Manolos In Manhattan

Chapter Three

“Fine,” Holly said. “I’ll do it. For the store,” she added pointedly before Ciaran could thank her. She turned to Alastair. “But you have to promise to tell Jamie that this was your idea, Dad, not mine.”

“I promise.” He added dryly, “Thank you for your very great sacrifice for the cause.”

Ciaran laughed. “I never thought anyone would have to be persuaded to spend time with me. I’m wounded.”

“And I’m off.” Alastair glanced down at the pashmina dangling from his hand. “Excuse me, but I promised to give this to Natalie – she’s complaining of a chill, although God knows I don’t know what she’s talking about ‒ and return to my guests downstairs. I suggest you both do the same.”

“I’ll be right there.” Holly turned away and moved to follow him.

“Wait.” Ciaran caught up with her. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Eleven, I suppose. I’m catatonic before noon.” She paused. “Do you know where I live?”

“Yes, I got your address from Ms. Welch earlier. She’s much more accommodating than you.” His eyes twinkled.

Twinkled!

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he added with a grimace, “I really do need the loo.”

She smiled. “Right. You know where it is. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Miss James. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at eleven.”

“Not a minute sooner,” she warned.

“No sooner, I promise. I look forward to it.” He winked one of those sexy green-brown eyes at her and made his way back downstairs.

And so it was settled. Holly would spend tomorrow with Ciaran Duncan, internationally famous film actor, British heartthrob, and ex-boyfriend of Sienna, Keira, Olivia, and Jennifer...

...and a man with more hands than one of those multi-armed Hindu statues.

As she drifted back downstairs, tugging absently at the upwardly creeping hem of her dress, Holly alternated between elation and dismay. What had she just got herself into? Ciaran Duncan was out of her league. She frowned. Jamie wouldn’t want her spending a minute with the handsome film star, much less an entire day.

And how would she tell Chaz that she’d snared a date...with his dream man?

He’d never speak to her again.

“...perhaps you should set your sights on Alastair’s daughter. You could do worse, you know. She stands to inherit twenty-five percent of Dashwood and James one day.”

Holly came to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs. Thankfully, they couldn’t see her up here in the shadows, but she could see their legs in the entrance hall below. Coco Welch, the promotions manager her father had relocated to New York from the London flagship store, was talking to that self-important solicitor, Mr Darcy.

“No thank you.” Hugh Darcy spoke quietly but firmly. “I’ve no interest in getting married, at any rate. I’m here to assist Mr James, and to work...not to romance his daughter.”

“Just as well…she’s engaged already, to a chef,” Coco remarked. Her voice warmed. “Although I must say, Jamie Gordon is ‒ pardon the pun ‒ quite dishy.” She added, “Still, you could do far worse than marrying an heiress like Holly. You can’t deny that she’d make an excellent match.”

“I doubt that. I’ve encountered puddles with more depth than that girl.”

Holly’s mouth sagged open. Was he saying she was shallow? How dare he?

“She’s young,” Coco agreed, “and a bit superficial. But she is pretty,” she added grudgingly, “if you like tall, coltish girls with blonde hair and no sense of style, that is.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. I prefer women with style. And I prefer brunettes.”

Humiliation, followed closely by anger, swept over Holly. So Hugh Darcy thought she was (1) shallow (2) unstylish and (3) unattractive? Who on earth did he think he was? Had he looked in a mirror lately? Oh, he was handsome enough, in a dark-and-broody, Heathcliff sort of way; but let’s face it ‒ he had all the personality of a law book.

She waited on the stairs until they left, then made her way quietly down the last few steps. As she hurried towards the baize door that led to the kitchen, blinking back tears of anger and wounded pride, she collided with Hugh Darcy, who’d just come back into the entrance hall to fetch his coat.

He reached out a hand to steady her, and the touch of his skin on her bare arm and the immovable wall of his chest against hers sent an unexpected frisson down Holly’s spine. He really was attractive, she realized belatedly. If only he wasn’t such a snobby, arrogant, opinionated knob...

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “That was careless of me. Are you all right, Miss James?”

“I’m fine.” She drew away and added coolly, “I should watch where I’m going.”

They stared at each other, and it seemed that in just thirty seconds, they’d exhausted all avenues of conversation.

He cleared his throat. “I meant to say...you look a bit upset. I hope you survived your encounter with Mr Duncan earlier. I trust he did nothing...untoward.”

“Untoward?” Crikey, he talked like he was straight out of Downton Abbey. “No, of course he didn’t. Ciaran was a perfect gentleman,” she lied.

“Good. I must say I’m surprised. But then, you’re not his usual sort of woman, after all.”

