by Julia Harlow
He palmed the waiter a generous tip and gave him several extra bills to pass along to the driver. “Thanks. Tell him I’ll call when I’m ready.”
Why go back to his room and obsess about Dorrie? Hadn’t he agonized enough for one day? He felt Miss Thomas’s eyes on him and turned his gaze on her.
Her voice was soft on the salty night breeze when she asked, “So, are your days in Palm Beach filled up with photo shoots and Couture Week?”
Not the fuck anymore. “Actually, I have a rare day off tomorrow and haven’t even thought about how I’m going to spend it.”
“If by any chance you like dog racing, the greyhounds are running tomorrow at the Palm Beach Kennel Club.”
Carly fiddled with her bracelet, rotating it around and around her slim wrist. He wondered why she seemed so anxious.
“You follow dog racing?” He realized he sounded skeptical as he swirled his scotch around in the crystal tumbler, but he couldn’t imagine this delicate woman at a dog racetrack.
“I just started recently. I’ve always loved dogs and was never allowed to have one growing up. Through Worth Avenue Yachts, I have some connections with the Kennel Club.” She hesitated before following up quietly, “It was only a suggestion.”
“It just so happens that I fancy dog racing. And because it’s right here in Palm Beach, seems a waste not to check it out. What time?”
~*~
This might have been the luckiest night of her life, Carly thought. Everything she’d prepared for had panned out better than she ever could have hoped. So why wasn’t she celebrating?
Grant Maxwell was the real deal, and in a few magical hours one evening, she was smitten. He was a man worth fighting for and keeping. But she’d had to resort to fabrication and deceit not only to meet him but also to keep his interest. No way to start a relationship. Her stomach felt queasy.
While she shimmied out of her dress, another troubling thought plagued her. More than once tonight she’d picked up a strong vibe that Grant was either in a serious relationship or had just ended one that he clearly wasn’t over. She wondered why her research hadn’t uncovered the slightest whiff about a girlfriend.
Before she climbed into her luxurious lavender and white canopy bed, she made a note to call her friend at the Mercedes dealership first thing in the morning.
~*~
By eight the next morning, Grant regretted last night’s Glenlivit overindulgence and, in particular, the date he’d made with Carly Thomas. Yes, she was intriguing and undoubtedly lovely. But she wasn’t Dorrie. Somehow, going out with Carly seemed wrong. In his gut, he knew he wasn’t over Dorrie, and dating this soon after their break-up felt empty and ludicrous.
Sliding open the door to the balcony, he stepped out barefoot into the balmy morning with his steaming coffee. He fiddled with his BlackBerry, deciding to call Carly and beg off. The blank screen of his phone stared back at him. He didn’t have her fucking number!
A work out. That’s what he needed. He hadn’t worked out since Dorrie left. Or, more accurately, since he’d sent her away. Grabbing his workout shorts, shoes, and T-shirt, he headed to the hotel’s gym and gutted through a punishing exercise regime.
As noon approached, he felt no better about this date, but it wasn’t in his nature to stand someone up. So, clad in jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, navy blazer, and his favorite shoes, he strode out the front of the hotel in time to see one of the most amazing sights he’d ever seen: a Mercedes Benz 300 SL Gullwing pulling up. A car he’d salivated over owning for years. And behind the wheel? None other than a smiling Carly Thomas.
Chapter 13
Six months later, early on a windy April morning, Dorrie dragged her feet into the Omni Publishing building on the Avenue of the Americas in New York City. The black dress she wore sagged from her hunched shoulders.
She grasped the brass banister in the elevator on the way up to the office to steady herself. It would have helped if she could’ve eaten more than two bites of that bagel this morning.
The release date of Grant Maxwell: the Man, the Model was looming. Its pre-release publicity had been the craziest for any non-fiction title Omni ever published. It certainly didn’t hurt to have that heart-stopping cover photo: Grant in an unbuttoned white dress shirt, glorious bronze chest and abs on display, and piercing azure eyes daring the camera lens to capture his true essence. Something it never could.
