My Front Page Scandal (8 page)

Sherry toyed with an earring, catching one of her acrylic nails. She pulled it free. “What about you, Brooke? When are you taking a club dare?”

Brooke threw up a defensive hand. “Don’t expect me to volunteer. I’m not into that part of it.”

“Yeah-h-h.” The word said a lot, especially when Sherry’s gaze flicked over Brooke’s shapeless sweater and mannish trousers.

Her face got warm. “I only stopped by to talk to Lindsay. I’m not sticking around.” Brooke wasn’t sure why she’d stayed, except that she hadn’t gotten what she wanted from Lindsay. Shouldn’t she have urged Brooke to follow her wildest impulses? Given her permission, in effect?

Lindsay was too smart for that, darn it. She’d gone and left it up to Brooke.

The light bulb went on. But of course. There was a way for her to get what she really wanted without being fully responsible for choosing it. Which was a wimpy way to go—and totally against the club’s objectives—but she wasn’t going to examine that right now.

Brooke glanced at Sherry, who was pouting her glossy lips toward her back-up man plan—two guys in soccer jerseys. “Maybe I will take a dare.”

“Great!” Sherry stepped off the stool and gave her breasts a two-handed adjustment before heading off to pounce on Harvard. “I’ll put you on the list. See ya.”

“Uh…” Too late, Brooke remembered that Sherry was on the nomination committee, which was a fancy title for several club members who kept note of what women were due to receive dares at the next meeting.

Oh, hell. Brooke got the bartender’s attention and requested a dry martini.

Might as well get used to them, seeing as she’d just jumped onto the club’s fast track.

“Wow, the Martinis and Bikinis grapevine is fast. Not even twenty-four hours.”

Brooke was almost sorry she’d answered her cell. The number-two Winfield sister was a stickler who’d pin Brooke down until it became impossible to wriggle out of the hasty decision she’d blurted out to Sherry the past evening.

Oops. Joey was no longer number two. Brooke was. And there was no denying—at times, she felt demoted rather than freed.

“I’ve known since last night,” Joey replied. “Sherry told Lindsay who told Katie, who called me near midnight when I was studying an important brief.”

“Jockey? Fruit of the Loom? No, if they were important, they must have been Calvin Klein.”

“Don’t try to distract me. Why are you taking a dare?”

“You don’t think I need to?”

“Of course I do. But this isn’t about what I think.”

“I can’t talk now. I’m working.” Brooke looked at her assistant, who was making the zillionth autumn garland they’d prepared for the front windows and in-store displays. Most of them had already been hung around the store. Worthington was an autumn wonderland.

“Don’t give me that.” Typically, Joey brooked no nonsense. “You can talk if you want to. Say hi to Meg.”

Brooke angled the phone upward. “Joey says hi.”

“Hi, Joey!”

“That was Meg. We’re finishing work on my second display window. We have to change it tonight, then get into the serious prep for our Christmas windows. I know it’s not as important as suing the socks off an evil corporation, but I really am busy.”

“That was prickly,” Joey said. “Are you already nervous about the dare?”

Brooke turned away and cupped her hand over her mouth. “This has nothing to do with the dare.”

“How come you’re whispering?”

She ducked under the beak of an oversized papiermâché swan from the Boston Ballet tribute and advanced into the depths of the storage and work rooms. “Meg doesn’t know about my membership in Martinis and Bikinis.”

“Well, jeez, why not? The club’s not shameful, Brookie. It’s for fun.”

Brooke went into her office and closed the door. “I didn’t say it’s shameful.”

Was embarrassing the same thing? “I’m a private person, that’s all. I don’t want the entire Worthington staff knowing about my personal life.”

“Hmm.”

Brooke heard the tap-tap-tap of her sister’s pen against the desk. She waited.

Had Lindsay also spilled the beans about Brooke’s encounter with David Carerra? Impossible. If she had, that would have been topic one, not some measly dare-to-be.

The length of her sister’s silence had become suspicious. Joey was too much of a go-getter to waste thirty seconds of phone time in the middle of the day—unless skullduggery was afoot.

Brooke inhaled. “Gawd, Joey. Don’t you dare cook something up with Katie.”

“Who, me?” Joey released a full-bodied chuckle. “You know that Lindsay handles the dares.”

“Then keep clear of Lindsay,” Brooke threatened. She pushed aside the rolled drawings for the holiday windows and sat on the edge of her desk. “I’ll back out if I smell a setup.”

