Fanfare (19 page)

“See what?” I asked.

“Why he thinks you’re so beautiful.”

J.D.’s grin was enormous as he led me to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall at the end of the room.

I looked at my reflection and felt my knees begin to shake under the layers of silk and organza. With each tremor, the dress rippled elegantly as though the fabric were made from the waters of the Caribbean. My mahogany hair was piled onto my head in a manner that accentuated the line of my neck and highlighted my tanned collarbone. The earrings flashed with wild abandon at the slightest movement.

I saw the door to the room open as Tom breezed in looking sinfully handsome in a tuxedo and a thin black necktie. When he saw me, he stopped short and stared at my reflection. His eyes roved carefully from the floor to my face as he took everything in with the discerned eye of an artist. A flush crept into my skin at the appreciative smile that spread onto his aristocratic visage and made the corners of his eyes crinkle in an absurdly cute way.

“Absolutely breathtaking,” he murmured into the silence.

“I’m forced to agree,” Esteban said.

“Honey, you look perfect,” J.D. crowed.

I turned to face Tom. He moved forward and took my hand.

“Let’s go,” he said with a half-smile.

He held my hand as I gingerly walked down the stairs and outside to an idling stretch limousine.

I stopped momentarily to narrow my eyes at Tom before I stepped into the limo.

“If you didn’t look so annoyingly sexy in that tux, I would definitely refuse to get in until you told me where we were going. There’s something about a man in a tux—I think it makes me stupid,” I announced as I settled into my seat.

He grinned. “You look really beautiful. Honestly, I always think you look great, but that color is stunning on you.”

“I heard you picked it out, so you should really congratulate yourself. By the way, remind me to yell at you later for spending so much money on these earrings. I’ve never seen jewelry like this up close, let alone owned anything like it. Thank you.” I leaned forward to kiss him with careful remembrance of the painstaking efforts needed to make me look like a princess. Esteban would kill me if I messed up my makeup.

“I’m afraid to touch you,” Tom joked as he nuzzled my nose with his and chuckled under his breath.

“You’d better not. I might start melting like the Wicked Witch of the West . . . and Esteban will have words for you later.”

“To be sure.” He toyed with the bangles on my arm in a nervous fashion that heightened my suspicions.

“So, are we going to prom? If so, I don’t have a boutonniere for you.”

“No, we’re not going to prom,” he answered carefully.

“I hope we didn’t get this dressed up for takeout!” I was pushing him, but my curiosity was nearly at its breaking point.

“Not exactly . . . although we probably will need to eat again later,” he mused.

“Please, just tell me where we’re going!”

“Give me five more minutes, and I’ll tell you. I promise.”

The minutes ticked slowly by as the limousine made its careful progression down the streets of L.A. The limo slowed as it encountered what I believed to be traffic congestion ahead, and we inched towards the far right lane.

“So . . . I’m taking you to a party,” Tom stated plainly.

I took that in for a moment. “What kind of party?”

“The kind I have to go to. I really don’t have a choice. I considered skiving the entire thing, but Melissa would kill me if I didn’t go.”

“Is the host a friend of hers?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

The limo stopped by the sidewalk, and Tom moved towards the door.

“Whose party is this?” I demanded quickly.

The car door swung open . . .

. . . and camera bulbs flashed maniacally.

“Vogue.”

Tom stepped out of the limo, and a general uproar sounded as the masses struggled to get a glimpse and a picture of my movie star boyfriend.

“Thomas! Thomas! Look here!” The shouting fervor grew in pitch.

He reached back into the limo with his hand outstretched for me.

I was frozen in horror.

“I . . . I can’t,” I stammered.

“Kill me later. You look beautiful.”

I took his hand, and he grasped it tightly in his as he directed me onto the red carpet and into a sea of flashing bulbs. The waiting vultures clamored over one another to see me. I wanted to shrink back into the shadowy depths of the limo, but Tom held tightly onto my hand and smiled at them forcefully. Even though he appeared a great deal more comfortable than I felt, I still detected a trace amount of awkwardness in his stance and attitude. He looked the part but still didn’t fit in.

