All three Finnemore boys were happily licking generous ice cream cones as they marched behind Jacqui in an orderly fashion. Logan and Jackson were quietly discussing the merits of last night’s Hannity & Colmes debate, while Wyatt was devouring as much ice cream as possible while making sure not to spill any on his stubby little chin. She smiled, feeling a bit like Julie Andrews’s Maria in The Sound of Music, the well-loved nanny with her rosy-cheeked, happy troop. Of course, Maria never wore sexy white Stella McCartney jumpers like the one she had on. But then again, Maria was a nun.
Jacqui stopped to look at a Calypso display in one of the cottage windows, admiring a handwoven leather belt. Without her having to tell them to, the boys immediately stopped behind her, waiting patiently.
Just as she had predicted, the kids were an easy bunch to manage. Their first week had been hassle- and trouble-free, with nary a tantrum or a toy thrown. In fact, the little boys were so serious Jacqui hoped to shake them up a bit. Violet was so studious she hardly ever went outside. Even the baby never cried. Well behaved was one thing, but these kids were so calm they were practically Stepford. Jacqui, trying to squeeze some fun into the kids’ challenging schedule, had brought them to the ice cream counter as a treat, and they’d looked almost bewildered when she told them they could get anything they wanted.
Jacqui leaned in toward the show window, shading her eyes with her hand to block the reflection off the well-polished glass. The store had some beautiful things, and she immediately missed being able to buy what she wanted without worrying how much it cost. Payday was a few weeks off, and Jacqui knew exactly how she wanted to spend it: in their short jaunt, she’d made a mental note of the floaty sundresses at Tracy Feith, the newest thong sandals at Scoop, and a wallet-busting crocodile bag from Georgina.
Jacqui sighed. Those were things she wanted, all right, but she knew she wouldn’t buy them. Suzy was paying her handsomely, and Jacqui intended to save every penny of it just to be safe. She’d had the rug pulled out from her once already this summer, and she wanted to have backup plans for her backup plans.
“I’m dripping,” Wyatt whined, startling Jacqui from her reverie. “I tried to stop it from melting, but I couldn’t.”
“Oh no, sweetie.” Jacqui bent down to help dab the front of his shirt, which was covered with sticky ice cream residue.
They had run out of napkins a few blocks back, so Jacqui rifled in her handbag for suitable alternatives. She came across the invite to Eliza’s store opening that night—Eliza probably wouldn’t be too happy to find out her invite was being used to wipe a five-year-old’s face, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Jacqui squatted down and began to gently wipe off Wyatt’s face with the soft paper, crouching so low that the short-shorts on her jumper rode even farther up her thighs, and bending so far forward that she was dangerously close to revealing to the world that she was not wearing a bra underneath her eyelet top. She was almost done cleaning him when she heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.
Jacqui jumped at the sound, teetering on her wooden Chloé wedges. Meu Deus! Was it the paparazzi again? But what would they want with her? She’d been keeping a low profile ever since Eliza’s impromptu beach fashion show last summer. The camera continued to click and Jacqui rolled her eyes. Seriously, what did it take to be left alone these days?
She straightened, whipping her head around, about to unleash a smart retort—until she noticed who was behind the lens.
A lanky guy with shaggy, light brown hair and deep blue eyes stood on the sidewalk, squinting into his camera. He was dressed in a pair of worn cargos and a thin, faded All-Blacks T-shirt. “Hello, love, just hold that, will you? Brilliant! Now if you could just turn this way . . .” He motioned with a hand, still looking through the viewfinder.
Jacqui bristled. Who did he think he was? She was minding her own business, taking care of the kids in broad daylight on Main Street. She could tell from his accent he was Australian—she’d watched enough Crocodile Hunter with the Perry kids to be able to differentiate a Brit from an Aussie—and maybe things were done differently Down Under. Still, she certainly didn’t need to add paparazzi to her list of things to deal with.
“Right there, perfect,” the photographer said, just as Logan pulled on the hem of her jumper.
Jacqui looked down at the owlish little boy, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Yes, sweetie?”
“Why is that man bothering you?” he asked. “Doesn’t he know about privacy law?”
