"The tunes are huge!" she could be heard to squeal, turning her back to the camera as live music by Nine Inch Nails rocked the Grand Ballroom of the Beverly Regent Hotel. "Don't you love Trent Reznor? Wait till he whips out his penis!"
Her enthusiasm was genuine enough, but no one else seemed much interested in the rock star's storied "johnson. "
All eyes were riveted on the laser-lit runway. The usual throng of paparazzi were stationed around it, snapping madly at anything that moved. The fiery crackle of their exploding flashbulbs and the machine gun chatter of their camera shutters rose to a crescendo with the appearance of each new model.
Every entrance became a minor media event in itself as the laughing, leggy beauties, dolled up in the latest from Chanel, Donna Karan, and Isaac Mizrahi, strutted their stuff down a luminous ramp that lit up the stately ballroom like a futuristic road to Oz. Supermodels from the New York and Paris scene shared the limelight with movie stars and society mavens, all of them donating their time and their svelteness to WomenPride.
The night's theme was inspirational women, and illuminated posters of historical and modern heroines glowed from the periphery of the room. Even more luminous was the news announced by one of the show's sponsors, super designer Donna Karan herself, when she made her opening bows. "Our first annual WomenPride fashion show is a smash sellout, ladies and gentlemen, " she told them. "The demand for tickets exceeded our expectations by two hundred percent. I'm thrilled to say that people had to be turned away!"
Karan didn't have to announce what everyone already knew. The record numbers who'd flocked to the Beverly Regent were there for more than fashion and philanthropy. They'd come to see the cause célèbre, the WomenPride Foundation's guest of honor.
The crowd was affluent, artsy, and mostly black tie, with the exception of some rather dramatically costumed cross-dressers and a few dedicated grangers. The younger set rocked in their seats to the headbanger music, while their elders tapped their spoons. All waited expectantly, and the show's master of ceremonies, Christine Takamura, a local television anchorwoman, played on their anticipation for all she was worth. When it was time for the honoree's grand entrance, Christine brought the charity fashion show to a dead halt.
"Let's have an old-fashioned drumroll!" she cued the band.
Inspired, the band pounded away, hammering the crowd with drums, cymbals, and everything else they had. The result could have shattered stoneware, much less crystal.
Gus stood in the wings, exhilarated by the fanfare, yet quaking inside. All her life she'd felt like an outsider, loitering at the edges of the playground, waiting for someone to welcome her into the fold and embrace her with open arms. It had never happened, and by now she was realistic enough to know it never would. This was not her world, either. She was not a bona fide member of the fashion elite. They were happy to use her looks and her name as long as both were strong currency, but she wasn't one of them any more than she was a Featherstone.
She was too headstrong for most people, too pretty and privileged for others, and too low-born for her own family. Rarely had anyone bothered to look past the beautiful brat image, but perhaps that was because she'd been afraid to let them, afraid they would discover what she'd always believed to be true about herself—that she wasn't worthy.
She would never have the acceptance she craved, the love.
Somehow she knew that.
But tonight, this seminal night, she would come close. She had been introduced to society at sixteen and to modeling at seventeen, but this was her real debut. Tonight she was more than a beautiful mannequin, gowned and coiffed by the pillars of haute couture. She was a heroine. She had done something meaningful, something the world considered courageous. And because of that they would open their arms to her. Her dreams would be their dreams, made worthwhile because she was worthwhile. Let them withhold their love. She could live without that. But her so-called acts of bravery had ensured that they could not withhold what she wanted from them now, what she must have—their admiration and respect. That was what she needed to finish this quest she'd started. The public's acknowledgment, their allegiance. And she was willing to do anything to get it, even pretend to be an escaped hostage.
"Get out there, " her dresser whispered, tugging at the backless silk and chiffon jumpsuit that had been designed especially for her. "They're waiting for you. "
Gus drew in a breath that seemed to ripple up from the soles of her feet. She closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and released the air through her nostrils in a steamy rush. Her hands were suddenly dripping. Her throat was as parched as when she'd been stranded in the desert.