“Ah, now, that would be shameful,” Joey rebuked. “Our daddy didn’t raise cowards.”

There went her sinking feeling again. “No, but Aunt Josephine won’t stand by and watch the family name be sullied, either. You know how she goes on about the history and honor of the Winfields.”

“Pfft.” Joey wasn’t intimidated by anyone, not even her stern namesake. “I’ll bet Aunt Jo played a few games of Truth or Dare in her day, before she turned into such a stick. Besides, there won’t be any sullying.”

“There will be if you guys make me run around Copley Square at noon in a bikini and heels.”

Joey snorted. “I promise, nothing so juvenile. Your dare will suit you. They always do. I’m not sure how Lindsay manages that since they’re supposed to be selected at random.”

“Hah. As long as the dare doesn’t birthday suit me.” Brooke bit her lip. “Do you remember Camp Okanawaka?” One day, the mean girls of Cabin Five had snatched her coming from the outdoor showers and set her adrift in a canoe sans paddle and towel. While she had huddled in the bottom of the boat and the Bunk Three boys ran for binoculars, Joey swam to the rescue. Staggering ashore in a soaking-wet “I Was Skunked at Camp Okanawaka” T-shirt, Brooke had vowed never to be naked in public again. A vow she’d managed to keep with some contortionist maneuvers in her gym class showers.

Joey scoffed. “That was eighteen years ago.”

“I was twelve, with mosquito-bite breasts. It was very traumatic. Do not tell Lindsay.”

“But this would be the perfect opportunity to—”

“Promise, Joey.”

“Awwwright. I promise.”

Joey had barely said goodbye when the cell phone shrilled again. Brooke didn’t check the caller ID before answering; she knew who’d call next. “The same goes for you, Katie. I refuse to do nudity. Zero. Zilch. Zippy-kiaye.”

“Uh, is this Brooke Winfield?” a man asked.

“Yes.” She cringed. “Sorry about that.”

“Let me guess. You’re an artist’s model in your spare time.”

Brooke closed her eyes. David.

“A film star?”

“Right.” Brooke smiled into the receiver while a He called, he called! refrain sang in her ears. She’d really turned into a rule breaker, because she was certain that being thrilled about a day-after call was a violation of the one-night-stand code of conduct. “Katie’s my sister and we—never mind. It’s too humiliating to explain.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, she broke it by saying, too formally, “Why are you calling?” She winced.

“Because you didn’t call me,” David said. “I waited an entire day.”

“Uhh. I thought—I thought that we were, you know, done with each other.” Oh, that was smooth.

She heard him exhale. “Maybe you are. I’m not.”

Don’t get too excited. “But aren’t you leaving town?”

“Not quite yet. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

Okay, a little excited. But don’t sound too eager. “That would be nice, very nice, in fact.” She paused.

“Don’t say but.”

“I have to work late. Changing out the second window. I’m sorry.” She took a breath. “What about another time?”

“I have a thing tomorrow.”

“A thing?” she echoed. A date with another woman. Probably one who was actually a rebel instead of just dressing the part.

“A meeting.”

She touched the sharp tips of her colored pencils. “Something important?”

“You might say so, yeah. And I don’t know if I’ll be around after that.”

Tonight or nothing, then. Brooke had never been the type to drop her plans when a man crooked his finger, and with anyone else, she wouldn’t even have hesitated, but declining David’s invitation was quite the test of her will.

“I really can’t.” She was alone in her office, yet the entire Martinis and Bikinis club seemed to be chorusing in her head: Are you nuts?

“C’mon, Brooke, you know you want to say yes,” he breathed in the lilting accent she found so sexy. She was sure he’d used it on purpose. “Besides, you owe me one to make up for cutting out on me last night.”

“I can explain that.” No, she couldn’t. “I’d say yes, David. Really. But I don’t have a choice. The window must be finished tonight. I already put it off once.”

Put it off for a one-night stand. She couldn’t do it again, even if the prospect of a two-night stand was extremely enticing.

“I salute your sense of responsibility.”

There was only time to wonder why his tone was ironic, then remember the circumstances of his departure from Boston before he said, “See you later.” The phone went dead in her hand.

See you later? She snapped the cell shut and yanked the door open, “Margaret?”