Jacqui couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across her face. “I don’t know. Why don’t we ask him?” She finished wiping Wyatt’s face and gave him his ice cream cone back.
“Am I bothering you? I’m so sorry.” The photographer smiled and his whole face lit up. He held the lens up to his eye again. “Could you hold that pose, please? Perfect, thanks. And maybe turn your chin down just a bit?”
Jacqui found her chin moving down automatically, her eyes locking with the camera’s lens. Dozens of photographers in Manhattan had told her she was made for the camera, and the way her body seemed to respond to his directions naturally, almost against her will, she began to wonder if it were true.
“Jacqui . . . ,” Jackson whined from behind her, his voice breaking the spell of the camera’s flash. “I dropped my ice cream.” She turned to face him. The little boy was dangerously close to tears, pointing to where his ice cream cone rested upside down on the sidewalk. “It was my fault—I was trying to count how many diamonds there were in the waffle cone and it fell,” he added miserably, staring at the drippy pink mess. Jacqui hurried to his side, bending to give him a big hug.
“No worries, mate, we’ll get you another.” An even deeper voice startled her.
Jacqui and the kids looked up to see another man, identical to the first photographer except with even shaggier hair, so long that it licked the edge of his shirt collar but artfully tousled. He wore a rare vintage concert tee and his cargos were the seven-hundred-dollar designer kind—as she crouched down, the Maharishi logo was just at Jacqui’s eye level. He winked at her and she felt a thrill zigzag up her spine.
“Don’t mind my brother,” he said, nodding at the first photographer. “Atrocious manners. Thinks he can just start taking photos of any girl off the street without asking permission.” He shook his head in mock frustration, his shaggy locks bouncing adorably back and forth. “Let me introduce us. That’s Midas there and I’m Marcus.” He held out a hand. “We’re the Easton boys. At your service, mum.”
Midas waved from behind the camera. “Hello there!”
“Jacarei Velasco.” She stood, extending a hand. Instead of shaking it, Marcus leaned forward and kissed it. She smiled. “But you can call me Jacqui.”
“But why should I when Jacarei is such a pretty name?” Marcus’s eyes twinkled. “You’re from Brazil then, yes?”
Jacqui nodded, surprised. She straightened the hem of her jumper, hoping it hadn’t ridden too high. “You know Brazil?”
“We were just there last month, shooting in Praia da Baía do Sancho.” He nodded, naming one of the country’s most beautiful and remote beaches. “We had to hike a few miles on foot to get there and helicopter in the models. But it was worth it.”
She couldn’t help but grin. Whenever she met anyone who had been to her country, it was usually only for Carnaval in Rio. It was refreshing to meet someone who understood that there was more to Brazil than women in feather bikinis dancing the conga.
Midas resumed his monologue as he continued to snap away with his camera. “Yes, those eyes, very good. Very Linda. And my God, those legs. Haven’t seen a pair like that since Karolina. And that hair rivals Gisele’s.”
“Where were we?” Marcus frowned, ignoring his brother and studying the kids, who were looking up at him openmouthed. They clearly weren’t quite sure what to make of the two big boys who had so suddenly and noisily interrupted their quiet walk. “I remember, you, sir, had lost your ice cr
eam and need a replacement, yes?” he asked, bending down to tickle Jackson’s chin. “Now, what flavor can we get you?”
“Passion fruit, please,” Jackson said politely.
“Good boy.” Jacqui smiled. The kids had chosen low-fat fruit-flavored ice cream rather than the chocolate variety all on their own. Suzy had taught them well.
Marcus loped off to fetch the cone from the nearby Scoops storefront and returned momentarily, handing it briskly to Jackson with an elaborate bow. “Your wish is my command.”
Jackson reached out for the cone. “You’re silly,” he observed. Marcus responded by stretching his face into a contorted grimace and sticking out his tongue. Jackson giggled and Logan, after a minute, followed suit. Soon, Wyatt was laughing too. It was the first time Jacqui had seen the kids let loose, and she giggled along with them.
“They’re adorable. Yours?” Marcus raised an eyebrow, his sleepy-sexy eyes twinkling.
