“No can do,” Irene said, holding out the clipboard to Holly once more. “This is the finale, Holly. CNN is here, filming the whole thing for their special on weddings. One by one—with escort—we send eleven fantastic gowns down that runway, not twelve, because Jackie can’t wear two gowns. Each gown with its own close-up and description. That’s mega airtime for our ladies. Which one do you want to ax, and then wait for the hysterics? We got these top models because we promised them CNN, Holly. Do you want to take a chance on losing any one of them for Julia’s next showing?”
Holly glared at her assistant. “I hate it when you’re right.”
"Ten minutes, Holly,” Irene said, glancing at the silver watch on her wrist. “What do we do?”
“Can’t she walk alone? What’s the problem with her walking alone?”
Irene rolled her eyes. “Are you forgetting that gown? It’s the show gown, Holly, not really meant to ever be worn by any halfway
human
person. I think the thing
weighs seventy pounds, and that’s without the headpiece, Jackie needs an arm to lean on, or she’s going to end up facedown in the front row of laps. That would look real great on CNN, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think Julia wants today’s event to appear on some television blooper show.”
Several thoughts went flying through Holly’s brain, most of them painful, and none of her ideas workable.
“
Find out who this model is who was a no-show. I’ve always wanted to be able to say
you’ll never work in this town again.
When I find him, that’s what I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tattoo it on his perfect forehead.”
“Nine minutes,” Irene said, continuing her countdown.
Holly came to a decision. “We yank the eleven male models and pick one to escort Jackie.”
“Airtime, Holly. For the boys as well as the girls. You’d have a riot on your hands, and I hate to see handsome grown men cry. Besides, the first two brides have already hit the runway—with escorts. Ob—eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Holly.”
“Trying for a second career doing countdowns at NASA, Irene?” Holly bit out, then grinned. “Yes! Irene, look over there. At the door. I think I see our man. Quick, what’s his name?”
“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Irene said, consulting the clipboard once more. “Harry Hampshire. Has to be a made-up name, right? Sic him, Holly, while I get the tuxedo ready. And, please, don’t give him that you’ll never work in this town again line until
after
the f
inale.”
Holly was already halfway to the door. Harry Hampshire, huh? He didn’t look like a Harry. He looked, actually, like some sort of Greek god. Max Rafferty looked like a Greek god. Harry made her second Greek god in two years. That had to be her quota. She doubted she would see another in her lifetime.
Tall, definitely tall enough to make Jackie look fragile, he had the slim, muscular build of the professional model. A mane of blackest black hair, one lock sort of slipping down onto his forehead. Blue eyes that sparkled inside a fringe of black lashes any woman would die for. Full lips that were more sensual than hot fudge licked from a spoon. That square, model jaw, those creases in his cheeks as he returned the smile of one of the female models.
Dear God, he made Holly’s palms itch. Gorgeous on a stick. Masculinity refined, smoothed, and yet definitely not domesticated. The kind of guy who’d actually look good in a morning beard. The kind of guy who smiled and that smile made you blink, because surely this guy couldn’t be human. No human could be that perfect.
Yeah, well, so much for waxing poetic over some skin and bones.
“You’re late, buster,” Holly accused, grabbing his arm as he winked at one of the models. “Come on, we’ve got like seven minutes to get you into your tux.”
“I beg your pardon?” the hunk said, although he did move along with her, which was a good thing because Holly was more than ready to try tossing him over her shoulder and personally stuffing him into the tux.
“Look, Harry, I’ve got no time for this. Strut on your
own time, okay? We’ve got—Irene! How much time have we got?”
“Six minutes,” Irene called out, lining up more of the other models, each of whom had her own attendant with her, ready to fluff out the train on each gown before the model stepped on the runway. “Tux is ready to go, studs beside it on the chair.”
