by Sara Celi
“Don’t leave yet.” His eyes searched mine, and another delicious tingle ran up and down my body. “What are you doing tonight?”
I didn’t have any plans besides doing laundry, cooking ramen noodles for dinner, and watching on-demand movies. Helen had already agreed to close the studio for the night, so I wouldn’t be needed there. But I also didn’t want Luke Rothschild to know my life really was so boring. Not when his was clearly so interesting.
“I have a few things I need to take care of—”
“Whatever it is, can it wait? I want you to come with me.” He smiled. “As my date.”
“Your date?”
“Yes.” I closed the space between us a little bit more. “Will you go with me?”
“But I…I don’t have anything to wear to something like that.”
“That’s okay.” I released her arm. “I have some dresses upstairs. A few might fit you.”
I didn’t add that the thought of her encased in a tight cocktail dress sounded exactly like what the reception needed. Palm Beach society could be so predictable sometimes, but it wouldn’t be with her around. She’d add some spice.
Natalie cocked her head. “Why do you have women’s clothing in your house?”
I didn’t have a great answer, and I knew I had to be careful about what I said next. The wrong reply would undoubtedly open a Pandora’s Box of questions about my old life with Faye Masters, and the fact that I’d spent the last few years dating every woman I could find to block out overwhelming grief I felt about her death. That plan had worked for a long time, and it had kept life without Faye from destroying my heart. But I didn’t want to discuss all of that with Natalie.
Not yet.
“Long story.” I motioned for her to come with me, and we walked down the center hallway, then traveled up the winding staircase to the second floor. “But I have a few, and I think they’ll fit you.”
I led her to one of the four guest bedrooms. The room was painted a shell pink, and decorated with a series of vintage travel advertisements for South Florida, Miami, and Key West. I opened the walk-in closet and took a few hangers off the racks. None of the dresses had been worn before; they had all just hung in the closet like silent reminders of all that I’d lost.
“What do you think?”
Natalie took the first black garment out of my hand and gasped at the label. “Gucci?”
“That one is. The others are”—I glanced at the tags— “Prada, Fendi, and Prozena Schuler.” I spread the outfits on the bed, remembering how much Faye had loved designer gowns, and shopping in general. In fact, the apparel still had the tags attached. She’d never had a chance to wear them.
I turned to Natalie and swept the thoughts of Faye from my mind. “You think one will work?”
One side of her mouth twisted upward. “I never said I’d go with you.”
“You’re right. You didn’t.” I took a step backward and waved a hand. “And you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” I let my gaze meet hers. “But it would be a lot better if you did.”
She stared down at the clothing. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Why not?”
I knew I was coming on strong, stronger than I should, but I couldn’t help myself, and I didn’t want to. I’d always had a weakness for interesting women, and Natalie certainly was that. I had to admit, it mostly came from the fact that she didn’t act like or look like any of the women I usually encountered during Palm Beach’s winter social season, or in New York’s moneyed crowd. She didn’t seem like she cared about who she thought I was—who everyone “thought” I was. She was also…natural. She had a petite and athletic body, small breasts, a dimple in the center of her chin, and blue eyes framed by curly, dark-blonde hair. No sign of fillers or Botox injections. No hint that she’d ever seen the inside of a plastic surgeon’s office. And no caked-on makeup that betrayed years of effort underneath.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been with a woman like this.
“Please come with me tonight,” I said. “You don’t know how boring these kinds of receptions can be. Once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all. You’ll make it unique.”
“You’re on. I’ll go.” She picked up the Proenza Schuler dress and examined its collar line. “What about shoes? A purse? Jewelry?”
“All in the closet. I think the shoes are about a size eight. No one will notice if they’re a little too big or too small on your feet—we won’t be walking very far.” I pointed at the bathroom. “Everything else is in there. Whatever you might need. A shower, anything. Hairspray…makeup…”
“Fully stocked?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little strange?”
“No.” I cleared my throat. “It’s all from my past. My…fiancée—ex-fiancée…used this bathroom most of the time. She had good taste. Expensive taste, too.”
“And once she left, you didn’t get rid of it?”
“Couldn’t come up with a very good reason why.” I sighed. “Part of me just wanted to hang on to them, even though she never wore them.”
“Why not?”
I swallowed. “She—” I cleared my throat, horrified at the sudden sting that formed there. Damn, this was harder than I’d imagined. “She, um…she died in a car accident about three months before we were supposed to get married. Faye went up to Nantucket for the weekend, and a semi-truck hit her rental car. Ran her off the road.”
Natalie’s eyes widened, and some of the color faded from her face.
I swallowed again; my tongue was growing thicker in my mouth with each word I spoke. “And I’ve been sort of drifting ever since.”
“Oh, my god,” she whispered, and lifted a hand toward me, but she dropped it as if she wasn’t sure if I would be receptive to her comforting touch. “I-I had no idea.”
“It was all over the papers…online…all of it. It was…” I studied the rows of unused, luxurious clothing and shoes, drew in the posh scent of Faye’s extended absence. “It was a nightmare.” When I looked at her again, I swallowed away some more of my grief. “I guess I’m surprised you didn’t know about it.”