Dorrie had argued against this photo but had given in to Arianna’s and Malcolm’s insistence that they capitalize on his man-candy appeal: gratuitous titillation, in her opinion. There was so much more to Grant Maxwell, but Dorrie didn’t have the energy to fight for the classy cover photo she’d chosen. The fact that he had signed off on the sexed-up cover served to deepen her depression. The sooner she could put this biography behind her, the sooner she could put him behind her once and for all.
These last months had been one painful upheaval after another, a continual jarring of her emotions, like shaking a snow globe after all the silvery flakes had settled silently on the bottom. Selecting the photos to be included in the biography would have been way beyond her threshold for agony. Fortunately, she’d compiled her choices before that horrendous October day in Palm Beach. All that had needed to be done was for Grant to approve them. Through the contact at Entertainment Arts, she’d found out that he had.
Neon yellow message slips piled up on her desk vying for attention. She slumped in the ergonomic chair and held her head in the hands. How would she get through another day? Maybe Blanche was right.
Her grandmother was so shocked the last time Dorrie had come to dinner that she’d insisted on making Dorrie an appointment with her own doctor. After weeks of dodging the inevitable, Dorrie met with Dr. Susannah Wilson, an “upstart” who’d dared to crash the male-dominated GP practices in Bronxville. In a matter of minutes, Dorrie felt comfortable with this clever young woman. Not comfortable enough to divulge the most personal details of her anguish, but enough so Dr. Wilson could assess her serious weight loss, ghostly pallor, and general listlessness as symptoms of depression.
During an hour-long appointment, including a general physical and the requisite battery of tests, they discussed the importance of exercise, sufficient rest, and balanced diet. Finally, the doctor introduced the topic of anti-depressant medication accompanied by a detailed discussion of the pros and cons. Her concern over Dorrie’s downhill path convinced her of the need to take action. But Dorrie didn’t have the energy to make a decision of this magnitude, so she stuffed the prescription and referral to a psychologist in her bag.
Arianna’s sudden arrival in her office made it necessary for Dorrie to lift her head from her hands. “Yes?”
“You know, Dorrie, this ‘woe-is-me’ act is wearing thin around here. Have you returned any of those calls yet?” Her hands were planted on her bony hips as she gestured her pointed chin toward the stack of messages.
Dorrie inwardly groaned. “Going to get to it today. Promise.” She’d had to resort to shorthand sentences in order to conserve energy.
Arianna rolled her eyes. “That’s what you told me yesterday. Look. I know you’re not feeling exactly chipper, but we’ve got the launch party for Grant Maxwell’s biography tomorrow and the book signing at McNally Jackson the following day. The man himself is flying in tonight. Are you planning to meet with him when he arrives?”
Dorrie pretended to focus on her desk calendar to hide her wince. The pen in her hand felt as heavy as a crowbar. “Um, sure. On top of it, Arianna. Don’t worry.”
“But I am worried. What’s going on with the two of you, anyway?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Just the way you wanted it, remember?
“Whatever, Dorrie. But let’s look ahead for a minute, shall we?” She perched her skinny butt on the corner of Dorrie’s desk. “You might be interested to know that the growing pile of messages you’re so determined to ignore contains requests for you to meet with agents of some prominent people in both
the entertainment and sports arenas. They’re impressed with your work, your writing. Malcolm and I are thrilled with you, Dorrie. Maybe we haven’t told you enough, or ever, but we are.
“We should have let you know sooner, but new business has been pouring in at an astounding clip.”
Dorrie propped her chin up on her palm, her shaky elbow wobbling on the desk. “Let me know what?” She fought the urge to yawn.
“We’re promoting you to head writer and giving you a substantial salary increase. It’s long overdue. Your work on the Grant Maxwell biography is superb. We know this was a rough assignment; he’s not the most forthcoming of subjects.” She lowered her annoyingly raspy voice. “And the personal aspects had to have been difficult. But you did what needed to be done and conducted yourself in accordance with Omni policy.”
