Bella Frances – Dressed to Thrill (страница 2)

And, now that the fashion elite had begun to show interest, getting some mainstream press was her next mission. Hence the headline-grabbing dress from her show—she’d styled it The Seven-Year Bitch: Marilyn meets Madonna. Though maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to go this short when there was nothing surer than a cringe-worthy ‘getting into the limo badly’ photograph appearing in the morning’s news feed. More column inches, and even more reasons for Team Devine back home to decry her. Devine girls were supposed to put up and shut up—two of her weakest skills…

The DJ changed and the music turned darker. Tara saw Fern head onto the dance floor with some up-and-coming young cutie and wandered off herself into the throng, smiling and air-kissing the other bottom-of-the-food-chain celebrities. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved back out to the foyer—keen to avoid having to chat with her Dutch financier, easily the most boring man on earth. But when her breath seemed to catch as a gulp of fizz hit the back of her throat, and the faces of the crowd all turned, she realised that someone very A-list had just arrived.

Everything in Tara Devine’s life happened at a million miles an hour. Her brain processed thoughts that her mouth duly delivered. Which sometimes led to problems. Like when she didn’t actually know what she’d just said or done until two seconds too late. But here—now—she felt as if she had slipped into slow-mo. She watched, transfixed, as the foyer seemed almost to fade and there, stalking along the red carpet, was the arrogant alpha himself. Michael Cruz. Incorporated.

As the camera flashes whited out the space he turned his head slightly, as if a mildly irritating noise had sounded. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was as tall as she had imagined, his physique as perfect. And, though she rarely dressed men, she just knew what lay under the cut of cloth on his back. The ripple of muscle over the perfect masculine ratio of shoulders to waist was flawless.

One hand was at his hip, pushing back his jacket, and the perfect illumination of a white silk-linen shirt gleamed. He turned, paced, and took something handed to him by one of his security team. He slipped it into his pocket, seemed to search out the faces closest to him, and then…

And then a flash of intensely dark eyes landed on her. He scanned her, and her heart raced the moment his gaze probed and zoned over her. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her chest and she instinctively lifted her arms to shield herself. He turned full body to face her as he continued to stare, his eyes sliding down, over and up her legs.

The cameras whirred and flashed, people were talking, calling out to him, capturing his appraisal of her. And then, with what seemed infuriatingly like a condescending smirk, he turned away, dismissing her.

Tara felt colour rush up her chest and burn her cheeks—the stab of childhood sensitivities all over again. It had been a long time since anyone had pierced her armour. And that made her even angrier—how dared he? She made to step forward, to tell him what she thought of him—him and his dull, dark, bespoke suit. He was here in the hub of one of the most creative cities in the world, at one of the most exciting times—when the eyes of the fashion media were trained upon young talent—and he was being openly dismissive of anything other than twenty-four-carat conservatives just like himself.

She had checked him out—the media darling, yet another poacher turned gamekeeper whose definition of art was as narrow as his totally on-trend, no-risk tie. There was no way anyone other than the beautiful people would get a foothold in his world. Old money and limb length spoke more than any genuine talent. As far as she could see.

As if to prove her point, a little posse of coltish runway girls circled him, giggling and preening and flashing their thigh-gaps like currency. He brightened and slung arms round two who snuck right under his

‘Daddy’s home’ embrace. Their coquettish display was vile. Sometimes the sisterhood let itself down so badly.

‘Tara, querida! How lovely to see you again.’

Tara turned to see the third member of Club Cruz glide her way towards her. The outrageously elegant Angelica: dream customer and media-savvy goddess of style. Oh, yes. Let the Lord be thanked for the double X chromosomes in the procreation of generation Cruz.

‘Angelica!’

Air-kiss, air-kiss and smug glare right over to the arrogant alpha himself. He caught her look and made no effort to hide his calm assessment of the scene. Stood with his adoring troupe, relaxed and controlled. And who could blame him—the way they were practically licking the air around him?