"Got it,” Holly said, turning around, tugging on Harry's ti
e
, beginning to unbutton the model’s shirt. She
then dropped to h
er knees in front of him, began untying his shoes. "Come on, come on. No time for modesty, Harry. Kick off the shoes. Drop those pants. We’ve got to get you into this tux now.”
“You want me in a tux?”
Holly looked up at him, motioned for him to slip out of his suit jacket. Nice suit, probably Armani. Modeling must pay even better than she thought. Of course, with this guy’s face and body, he could probably command top dollar. “No, I want you in
this
tux, right here, right now. So strip!”
His smile invaded her solar plexus, gave it a punch that nearly sent her toppling over, onto the floor.
“Okay, since you asked. But isn’t there somewhere I can change?”
“Yes, there is. Right here. I told you, no time for modesty. Come on, I need you out of those pants.” Harry looked around, saw that nobody really seemed to find anything odd going on and unzipped his suit pants. “Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess.”
Holly paid him no attention, or at least as little attention as possible, because she had noticed that he had
great legs. Straight, with unbumpy knees—she hated bumpy knees, because she had them—and with fine dark hair covering his tanned skin. The guy worked out, the guy probably laid in a tanning bed three days a week. The
guy wore maroon cotton briefs…
She got up from her knees after holding out the tuxedo pants and watching as he stepped into them, and began fanning herself with one end of the feather boa. She really had to get a grip here.
“Eighth model on the runway. Four minutes, Holly!”
Harry was stuffing his pleated tuxedo shirt into the waistband of his pants as Holly worked to secure the black opal studs. He was still fastening his cuff links as Ho
lly, now standing on a small sto
ol, slid the tie under his lapels, then began tying it. “Hold still, damn it. This is hard enough as it is.”
Harry’s hands came up, clasped Holly’s. “Let me do that, okay,” he said, looking straight into her eyes. “I’ve done it before.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you have. Fill in the employment gaps as a professional escort, do you, Harry? You know, taking rich old ladies to the opera, stuff like that?”
“I have taken a few mature ladies to the opera, yes,” he answered, lifting his perfect chin as he neatly tied the bow tie. “Now, if you’ll help me into my jacket— nice tux, by the way—I’ll be ready for you to tell me what comes next.”
“What comes next,” Holly said, then hesitated, cleared her throat, because Harry Hampshire in a tuxedo was enough to make
her choke on her own spit, “…
what comes next is you take Jackie’s arm here, lead her out onto the runway and smile for the cameras.”
For a moment, just for a moment, Harry looked nonplussed. Scared, even. “You want me to do what?”
Holly rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. What did you think it meant when you signed up for this showing? That you’d just get to hide back here, scarf down some free eats? CNN is waiting, and you and Jackie are going to be all over that station on promos this time next week. Now, let Jackie take your arm—her gown’s sort of heavy so you have to help her navigate—and just walk on out there, looking at Jackie as if she’s a rare, juicy steak and you’ve been on a chicken diet all month, okay?”
Harry scratched his head, smiled. “You want me to walk out there with this lady, parade around in my tux, make a jackass out of myself for the cameras?”
“One minute!” Irene said, coming down the few steps from the backstage area of the runway, to stand beside Holly. “Is he ready? Oh my, yes. He certainly is. And I found shoes for Jackie.”
“Good,” Holly said, then watched as Jackie, keeping her head very straight s
o that the headpiece and cathe
dral-length veil didn’t topple her backward, laid her hand on Harry’s forearm. “Drooling is
not
allowed, Jackie,” she bit out, then ran her gaze over both of them, giving them one last check before sending them off.
“
Irene, weren’t there supposed to be bra inserts in this gown? She looks flat-chested.”
“I’ll get them,” Irene said as Jackie glared at Holly. “Sorry,” Holly said, shrugging, knowing she was pointing out Jackie’s lack right in front of Harry. “Them that has often notice them that don’t. Guess
Mother Nature put those few extra inches in your feet, right, Jackie?”