“Okay, Arianna. Need to get to work now.”
The thought of being able to pay Blanche back and to search for an apartment in a halfway decent location would have put her over the moon at one time. Right now, she just wanted to drop her head down on the desk and sleep. A joke, really, because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. When she did sleep, all too often she dreamed of a dark-haired god who made her feel like his goddess. The vivid images of Grant were so realistic and the memory of what it felt like to be the object of his unqualified adoration so real that she’d awaken with a smile on her gaunt face and glowing hope in her heart. Then she’d remember. And she’d hate herself all over again for giving into Luke Parker. Why hadn’t she just told him to go fuck himself that night? Her career meant nothing to her now. Grant had meant everything.
The next morning she called in sick.
~*~
Grant’s eyes scanned the private room at the Waldorf Astoria where the launch party was in full swing. Life-sized posters of his image on the book cover hung on the walls. Dorrie was scheduled to introduce him on the podium, and he found himself more eager to see her than he imagined he would. The deep blue three-piece suit he wore clung to his substantial biceps and outlined broad shoulders and a muscular chest. A five-button vest tapered to a slim waist and those perfectly proportioned legs were showcased in fitted trousers.
As Arianna DuPres approached him, he braced himself for that nails-on-chalkboard voice. “Hello, Grant! Are you ready to address your adoring fans?”
He took in the black hair plastered to her head and yanked back into a low knot. The navy suit she wore was made of expensive fabric but was ill fitting on her toothpick body. She looked like Olive Oyl. “Where’s Dor—Miss Applegate?”
“She couldn’t make it this evening. I’ll be introducing you in her stead.”
At Grant’s scowl, Arianna instinctively took a step backward. He noticed her wince when he barked, “Why couldn’t she make it? You assured me it had all been arranged.”
“Dorrie wasn’t feeling well.” She hurried to add, “Actually, we’re all worried about her. She hasn’t seemed like herself in a long time.”
The anger and misery toward Dorrie he had clung to for so many months began to dissolve into concern. He edged closer to Arianna, lowering his voice. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her?”
“No one really knows. She won’t talk to anyone at Omni. Just keeps her head down. Truthfully, her work has suffered. She’s more in demand than ever after excerpts of your biography were printed in several major newspapers and online editions. Have you read them? Of course you have.
“Anyway, calls are coming in at a brisk pace, and she hasn’t answered a single one to my knowledge. She even asked me to transfer her to another city. Can you believe it? I refused, of course.”
The grip Grant took on her bamboo-sized upper arm had her eyes widening to nearly the size of eggs over medium. He pulled her to the side of the room. “Is she coming to the book signing tomorrow?”
“I assume so. Unless she’s still not feeling well. But don’t worry. Staff from Omni Publishing will be there.”
“But I am worried, Arianna, and displeased. Miss Applegate made a commitment and should have been here tonight unless she’s on her deathbed. Call her now and tell her that if she’s not at the book signing tomorrow I won’t be either.”
Arianna’s free hand flew to her mouth, and she sputtered, “But . . . but you can’t miss the book signing! You’re the one doing the signing.”
“And she’s the author. Trust me. If she’s not there, I won’t be either.”
It took a moment for Arianna to apparently digest the magnitude of his pronouncement, and then she excused herself to call Dorrie.
Two emotions threatened to overwhelm Grant: a sudden letdown that he wouldn’t see Dorrie tonight and concern about her well-being. Was she really sick? Or was she too embarrassed to show her face after what she’d done? No, it couldn’t be that. He’d never figured her for a coward.
He made a snap decision. Even though he was supposed to meet up with Carly after the book launch, his insides twisted with urgency to see Dorrie. And he wasn’t going to wait around for that useless wretch Arianna.
Cold wind whipped his face as he thrust his arm up to hail a cab. He prayed Dorrie still lived in the First Avenue apartment she had mentioned once in Palm Beach.
