by Ruby Laska
She pushed away the unwelcome thought. If Ricardo had come by the painting dishonestly, she was pretty sure that she would rather not know. If he wasn’t who he appeared to be, it wouldn’t change the fact that she’d spent the night with a virtual stranger—but it might complicate things in other ways.
“I’m back.” Naomi appeared in front of Chelsea’s desk, paper deli sack in hand. Chelsea glanced at her clock—she hadn’t even noticed that her employee had left to get lunch, and the bell hadn’t rung. Another slow day for the gallery, which unfortunately wasn’t unusual.
“Oh good, I’m famished,” Chelsea lied. The truth was that she was too nervous to eat. “And I’ve got a few errands—I might be back late.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” Naomi said. “Take your time.”
#
The Fairy Godfathers were expecting her. She’d texted to let them know she needed a “consultation,” their shorthand for making sure to leave time between bookings to talk.
When she pushed through the salon’s front door, Donny had just put a color client under the dryer to process, and Rufus sent an elderly, bald gentleman out the door with a fresh shave and a green tea facial that he swore would reduce fine lines. The three of them snuck to the back room that had been converted to a sunny lounge—a far cry from the dark storeroom in their prior salon where Chelsea had once taken shelter. Donny put a chilled vitamin water in her hand while Rufus set out snacks.
“Okay, here goes,” Chelsea said, her palms clammy with nervous perspiration, taking a big gulp of her drink. “I need…help. With this,” she added hastily before they could start offering her money again, tugging at her split ends.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Donny gasped while Rufus feigned a heart attack. “You never let us touch your hair.”
“Well, I was…having independence issues. It would have been too, um, weird.”
“No, no, that’s fine, honey. We’re thrilled. Just…surprised.”
Chelsea felt the most unwelcome sensation—tears threatening to fall. Tears of relief? Fear?
No, that wouldn’t do; if she gave in to the feelings, the Fairy Godfathers would sense them like bloodhounds on a scent and smother her with their good intentions. Much better just to plow forward.
“And I need you to recommend a good waxer.”
“Donny can do your brows, Mei Mei,” Rufus protested. “You know he’s magic with a Tweezerman.”
“No, no—” Chelsea shut her eyes and grimaced. “Not that kind of wax. The, um…other. Brazilian,” she whispered, so there could be no doubt.
A shocked silence ensued. When Chelsea couldn’t bear the tension and peeked, the men were gaping at her, open-mouthed.
Rufus recovered first. “Well that’s fine honey, we know just the gal. Two blocks from here, I’ll give her a call. And whatever…new, um, friendship has prompted this, well, I’m sure we’re both delighted for you.”
“Rufus!” she protested.
“What!! We were just worried you were still a virgin,” Donny said.
“Please, guys, if you love me at all, shut up and cut my hair.”
#
She arrived home two hours later with her hair falling in smooth waves, a stinging between her legs, and a falafel sandwich from her favorite Mediterranean dive. Since she was probably going to be too nervous again tomorrow to eat, she had decided to lay in sustenance now—like a bear larding up for winter.
“Ugh,” she moaned, setting the carryout bag on the table. Such an unfortunate analogy. And not very fitting, either, since bears were furry and she—well, she was now as slick and smooth as a cue ball. Despite the pain, the sensation of her clothes moving against the waxed skin was…more than interesting. It was frankly erotic—unless it was just the anticipation of being with Ricardo in twenty-four hours.
So caught up in the new sensations was Chelsea that she almost stumbled over the large white box on her porch. It was tied with a plain gray grosgrain ribbon, and once she dragged it inside the apartment, she eagerly untied it.
She knew. From the glossy white surface of the box, the fine, bound ends of the ribbon. The lack of a card or return address. All of it the work of a private man, a careful man, a man whose standards were exceptionally high.