“Who is she, Thomas?” A photographer yelled as the cameras flashed with even more vigor. The media started to digest the fact that Thomas Abramson brought a date.

“Who are you? Are you dating each other? Is that your girlfriend? What about Jenna? Thomas!” Variations of these statements rang out around us as we made our way down the red carpet. Movie crews followed our movements watchfully. Movie cameras? Oh God! I could feel my knees shake even more tremulously from underneath my Marchesa dress.

Before I collapsed into a heap of pitiful shock on the ground, I did a quick mental pep talk.

Cristina, pull yourself together. They’re just taking pictures. If you think it’s bad now, imagine how crappy you’ll feel when you see photos of yourself looking like a stunned ferret in a dress that probably costs more than you make in a month. Throw your shoulders back, stand proud, and smile at these morons like your life depends on it.

I tightened my calf muscles to control the shaking in my legs, took a deep breath, and lifted my chin to stare like an automaton in whatever direction Tom faced. He squeezed my hand again he pulled me down the seemingly endless stretch of red that led to the party’s entrance.

A blitz of photographers captured every movement we made. Tom stopped to pause for a moment and put his arm around my waist as though he wanted to confirm their every suspicion. To take it a step further, he leaned in and planted a very deliberate kiss on my cheek. Flashes flickered responsively with blinding effect. I smiled like an idiot so I wouldn’t lose my shit in front of a press army waiting to document my every faux pas with gleeful pleasure.

“What’s your name, mamacita?” a particularly smarmy looking gringo shouted above the din. I narrowed my eyes a bit but forced myself not to react to the new onslaught of attention his outburst directed at me.

Blessedly, we managed to arrive at the party’s entrance in one piece.

Or maybe not. Melissa Nash stood at the door with a glare of hatred that made me lose hold of my tenuous grasp on confidence, especially considering my slaphappy introduction into the world of celebrity. Tom was a dead man.

As soon as we made it through the front door, Melissa leaned into us and demanded in a harsh whisper, “What are you doing, Thomas?”

“I’m at the Vogue party, like you asked,” he said nonchalantly. His eyes tightened minutely in response to her accusatory tone.

“I thought we talked about this . . . situation.”

“You talked. I listened. I’d rather not try to hide my girlfriend anymore,” he stated firmly.

She exhaled in a protracted huff. “We’ll talk about this nightmare later.”

Great . . . she thought I was a nightmare. Excellent.

I proceeded to follow Tom around the party like an idiot with only one friend in the world for most of the evening. Unfortunately, my “one friend” was in a hell of a lot of trouble once we returned to his apartment. I was completely out of place amidst the panoply of couture and diamonds. The glitterati mingled and praised one another for their respective awesomeness. It felt as though they all knew I was merely playing dress-up, like the infamous scene in My Fair Lady where Eliza goes to the horse races decked out in her finest but couldn’t escape the glaring truth of her humble origins. Hey, at least Eliza knew what she was getting herself into prior to showing up.

To make matters worse, Melissa continually snatched Tom away to speak with this producer or that director, and he tried to forcibly drag me with him so I wouldn’t be left alone.

“It’s okay, Tom,” I insisted when Melissa shot me a particularly hate-filled look about two hours into the party.

“No. Just come with me,” he insisted as he raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture I associated with frustration.

“I’m fine. Go do your thing. Network. I’ll wait right here.”

I stood by the table next to rows of Veuve Cliquot and distractedly observed the crowd while trying to quash my growing feelings of hurt at being placed unwittingly into an incredibly stressful situation.

In my periphery, I saw a slender woman with dark hair move to stand a few feet from me.

“J’ai faim. Pourquoi les Américains n’ont-ils pas de nourriture à une fête?” she exclaimed to herself under her breath.

“Je ne sais pas, mais j’ai faim aussi,” I responded automatically.

She turned to me in surprise, and I stared back at her, dumbfounded. She was my favorite French actress!

“Uh . . . uh . . .” I began in a panic.

“You speak French?” she asked with a smile.

“Ye-yes,” I stammered back at her.

“You don’t look French.”

“I’m not. I majored in French. I’m originally from Puerto Rico,” I blurted out awkwardly.

