by Leisa Rayven
I open it and find the photo she took when I was reading Max’s email.
She’s right. I look so happy, I barely recognize myself. What the hell is happening to me?
I breathe through another urge to cry. God, I’m such a baby right now. I think I’ll take Max’s advice and call in sick to work.
At the mere thought of his name, I feel myself smile. I don’t think I’ve ever done that over a man before and take great pains to make my face stand down.
As much as Asha loves me and thinks she know what’s best for me, there’s a simple truth she didn’t articulate: those who don’t jump off cliffs are a hundred percent less likely to wind up road kill than those who do.
FOURTEEN
Everyone Loves a Makeover
I stand in the middle of my living room surrounded by flowers, gift boxes, and people I don’t know, as I genuinely wonder if I’d fallen asleep and conjured up this elaborate dream.
“Miss Crane? How do you feel?”
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror a girl named Teresa is holding, and I honestly can’t express what I’m feeling. The surrealism began at lunchtime, when a delivery man knocked on my door armed with the most stunning long-stemmed roses I’ve ever seen. The card read:
Dear Miss Crane,
I can’t wait to see you tonight. Please save a dance for me.
Maxwell Roberts.
This was my first hint that I had no idea the extent to which Max would go to take this date to the next level.
After that, I received several other gifts: perfume, shoes, and even expensive lingerie. I’ve never thought of myself as sexually prudish, but the thought of Max picking out that underwear made me blush.
Then, at four this afternoon, I opened the door to find a woman holding a Marchesa garment bag, along with Venus the beauty therapist and a hairdresser named Peter. For the past few hours, I’ve been pampered beyond my wildest expectations and am now thoroughly polished, waxed, and slickly styled. My body is wrapped in the most stunning gown I’ve ever seen. It’s midnight blue, strapless, and dreamy, and I’ve never worn something that’s made me feel so thoroughly feminine before. The layers of silk chiffon wrap around my body like it was made for me, and the prettiness is given an edge by the way the skirt breaks into a high split on one side that reveals my freshly waxed leg and one of the glittery, strappy heels I’m wearing.
The real kicker about this entire transformation is that, even though I’ve never felt the need to have impeccable makeup, hair, and designer clothes to enhance my worth, I can’t deny that right now, looking like a sky-dipped goddess, I feel amazing.
“Miss Crane?”
I stop gawking at myself and turn to Teresa. “I’m sorry, what?”
She gives me a patient smile. “How do you feel?”
I run my hands over the luxe fabric. “Teresa, how much is this dress worth?”
Her smile falters. “Uh ... I’m not really authorized to tell you that.”
“Come on,” I urge. “I won’t tell him you told me.”
She looks at Venus and Peter, then back to me. “Let’s just say, for the money it would take to buy that dress, you could have a car.”
“A really nice car,” Peter says.
I swallow and stop stroking the fabric. Damn. I’d better not spill anything on this. I have no doubt Max will have to return it to whichever high-end boutique he borrowed it from.
There’s a knock at my door, and I groan, because I don’t think I can handle any more surprises. Venus runs over to open it, and a smartly dressed man is waiting.
“I’m Daryl. Miss Crane’s limo is ready.”
A limo? Dear God. The most glamorous mode of transport I’ve ever experienced up until now is a Toyota Prius.
Teresa hands me a bejeweled clutch bag. “Have a great time, Miss Crane.”
In a daze, I follow Daryl out of my apartment as Teresa, Peter, and Venus wish me well.
And as I make my way down to the car, all I have echoing in my brain is a silent scream as I prepare to jump off a cliff.
* * *
The incredible building at 583 Park Avenue is one of those venues I’ve heard about over the years but have never been rich or well-connected enough to visit. Even though I’ve heard tales of the extravagant galas in the glamorous ballroom, being here is on a whole other level of, Oh my God.
The entire double-height room is swathed in gauzy white fabric, and the giant crystal chandelier that hovers fifty feet above the action casts infinite tiny rainbows around the room. The crowd is a sea of men in crisp dinner suits and glamorous ladies of all ages, and I’ve never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my fancy clutch purse like a stress-relief toy as I look around the room.
So, this is how the other half lives, huh? Good to know.
The ballroom is enormous, and even though I estimate there are about five-hundred people milling around, they’re dwarfed by the massive space. On the screen is a slide announcing that this is the Valentine Foundation Annual Fundraising Gala. I’ve hear of this foundation. It works to help low income and underprivileged women gain training and employment. From what I’ve heard, it’s a fantastic cause, and it’s lovely that it seems to be patronized by the largest group of attractive people I’ve ever seen.
I self-consciously run my hand over my hair, grateful I’ve been professionally styled. I might not feel like I belong with this blue-blooded crowd, but at least I look the part.
A slick team of waiters moves between groups of people distributing fancy, microscopic canapés and sparkling glasses of champagne.
When a waiter passes near me, I snag myself some bubbly. God knows I’m going to need to calm my nerves if I have any chance of pulling off this charade. I down the champagne in three swallows and deposit my glass on a nearby table.