Inside, nestled in a bed of pale pink tissue, was a midnight blue dress. At least Chelsea thought it was a dress, though there was so little of it, she’d be forgiven for thinking it a…blouse, perhaps. The straps and cutouts and complicated, almost origami-like, folds of the fabric made it hard to tell.
And there: a familiar rectangle of creamy white, his name engraved in the stark black ink. She grabbed it eagerly, turned it over.
“Wear this tomorrow night. We are going out. The driver will arrive at the gallery at six to pick you up.”
She laid the garment gently back into the box, but her hand brushed against something hard, hidden among the layers of tissue.
She pushed the papers aside. And there they were: the most shockingly high heels of her life, thin silver bands all that would bind them to her feet, along with the long gossamer strands of ribbon that were meant to wrap around her ankle.
Just like the scarlet silk had bound her just a few days ago.
She went weak with the memory, her traitorous blood rushing headlong to all the places she was too weak to control.
#
At five forty-five the following evening, Chelsea stood, stretching her arms and yawning in an exaggerated attempt at nonchalance. “Ugh, those shipping documents,” she said. “They’ll be the death of me.”
“Mmm,” Leonore said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger as she swept a cloth along the stone counter, wiping away the fingerprints of the last customer. Leonore was Chelsea’s least favorite employee; her Ivy League education and connections were impeccable, however, and the friends-of-the-family clients she’d brought to the gallery more than made up for her maddening, entitled bitchiness.
“So, I’m just going to duck into the bathroom and change. I’ve got an—an event tonight.” She grabbed the box from under the desk where she’d stowed it earlier.
“Mmm.”
One of these days, Chelsea was going to throw a stapler at the woman in an effort to shake that chilly Park Avenue attitude, but today wasn’t the day. Inside the bathroom, she regretted not taking the dress for a trial run sooner, but she’d frankly been afraid that if she got all the straps on wrong, she might damage the thin, shimmering silk.
When Chelsea had emerged from the salon Rufus had recommended, she was fully denuded and one hundred forty dollars more broke, having treated herself to a manicure and pedicure in addition to the Brazilian wax.
Next door to the salon, on a street that was rapidly becoming trendy, was the sort of shop that Chelsea had never entered before. The mannequin in the window wore a bra made of violet silk trimmed with black lace—and a matching thong that could easily have been stuffed into an Altoids box, it was so tiny. The tag hanging from the bra said $125 in lovely flowery handwriting, but it wasn’t the price that put Chelsea off: it was the fact that she’d have to talk to the salesgirl, to admit her ignorance, the fact that her underwear still came from Macy’s, where a very embarrassed Donny had taken her for her first bra when she was fifteen.
So she’d turned away. Now, standing in the tiny bathroom in her gallery, in her serviceable bra and panties, she made a daring decision: she removed them both and rolled them into a ball which she stuffed in the bottom of her purse. She hoped it was the sort of gesture Ricardo might like, and then she felt impatient with herself for the thought. It wasn’t like her to go through these mental gymnastics before a date.
Which was the point, of course, she realized as she pulled the dress up over her hips, the silk lining gliding over her skin. Ricardo was unlike any other man. The night she’d spent with him was unlike any other night. And today, with any luck, the relationship (she shuddered at the word; it was so inadequate to hold all the complicat
ed feelings she had about him) would go further into new territory.
For all its confusing straps, the dress went on easily, everything falling into place as she pulled the bodice up. A single ruched, narrow strap wound over one shoulder, plunging to the band that covered her breasts—barely—before joining a crisscrossing star of fabric that allowed triangles of her midriff to show through before joining the skirt that started just below her hipbones, so low that if she hadn’t visited the salon, she might have worried about its coverage.
The back was completely bare, with the exception of two twined straps that would never have covered an undergarment, so it was a good thing she’d ditched the bra.