“Do you work for one of the studios?” she asked in rapid French.

I rotated my shoulders to release the tension before I responded in her native tongue. “No, I’m actually here with a . . . friend.”

“A friend? I think you must mean your boyfriend,” she said with a teasing smirk.

I grinned back at her. “Peut-être.” If I don’t kill him later.

“Your dress is marvelous. I saw it on the runway in Milan not long ago. That color is a bit too much for my skin, but it looks lovely on you,” she stated.

“Thank you! I hate to sound like a silly fan, but you’re an amazing actress. La Môme Piaf is one of my favorite performers, and I thought you did a beautiful job portraying her.” I tried not to gush too overtly as I spoke.

“Thank you so much.”

We continued speaking animatedly to one another, and soon the conversation slipped into casual comfort. She was so charming and witty I almost forgot who she was and where we were. The minutes passed much quicker in her sharp-tongued company, and I was grateful to have someone to talk to. Before I realized I had been monopolizing her time, a gentleman I didn’t recognize came over to speak with her.

“It was so nice to meet you, Cris,” she remarked as she leaned in to kiss both of my cheeks fondly.

“Thanks! It was great meeting you, too!” I just stood there like a star-struck idiot while she danced into a circle of elegantly attired people nearby.

I still grinned foolishly to myself when Tom approached me with an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m so sorry. I had no idea I would be gone that long, but from the looks of it, you didn’t seem to notice. I knew you’d have a good time. Have I been replaced with someone richer and better looking? Is it Brad Pitt or Zac Efron?” he joked.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“That mad? I promise to let you thrash me later, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you home alone while I came to this thing. I’m a selfish ass. I hope you forgive me,” he stated in a blithe manner that led me to believe he was significantly less sorry for this transgression than he should be . . . would be.

I sighed quietly.

“Do you want to go?” he asked. “We don’t have to stay much longer.”

“Do what you need to do, Thomas. Melissa already hates me enough,” I bit back grimly.

He furrowed his brow in concern. “You’re really mad, aren’t you?” It was a statement, not a question.

“We don’t need to talk about this here. Please. It can wait. I don’t want to be the cause of any more problems. Handle your business properly, and then we can go.”

He exhaled through his nose with grim acceptance and proceeded to take hold of my hand purposefully.

“I won’t leave you alone again. I promise,” he muttered.

Half an hour later, we returned to the sanctuary of the limousine. He pressed my palm to his lips as the driver pulled into traffic to take us back to Tom’s apartment.

“That’s not going to save you.”

He chuckled darkly. “I’m starting to believe you.”

Chapter Fourteen

In complete silence, we rode the elevator to Tom’s floor and walked into the apartment. I slipped carefully out of my shoes and marched to the bathroom to remove the pins that had poked my scalp all evening. He stood in the doorway and watched me as he loosened the tie around his neck and unfastened the top few buttons on his white shirt. He sighed loudly as he tugged both hands through his hair in irritation.

“Cristina, I didn’t do this because I wanted to piss you off,” he began lamely.

I spun around to glare at his handsome face, brushed past him, and proceeded towards the kitchen to get a drink of water. He followed.

“Please, talk to me.”

“Tom, if you didn’t do this to piss me off, then please explain to me why you did this?”

He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to leave you alone here.”

“I wouldn’t have minded . . . and your argument about forgetting to tell me to bring something to wear is really the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve heard in a while. You went to a lot of trouble to find a gorgeous dress for me, and I’m assuming you didn’t just stop by the nearest jeweler and magically find earrings that matched it perfectly.”

He waited patiently for me to continue.

“You obviously went through a lot to make sure I would go to this party with you. It would have been easier for you to tell me ahead of time and give me the choice of whether or not I wanted to go.”

“You would have said no,” he interrupted.

“Of course! You didn’t even want to go to this party! What makes you think I would want to go?”

“I really wanted you to go,” he said simply.

“So, you thought that the solution was to take away my choice? Normally, I don’t mind too much when you negate the importance of my opinion by just asking that I go along with whatever you’ve planned. Tonight, you took it too far.”