~*~
The strain of pretending to be someone else for the past six months had worn Carly to a frazzle. Capitalizing on the personal information Lindsay had imparted had been the easy part by comparison. The Mercedes alone guaranteed Grant’s continuing attention, and the greyhound racing was icing on the cake. She hadn’t minded the dog racing. It just wasn’t her thing. But she’d acted as if it rated right up there with shopping at Gucci on Worth Avenue.
Then there was his penchant for antiques. Carly enjoyed accompanying him on his antique shopping jaunts because she always learned something new about the old things he was passionate about. Not really her taste, though. But by appearing to be enthused, she had garnered an invitation to London to help him hunt for antiques for the house he was renovating. A real coup in her mind.
The fact that Grant was an avid reader proved to be a challenge she hadn’t bargained for. Whoever heard of an underwear model being erudite? He always had his nose in some New York Times bestseller or a boring newspaper. Her reading of choice? People, Cosmo, and Town & Country fit the bill. But he could never know that. It would ruin his vision of her as his perfect match. So she’d scrambled to at least know enough about the content of what he was reading to engage in a semi-intelligent conversation with him. Amazon book reviews had become her new best friend. But it bored her half to death.
In a way, it was fortunate that he was so busy traveling for interviews, photo shoots, and product endorsements that their time together was limited. Her audible sigh of relief when he left for the next gig was proof the distress of maintaining a false persona was costing her.
She pretended to be demure and quiet, unassuming and modest, classy and educated, sweet. Polar opposites of the real Carly Thomas. But Grant’s fame and hefty bank account were more than worth the charade. Throw in his face and body and Carly could stand anything. At least until she had a rock on her finger, preferably a big, quintessential rock. After that, she could be herself, and he’d just have to deal with it.
After that. After when? That was the multi-million dollar question. More than once she’d sensed he was about to pop the question. But then he characteristically drew back into himself. What the heck was holding him back? Was it the mysterious woman he’d broken up with back in Palm Beach?
She stepped out of the shower in her hotel suite and, after toweling off, stood naked assessing herself. Her body was still young, trim, and taut. Her skin was creamy and her hair thick and lustrous. As she trailed her fingers down her body, she thought about sex with Grant. It was fine. Fine? Why not otherworldly? Was it because he never seemed fully present when they made love, as if his brain were somewhere else? Even when she gave everything she had going down on him, he always held a part of hi
mself back. Maybe he just wasn’t a passionate man.
While drying her hair, Carly hit on another disappointment—a big one. Grant didn’t like going to parties, events, or even out to dinner. He preferred taking long walks or staying in and cooking—not that he wasn’t a fabulous cook—she just wasn’t that interested in food and was on a perpetual diet. She wanted to go out on the town and be seen on his arm. Tonight might be the night for that. He’d promised to take her out after the book-launch party. Venturing into the bedroom-sized closet at the luxurious Pierre, she perused her substantial travel wardrobe, searching for the ideal dress.
Worth Avenue Yachts had arranged for this lavish accommodation at no charge to her through a connection with the manager, and she was relieved when Grant didn't make an issue about staying at separate hotels. Of course, she hadn’t shared the tidbit about her staying for free at the Pierre with him. Instead, she’d made up some malarkey about needing a little private time.
Chapter 14
Grant rapped his knuckles on the door with chipped black paint. A young woman in a gray business suit answered it, her voice shaky. “Yes?”
“I’m looking for Dorrie Applegate. Is she here?”
The young woman’s eyes were wide, and she quickly glanced behind her then back to Grant. “I’m sorry. Who are you?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Grant Maxwell. Dorrie’s my friend. Please, I need to see her. Is she here?” He placed his palm on the door to open it further and glanced around an interior that appeared to be decorated in the college dorm style: a mishmash of worn furniture and brick and board bookshelves, but otherwise bare.
A flicker of awareness crossed her expression. Maybe she knew who he was. “She’s here, but she said she doesn’t want to see anyone. She’s not feeling well.”
“Where is she?” Grant pushed past the woman and scanned the apartment.
“Hey, wait a minute!”
