by Nina Lane
She’d been right. Polly looked . . . amazing. They’d cut, shaped, and straightened her hair, so it fell in a thick, shimmering curtain to her shoulders, and added sun-streaked blond highlights. The cosmetologist had beautified her face with subtle colors that brought out the dark brown of her eyes, the angles of her cheekbones, and made her lips look as if she had just been kissed.
And the gown! It hugged her in all the right places, with the V neckline displaying a perfect amount of cleavage. Diamond earrings glittered against her hair, and a gold diamond necklace made her neck look swan-like. Her shoes were satin flats embellished with a crystal (“Manolo, though I don’t trust you to wear heels gracefully,” Julia had remarked), and they complemented the gown perfectly.
Everything about her glowed—her hair, her skin, her eyes, even her French-manicured fingernails.
“Wow,” she finally said.
“To be sure.” Julia smiled, this time actually displaying her perfect teeth.
Polly couldn’t take her eyes off her reflection. This version of Polly Lockhart looked like a princess. A woman who could sail through Paris with self-assurance and not be intimidated by famous chefs or learning a new language.
“My mother would have loved what you did with my hair,” she told Julia. “She was always telling me I should take better care of my hair.”
“Mothers are often right.”
As Polly gazed at herself in the mirror, a weird emotion tightened her throat. She blinked.
“Don’t you dare ruin your mascara.” Julia snapped her fingers at Anna, who hurried over with a tissue and a beaded handbag that matched Polly’s gown.
“Twirl,” Antonio said.
“Twirl?”
He nodded and smiled, making a circling gesture with his forefinger. Polly didn’t think she had ever twirled in her life, but she did then. She stood on her tiptoes and spun in a circle, her gown flaring out like a cloud. She wanted to dance like Cinderella at the ball—all she needed was Prince Charming to guide her. Or Luke Stone.
That strange feeling filled her chest again. She stepped away from the mirror.
“I don’t know how I’m going to drive in this,” she remarked.
Dawna and Enzo chuckled.
“She’s not joking,” Julia told them dryly.
“Why would I be joking?” Polly asked, though she secretly dreaded the thought of driving her old VW van while wearing this. She would be a pearl inside a cranky old oyster.
“My dear, Luke sent a car to take you to the museum,” Julia replied. “I told the driver to pick you up here rather than your apartment.”
“Don’t forget to hold up your gown on the stairs,” Marco advised.
“Have a wonderful time, darling!” Enzo added. “You look magnificent.”
All the assistants cheered and clapped as Polly sashayed to the door, making her feel like she was walking the red carpet. She stopped to thank them before Julia guided her outside to where a sleek, black Bentley town car waited, the driver standing beside the open door.
“Enjoy yourself.” Julia narrowed her eyes and adjusted Polly’s décolletage. “Just try not to destroy the illusion that you’re glamorous and sophisticated. In other words, don’t open your mouth.”
Polly looked up to make a smart retort, only to find Julia watching her with amusement. Very faint, but there nonetheless.
“At the risk of sounding sappy,” Polly said, “thank you.”
“I told you I was good.” Julia tilted her head to the car. “I’ll be there a bit later, so I’ll keep an eye on you. Go.”
Before Polly did something embarrassing, like hug the other woman, she got into the car and settled against the plush leather seats. Through the tinted window, she saw the group of assistants waving as the car pulled away from the curb.
Better be home by midnight. This car will turn back into a VW van, and I’ll be Raggedy Ann again.
Limos and town cars crowded the front of the Fine Arts Museum. Spotlights glowed on the huge banners advertising the opening of the Manet exhibition, and women in glittering evening gowns and men in tuxedos walked up the wide, marble steps to the entrance.
Nervousness tightened Polly’s stomach. She thanked the driver and followed the stream of guests up the stairs. Halfway there, she stopped. Luke stood next to one of the Roman columns lining the front of the classical building.