And a good thing she’d been keeping up with her running routine, she thought as she turned in front of the mirror. She knew her body was taut and firm—all of her lovers had assured her of that. But in this dress, it was also…feminine, that was the word, in a way that Chelsea never thought of herself. The lines of her muscles were softened, her curves highlighted. Her breasts swelled gently, her hips curved in a way she didn’t recognize.
She slipped the shoes on, sitting on the tiny chair that had never before served any purpose other than being a place for customers to set a purse. They were, surprisingly, not terribly uncomfortable after she’d figured out how to tie them. She took a couple of experimental steps, all she could manage in the confined space, and then dropped her boots and all of her clothes in the box and retied it. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Two people stared at her: a very confused looking Leonore, and a handsome older man in a tuxedo who Chelsea recognized as the driver from last time. When she gave them a regal nod, Leonore’s jaw dropped while the man’s reaction was limited to a slight pulse in his jaw and a smile.
“This man—I mean—you’ve got a, he says he’s here for you.” The normally composed Leonore tripped over her words, her face flushed an unappealing pink.
“I did say I had an event,” Chelsea said coldly because, honestly, was it so unbelievable that such an elegant man might call for her?
The man’s smile broadened and he offered her his arm. As Chelsea slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, he winked—not in a lascivious way, but almost conspiratorially. It was almost as if he saw right through Leonore’s snobby exterior and didn’t mind putting one over on her. “You look magnificent,” he said, and his voice was cultured and rich and slightly accented, an effect she was pretty sure he was exaggerating for her benefit.
This was a very unusual driver. Chelsea handed Leonore the box containing her clothes and said, “Put that on my desk if you will. I’ll pick it up later.”
And then she allowed herself to be escorted to the sleek black sedan idling at the curb, right there in front of the shop where Leonore couldn’t help noticing it, without looking back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The driver dropped the ruse once they reached the car. He opened the door to the backseat, and as he navigated the evening traffic, they did not speak.
They didn’t travel far, but Chelsea’s gritty, up-and-coming neighborhood and the downtown address he took her to were worlds apart. The car glided to a stop in front of an art deco era hotel, a beautiful restored gem that Chelsea had only admired from the outside.
The driver came around to open her door, polite but distant. “The party is on the twentieth floor,” he said. “You’ll be met there. I trust you’ll have a nice evening.”
“I don’t even know your name,” Chelsea blurted, suddenly wishing he’d escort her past the bellboys who were already gawking at her dress. Her bag was all wrong—the black leather coarse and bulky in contrast with the dress—and she wasn’t sure she could make it across the lobby in those shoes.
A ghost of his earlier smile flashed across the driver’s mouth. “You may call me Mr. Smith.”
Really? Chelsea sighed. “Well, Mr. Smith, I’m very grateful.”
“It has been my pleasure.”
With that, he walked back around the car, and Chelsea was left standing in two ounces of fabric and five-inch heels, more intimidated than she’d ever been.
But she wasn’t going to show it. Bravado was something she had been forced to develop early on, and she’d faked her way through situations where her very survival was on the line. So she squared her shoulders and raised her chin and did her best to sashay into the hotel, barely nodding at the two bellboys who rushed to open the doors, and when she reached the elevator—of course it was manned; a place like this employed people to do even unnecessary tasks—she said only “Twentieth floor, please.”
The elevator creaked and groaned and rattled, and the operator—a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or –three—tried hard to hide the fact that he was staring at her.
Chelsea felt both pleased and mortified. She hoped she looked the way Ricardo wanted her to look, but in the next second she thought she looked very unlike her true self. Except that she’d never felt at home in any of her clothes, so how did she even know who her true self was? The jeans, the too-large shirts, the heavy motorcycle boots—they were camouflage, a uniform, something familiar to hide in. This dress—these shoes—she loved how they felt on her, the way she moved in them. Was it possible that this was who she was really meant to be?