The corners of her mouth softened. “I didn’t.”
I let out a rueful laugh. “I think you’re the first person I’ve met who doesn’t know anything about me. That’s…that’s refreshing.”
“If you want me to Google you and find it all out, I can.”
“No.” I waved a hand. “You don’t have to do that. Not unless you want to. Besides, you might not like what you find. The last few years of my life have been a blur. That’s probably the best way to describe it.”
“I can’t imagine.” She rubbed at her lips. Her eyes glistened, holding my gaze. “And I’m so sorry.”
“It happened almost three years ago.” My knees trembled. Odd. It was like Natalie brought out the emotion in me, whether I wanted it to be unleashed or not. I braced myself against the nearby dresser. “After she died, I shut people out. Drank myself to oblivion. Left New York City for good and moved down here to get away.”
“That sounds horrible.” Her cool hand touched my arm and she trailed her fingers in gentle swirls up my skin, causing my muscles to relax and my pulse to leap. “I’ve never lost anyone like that. I can’t imagine.”
“I drew in a deep breath. “But lately, I’m starting to live again. Things have…changed. For the better.”
She nodded and rubbed on my shoulder for a moment. I got chill bumps, and all thoughts of Faye faded from my mind. Instead, I got the most outrageous urge to yank Natalie into my arms and claim her with my mouth.
But she had other ideas.
“Okay, Luke Rothschild.” Natalie placed the dresses in the closet, then she glanced back at me. “You’re on. You’ve got a deal.”
About forty-five minutes later, Natalie clattered down the stairs in a pair of black, high-heeled sandals and the backless, blue-lace cocktail dress from P
rada. I met her at the foot of the staircase; I also had changed into a pair of black dress pants, white dress shirt, and skinny black tie.
“You look breathtaking,” I said, and I meant it. The fabric hugged the lines of her body and accentuated her lithe frame. “You are breathtaking.”
She smiled; the red lipstick she wore made her teeth seem whiter and brighter. “You don’t have to say things like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re going to have every man’s eyes on you tonight.” I leaned closer and breathed in her floral perfume. “And I know what I like when I see it.”
Her eyes widened, and I knew I’d knocked her off balance. Perfect. I had the upper hand, just the way I liked it. And, if she’d let me, I planned to keep it that way.
George, my house manager, had cleaned the BMW sedan that afternoon when I returned from the yoga class, so I decided we’d take that car to the reception. I pulled it out of the garage, then helped her in the passenger seat.
“So, you don’t always drive the McLaren,” Natalie said as I threw the car into reverse and backed down the short driveway.
“Nope. I’m not one of those assholes who always has to show off the exclusive sports car he drives.” I laughed under my breath. “At least, not all of the time.”
“Just on special occasions, right?”
“Exactly. The kind of special occasions that cause beautiful women to almost crash into the hood of it.”
“Well, in that case, I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.”
I thought for a moment about telling Natalie why I’d bought the $250 thousand McLaren—that I did it at my lowest point, in the middle of my darkest hours. After Faye died, I’d lived in a fog, alive on the outside and dead on the inside. Nothing had mattered—and it was strange.
So, I started drinking. And buying expensive toys. About a week after I relocated permanently from New York to South Florida, I walked into the McLaren dealership and wrote a check for the full amount of the car. The sales manager had been floored; even in Palm Beach, people rarely paid cash for cars costing hundreds of thousands of dollars. It had been my most extravagant impulse buy during the worst year of my life.
But I wasn’t sure Natalie would understand something like that. She drove a Hyundai, worried about every penny she spent, and had student loans to pay. I’d probably sound like a jerkoff to her.
“We don’t have to stay long at this reception,” I said instead. “It all depends on you.”
The event took place in the back room of Nicolao’s, a restaurant and bar about a five-minute drive from my place. We could have walked there, but it didn’t work that way in Palm Beach. People wanted to make an entrance, and everything about receptions like this one had to be orchestrated. Nothing could be out of place. True, Palm Beachers wanted their cars, money, access, and designer clothing to be seen, especially by people they didn’t know. It had always been that way, and it would never change.
I’d been playing this game on and off for five years; I knew it well. Some might even say I’d mastered it.
I parked the BMW in an open parking spot across from the restaurant, helped Natalie out of the car, and escorted her across the street. The restaurant sat at the end of a long row of shops and storefronts. I nodded at a few of the immaculately dressed patrons eating dinner on the semi-covered patio, and waved at a few others.
When we reached the hostess stand, my palm grazed the small of Natalie’s muscular back. She didn’t pull away. I liked that; I wanted more of it.
And I planned to get it.
Soon.
“Right this way, Mr. Rothschild.”
The hostess pivoted on a sky-high, pink heel and led us to the back of the building: a pavilion strewn with a few tables, couches covered in outlandish, printed pillows, a small private bar, a few indoor plants, and strands of white lights overhead. About two dozen people already mingled in the center of the room, and I recognized many of them.
