“We’re not asking for a change of editorial direction or for you to give your personal endorsement,” his mother said. “Simply space for featured ads. It would mean significant revenue.”
He stared at his mother, knowing she was irked that he hadn’t offered them drinks. It was only polite, the right thing to do, even for uninvited guests. In her home, nothing of the sort would have ever happened.
He smiled as he looked around. This was his home.
ON MADISON AVENUE, BREE and her posse stopped again, this time for shoes. Or maybe a bag, she wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t help that Sveta’s accent—she was from Belarus—was nearly unintelligible. Bree mostly nodded and tried to keep up and not prostrate herself at the temples of fashion—Versace, Chanel, Anna Sui. Those were the kind of stores that only had a few items artfully displayed in minimalist snobbery. Where excellent champagne was served by stunning hostesses who knew every detail of the design and manufacture of the clothing on display. The music was always … interesting. Nothing you’d hear on Top Ten radio, because you could get that at the New Jersey malls.
The price tags made her hyperventilate. And even though the selections for her weren’t the top-of-the-top-of-the-line, they were still extravagantly outlandish. Truly, she was in another world, someone else’s life. Charlie’s world. As she snapped another photograph of herself in a pair of heels that would likely cripple her after five steps, she reminded herself that she was a visitor. A tourist. Nothing more.
CHARLIE’S FATHER STOOD and even he couldn’t control the way his rising blood pressure reddened his face. “Andrew is family, Charles. He’s a Winslow. We’ve allowed you to set your own course, have your fun, but this is our legacy you’re tampering with. I won’t have it.”
Charlie moved closer to the door, to the closet where he’d hung their coats. “Huh. It’s good to know some things don’t change. You continue to hold on to the ludicrous belief that you have any influence over me or my life. It’s nice having our own traditions.”
“Charles,” his mother said, as affronted as his father, but less flushed. “That’s enough. We are your parents.”
He approached them and held out his mother’s coat. “Thanks for dropping by. I hope you had a nice vacation in St. Barts.”
She looked at his father who took both coats from Charlie. He didn’t quite rip them out of his son’s hands. But it was close.
“This will be remembered, Charles,” his father said.
“I hope so.” Charlie led them to the door. When it was closed behind them, he was still buzzing with anger. He needed to cool down, get Zen about the visit, about the message. He wished Bree were here.
He’d never mentioned his parents to Bree, hadn’t asked about hers. They weren’t friends. Yeah, he was comfortable with her. Okay, that didn’t happen much anymore. But no. He wasn’t going to talk to Bree about his parental issues. Jesus.
He pulled out his cell phone, and clicked on the earliest of her text messages. He was grinning by the time he got to his office.
FINALLY, THEY HAD MORE THAN enough clothing to get her through at least a week of parties. The most extravagant was the Marchesa gown for the Courtesan premiere. The evening dress, pinned to fit her body by a bevy of seamstresses, was so out of her league it hurt.
It was almost eight by the time the cab arrived at Charlie’s. Sveta didn’t need to announce herself. The staff at the front desk nodded respectfully as the doormen helped bring in bag upon bag upon box. Bree rested against the mirrored wall of the elevator, then took a few deep breaths before they entered Charlie’s home. Her gaze went immediately to the hallway leading to his bedroom, and the reality of their new arrangement made her ache. Then he stepped into the atrium, and everything else became background noise.
He smiled widely when their eyes met. She shivered as he came closer, knowing he would touch her, and that she was allowed to touch him back, even in front of Sveta and the doormen. Such a mixed blessing. She could touch, but not have.
Bree didn’t regret her decision about keeping the relationship out of the bedroom. It was the right decision, the mature way to go. It also completely sucked. “This is too much,” she said, as she looked into Charlie’s dark eyes. His hands went to her upper arms, and his palms ghosted across her skin down to her wrists and back up again. He kissed her, on the lips, yes, but the moment there was a hint of heat, he backed off. She wondered whom he’d kissed her for. Sveta? The rest of the team? Had to be.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s part of the gig.”
“Charlie, I saw the price tags.”
He smiled. “Most everything was free.”
“Nothing’s free. I know it’s barter, but I’m not even famous.”
“You will be.”
“In a week? I doubt it.”
He walked her farther into his apartment as Sveta led the doormen down a hallway, her heels clicking so quickly Bree wondered if it would be rude to suggest a switch to decaf. “You won’t be on the cover of People,” Charlie said, “but you’re going to be known in the city, where it matters.”
He paused, his palm warm on her skin. When he spoke again, his voice tightened along with his fingers. “You’re with a Winslow now, and the Winslows are the very heart of power in this city, didn’t you know?”
Bree stopped. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she felt uncomfortable. What had happened during his meeting? He’d brushed aside her questions, told her everything was fine, but that clearly wasn’t the case.
“Each item of clothing is going to get a lot of mileage in the blogs,” he said, letting her go. His voice had changed back to something less strident, more like Charlie. “In addition to your sidebars, I’ve got some fashion insiders who’ll be plugging them for weeks to come. I guarantee there will be ready-to-wear versions in Macy’s by April.”
Bree forced a smile even though she knew he was upset, that this last speech was him getting his bearings again. But she had no right to ask him to be honest with her, to tell her a single thing about his private life. “I’ve already worked up a quick first draft of what it was like to be fitted by a big-league design team.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
Sveta’s clicking heels announced her entry into the living room. “You come dress now.”
Bree checked with Charlie.
“It’s a media room. Used for these kind of things.”
“You style up all your women?”
His lips parted, but Bree hurried to follow Sveta, not wanting to know his answer.
The room itself gave it away, though. There were mirrors, hair and makeup stations, clothing racks. A lot of those racks held men’s clothes, but there were women’s, as well, all stunning. In a shocking nod to propriety, there was a changing screen in a corner. There were also people. Five people—one of them was a photographer she’d seen at the Mercedes party. His assistant was fussing with lights. Off to the side were giant rolls of backdrops, like bolts of material, ready to be swung into place for any kind of photograph.
There was even a sewing machine in one corner, which Bree longed to check out. It was most probably the Ferrari of sewing machines and would make her so jealous she would weep for a week.
“Change,” Sveta said, holding up the purple jacquard V-neck dress they’d picked up from the Victoria Beckham collection.
Bree obeyed, as if she’d dare do anything else. It was a matter of moments to slip out of her office wear into the magnificent cocktail dress, especially because her only undergarment