Wearing a tuxedo that stretched to perfection across his powerful chest and shoulders, his dark hair glowing and the lights casting shadows on his strong features, he was nothing short of beautiful.
Polly’s heart ignited, filling her blood with warmth and quickening excitement.
He’s mine.
She purposely chose to ignore the persistent reminder that there was a deadline to their affair. For tonight at least, Princess Polly would revel in the fact that this particular handsome prince, in all his masculine strength and beauty, was hers.
Carefully holding her skirt, she continued up the steps. Luke scanned the approaching guests. Polly waited in breathless anticipation for the moment when he’d see her, his eyes widening in surprise before filling with heat and love . . .
Well, wait a minute. Let’s not get carried away here.
. . . before filling with heat and admiration . . .
His gaze passed right over her to the parked cars. Polly faltered for a second before realizing that he hadn’t recognized her. A bubble of laughter rose. Well, she had hardly recognized herself in the mirror, so she shouldn’t be surprised.
She climbed the rest of the steps, admiring him all over again. He was everything she adored—buttery almond cream, lemon zest, royal icing. She stopped beside him, her whole being reacting to his nearness, the air charged with energy. A radiant happiness filled her, and she thought she’d never before felt something so powerful, a pull so strong it almost hurt.
Luke turned toward her. He blinked and went very still. Electric silence crackled between them. For an instant, the rest of the world disappeared and it was just the two of them again—kissing at the Troll’s House, rolling candy in the kitchen, making love on his beautiful bed.
“Polly.” He stepped back, disbelief flashing in his eyes.
“From bakery girl to glamor girl,” she said with a smile, spreading her arms out.
He shook his head as he looked her over. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“I know. I hardly recognized myself.”
“How did . . .”
“Aunt Julia got her claws into me,” Polly said, holding up a hand when he frowned. “No, it’s okay. She offered to help me get ready for tonight, and I decided to let her. Designer gowns and exfoliation aren’t exactly in my wheelhouse.”
“What did you do to your hair?”
“Straightened, styled, highlighted. All sorts of fancy things.” Polly gestured to her dress. “And much as it pains me to admit this, Julia does know what she’s doing.”
“I guess so.” He let his gaze rake over her again, lingering on the modest valley of cleavage exposed by the gown’s neckline. “Well. Are you ready to go in?”
“Sure.” She ignored a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t said she looked beautiful, but figured he was worried because they were running late.
He offered her his arm as they entered the great hall, which was filled with linen-draped tablecloths and bouquets of flowers. A string quartet played in a corner of the hall, and several people glided up to greet Luke as they entered.
Though Polly was nervous about being among the bon vivant crowd, especially when Luke excused himself to go speak with another guest, she soon found herself rather enjoying the looks of blatant admiration men tossed in her direction, not to mention the curiosity of the women who’d seen her come in with Luke.
She wandered among the guests, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server. Now that she was here, and looking like this, her nervousness had shifted into excitement over a night of dining, dancing with a certain handsome man, and s
trolling through the museum galleries, gazing at priceless works of art. A month ago, she never would have imagined a night like this.
“Is that an Elie Saab?” An elegant woman who had introduced herself as Gabrielle, one of the museum donors, eyed Polly’s gown.
“Why, yes,” Polly replied, pleased that she knew the answer. “It’s from his spring collection.” She extended her foot to show off her black satin flat. “And Manolos, of course.”
“Of course.” Gabrielle smiled. “I went to his show in Paris last year. Incredible, really. His shoes are works of art.”
Considering they were in the middle of an Impressionist exhibit, Polly hardly thought there was a comparison, but she nodded in agreement anyway.
“Polly, they’re serving hors de oeuvres, if you’d like some.” Luke stopped at her side and extended a hand to Gabrielle. “Hello, Gabrielle. I see you’ve met my lovely Polly.”
“Yes, I was just complimenting her on her gown.”