Please let me pull this off, she thought. Let me give them the new Gus Featherstone, survivor par excellence. A changed woman. Everything depends on my being able to do this. Everything! But she was still quaking and perhaps as frightened as she'd ever been in her adult life. She didn't know how to be anything but the beautiful brat. It was the role that had saved her from letting anyone get close. If you didn't care what people thought of you, you couldn't get hurt. If you defied people to love you, it was no surprise when they didn't.
"Get going!" the dresser hissed, pushing Gus out onto the proscenium.
She fumbled the first step or two, awkward in her delicate silvery sandals and her newfound terror. Had her reception been anything but welcoming, she would have backed off the stage and prayed to vanish in a mortal shudder of humiliation. But thank God for applause and spotlights. Yes, thank God, she thought, squinting into the blinding kliegs.
Almost the instant the latter enveloped her, she was transformed. White hot and radiant, the lights burned through her confusion like a surgical laser, transfusing her with energy. The raucous music, the sudden swell of clapping, seemed to lift and carry her toward the glowing ramp. The charge in the air, the excitement, was her fix of self-esteem.
Her jumpsuit sparkled around her like an iridescent mist, picking up every color of the rainbow from the lights that sheened and gathered like water in its silky folds. The halter-style bodice dropped from her throat to her waist, where it was cut away from the pants in an arc that revealed her slender, golden midriff. She'd lost weight in the desert, but the outfit was designed to cling to her curves. Transparent chiffon shimmering with silvery threads hugged her from full breasts to hips, then flared in palazzo pants that sparkled around her ankles. Adversity breeds champions.
It didn't matter that Gus hadn't embraced that philosophy; the American culture had, and the rapt expressions of the audience, their wide smiles, told her that this crowd believed it fervently. For perhaps the first time in her life, everyone was cheering her on. They wanted her to shine, all of them. She was living proof of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity, and she wasn't that much different from them. If they could believe in her, they could believe in themselves.
Even Trent Reznor was waving something at her, but it wasn't his hand. Gus let out a soft hoot of laughter. She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't. This was fabulous. The beautiful brat would have lifted her chiffon front and flashed her breasts at the rock star. The changed woman merely shot him an encouraging wink and sauntered on by, off to see the wizard.
She was just hitting her stride as she reached the end of the ramp and spun around. The crowd roared with approval when they got a look at the back of her jumpsuit. It was cut down to her "other" dimples and came very close to revealing cleavage that was as creamy as her breasts. The flirty hint of décolletage was accentuated with every graceful swing of her hips, and the effect struck more libidinal sparks than a nudie shot in a men's magazine could have done. It was breathtakingly sexy, not to mention the perfect exposure for a woman who'd won awards for her derriere.
Christine Takamura summoned Gus to the podium. "Come on over here, Gus, and say a few words. Everybody wants to know how you're doing. Don't we, folks?" The response nearly blew the ballroom roof off.
It's going to work, Gus thought. It's going to work. Oh
, God. let it work. Please do.
"Augusta Featherstone was taken hostage by terrorists, " Christine told the audience as Gus joined her. "The world already knows her story, but for those of you who might have been off visiting another planet, this is the woman who defied death by leaping from a freeway overpass to escape the desperate and dangerous men who kidnapped her. "
Scattered laughter erupted in applause. Christine waited for it to subside. "Tonight," she said, "the WomenPride Foundation takes pleasure in giving her special recognition for that amazing feat of bravery. She's a singular example of great courage in the face of grave danger, and because of her extraordinary mettle, spirit, and nerve, the foundation would like to extend to Gus an honorary seat on its board of directors. They would also like to give her this beautiful plaque commemorating her appearance here tonight as guest of honor. "
Gus could hardly see through the teary blur that assaulted her vision. She accepted the gleaming plaque, glancing over the words as she cradled it in her arms. The engraved tribute to her bravery struck home as nothing else had since she began this ordeal. She wanted badly to be worthy of the honor, which made it all the more painful that she wasn't. She was a fraud. She was lying to them, to everyone. This wasn't a prank, though it had sometimes felt like one. It was a deception of monumental proportions.