“Deus! Of course not, I’m only nineteen!” Jacqui laughed. If he wasn’t so adorable, she would have been extremely offended. But she’d always had a soft spot for Australian accents, and his was particularly yummy.
Marcus drew a hand across his brow, pretending to look greatly relieved.
Midas, who was still taking photographs, mumbled, “Perfect. And undiscovered, I can bet on it. But how?” He finally put the camera down and addressed Jacqui directly, wiping the sweat off his brow. “You’re not with any agency, are you?”
Jacqui shook her head. She had been mistaken for a model so often in Manhattan, it was always tempting to lie and say that she was so people would stop bothering her about it already.
Midas fished in his pants pocket for his card and handed it to her. “I’d love to take more photos of you if you’re interested.”
She took the card and put in her pocket, crumpling it with her fingers. She wasn’t sure if she even believed they were real fashion photographers, and besides, she’d heard that line many times before.
“Oh, playing hard to get, are we?” Marcus teased, having noticed the discreet diss. “What my brother is too shy to tell you is that we just arrived here from Sydney to scout locations for a magazine shoot, and you’re just the face we’re looking for.”
Jacqui shook her head again, more firmly this time but with a smile. “You’re both very sweet, but it’s just not for me.” Once upon a time, Jacqui eagerly traded in her looks for anything it could bring—the use of older men’s Black AmEx credit cards, free drinks at a bar, a better table in restaurants. But she was tired of being treated like an empty-headed doll. She wanted to prove to the world that she was a serious girl with serious ambitions—to be known for the size of her brain rather than that of her bust.
“Don’t tell me we’ve found the only girl in the world who doesn’t want to be a model!” Marcus laughed. “You’re going to put Tyra Banks out of business!”
Midas shrugged. “Just think about it,” he said, in a serious, professional manner. He began putting away his camera and nodded, the conversation already over for him. “Let’s go—we told Tonne we’d check out the pond to see if we can use it for the shoot.”
“Hang on a sec,” Marcus said, still eyeing Jacqui. “Sure you’re not interested? We don’t bite, you know.”
Jacqui returned the smile. “I’m not. But if you guys really are fashion photographers, you might want to come by my friend’s party tonight. She’s opening her store.” She dug out the invitation, which was only slightly grimy from having been used as a napkin. “Eliza Thompson. She’s the biggest thing in the Hamptons right now.” Okay, so that might not be true—yet—but it would be soon. She stretched out a hand with the invitation and Marcus took it, his fingers lingering over her own for a brief moment.
“Good on ya.” Marcus nodded as he drew his hand away, smoothly pocketing the invite. “See you there.”
Jacqui watched them saunter down the street until an insistent tug on her hem reminded her that there were other, smaller boys who needed her attention as well.
eliza’s ring only promises misunderstandings
“IT’S SO TIGHT!” MARA EXCLAIMED as Eliza tightened the straps on the white floor-length mermaid gown she’d asked Mara to model at the store-opening party.
“It’s supposed to be tight,” Eliza replied, cinching it so that the dress showed off Mara’s lithe figure to spectacular effect. With its fishtail hem and crisscrossing straps in the back, it was one of her favorite pieces in her collection. “See?” She stepped back and turned Mara toward the mirror.
Mara took in her reflection. She had to admit, the constriction of her breathing might actually be worth it. If there was one thing you could say about Eliza’s designs, it was that they flattered a woman’s figure. She smiled at herself in the mirror, sneaking a glance at Eliza’s beaming face and the messy bedroom behind them.
In typical Eliza fashion, her room at the Finnemore mansion looked like a hurricane had hit it—clothes, papers, and trash were strewn about everywhere. Balled-up designer gowns littered the carpet, along with tangled bikinis, wet beach towels, empty Fiji water bottles, and various fashion magazines. The dresser was covered in cosmetic cases, hairbrushes, and jars of face cream and lotion. Eliza had only lived in the room for a week, and yet it already looked like she’d been there for years. It was a minor miracle that she emerged from her messy room looking immaculately groomed every day.