“I believe Julia was her personal stylist tonight.”
“Ah, Julia is excellent.” Gabrielle nodded, looking Polly over again. “Yes, I can see her handiwork.”
“You can usually find Polly in an apron baking cookies,” Luke continued. “I hope you have a chance to visit her bakery one of these days.”
“Sounds delightful.” Gabrielle sipped her champagne. “What bakery is that?”
“Just a little shop over in Rainsville.” Polly wondered at the tension radiating from Luke.
“She’s working to remodel and upgrade, so she’d appreciate the business,” he added, taking hold of her arm a little too tightly. “Wild Child, off Interstate 5. Excuse us, please, Gabrielle. I wanted to introduce her to a few associates before dinner.”
As they walked away, Polly smothered the urge to ask Luke why he’d found it necessary to comment about her apron-wearing and cookie-baking. After all, he was just stating the facts. She could usually be found baking cookies at Wild Child. But bringing it up now, in the middle of a fancy dinner and art exhibition opening, felt . . . wrong.
She didn’t want it to feel wrong. But she also wanted to enjoy being this beautiful, princess version of herself for one evening without being reminded of her real-life struggles.
“Polly, this is Sam Walker, the head of a new Fair Trade Foundation we’re starting,” Luke said as they stopped beside a tall man whose bow-tie was askew. “Sam, Polly owns a bakery over in Rainsville. She’s also taking culinary classes at Hartford Community College.”
Polly forced a smile and extended her hand. She shouldn’t be ashamed of attending community college any more than she should be ashamed of owning Wild Child. But as the evening continued and Luke kept bringing it up, along with the fact that Julia was responsible for her “appearance,” she felt like little pins were poking into her perfect, fluffy soufflé of happiness.
After excusing himself, Luke left her side to join a group of men clustered around the bar. She sighed. When could she leave?
“You must be Polly.” An older woman approached, her gaze sliding over Polly’s figure. “I hear you’re Luke’s new little project.”
“Actually, I’m his hot little sidepiece, but I suppose it’s just a matter of semantics, isn’t it?” The retort flew out of Polly’s mouth before she could stop it.
The woman widened her eyes just as an elegant laugh sounded from nearby. They both turned to see Julia Bennett approaching, looking magnificent in a gold dress that skimmed her slender figure like water.
“Semantics, indeed.” She eyed the older woman narrowly. “And really, Barb, you mustn’t be catty simply because Luke decided your daughter was far too desperate and clingy for his tastes. Or any man’s, I imagine. Is Cindy at home in front of the TV tonight, wearing sweatpants and eating ice cream?”
The woman pressed her lips together tightly, then gave a little huff and walked away. Polly tried to deflect her vindictive pleasure—meanness had never made her feel good—but it was hard to deny the satisfaction of being on the winning side of a well-deserved cut.
“Well.” Julia looked Polly over, as if assessing that her handiwork was still in place. “At least everyone is talking about you. Just don’t spill anything on your dress during dinner.”
“I’m twenty-three, not three,” Polly muttered.
Julia arched an eyebrow. “You’re twenty-three?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me,” Julia replied. “It’s just that Luke’s women tend to be closer to his age. Shared interests and all.”
“He didn’t seem to mind when . . .” he was fucking me from behind in a tent “ . . . we were dancing at the Codswallop Music Festival.”
Julia blinked. “You took him to Codswallop?”
“You know about Codswallop?”
“My dear . . .” Julia’s lovely mouth curved into a smile as she leaned toward Polly and lowered her voice. “I lost my virginity at Codswallop.”
She turned and walked away, her stride like that of a runway model. Vaguely impressed, Polly watched her go. She had the odd thought that her mother might have liked Julia Bennett. Or at least said something like, “There’s a woman with some stories to tell.”
Polly shifted her gaze from Julia to Luke, who was standing near the exhibition entrance. The tall, statuesque redhead beside him was so close her breasts pressed against his arm.