His words – and his condescension – sent a renewed flicker of anger through her.

“And what – or who – is his ‘usual sort of woman,’ Mr Darcy?”

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I only meant that you’re a bit young for him, that’s all.”

“Really? Well,” Holly said, tilting her head back to meet his gaze, with a defiant gleam in her eye, “he doesn’t think so. In fact, he’s asked me to spend the day with him tomorrow – as publicity for the store. And I’ve said yes.”

“I see.”

Again they stared at one another, and again there seemed to be nothing more to say.

He looked as if he might venture another comment, but thought the better of it. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Miss James,” he said tightly.

“Thank you. I will.”

She moved to walk around him, to find Jamie and tell him about her plans with Ciaran, and was just about to push through the baize door to the kitchen when he spoke again.

“It’s not a good idea, you know. He’s not worth your time. He’s no good.”

Holly whirled around. “Excuse me? And how would you know that?”

He lifted one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge. He’s not known for sticking around...or keeping promises. He’s not a marrying sort of man.”

“Who says I want to get married?” Holly said, and let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m already engaged, thank you very much. It’s just a publicity thing, Mr Darcy, not a – a lifetime commitment. At any rate,” she couldn’t help adding, “I’m just a silly, shallow girl with no style and no more depth than a puddle. Isn’t that right?”

He looked at her with a mixture of surprise and dismay. “You heard me talking to Ms. Welch.”

“Yes, I did. But you needn’t worry. I’m not interested in you in the least, so you can rest easy. Besides, I have my day with Ciaran tomorrow to look forward to. Unlike you, he knows how to have fun, and flirt, and make a girl feel special.” She tilted her chin up. “You should try it sometime. Having fun, I mean.”

His dark eyes met hers, and in their depths she thought she glimpsed, very briefly, pain.

As quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Perhaps I should,” he agreed stiffly, and turned away to get his coat. He shrugged his arms into the sleeves – it was an excellent quality coat, Holly noted irrelevantly – and brushed past her with a curt nod, vanishing through the front doors, and out into the night.

Chapter Four

“Oh, thank you, Alastair,” Natalie said as her father-in-law returned to the drawing room and draped a pashmina around her bare shoulders. “These evening gowns don’t do much to keep a girl warm.”

“That’s what you have me for, darling.” Her husband Rhys rested a proprietary hand at the small of her back and leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek.

“And I’m very glad of it,” she said, and squeezed his arm.

“Congratulations on your pregnancy,” Alastair’s wife Cherie offered. “I haven’t really had a chance to talk to you since you found out. How far along are you now?”

“Four months and a bit.” Natalie laid a hand atop the noticeable bulge of her stomach.

“How very exciting. I’m thrilled for you and Rhys, I can’t tell you. We must throw you an extravagant baby shower, and soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me‒” she touched Natalie’s arm “‒I see Mr Duncan. I need to speak to him before he leaves.”

“Of course.” Natalie eyed the film star, standing across the room deep in conversation with one of the store’s investors. “He’s charming, isn’t he? Alastair introduced us.”

“Charming, yes.” Cherie’s smile remained fixed in place as she turned to go. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. Good to see you again, Rhys.”

And she sailed off to speak to Ciaran Duncan.

Natalie shivered and drew the pashmina closer around her shoulders. “Doesn’t anyone else feel the chill in this room?”

“It’s perfectly comfortable in here.” Rhys glanced at the fire burning in the ornate fireplace. He took a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray and handed it to his wife. “You must admit, you’ve got very little coverage in that evening gown.” His gazed drifted down to her not inconsiderable pregnancy décolletage, and he smiled. “And I must admit,” he added in her ear, “I like it.”

She blushed. “Rhys, do stop. Oh, look – it’s my father’s portrait,” Natalie exclaimed. She went to stand before a painting hanging over the fireplace. “It used to hang in Grandfather’s office. It’s a William Tennant, you know.”

“A Tennant? No, I didn’t know. Interesting.” He came up and stood beside her. “The movers hung it in our apartment – I’m glad we can finally move in tomorrow, and leave that blasted hotel suite – but I had it brought here for the pre-launch. It lends a certain panache, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” she agreed doubtfully. “Was Grandfather tired of looking at it?”

“No. He’s redecorating his office and thought you might like to have it. He asked your mother first,” he added dryly, “but she declined.”

Natalie studied the three-quarter-length portrait. Her father wore a stylish suit and tie and lounged back in an armchair, his expression at once smug and amused.

“He was a handsome devil,” Rhys observed. “Knew it, too, judging from his expression.”