Her conflicted expression shone back at her from the gold mirror, and her unsteady fingers left marks all over the face of the plaque, smudging her reflection. I had to do this, she rationalized. It's not for me, not entirely. It's for every woman who has ever felt that she wasn't enough. It's for Bridget, who will be a woman soon. It's for Jill, because I couldn't help her when she needed me.
"The mike is all yours, Gus." Christine smiled and stepped back, waving Gus to the podium.
"I don't know how to thank you for this—" Gus's voice was as shaky as her hands, and she prayed she would be able to say what she needed to without stumbling. "I certainly don't deserve it, " she told the crowd, "but if what I did inspires any of you to take a stand of conscience against the victimization of innocent citizens and the use of terror tactics as a means to a political end, then maybe I have contributed something. "
Applause swelled again, but Gus raised her hand. "There's more," she said. "I've personally looked into the charges that workers are being exploited by the Latin American manufacturers who make our products, and the chairman of Featherstone, Inc., assures me that more than half of our products are American-made. " At least that much was true, Gus told herself, and what she was about to say might force some corrective action. "He also assured me that he will vigorously investigate the conditions of the foreign plants we use with an eye to relocating if health and safety standards are not being met."
Someone shouted, "Brava!" and Gus's hand flew to her mouth in surprise. The applause was so passionate, she had to blink madly to stop from crying, and even then she couldn't quite manage it. Tears began to flow, and the thought of breaking down in front of all these people, the cream of her industry, was horrifying to her. She wanted only to escape, but as she moved to leave, she felt Christine's hand, staying her.
"Didn't you have something to announce tonight, Gus?" the anchorwoman asked.
Gus had almost forgotten that she was supposed to announce her engagement to Rob. That was the brainchild of the publicist for this event, but Rob had thought it a perfect way to personalize her fifteen minutes of fame. "A human moment, " he'd called it.
"Oh, yes! I do!" She mopped the dampness from her cheeks with her fingers and laughed, aware that she was hopelessly flustered, which was probably just as well, since it wasn't at all like her. "How could I have forgotten the most important thing in my life? There's someone I want you all to meet—"
Rob was scheduled to enter from the other side of the stage. Gus glanced over and saw him in the wings, lurking in the shadows like the very phantom, himself. She smiled. She'd had a hand in choosing his midnight-blue tux. The rich indigo satin of its shawl collar brought out the blue in his slate-gray eyes.
"I'm a very lucky woman, " she said, turning back to the crowd. "Lucky to be alive, lucky to be free, and lucky to be here. But I'm even more blessed because I have a wonderful man in my life. We've kept our personal relationship under wraps until now because we wanted to be sure it was right."
She felt herself flushing with pleasure. "Well, it is right, and now I'd like you to meet Mr. Right, my future husband." She threw out her hand.
The rock band served up another drumroll, and her fiancé emerged from the wings. As the crowd began to applaud, Gus's smile froze on her face. The man walking toward her across the stage was wearing a midnight-blue tux with a satin shawl collar. But he was not Rob Emory! Recognition sluiced over her like an icy shower as she realized who he was.
She scanned the crowd frantically, looking for some sign of her fiancé and despairing that he wasn't anywhere in sight. Where was Rob? What had happened? Her heart was pounding wildly, but it was too late to call Security. By this time the impostor was halfway across the stage, and the paparazzi were going mad. The fireworks display had begun again, shutters chattering, strobelights flashing.
A diamond glint of malice lit the man's eyes. Gus could see it clearly, even through the blinding lights. She knew exactly who he was, but as he walked up and stood before her, a barely discernible question slipped through her lips. "W-who are you?"
"I'm your future husband, " Jack Culhane informed her. The smile on his face was as dark, as obscenely menacing as his eyes.
Satan, she thought. He is Satan.
