Snowy Encounters (13 page)

“Don't be melodramatic. No one is going to
recognize you. That wig hides all your black hair and those blue
contacts cover up your green eyes pretty well. Kelly knows you'd
beat her at a beauty pageant and figured you wouldn't go through
with this.” Erin paused and grabbed a charcoal eyeliner pencil from
the dressing table. “Pie stand, Bec, really?”

Rebecca grinned.

She held still as Erin added more to the
heavy makeup already caked on her face. She'd never worn so much in
her life, besides the normal mascara and lipstick. “If I could see
Kelly Marsh right now, I swear I would forget about being a lady
and just deck her one.”

Erin laughed. “How about after you win the
bet?”

“Can't I just forfeit or something?”

Erin dropped the pencil.
“
No way.
You'll
never be able to hold your head up.”

Rebecca glared. “I remember
now.
You're
the
one who told her I would do it.”

Her friend shrugged. “She made me mad, too. I
can't stand her.” Erin picked up a brush and dabbed at the powder
jar, before dusting Rebecca’s nose. “It'll be fun, Bec. All you
have to do is strut your stuff, get the highest bid, and go out on
a date.” A mischievous smile broke over her face. “And of course,
if you're willing to offer more, then I wouldn't stop you.”

Rebecca's mouth dropped. “Are you
insane?”

“Relax.” Erin pinched her chin and dabbed on
more lipstick. “It's just a dare, Bec. I knew you'd be like
this—all that strict social upbringing and no fun. Just treat it
like one of those auctions that you go to with your mother.”

Rebecca glared. “I'm not the
one buying the furniture. I
am
the furniture.”

“Stop. It's just one date with a stranger.
And his money is going to go to whatever charity or good cause you
want.”

“I don't know why I let you talk me into
this.” She drew in another breath, wondering when the strings were
going to snap and her breasts would be free again.

Erin laughed. “No one is going to recognize
you. Don't worry. Stop being a nervous twit.”

Rebecca threw her hands up. “I can't help it.
You would be, too, if you were baring everything on a stage in
front of horny, sex-deprived men.”

“Yeah, but they'll be waving stacks of money
at you, and that hospital you volunteer at will have happier kids,”
said Erin, as she packed up the cosmetics case.

Rebecca’s shoulders hunched in defeat. “How
did Kelly find this auction anyway?”

“They do it every year. Not many people know
about it. Richie Mann hosts the event.”

She groaned. Known as the
Hugh Heffner of the East Coast, Richie was constantly on the
Tattler
for his playboy
ways and disrespect for the female race. “That's
disgusting.”

“Yeah, but a lot of the guys come to this
thing, even the ones with wives.”

Rebecca stared at Erin through the mirror.
“It's a good thing we won't know anyone here.” She waited till her
friend met her gaze. “Right?”

Erin smiled.

“Right?” Rebecca asked again. Unease rose in
the back of her throat.

“Why don't you put on your costume, and I'll
go check to see when it's your turn.” Erin whipped around and
headed to the door.

With a sigh, Rebecca moved to stand in front
of the costume—a slip of white cloth, fitted to cover her
underclothes and imitated an ice queen with layers of short white
lace and chiffon. Next to it, a diamond-studded tiara went along
with the outfit, shining under the light, taunting her.

Her hand gripped a fistful of lace. Everyone
thought her cold and snobby, but they didn’t know or understand the
pressure she’d had growing up as the perfect daughter, the perfect
hostess, or the perfect socialite. Her mother, Catherine Hathaway
was a legend in town—the ideal citizen to society. Expectations
were rules Rebecca had followed since birth, and to destroy her
mother’s hard work would hurt the whole family.

How she wondered what it'd be like to be a
normal girl—just hanging out with friends, staying out late,
drinking and maybe even attending a club or two. No. The only
things she knew were tea parties, book clubs, art shows and
etiquette—everything expected of an Ice Princess.

Grabbing the skirt of the costume, she
slipped it over her lace-clad bottom. The white top wrapped around
like bandage, held together with fishhooks and sequins, undoubtedly
the gaudiest thing she'd ever seen. As she clasped the hundreds of
hooks together, the door burst open then slammed shut. Erin leaned
against the door, holding a hand to her chest.

“What is wrong with you?” Rebecca asked then
growled at the hooks.

“We have a problem.”

With the last clasp done, Rebecca tried to
breath. The corset was too confining and she cursed whoever
invented the blasted thing. “What's the problem?”

“Your brother and Mark are here.”

The blood drained from her face. Her heart
stopped, and a wave of dizziness warped through her. Her hand
groped for something to hold onto. “What do you mean?”

Erin took a step forward. “I'm sorry. I saw
Mark and Lucas standing in the back.”

Rebecca plopped down in the chair with a
thud. “That can't be. Why would they be here?”

Her friend made a face. “Bec, this is a rich
boy's club. I'm sure your brother and Mark are here to have fun
like all the other guys.”

She wanted to die. Mark Passmore, her
brother's best friend, her ex-boyfriend, and the devil in a black
suit—the man who’d haunted her since boldly dumping her three years
earlier. He’d crushed her ego, and her pride dissolved to dust,
left only with shame and disappointment from her parents.

And a broken heart.

Old pain seeped into her chest.

“I'm going to kill my brother.” Rebecca
dragged in another breath.

“Not if he kills you first.”

Her body jerked as fear whipped through her.
She'd almost forgotten about the auction. To walk on that stage
meant instant death—there was no way she could do it. “What am I
going to do?”

Erin sat down on the couch. Worry marred her
pretty features—her neat eyebrows rose, blue eyes filled with
doubt, and lips pursed. “I don't know now. If Lucas finds out
you've even stepped foot in here, he's going to have your head and
probably tell your mother. I'm more scared of your mother.”

Rebecca nodded. Her mother
intimidated everyone. One look, one frown, and a person's life as
they knew it, ended—kicked out of the circle of snobby friends the
Hathaway's kept, which meant no more invites to parties, no
business dealings and total deterioration of social class. Every
resident in Grant knew her mother or knew of the woman. Her mother
had power. No. Catherine Hathaway
was
the power in Grant.

“Erin, I can't go out there.” Hysteria
bubbled in her chest. Her hands started to shake. She panted short,
hard breaths to ease the nausea rolling in the pit of her
stomach.

Erin threw her a speculative glance. “Maybe
they won't recognize you.” She paused. “This would be a good chance
for you to get back at Mark for dumping you, too.”

A flicker of hope stung her chest. She
frowned. In love with a man all her life then dropped like an old
shirt was not something to take lightly. She remembered the exact
day. On a stroll to the garden gazebo, Mark had informed her of the
need to talk. Thinking he intended to propose, he'd dropped to her
side on the bench only to apologize; he didn't believe that they
were right for each other, and she deserved better.

Anger started to pulse
through her the more she thought about it. How did he know what she
deserved? What right did he have for not giving her a chance to fix
their problem? But instead of begging, she'd lifted her nose and
said
fine
. Then
she walked away.

As her brother's best friend, Mark was
difficult to avoid. He attended every Hathaway function, did
business with their family, and even showed up at her mother's
garden parties, most likely because his mother insisted he attend.
Three years of watching Mark flaunt woman after woman had created a
block of resentment and hate within her. But she would never let
him see the pain he'd caused her.

Catherine Hathaway's daughter did not exhibit
emotion.