“Oh, yes, he did. He was a wonderful father but a crap husband. He cheated on Mum, and more than once. I don’t think he knew how to be faithful.” She frowned. “That painting must be worth a fortune now.”

“I’m sure it is. Since Tennant’s death, the prices on his works have skyrocketed. Shall I have it valued?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Natalie said vaguely, her interest already waning. “One of these days. Will you leave it here?”

“No, it’s far too valuable. I’ll have it returned to the apartment first thing tomorrow.” He frowned. “Now that I know it’s a Tennant, I don’t like to leave it unattended overnight.”

She turned her eyes up to his. “I have an idea. Why don’t we leave a bit early and take it with us? We could drop it off at the apartment on our way back to the hotel. What do you think?”

“I think,” Rhys agreed as he took her arm and drew her towards the door, “that’s an excellent idea.”

After the party, Holly accompanied Chaz to his third-floor walkup in Brooklyn. She sat next to him on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn, watching “The Voice” on TiVo. Before she’d left the party, Jamie told her that he’d be late getting home and to have fun with Chaz, and he’d see her later.

If, Holly brooded, she was still awake by the time he returned after clearing up after the pre-launch party.

She set the bowl aside with a sigh. It wasn’t Jamie who troubled her right now. Guilt gnawed at her, and had done since she’d accepted Ciaran’s invitation to spend the day with him.

“Chaz,” she said now, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh? What’s that?” His eyes were riveted on Christina Aguilera’s dress as he munched on popcorn. “Never mind, I know what it is – you’re in love with me, so much so that you’re willing to settle for a sham marriage to a gay man.”

“No. Although that’s not a bad idea,” she mused. “At least it’d get Mum off my back. I told her no one gets married before thirty anymore. I don’t know why she’s always pushing me about the wedding, anyway.”

“Christina should so stick to the vintage look,” Chaz murmured, and thrust another handful of popcorn in his mouth. “The Rita Hayworth thing really works for her.”

Holly frowned. “Chaz, are you even listening to me? I’m trying to talk to you here.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He leaned forward, grabbed the remote, and hit ‘pause.’ “Okay, I’m all yours. Well,” he added with a smirk, “as much as I can be.”

“Look, Chaz, I know you like Ciaran—”

“Like?” he interrupted. “‘Like’ is hardly the word for what I feel for Ciaran.”

“‒and so I hate to tell you this,” she forged on, “but I can’t not tell you.” Holly bit her lip. “He asked me to spend the day with him tomorrow.”

Chaz blinked. “He did?”

“Yes. And I told him I’d go. It’s for publicity, that’s all,” she rushed to add. “But I know you like him, and, well...you’re not mad at me for saying I’d go, are you?”

He was silent. “Of course not,” he said, and brushed stray popcorn kernels from his lap. “You’d be crazy not to go.”

“You don’t want me to go,” Holly said. “I’ll tell him no.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He flopped back against the sofa cushions. “It’s time I got over my crush on Ciaran and met someone. Someone real. After I lose fifteen pounds,” he added bitterly.

“You’re not fat.” They’d had this argument many times before.

“No, but I’m not Ryan Gosling, either. I’m Seth Rogen...before he lost weight.”

“Stop.” Holly tossed a throw pillow – bright orange and round – at him. “No pity parties allowed tonight.”

Chaz caught the pillow and turned it around and around, his expression shuttered. “I never told you this, but I used to be best friends with this kid, Ted. We did everything together – Scouts, science projects, hung out on the weekends. Halfway through seventh grade he found out I was gay. I don’t know how he found out, or who told him, but it was like I suddenly had a communicable disease. He never talked to me again.” He tossed the cushion aside. “He wouldn’t even sit next to me on the bus. If we passed each other in the halls, he crossed to the other side. I felt like a – like a ghost.”

“He was a jerk.”

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with remembered pain. “It really hurt, Holly. I was the same person. Nothing changed. But after Ted found out I liked guys, not girls...everything changed.”

“He was a knob,” she said, her words firm. “You’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for. You’re funny, and smart, and Rhys says you’re the best personal assistant he’s ever had—”

“Oh, please,” he groaned, “don’t start telling me how wonderful I am, and how I’ll make some guy really happy one day. Right now I just want to wallow in my unattached misery.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Alone.”

“Okay. Sure.” Holly drew back, stung by his refusal to let her comfort him. “I need to get back to the hotel anyway, before Jamie gets there first and calls the police and reports me missing. You know how he is.”

He didn’t respond, just stared dejectedly at the bowl of popcorn – no butter, no salt – on the coffee table.

“I mean it, Chaz,” she told him firmly as she picked up her clutch and headed to the door. “If you don’t want me to go out with Ciaran on this publicity thing tomorrow, I won’t.”