Even if Gus could have managed the words to summon help, he wouldn't have let her do it. She wanted to shout at him, to say that this was crazy, that he was outrageous! But she couldn't get any of that out, not even as he took hold of her arms and drew her close to him. She nearly dropped the plaque she was holding.
Suddenly his mouth was so near her ear she could almost taste the crisp, bubbly champagne on his breath. His shampooed hair gave off rich traces of lanolin. At least his grooming had improved, she thought, somewhat hysterically.
"Play along, " he warned. "Or I'll blow this thing wide open. The whole world will know you faked your own kidnapping. "
Gus laughed as if it were all a clever joke, part of the entertainment. What choice did she have but to play along? He was threatening to destroy everything. It was only for the moment, she promised herself. She would find a way out of this as soon as she had time to breathe.
"Introduce me, " he said under his breath. "Tell them my name. "
"Satan?"
"Jack Culhane... tell them how much you want to be Mrs. Culhane. Do it."
Gus did what he demanded, but with great difficulty. Her stammer had returned full force, and she could barely control it. While she struggled to tell the hushed and curious crowd that this was the man she would marry, she scanned the ballroom for her real fiancé. What had he done with Rob? An image flashed through her mind of her fiancé tied up somewhere, naked.
"When's the wedding?" someone called out.
"Tonight, " Jack told them all. "We're flying to Rio de Janeiro. There's a limo outside right now, waiting to take us to the airport. "
That was the first moment Gus realized he was truly serious. He was kidnapping her again, and this time he was doing it on national television. She had to believe that he was bluffing about the rest of it. It was too far-fetched even for him, but the mere announcement was a hideously clever way to wreck her credibility and her plans. The bastard, she thought, as he took her arm and hustled her toward the wings. He had no idea now much damage he'd done with his asinine stunt.
Chapter 12
"Do you tek thes man to be your lawfully wedded hossban?" The young Mexican priest nodded hopefully at Gus and Jack, his eyes so huge and sad and fudgy brown that Gus wanted to say yes just to please him. She flushed the urge as she might have a wad of soiled toilet paper.
"Hell wouldn't take this man, " she enunciated slowly,
making sure he caught her meaning.
The padre consulted the holy book that lay open in his hands, apparently looking for where it said anything about hell in the sacred marriage ceremony.
"She's dying to marry me, " Jack assured him. "Carry on. "
Cold steel nudged Gus's bare backbone, reminding her that she was being married at gunpoint in an ancient Spanish mission somewhere in the wilds of Baja California. Not a shotgun wedding, a handgun wedding. The. 357 Magnum was concealed beneath a coat draped over Jack Culhane's arm, but the weapon was hardly necessary. He had far more effective ammo than bullets. He could ruin her life with a few words, the same words he'd whispered in her ear at the WomanPride Fashion Show.
Doubtless the priest had picked up on her "reluctance. " She was as rigid as one of the plaster saints that adorned the altar behind him, her posture ramrod stiff, her arms clenched about her middle. He couldn't have missed the gun, either, since Jack was doing a conspicuously lousy job of concealing it.
What the man lacked in subtlety, he made up for in sheer, clanking brass balls. The only thing Jack Culhane had been bluffing about was the trip to Brazil. Instead of a limo purring out in front of the Beverly Regent, there'd been a battle-scarred taxi, which had sped them to the Ontario Airport and a creaky Cessna charter. That's when Gus had stubbornly refused to get out of the taxi, and the. 357 Magnum had become part of the scenario.
It was also when she'd realized Jack Culhane would stop at nothing. He'd blackmailed her in front of a television audience of millions, kidnapped her at gunpoint, and then skyjacked her to this isolated outpost on the Baja Peninsula. He'd also slipped her real fiancé a mickey, stolen the designer tux off his back, and left him semi-naked in a stall in a men's room at the Beverly Regent. Culhane was clearly determined—she just didn't know what about. Whenever she demanded an explanation, she got the business end of a gun barrel for her trouble. Safe to say he had a communication problem.
"So..." the priest queried Gus carefully. "Do you take heem? Or don you?"
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