Even more reacted to our entrance as if they knew me—the kind of familiarity that had always come from having the Rothschild last name.
“Showtime,” I muttered. Natalie’s laughter rippled through my hand just before I removed it from her shapely back.
“Luke,” called Maryanne Plunkett, one of Palm Beach’s resident socialites, “so wonderful to see you tonight.” She glided toward the two of us and I leaned down to kiss both of her tight cheeks, ones that didn’t match her seventy-five years of age. Maryanne had very good doctors, of course, and like many women in Palm Beach, she paid for it. Or rather, her husband paid for it. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Thank you for having us.”
She placed her manicured fingers on my arm, and I smelled a familiar whiff of Shalimar perfume. The scent reminded me of my own grandmother, a straight-laced woman who’d started the family’s Palm Beach tradition by insisting on a vacation on the island at least once a year. “We couldn’t have this event without you. You know that.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not.” Maryanne grinned before she glanced at Natalie. “And who’s this?”
“May I present Miss Natalie Johnson?” I turned to my date, who extended her own hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Natalie said as she greeted Maryanne. “What a wonderful evening for a party.”
“Of course, darling.” Maryanne dropped Natalie’s hand and visibly sized her up. “And are you down for the season?”
Natalie suppressed a grin. “I… No, ma’am, I live here year-round.”
“On the island? I’m surprised we’ve never met.”
I cleared my throat, knowing where this conversation would head. Natalie had about ten seconds to make an impression with Maryanne, and she’d need my help to do it. “Natalie helps run a successful yoga studio in West Palm. Has quite a following, actually.”
“Yoga? Oh, really?” Maryanne’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been meaning to get back into that. My doctor says it will be good for my overall health. Do you have Pilates, as well? I love Pilates.”
“Not yet, but we’ll be adding that soon.”
Maryanne cocked her head. “A shame you’re over the bridge, though. I simply hate venturing over there.”
“You should try it sometime.” I put my hand on Natalie’s back once more and felt her lean into it. “You might like what you find. I sure did.”
Natalie chuckled to herself. “Luke’s a new student at our studio.” She jerked her head in my direction. “He’s relearning…downward dog.”
“That I am,” I said, no longer caring about Maryanne Plunkett and her too-tight facelift. “And I’m lucky to have such an excellent teacher.”
As if on cue, a server in a white dress shirt breezed by the three of us with a tray of champagne flutes. I grabbed two and handed them to the ladies before taking one for myself. “To another fantastic evening in paradise,” I said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” they repeated, before taking long sips. When they finished, we had the out we needed. Maryanne’s attention turned to someone who had arrived after us, and she excused herself, so she could greet them, as well.
I leaned down and put my mouth near Natalie’s earlobe. “Good work. You passed the first test.”
“Test? I wasn’t aware this was an exam.”
“In Palm Beach, everything always is.”
“Meaning?”
“The people at a party like this always want anyone they meet to seem interesting, like decorative potted plants. They insist that newcomers ‘enhance’ the flow.” I let my attention drop to the swell of breasts I saw peeking out from the neckline of Natalie’s cocktail dress. “I’d say you did that very well.” I lifted my gaze again and tightened my arm around her waist. “So, congratulations.”
Man, I was coming on thick…
“Thank you,” she said, but I still saw her hesitate.
“Don’t believe it?” I swallowed the rest of the champagne and placed the empty glass on t
he nearby bar. “Maryanne Plunkett is one of those ladies you’ll see everywhere when—if—you start spending time over here. If she likes you, you’re in,” I said in a lowered voice.
“In where?”
“All of the parties. The private receptions. Society.”
“And you go along with that?”
“Along with what?”
“This? All this tete-a-tete? That kind of decorum?”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s just how things work. It’s tradition. And if you don’t know the rules, you can’t win.”
“You like to win, don’t you?”
“When I can.” I cocked my head. “And especially when it’s something that I want.”
We lived in different worlds. No question about it. No matter what, that would never change. But I also found his world fascinating.
Luke Rothschild had more money than anyone I’d ever met, and just the way people looked at him that night told me that he also had a lot of power, the kind that didn’t come overnight. All the partygoers seemed to defer to him, and more than one appeared focused on making sure he acknowledged them over the passing around of plates full of canapés, smoked salmon, and miniature quiches. Systematically, he worked the room, too, and we posed more than once for photographers who told me they worked for various society publications.
I got the feeling that Luke Rothschild liked the life he led and the status he held. No, not just that. He was comfortable with it.
“Did you have a good time?” Luke asked as he drove us back to his house.
“I did. Delicious smoked salmon.”
“Nicolao’s does that very well. You should try their guacamole, too. Excellent.”
I chuckled. “You have a thing for guacamole, don’t you?”
“A thing?”
“It’s the second time you’ve brought up guacamole to me. You also said you liked the one they have at Rocco’s Tacos.”
Luke blinked at me. “I did?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m—what can I say? I like it.” He snapped his fingers. “Consider me a guacamole connoisseur.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