“Show time,” Irene said, fluffing out Jackie’s train and veil just as the model looked ready to pick Holly up by her ears, swing her around and launch her toward the snack table. “Let’s knock ’em dead!”
Holly stepped back to let Jackie and Harry pass by her up
th
e few steps, then followed, ready to peek out through the break in the curtains once they’d closed behind the two models.
What a sight! The runway, lit romantically by overhead lights, and brightened by what seemed like thousands of photographer’s flashes, was filled with Julia Sutherland’s designs for what tomorrow’s brides should wear.
So many gorgeous gowns, fantastic fabrics. Julia hadn’t missed a trick. There were sheaths for the second-time bride, lacy confections for the young bride. There were white, ivory, peach, pink and even one lightest blue gown edged in white lace. Pearls glowed, sequins sparkled. Headpieces of every size and description were matched specifically to each gown. The heady scent of fresh flowers was everywhere as the grooms, each in their own designer tuxedo, made the perfect foils for the perfect brides.
And then, after the first mad explosion of camera shutters was over, Jackie began her walk down the runway, clad in the strapless, backless show gown that seemed to defy gravity, physics and the dress codes for correct bridal wear in at least two out of every three religious denominations.
The material was
peau de soie,
the lace Alencon, and
the style definitely twenty-first centu
r
y. The skirt of the low-waisted gown had been gathered, as Holly termed it, “six ways from Sunday,” pouffing out here, tucked in there, each tuck accented by a small bouquet of pink cabbage roses dotted with faux diamonds. The train went on for miles, the veil for a half-mile more.
This was not a gown to be worn by anyone other than a rock star marrying her tongue-pierced rock star lover, or the movie star tripping down the aisle with her sugar daddy beau. This was grand theater, and Jackie knew it. The press knew it.
And Harry knew he was being upstaged. Definitely. He and Jackie had come to the end of the runway, to stand, be photographed some more, when Harry broke from his “handy place to hang the bride” role and began to ad-lib.
He stepped away from Jackie, but maintained contact by holding onto one of her gloved hands. He gestured toward her, inviting applause from the audience—and it was substantial—then bowed over the model’s hand, raising it to his lips.
The crowd applauded again, giving its approval even as Holly, her head barely stuck through the break in the curtains, rolled her eyes and said, “Ham.”
But Harry wasn’t done. He smiled, winked at the audience, and then pulled the now startled Jackie close, bent her back over one arm and planted one on her.
“I’ll kill him,” Holly gritted out from between clenched teeth, letting the curtains fall back into place and stomping down the steps to take a quick drink of soda before she had to go out there, take Julia’s place and hopefully some bows.
“You’re on,” Irene said, motioning for her to get back up the steps. She grabbed the pincushion from Holly’s wrist, then snagged one end of the boa as Holly tugged in the other direction, spun in a small circle so that the boa unwrapped from her neck, and headed out through the curtains.
She couldn’t see a thing. Lightbulbs flashed everywhere, and tall models in huge gowns grabbed at her, hugged her, pushed her forward along the runway, until she got to the end.
Where she stood, dwarfed by Jackie on one side, Harry on the other. She had her speech all prepared, a little something about being honored to stand in for Julia today and thanking everyone for coming.
But the words escaped her as Harry grabbed her, flipped her back over his arm as he had done with Jackie and kissed her square on the mouth.
More lightbulbs flashing, more applause, a little laughter, a few catcalls
…
and the most overwhelming desire to kiss Harry Hampshire back, and wait a while before killing him.
He released her at last, set her back on her feet, and with the sweep of one hand indicated that everyone should applaud her. “Take a bow, or curtsy if you can manage it,” Harry instructed her, speaking around his smile. “Come on, little lady, you’ve earned it.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Holly yelled back at him over the applause, a major feat, as she did it while still smiling and without it looking as if she were speaking at all. “Are you nuts? What the hell did you think you were doing?”