When the doors finally parted, she was so lost in her thoughts that the appearance of Ricardo standing there came as a shock. If Mr. Smith had looked good in a tuxedo, Ricardo looked spectacular in his. It was simple but perfectly cut, his tie precisely knotted, the crisp white shirt understated. He was holding a tumbler of a deep amber liquid, and when he saw her, he smiled—a beautiful, welcoming smile that didn’t quite hide a predatory hunger.
Behind him, a party milled: men in formal dress; women in stunning gowns. Diamonds and gemstones sparkled everywhere, and Chelsea touched her bare throat self-consciously. She didn’t wear much jewelry, and she’d worn none today—the clunky silver pieces she favored would have been out of place. Was the omission obvious? Could everyone tell? And her horrible purse dangling from her arm, would everyone notice and know that she was just playing dress-up?
Ricardo took her hand, his fingers holding hers so lightly and tenderly that she felt instantly better. He kissed her on the cheek, and though his lips only barely brushed hers, their warmth telegraphed need straight to all the sensitive nerve endings in her body.
“The dress suits you. You look beautiful.”
She swallowed and tried to appear at ease, normal. “How did you know my size?”
He arched an eyebrow. “The dress is custom-made. I assisted my father for many years, so I am able to make an educated guess where measurements are concerned. And the tailor I use in Los Angeles is very gifted.” A cloud passed over his eyes. “Not as gifted as my father. But talented.”
The momentary sadness was gone as quickly as it appeared. A clue as to who Ricardo really was…and Chelsea was seized with a desire to know more, to dig deeper. But the moment was lost.
Ricardo slid the handbag from her shoulder and signaled across the room and, instantly, a uniformed waiter appeared at his side.
“Please hold this for the lady,” he said.
The man bowed as though the request was not an unusual one.
“It’s—I didn’t have time to shop for an evening bag,” Chelsea said, mortified, the words tumbling out. She wouldn’t have the first idea where to look, but she could have borrowed something from Meredith if only it had occurred to her.
“It is of no importance,” Ricardo said, and somehow, his saying so made it true. She laced her fingers through his and followed him into the party.
#
“I promised Chelsea that I would show her the terrace,” Ricardo said when there was a break in the conversation.
As impressive as it had been to be introduced to the CEO of one of the largest media companies in North America and an actress who starred in the most binge-watched series on television, Chelsea had had trouble focu
sing on the conversation, only too aware of Ricardo’s presence inches away. He touched her intermittently, tiny circles on her lower back, a fingertip grazing the skin exposed by the cutouts at her waist. Even when he merely brushed her wrist to ask if he could get her another glass of champagne, his touch was driving her to distraction.
“The view is spectacular,” the actress said breathlessly. When she spoke to Ricardo, Chelsea had noticed, she was exceptionally animated. For everyone else, she had little to say.
“Yes—and of course it’s historically significant, as Woodrow Wilson’s lover threw herself off of it on the eve of the signing of the Versailles Treaty. Tragic, really.”
With that, he led her through the chattering throng and out the wide French doors, onto the stone terrace that ran the length of the building. Lit candles flickered along the stone balustrade, and an abandoned pair of empty glasses showed that others had been enjoying the view, but the only other people outside were two middle-aged couples talking companionably at the other end. They nodded to Ricardo, who smiled back.
“I didn’t know about Wilson’s lover,” Chelsea said. “Did you make that up?”
“Of course. The treaty was signed three years before this building was even built. But I find that woman insufferable.”
“I suppose it’s a victimless crime…oh.” Chelsea couldn’t help gasping as he put a hand to her waist and steered her to the corner of the balcony. She stood looking outward, her bare torso touching the rough, cold stone, and then had to pull away. Every sensation—rough, smooth, hot, cold—seemed to be a direct route to wanting. Lusting.
But Ricardo had trapped her there, his broad back protecting her from the view of the other partygoers. When she tried to turn and face him, he held her gently but firmly in place with his hands at her hips. His fingers neither stroked nor kneaded, so there was no reason for her to respond as she did.