Jealousy flickered in Polly, like a splash of bitter absinthe. She had a sudden flashback to that night at the Troll’s House when another redhead had made a move on Luke.
“I don’t remember any redhead,” he’d told her. “I only remember you.”
He caught her gaze, then said something to the redhead before approaching Polly.
“I hope Julia isn’t upsetting you.” His voice was toneless, his expression remote.
“No.” But you sort of are.
“Dinner will be served in a few minutes.” He guided her to a table and pulled out a chair for her. “I also hope she didn’t charge you too much.”
“She didn’t charge me anything.”
“Really?” He sat down beside her, his dark eyebrows lifting. “I’ve never heard of Julia not charging for her services.”
“Well, you have now.” Polly injected a light note into her voice. “I guess she thought I was enough of a challenge to make it worth her while.”
Luke shrugged and reached for his wineglass. Polly turned her attention to the salad course. Her happiness continued to deflate slowly, sinking to the floor right alongside her heart.
She got through dinner by making conversation with the woman seated on her other side, though she was acutely conscious of Luke’s deep voice beside her as he talked to another man about increasing European markets.
“I’m going to Switzerland on Monday to look over the new R&D facility we’re building,” Luke said. “We’re looking to tap into the European market growth in gum products.”
Polly glanced at him. When had he planned to tell her he was going to Switzerland?
“Where are you building the center?” the other man asked.
“Bern,” Luke said. “The executive team will liaison with our Philadelphia facility.”
Polly thought briefly about butting into the conversation with a comment about her new recipe for snickerdoodles. “With two cookies sold yesterday, profits are up by eight percent, so taking into account food costs and the average profit margin . . .”
The silk-and-lace corset she wore under her gown was starting to feel tight. She shook her head as the server offered her a slice of chocolate mousse cake for dessert.
Evan sat at another table, looking solicitously polite as the two women on either side of him pressed close in a clear competition for his attention. He caught Polly’s eye and gave her a faintly resigned smile that indicated he wasn’t enjoying the evening any more than she was.
“Do you need to be home early?” Luke asked, also declining the dessert.
“Not necessarily,” Polly said
. “Why?”
“I thought you might need to open the bakery tomorrow morning.”
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I need to be home early.” She forced her voice to sound casual. “You didn’t tell me you were going to Switzerland.”
“Didn’t I?” He pushed back his cuff to glance at his watch. “I must have forgotten.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A few weeks. I’ll have to check the exact dates with Kate.”
Polly took a sip of wine, glad they had come in separate cars. Even though the dancing hadn’t started yet, she already wanted to go home. She even had a flash of envy toward Cindy, sitting at home with her TV, sweatpants, and ice cream.
The guests began winding down dessert and coffee, turning to the bar for after-dinner drinks. Polly decided to visit the Impressionist exhibition before calling the town car driver and letting him know she was ready to leave.
She picked up her handbag and left Luke, who was deep in conversation about stock options with another man. In the main galleries of the museum, the Impressionist paintings glowed like lighted windows—water lilies, haystacks, railroads, cathedrals, boating parties.
She stopped in front of a Manet painting called The Railway. A woman with long, red hair and a blue coat sat in front of an iron fence, the steam and smoke of the railroad billowing in the air.
A little girl stood next to the woman, wearing a white dress tied with a shiny blue bow. The girl’s back was to the viewer, and she was gripping the fence as she looked at the passing trains. Like she wished she could climb aboard one of them and ride . . . somewhere.
“Did you notice the puppy?”
Polly turned at the sound of the male voice. Warren Stone approached her, handsome and regal in his tuxedo. She couldn’t help thinking that Luke would probably look like his father one day—his dark hair streaked with silver, his strong features creased with lines that made him look distinguished rather than old.
“The puppy?” she said.
Warren stopped beside her and looked at the painting. He gestured to the sleeping puppy lying in the woman’s lap.