Meg blinked behind her Clark Kent glasses. Brooke only used her assistant’s full name when circumstances were dire, such as the time a fifteen-foot Christmas tree took out a cosmetics counter five minutes before the doors opened for the post-Thanksgiving sale. “Yes?”

“Would you say I’m overly conscientious?”

“Of course you are.” Relieved, Meg added a crystal star to the garland. “You have to ask?”

“I thought my standards might be slipping.”

“Oh, no. You’re as scrupulous as ever, boss.”

For maybe the first time ever, Brooke wasn’t certain she found that to be a compliment.

A CRACK OF LIGHT showed through the heavy drape covering one of the windows that flanked Worthington’s entrance. David sidled over and put his eye to the glass.

Brooke was up on a stepladder, hanging a curtain of shimmering streamers.

Leaves, pine cones, beads and jewels, and up near the top, sparkling snowflakes.

She was draped in the stuff like a forest nymph who’d gotten carried away cavorting with Pan.

His gaze lingered over her butt in her snug jeans. She stretched, bending at the waist over the top of the ladder, pulling the tail of her shirt out of her waistband so that if he angled his head just so he could catch a glimpse of her flat stomach. The snowflakes danced around her head. The tip of her tongue curled across her upper lip as she reached upward to set the top rail in place.

Muffled by the thick glass, a voice said, “Someone’s watching.”

He hadn’t realized there was a woman with Brooke, half hidden by the ladder and the armful of streamers she carried like a handmaiden. She was Asian, with the black-framed glasses and pale countenance of an arts major. He recognized the type.

“A peeping Tom,” she added.

Busted. David tapped a knuckle on the glass.

Brooke flinched, lost her balance for a second, then caught hold of the teetering ladder. She scrambled down, brushing away the tangle of leaves and beads like cobwebs.

Her eyes narrowed. He saw her mouth open and form a silent word. David?

She’d recognized his eyeball. He tapped again. “Can I come in?”

The curtain swept open. She stood near the glass, looking down at him. “You have to go around to the service entrance.” She blinked. Her hands went to her messy hair, then her wrinkled blouse. “What are you doing here?”

He backed away, showing her the wicker hamper room service had packed for him.

Her lips opened into another silent O. A light like the glow of a lantern took hold in her eyes.

She pressed her palms against the glass. “I’ll call the security guard. He’ll let you in.”

David found the alley entrance, where he was met by a burly older man in a blue uniform who said a gruff hello and led the way to the darkened store. It was an alien landscape, peopled with frozen mannequins and shining surfaces. A garment whispered as he brushed by, its hanger sending a silvery chime into the vast, dark silence.

Brooke appeared among the shadows, trotting across the gleaming marble in sneakers that made soft squeaking sounds. “Thanks, Gus. I’ll take over from here.”

The guard knit his eyebrows, scowling at David. “I don’t know about this, Miss Winfield. We’re not supposed to have guests after hours.”

“This is my friend, David. David, Gus Hanratty.” She’d omitted his last name, but he couldn’t read her expression in the dark to tell if that had been on purpose. “Don’t worry, Gus. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Hmmph. Fifteen minutes.”

She smiled sweetly, charming the stuffing out of the old guy. “That’ll be fine.

Meg and I are almost finished anyway. We’ll clear out before too much longer.”

Brooke looked at David with big eyes. He swung the hamper behind his back until the security guard had retreated through the service door. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’ll turn on the Celtics game and forget to come back. Is that a picnic?”

He lifted the lid, showed her the bottle inside. “A champagne picnic, courtesy of room service. I thought that since you wouldn’t go out with me, I’d come to you.”

Her lashes flickered. “I’m flattered you went to so much trouble. But I’m—” She stabbed her fingers in her hair, making a futile attempt to tuck stray strands back in the tortoiseshell clip at the top of her head before her hands dropped to her thighs. “Well, never mind. You might as well meet the real—the other me.

Goodbye wild woman, hello frowsy window dresser.”

He took in her jeans, the button-down shirt, now tucked in, and the woolen knit cardigan that had become tied around her waist since he’d seen her in the window.

She scrunched her face. “Pretty different from the other night, huh?”

He had to agree. “Cute, though.”

“Cute. That’s almost as bad as a guy being called nice.”

He winked. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I would. I almost married one. ‘A nice young man.’” She made air quotes.

“That’s what they all called him.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Call him that—or marry him?” She took David’s hand and led him toward the front of the store. “We were about to set the wedding date when I came to a realization that two nices don’t necessarily make a match.”