee, or Grand Bee, as I thought of her in my head, chalked it up to too much “fine liquor.” But I knew then I wanted nothing to do with his or Helen’s money, at least not the portions that he controlled.
As we said our good nights for the evening, I watched as the valet pulled the Porsche up to the sidewalk and decided I wasn’t taking the subway home. The two of us didn’t say anything for the whole ride, until I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the door, taking one glance back at Blake.
“I’ll do it,” I said coolly. “Good night.”
It was nice being the one who made their exit first.
* * * * *
Whoever was ringing my cell phone at 7:30 in the morning on my sort-of vacation deserved to be dragged screaming into the street by their hair and shot. I put the number on ignore and went back to sleep.
Only to have the persistent caller show up at my door a half an hour later and start banging on it.
“No room service until 11 a.m.!” I shouted.
“It’s Sylvia. Helen Forsythe’s personal stylist. May I come in?”
You have to be kidding me.
I rolled out of bed and opened the door. “It’s a little early, you know, Miss…”
A stunning redhead in a tailored designer suit and high heels swept past me into the room before I had finished my sentence. “Call me Sylvia.”
She looked around the room, her disdain for my prior night’s clothing mess barely concealed, and found a clean surface where she could set her bag, then retrieved a measuring tape, a pencil, and a notepad.
“Sylvia,” I repeated, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled, completely professional and impersonal. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she traveled on planes in Armani suits or Versace or something.
“Normally, my clients arrange these sorts of shopping trips weeks in advance of the actual event, but since you were unable to travel to New York prior to this week, we have to make do on a tight schedule.” Her eyes ran down the length of me, and I could read the contempt there at what she saw. “I honestly don’t know if the regular sizes will fit you, but I’ve received permission from Helen to hire a team of designers and seamstresses who will be able to modify or otherwise reproduce what we choose from Bergdorf’s.”
All of that went over my head without the benefit of caffeine. “…Okay?”
“You’re lucky that Mrs. Forsythe had time to fit you into the schedule,” Sylvia continued. “Two of your cousins had attire that didn’t pass muster, and they need to be outfitted as well.”
I snorted. When had attending a party required a pass from the fashion police just to get in the door? Whatever. If Helen had decided to splurge on making sure we all made a harmonious group picture and I got a nice dress out of it, who was I to complain?
“Can I just use the restroom and wash my face before you dive right in? I’m really not a morning person,” I said.
“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Just don’t get dressed yet. It will be easier to take your measurements—” here she waved her finger in a circle to indicate my tank top nightgown, “—in that.”
I escaped into the bathroom, for a couple of minutes, anyway. Then I would have to face the yellow tape.
What had I gotten myself into?
* * * * *
Bergdorf Goodman was definitely not a casual store. In between gaping at the number of people waiting on me and me alone who Sylvia ordered about, I listened as various clerks debated the styles of several different designers, from the generally famous like Michael Kors, Oscar de la Renta, and Alexander McQueen (Sylvia ruled his style out immediately, as it wouldn’t fit in the black and gold theme) and their collections’ appropriateness for the event. In the back of my mind, I had known that would probably be spending a mint, but I tried not to think about how much Helen was spoiling us, all of us, until I actually had to pull a price tag out of a sleeve in order for the dress to fit.
“Seven thousand dollars?” I squeaked as Sylvia tried to adjust the waist on the gorgeous Marchesa Notte sleeveless floral dress I was modeling.
“Shh!” she hissed at me.
I mouthed the words. “Seven thousand dollars?” When Sylvia made no reply, I leaned in. “Does Helen have bats in the belfry? This is for one freaking night!”
“And we might end up buying more than one,” Sylvia explained patiently. “The designers may not be able to modify a dress, so we have to have a second choice. Possibly a third.”
My jaw was going to grow a rug beard at this rate. I opted to close it, shut the hell up, and let the rest of them navigate these foreign waters before my inept rowing drowned us all.
Two hours and a few bottles of imported Japanese spring water later, I had narrowed it down to a couple of nude colored bejeweled chiffon gowns from Lela Rose and Zuhair Murad, with Sylvia strongly encouraging me to pick the golden Murad one — and as I twirled in it and admired the real gold beads arranged in floral patterns that spilled down like a waterfall to pool at my feet, I had to admit I felt like a million dollars — when something on a far rack caught my eye.
It looked similar to an Oscar de la Renta I had tried on earlier, but there was something more …dreamy about it. Something to do with the way the sheer yoke and the fitted bodice added to the mystique instead of subtracting from it, the way the 18th century style silver filigree pattern shed petals and branches on the way down the skirt, like leaves in autumn. It was lovely. And it was me.
