believe it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn it was all an elaborate practical joke. Why on earth would Charlie Winslow want to go out with her? Of course, she’d asked Rebecca that very question approximately a million times. Bree had gotten a variety of answers, all boiling down to the fact that Rebecca thought the two of them would have a good time. A good time.
Bree couldn’t move. Except for her now chattering teeth. The forties era shawl she’d found in Park Slope may have been the perfect accessory, but it did nothing to protect her from the cold. She might as well have worn her gargantuan puffy coat, considering the fact that she was rooted to the corner of Central Park West and West 72nd Street.
For God’s sake, the most amazing Cinderella night of her life was only moments and a few feet away. She had pictures of this very corner in her New York dream book, the one she’d been compiling for eight years. The only reason Charlie Winslow’s photograph hadn’t been clipped and pasted was that even her outlandish imagination hadn’t been that optimistic.
She had to remember not to call him Charlie Winslow, as if he was a movie star or an historical figure. Bree had practiced. She’d said his first name a hundred times, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking shyly away, coy, sassy, demure, outraged. She was very good at saying Charlie, but she couldn’t quite help the Winslow part. She’d read so many articles by him and about him, and none of them referred to him as Charlie, or even Mr. Winslow.
She pushed herself forward. If she waited any longer she’d be late, and he’d probably leave without her, which had its merits as then she wouldn’t have to endure actually meeting him, but that would defeat the purpose, and dammit, she was brave. She was. She’d gotten on a plane all by herself, knowing absolutely no one in New York, let alone in Manhattan. That took guts.
So did tonight. But she could do it. Because, like her relocation, Charlie Winslow fit perfectly in her five-year plan.
1. Move to New York
2. Get a job in fashion advertising
3. Continue fashion education
4. Find a way into the Inner Circle
5. Become a regular at fashion events
6. ????
7. Publish
8. Success!!!!!!
Look how far she’d come already. She was flying past three directly into four and she’d only been in Manhattan six months! Meeting Charlie Winslow was a piece of cake. The easy part.
Okay, no. That was a total lie. As she headed for the doorman, complete with hat and epaulettes thank you very much, the truth settled like a stone in her stomach. Meeting Charlie Winslow was like meeting the President or Johnny Depp, or Dolce and Gabbana.
She would not throw up.
Somehow, the door was opened by the tall man in the cap and gloves, and he smiled at her as he gave her a tiny bow. Then she was inside where it was warm and unbelievably gorgeous. This building wasn’t as famous as The Dakota, but it was right up there in the stratosphere of luxury. Her entire apartment could fit into the reception area where she had to sign in. Everyone smiled. The security guard, the other security guard, the woman by the elevator wearing a winter-white suit, whose huge honkin’ diamond ring must make it an effort to lift her hand.
No Charlie Winslow in sight.
Bree let out a breath.
“May I announce your arrival?” The security guard sitting behind the beautiful burnished oak desk leaned forward so elegantly it made her think he was desperate to hear who she was going to see. Either that, or he’d almost lost his grip on the automatic weapon hidden above his lap. Just in case she didn’t have the right name or something.
“Bree Kingston for Charlie Winslow,” she said, and she only had to clear her throat once.
The way the uniformed man’s left eyebrow rose meant something. Bree had no idea what. She glanced down to make sure she hadn’t dribbled on her dress, but she appeared fine. If nervous. If very, very nervous.
The guard picked up a phone, but his hand stilled midway to his console. He nodded, looking past Bree’s shoulder.
She turned, holding her breath, praying she wouldn’t make a complete ass of herself. And there he was. Just like his pictures, only better.
Tall, though everyone was tall to her, considering that she barely reached five-one. His hair was as perfectly mussed as it was in his photos—dark, cut with such precision that she imagined he woke up looking camera-ready. He wore a black suit with a simple perfectly tailored white shirt beneath, no tie, slim cut, Yves Saint Laurent? Spencer Hart? Or maybe her beloved D&G?
As gorgeous as the trimmings were, it was his face that snagged and kept her staring. Much, much better than his pictures. Big eyes, brown. Very big. A generous mouth, too, but she kept getting snagged on the eyes, and how he looked as if he’d discovered something wonderful and interesting, except he was looking at her. Smiling big-time. At her.
His gaze let hers go as he took his time across the lobby. Not that it went far: a long slow trip down her body, pausing for a moment on her boobs. Not enough of a pause to make her self-conscious. Any more self-conscious.
She’d been scoped out before, sure. But this felt different. Like an audition. Her heart pounded, blood rushed to heat her cheeks, hell, her whole face. Then he was looking in her eyes again, and she exhaled when he seemed even more pleased. Maybe it was an act, probably was, in fact, but it didn’t matter because it was only for one night and she’d imagined dozens of expressions on his face, but none of them had been quite this fantastic.
“Bree,” he said, his voice low, a cello kind of baritone full of resonance and promise.
“Hi,” she said. “Charlie.”
He took her hand in his. The one not holding her clutch, the edge of her shawl. “Rebecca told me you were pretty,” he said. “She’s never in her life made such an understatement.”
Bree’s blush went four-alarm and she knew it was a crock, but a gorgeous crock, and if he wanted to say things like that to her for the rest of the night, she wouldn’t mind in the least. “You’re very kind.”
“Not really,” he said. Still holding on to her hand, he glanced behind her. “George, could you call for the car?”
“It’s in place, Mr. Winslow.”
“Thank you,” he said, then Charlie looked at her again. “Did she tell you where we’re going?”
“She wouldn’t. She said I’d like it, though.”
“I hope so.” He led her out, his hand still holding hers until they got to the exit. When the door was pulled open, Charlie put his arm around her shoulders and picked up the pace. Before she knew it, she was sitting in the backseat of a black limousine driven by an honest-to-God chauffeur and Charlie was scooting in on her left.
How was this her life? Her high school graduating class had under two hundred kids. Seven years later, every one of her friends were married, and most of them had at least one kid. And here she was, being whisked off into a mysterious night with one of the most famous men in New York. On Valentine’s Day. Holy mother of pearl.
CHARLIE NORMALLY DIDN’T have champagne chilling in the limo. It had only happened twice before, in fact. Once, when his guest had been a Queen. Not the kind from Asbury Park in New Jersey, but a real royal Queen. The other time had been for a friend who’d been crushed by a devastating loss in the love department. A night of drunken weeping and aimless driving had helped pass the time and given her the courage to face the sunrise.
In tonight’s case, he’d ordered the Dom Pérignon Rosé Oenothèque for Rebecca’s sake. He knew every detail of the evening would be reported to his cousin, and he was determined to impress Rebecca despite her opinion that he was still the same adolescent terror he’d been at thirteen.