‘Angelica, you look beautiful—as ever. Let me see.’ Tara stepped back to scan the perfect ensemble, ‘You wear couture so well. It’s a shame your brother is rocking the boring businessman look, though.’

Angelica laughed lightly and preened politely, linking her arm in Tara’s and stepping into the party. ‘Michael is putting up with this for me. He doesn’t really like the scene any more. But he does enjoy some of the benefits.’

She flicked her eyes to where he stood, acknowledging his current difficulties with amused acceptance.

‘This is the third party we’ve been to and his ego must be bigger than the bar bills. All these beautiful young girls and so few men for them to flirt with. Well, men who like women, that is.’

Tara scanned her fellow partygoers, nodding her agreement. There was more oestrogen in the room than you could shake a fluffy pink wand at. The legions of gay best friends didn’t quite boost the already depleted testosterone levels. Even the men in the celebrity underclass were over-preened, with their shaped, tinted brows and oily orange complexions. Really, really not a turn-on.

Tara’s men were edgy, dark, beta. And invariably in her past. The last real relationship she’d had, with a sensitive, eyeliner-wearing musician, had been during college. The relationships she had now were with champagne and investors. Oh, and the media. Her biggest flirt of all.

‘I was wondering if you had seen Fernanda, actually.’

Angelica’s tone still had its feather-lightness but Tara could sense a little edge of concern.

‘I thought she was staying home, but maybe she has come here with you?’

Tara looked around. Fern hadn’t been with her for quite some time now. ‘She is here—she went to dance. But if she knows Michael’s here she’ll be hiding out in the toilets. She had a major meltdown earlier. He must have some hold over her.’

Angelica steered them through to the dance floor, smiling as she passed the partygoers and securing them two glasses of champagne from a conveniently placed table.

‘He means well—just worries about her because he is responsible for her. It was never easy for him, being guardian to two orphaned girls.’

She patted her arm as Tara vaguely recalled their back story. Something about him halting his own highly successful model/actor/presenter career when his mum and stepdad were killed in a car crash. Overnight he’d gone from number one Euro party boy to serious, silent and sober. What was it her Irish granny used to say? ‘A young tart an old nun makes.’ Or something like that. Yes, there was no doubt that his condescending aura was just reformist hot air.

‘He thinks everyone in fashion is self-serving and nasty or stupid—because he had such a bad experience when he was younger. You should meet him. Help him put his mind at rest. Oh, and we must have that chat about my dress.’

The very words Tara had been longing to hear. She swallowed her gushing mouthful of thank-yous and smiled coolly. ‘Of course. Any time you like. I won’t be heading to Paris for a week.’

‘Lovely…’ Angelica sounded distracted. She unlinked her arm and squeezed her hand. ‘I think we should go and find Michael. Maybe you can convince him to stay on here while I take Fernanda home. Discreetly.’

She nodded to where Fern, locking lips with her cutie, was swaying in time to some bassy, carnal music. The fact that she didn’t seem to care who saw her grind her hips and lose herself in his mouth kind of screamed that she had kissed goodbye her inhibitions along with several glasses of booze.

Angelica rolled her eyes ever so slightly. ‘He won’t like it if she’s been drinking. He’s so protective of her, and it would save a load of heartache if he never had to know.’

Actually, Tara thought that a hell of a lot more heartache would be saved by telling him where to get off—but each to their own.

She squeezed Angelica’s hand back. ‘I’m on it.’

Helping her friend and getting more into Angelica’s good books made a whole lot of sense, too. The only downside was that it was going to mean actually communicating with the grade A-is-for-ass, macho man. What on earth did they have in common? Spain’s one-time boy idol, all grown-up and gone cerebral. Who only spoke in words of five syllables in the language of the super-successful.

Maybe it would be simpler if she dropped her clutch and twerked for him. It was rumoured that he still spoke that particular language, and maybe then she’d be able to hold his attention long enough for his sisters to get out and away from his overbearing presence.