“Miss Crane?” I look around to see an older lady approaching me, beyond glamorous in a silver sheath that matches her silver hair. “I’m so glad you could make it. I’m Vivian Roberts, one of the patrons of the Valentine Foundation. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She gives me a warm smile and holds out her hand, and though it feels wrong to tarnish it with my peasant flesh, I do it anyway, if only to be polite.
“You’re so beautiful,” I say then realize I sound ridiculous. “I mean, it’s lovely to meet you, too.”
She lets go of my hand to snag some more champagne from a nearby waiter and passes me one. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I don’t think Maxwell has ever gushed about a woman before, but he can’t seem to stop talking about you.”
“Well, that’s so kind of you to say. I notice you and Maxwell share a last name. Are you related?”
She shakes her head. “Not technically, but he feels like my son. I understand you’re doing a story on him.”
“Yes. He’s certainly a fascinating subject.”
She gets a wistful expression on her face. “He is. And one of the best men I know.”
Okay, lady, don’t oversell it.
I vaguely wonder if that was planned or if she’s going off-script.
“Is Maxwell here, yet?” I ask, as I search the crowd. I’m not eager to see him or anything. Just curious. After all, I should thank him for all the presents.
The tiniest raise of Vivian’s eyebrow tells me she thinks I like him. Well, I suppose I don’t dislike him, so she’s half right.
“He’s speaking with some of our committee members right now, but he should be finished shortly. He asked me to take you up to the gallery to wait.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Follow me.”
She leads me to the side of the room where a wide staircase leads to the horseshoe-shaped balcony. I’m grateful that not only are there fewer people up
here, but it also gives a fantastic view of the event below. She leads me over to the balustrade near a group of women who are standing and chatting.
“Would you mind waiting here for just a few minutes?” Vivian asks. “I’ll let Maxwell know you’ve arrived.”
“Great. Thank you.”
I take a brief glance at the women beside me. My God, they all look like entrants in the Mrs. America pageant. Gorgeous dresses, beautiful hair. Faces that are so smooth and wrinkle free, I’m betting they’ve had some sort of cosmetic enhancement.
A perfect primp of princesses.
I’m about to turn away, when one of the blonde ladies catches my eye.
Holy shit!
It’s Marla Massey. The Marla Massey who inspired this whole investigation. I study the ladies with her. Could some of them also be Max’s clients?
I’m concentrating so hard on trying to identify them, I jump when a perky voice behind me says, “Oh, my God, Eden! Hiiiii!” I turn to see Joanna there, beaming at me. She’s wearing a blush-pink gown with a plunging neckline. Nice if you have the boobs, I suppose.
“It’s so great to see you!” she says as she takes in my full appearance. Her jaw drops in disbelief. “Holy crap, woman, you look amaaaaaaaazing. What happened? Did Asha help you?”
I’m slightly insulted that she doesn’t think I could have put this ensemble together by myself. I mean, we’ve only hung out couple of times. How dare she already know about my complete lack of style?
Joanna reads my face and laughs. “Sorry, I just meant that I’m not used to you looking this attractive. If it weren’t for the color of your hair, I never would have recognized you.”
I smile. “You’re wonderful for a girl’s ego, Joanna. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Actually, no.”
“Huh. This is my surprised face.”
She laughs and pushes my arm. “You’re funny.” After giving me another onceover, she says, “What are you doing here, anyway? I didn’t think this was your kind of event.”
“I was invited by a friend.” Not sure how true that statement is, but I’m going with it. “What about you? This isn’t really the kind of place I’d expect to find an assistant from a publishing company.”
Joanna gestures to the group beside me. “The brunette in the red gown is my cousin, Alice.”
I squint, trying to place her. “Have I met your cousin? She looks familiar.”
“Oh, you’ve probably seen her in the news. She got married a few months ago to that oil magnate’s son. Cristos whatshisname.”
The penny drops. “Cristos Callas? Holy crap, Joanna, your cousin is Alice Kennedy?”
She shrugs. “Yeah.”
No wonder she’s so well connected. Not only is Alice a congressmen’s daughter, but her brother is a best-selling author. And yes, they’re related to those Kennedys.
I gesture for Joanna to lean closer, then whisper, “Joanna, you know how I’m looking into the whole Mister Romance thing?”
“Yes! So cool!”
“Do you know if any of those ladies use his services?”
She nods. “All of them, except Alice. It’s not really her thing, but she still likes to hear about it.”
Holy crap. I’ve just hit the client mother lode.
I grab my phone out of my purse and pull Joanna into my side. “Hey, let’s take some selfies!” I’ve never taken a selfie in my life, but I quickly figure out it’s not too difficult to also frame in the ladies behind us.
When I’m done, I bring up the notes app. “Could you write down your cousin’s friends for me?”
Joanna looks at the phone with a dubious expression. “Are you going to write bad things about them? Because Alice would kill me if that happened.”
“I’m going to try to keep their identities a secret. I just need to know who they are for my research.”