Mara’s phone vibrated with a text message on the dresser beside her, and she grabbed it while Eliza knelt down to pin the hem on her gown. She flipped up the screen.
VU FRM EIFFEL TWR GR8. BUT NOT SAME W/O U.
David again. He’d e-mailed her from Europe a few days after he’d arrived, explaining that it was hard to get an Internet connection and that his cell phone charged astronomical fees for international calls. But he’d quickly discovered he could send text messages for the usual fee and had taken to texting her multiple times a day to let her know exactly where he was—and, inadvertently, what she was missing.
Like Jacqui, Mara had found the kids to be a breeze, but being back to playing nanny was still quite a letdown after her glorious summer plans had gone awry. Mara had spent the afternoon chauffeuring Violet to her various tutors, baby Cassidy strapped in the backseat, while Jacqui took the boys to their lessons. She had given them both their dinner, and Violet had gone to bed early to get ready for her Mandarin exam the next day, and the baby was already asleep. While nannying the Finnemores wasn’t all that difficult, it also wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.
Mara texted back. PARTY TONIGHT. AM BUSY.
There. That should let him know she was preoccupied with her own glamorous life. Not that it was that much of a stretch—in the long, elegant white gown, she couldn’t help but feel glamorous, and she did have a fun night ahead of her with her friends.
“That should do it,” Eliza said, knotting up the stitch and cutting the thread with her teeth. She brushed lint off her knees and stood up. “Where’s Jacqui?” she asked, glancing at the bedside clock, which was partially obscured by a pair of dangling bra cups. Whoops, maybe when she got a spare moment she should clean up a bit in here. Not that she ever had a spare moment. She was already past due at the store. The caterers should have arrived by now, as well as the army of publicists who were working the event. According to Eliza’s schedule, her staff would be assembling the gift bags right this moment. She’d only waited because she wanted to see how Jacqui looked in the outfit she’d chosen for her.
“She called—she was running late with the boys. Jackson got sick in the car and they had to stop at a gas station, but she’ll be here,” Mara answered, examining her profile in the mirror. The dress was a bit ta-da! and she had been worried about being able to pull it off, but Eliza was right—it did look better tighter.
“I hope she gets here soon. I want to make sure her dress fits perfectly—I’m worried it’s too low in the chest,” Eliza fretted.
“When has that ever been a problem with Jac?�
� Mara laughed. The girl lived in low-cut outfits. “Décolletage is Jacqui’s middle name.”
“I know.” Eliza nodded with a wry smile. “But I want to make sure it looks Mischa Barton sexy, not Jessica Simpson sexy.” She ran a hand nervously through her hair.
“Oh my God. What is that?” Mara shrieked as an enormous diamond ring on Eliza’s hand caught the light.
Eliza wondered what had gotten into Mara until she noticed the rock on her finger. She usually wore it stone-side down to deflect attention since she didn’t know what to make of it yet. She felt more comfortable showing the world she was wearing a plain platinum band, but the ring had turned around when she wasn’t looking, and the five-carat rock was now front and center.
“Is this what I think it is?” Mara said, sticking her face a centimeter away from Eliza’s hand so she could see it better. “When did you get this?” She looked up at Eliza curiously.
“Last Sunday,” Eliza admitted, chewing her bottom lip. She’d been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the news, having not breathed a word to her friends. She pulled away, picking up a powder brush from the vanity and dusting her nose, as if getting a six-figure diamond ring from her boyfriend happened every week. She just didn’t feel like getting into it.
She and Jeremy still hadn’t had a proper conversation about what had happened that day at old lady Greyson’s. Every time she felt like bringing the subject up, she couldn’t find the right words. Asking him exactly what he’d meant by giving her the ring seemed so . . . rude. Especially since Jeremy was being so unbelievably sweet and supportive of her store opening. This week he’d sent her flowers out of the blue and offered to help set up at the party, even though he had a big deadline on one of his jobs. He was acting like something very important had now been settled between them. The problem was, Eliza couldn’t shake off a feeling that felt anything but settled. Did the ring mean what she—and now Mara—thought it meant?
Beach Lane Collection Page 68