“What about that one?” I pointed.
“Sorry, miss,” one of the clerks said, contrite. “I believe we only have one left, and it’s a size four.”
Oh, well. I was going to look amazing anyway.
“She’ll take it.”
I felt the heat of his eyes on me before I whirled and saw him. Blake was good at sneaking up on people like that. Too good.
His eyes raked over me unabashedly, and I tried not to blush. It was a very sheer dress, and I had resolved to already be tipsy before I let any straight male not working in Bergdorf’s see me like this.
The clerk interrupted nervously. “Mister…”
“Forsythe. Helen Forsythe’s son.” He tore his eyes away from me, reluctantly, to look at the staff. I had never heard him pull rank like that before.
The ladies’ apparel manager stepped in to relieve the fidgeting clerk. “Mr. Forsythe, I am Mrs. Thomson, the general manager of the Couture Department. We are pleased to have you in our store and to assist in any of your mother’s needs.”
Blake smiled. “Thank you. It seems you’ve all done an excellent job in assisting Sylvia outfit Miss Hall for the engagement. I believe Sylvia has a list of possibles?” He glanced at Sylvia who nodded warily. “Good. We’ll take all of them.” He gestured to the black and silver gown. “And that one as well.”
“Our concern, sir, is that Miss Hill will leave us having had a negative experience if she buys gowns with which her figure isn’t compatible.”
“I understand completely, Mrs. Thomson. However, I believe the problem is that some of the gowns aren’t compatible with her figure, or even most figures, which might be preventing you from selling more of them.”
Oh, snap.
“Because as you can see, when a ten out of ten with funds to spare can walk into the couture section and not find samples in a greater selection of sizes, it might be the designers who need to rethink their clientele.”
Silence.
“We’ll take the de la Renta as well.” Blake sounded final.
“Of course, sir.”
“Sylvia?” She strolled over to Blake as if scenes like this happened every day. It was obvious they knew each other from previous encounters, and even though I was literally covered in gold, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the way she was able to interact with him so easily. “Here’s my card. Use it if Helen objects to buying more than five dresses.”
“She won’t care,” Sylvia whispered to him.
Blake put a hand on her shoulder. “Humor me.”
Sylvia nodded and stuck the card in an envelope. “Sure, Blake.” She looked over at me. “Taking your sis out for lunch or something?”
Did I just imagine it, or did Blake flinch at her use of the word ‘sis?’ Hmm. “Something.”
“Well,” she replied, “just let me know if you need any recommendations for this evening.”
Blake nodded casually. “Thanks, Sylvia.”
“You have my number.” She flashed more white teeth than I had seen on one person since looking at posters in the dentist’s and sashayed back to me.
Blake leaned over his
feet at the edge of my dress hem to be within earshot. “I’ll meet you outside.” Then he was gone.
“Let’s unzip you back in the changing room,” said Sylvia, leading me back through the displays of finery to my normal clothes and my mundane life.
Except that when we arrived back in the stall, my normal clothes were gone, and a brand new outfit had taken its place. On a hanger was a kimono-like top with long sleeves and wave patterns through the fabric. Sitting on the bench was a matching designer purse and a travel bag, as well as a box that said “Chanel” with a note on top of it.
“Interesting,” Sylvia commented over my shoulder.
I hastily put the note back down and helped her to extricate me from the Murad piece.
When she was outside and issuing orders, I opened the folded piece of paper.
I’ve removed the tags from everything already, just in case. Since I’m sure my Mom has nixed any chance of you wearing Alexander McQueen, you should have a chance to wear one of his designs. They seem rebellious.
P.S. — Hopefully, if you feel the need to evade me again, these shoes won’t slow you down nearly as much.
B.
He had remembered I was terrible at taking the tags off my clothing.
My fingers traced the undulating patterns along the top of the shirt dress. The material was so soft, too soft to be semi-raw silk. It had to be some kind of rayon blend. The sleeves fell through my hands like butter. It was out there and daring in a sophisticated way. Rebellious. Like me.
The travel bag contained my toiletries, electronics, and underwear (Cheeky! How had he entered her room?), as well as some basic outfits. But where were the rest of my clothes? I opened the Chanel box.
Sylvia coolly appraised me when I stepped out of the dressing room. I worried the dress didn’t fit, but then she gave me a small smile. “It fits perfectly,” she said.
“Thank you.” High praise, indeed.
A minute later, I joined Blake at the front of the store. Without being a car expert, I could still tell what he was driving by the little horse logo on the side.
My Stepbrother, the Billionaire, & the Bargain: Forbidden Romance (The Step Contract, Book 1) Page 5