“Okay. I guess.” She types into the phone, and when I scan down the list, their names jog my memory in ways their faces don’t. One is the daughter of a prominent Supreme Court judge. Another is an actress who’s had some success on Broadway. There’s even a well-known magazine editor whose publication specializes in stories like, 15 WAYS TO TELL IF A MAN IS CHEATING ON YOU. I’m not sure if all of them are married or in relationship, but wow. That’s a whole lot of platinum-plated scandal right there. If Derek found out, he’d have a major revenue boner.
I’m sure these ladies don’t represent all of Max’s clients, but it’s enough to give me an idea of the types of women who use his services. I suddenly feel inferior in comparison. They’re so glamorous and accomplished, and I’m ... well ... I look down at myself ... a Brooklyn girl masquerading as a Park Avenue princess.
“Eden?” I look up to see Joanna staring at me. “You okay?”
“Just thinking.” I give her a smile. “Do me a favor? Introduce me to your cousin and her friends.”
Joanna leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “Oh, my God. What are you going to do?”
“Try and infiltrate them. Find out more info about Mister Romance. Let’s just hope all those hours I spent playing a turnip pay off.” I hit record on my voice memo and put the phone back into my purse.
Joanna beams. “This is so exciting! I’ve never been a part of a secret mission before. Let’s go!”
I exhale slowly as we move toward the group. Marla Massey is talking, and the ladies around her listen with eager interest.
“The other day my son asked me how his father and I make up after our many arguments, and I said it was simple – we reach a compromise. I end up lying and tell Walter I was wrong, and then he agrees with me.” The women all laugh. Their reaction is so synchronized, it’s like they share a hive mind.
Joanna moves us into position beside her cousin. “Good evening, ladies. Alice, I want you to meet my friend, Eden.”
I hold out my hand. “Eden Crane. Nice to meet you.”
As Alice shakes my hand, I can feel the other ladies assessing me, taking note of my dress and accessories; weighing up whether or not I’m the same species. I must pass the test, because Marla Massey is the first to smile.
“Crane, you say? Are you related to Samuel, by any chance?”
God, I wish. Samuel Crane is the heir apparent to one of the biggest media empires in the country. If I was related to him I wouldn’t have to go through all of this crap to get a decent job.
I hit Marla with my most sincere smile. “Yes, actually. Sam is my second cousin. With his family’s fortune, I don’t have any idea why he chooses to work for a living, but then, he was always a strange child.”
The ladies laugh, and I try to hide how disgusted I am with myself right now. Anything for the story, I tell myself. I hold my clutch a little higher, so it’s sure to get a decent sound level on the conversation.
“Actually, I’m glad I met you tonight, Mrs. Massey,” I say.
“Oh, please. Call me Marla.”
I act like it’s an honor. “Thank you. I believe we have a mutual friend.”
Marla raises her eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes, a certain gorgeous stallion I recently met at the Mason Richards stables.”
For a brief moment the women freeze, and I worry I’ve made a terrible mistake.
But then Marla gives the group a knowing smile and says, “From the moment I saw you, I knew you had good taste.”
There’s a smattering of laughter, and I let out a relieved breath. Okay, now let’s see what we can find out about a certain stallion from his stable of fillies.
FIFTEEN
Inside Information
“I think for me, it’s like getting vitamin B injections,” says Candice, a well-preserved forty-year-old whose family owns a chain of luxury hotels. “Seeing Max regularly keeps me healthy, happy, and youthful. It’s like after a date with him, I’ve purged a whole lot of negative energy and feel totally refreshed.”
“Is it the same for all of you?” I ask.
The ladies nod in a
greement as a waiter refills our glasses.
Candice cocks her head and studies me. “Is it not like that for you?”
I tense up as everyone waits for my answer. “Uh ... well, not exactly.” Now they all seem concerned.
“Talk to us, Eden,” Marla says. “We’ll help you if we can. The Sisterhood of the Romancing Pants is here for you.”
I take a sip of champagne. Great. Now, I have no choice but to share.
“Well, I’ve never really been a romantic person, so I have issues with the tender sentiments, and ... I don’t know. I guess I just find it hard to trust a guy who gets paid to make women feel good. Like, how can I take any of his compliments seriously?”
There’s a murmur of understanding. “You’ve been hurt,” Marla says. “Not wanting to trust is a symptom of that. But Max doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. If he tells you you’re beautiful, it’s because he thinks you are. Then again, he’s the kind of man who finds beauty in most places.”
“And you don’t think that’s strange?”
Candice touches my arm. “I used to be like you. But the only way to get the full benefits from a date is to surrender to the fantasy. We’ve all been hurt. We’re all broken in places. But romance gives us a way to forget about that for a while and believe that fairytales can come true.” The other ladies nod in agreement. “We live in a world of flawed men. There’s no shame in letting ourselves believe in a perfect one for a while.”
“Do any of your husbands or partners know about Max?”
Several of them nod, including Marla. “I told my husband about him. God knows, I’ve put up with his enough of his ‘secretaries’ for all these years. The least he can do is support my emotional therapy.”
“And have any of you developed real feelings for Max?” I ask. “I mean, it must be hard to let go of the emotions he brings out in your dates, right?” Despite my knowledge he’s playing me, I can’t deny he knows how to press all of my buttons. “Does the euphoria from the romance become an addiction?”