He sighed. “Don’t be stupid. Of course I want you to go out with him. How else will I find out what it’s like to spend an entire day with an internationally famous film star?”

Chapter Five

Natalie leaned her head back against the Jaguar’s headrest, pleasantly relaxed as Rhys drove them to their apartment with the painting of her father safely stowed in the back seat.

“I wish we could’ve stayed at the Plaza,” she said wistfully as they left Greenwich Village. “Like Eloise.”

Rhys turned the car onto Third Avenue. “You know we have to keep expenses down, Natalie. The stores aren’t fully recovered yet.”

“I know,” she grumbled. “Such a bother. I’m longing to splash out on a few more baby things and some chic maternity outfits...but I haven’t. I’ve been very restrained.”

“Right,” he agreed, his voice dry, “restrained, if you don’t count the roomful of stuffed animals from FAO, enough onesies and jim-jams and nappies to stock a baby store, or that ridiculous pram you insisted on buying—”

“It’s not ridiculous,” she protested. “It’s a Silver Cross Balmoral, meticulously handcrafted in Yorkshire.”

“Natalie ‒ it costs $3,000! For a bloody pram.”

“Well, yes, because it has a C-spring suspension for a smooth and unrivalled ride.”

“Which is all very well and good,” he retorted, “if one’s buying an Aston Martin ‒ not a pram.”

“And the lady at the store said I might exchange the navy-and-white model for a pink-and-white model if we have a girl,” Natalie went on. “So nice of her, don’t you think?”

“I think for $3,000, she ought to give you a different model pram for every day of the week and throw in a nanny and free nappies for good measure.”

“Oh, Rhys, honestly. Don’t you want our baby to have the best?”

He turned onto East 47th Street and glanced over at her. “Of course I do. I just don’t want you to bankrupt us in the process.” He reached out his free hand and laid it atop hers. “We’re nearly there.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind what?”

“Detouring to the apartment on our way home to deliver the painting.”

“Not at all. I wanted to stop and check that the security system’s on in our apartment anyway. I told the movers to activate it, but I want to be sure. I also thought,” he added as he slowed the car, “that we could have a look at our new home for the next few months before we officially move in tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait to have a place of our own here in Manhattan. Although,” Natalie added, “I’ll really miss room service, and those lovely chocs they put on our pillows every night.”

“Sir Richard thought it made sense to keep a place near the store, where I can stay whenever I’m here on business. Now that Alastair’s bought that townhouse in Gramercy Park, I doubt he’ll ever use the apartment.”

He brought the Jaguar to a stop in front of an impressive building. The Dunleigh was located on the Upper West Side, just across from Central Park and a stone’s throw from the Dakota. As they got out of the car and Rhys gave instructions to the valet, Natalie glanced up at the imposing turn-of-the-century building.

Stone griffins and winged cherubs cavorted around the perimeter of the Mansard roof; a uniformed doorman stood guard at the canopied entrance. It looked like something out of Rosemary’s Baby.

“Well, what do you think so far?” Rhys inquired as he tucked the portrait carefully under his arm and escorted her inside.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s all a bit...scary looking, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “That wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Wait till you see the apartment.”

“Right,” she murmured, and gripped her husband’s arm as she took in the marble-floored lobby with its potted palms and elaborate Victorian staircase. “It’s lovely.” Lovely, she thought, if you were the Addams Family, or a guest at the Overlook Hotel.

The concierge behind the counter to the left smiled at them and nodded imperceptibly. “Good evening, Mr and Mrs Gordon.”

Rhys nodded. “Good evening. We’re just going up to check that the security system is armed.”

“Very good. Let us know if there’s anything you need.”

As she and Rhys made their way across the lobby to the lift, Natalie frowned. “That was a bit odd, don’t you think? How did he know who we were?”

“It’s his job to know who we are. I’ve been in and out of here enough that the staff all know me by name.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at the tenth floor and proceeded down a long, thickly carpeted hallway.

“Here we are. Number 1010.” He inserted the key and swung the old-fashioned panel door open, then stood back to let her through. “Welcome to the Dunleigh, darling.”

Natalie brushed past him and stepped inside. She was beyond curious to see the apartment they’d be calling home for the next few months. As Rhys switched on a lamp on the table by the front door, she made her way down the hallway and let out a soft gasp as she rounded the corner into the living room.

Plush white carpeting cushioned her feet as she came to a stop, transfixed by the tenth-story view of Central Park.

Nothing – not her aching feet, or her tiredness, or the distant honking of horns on 72nd Street below, even at this hour - could mar the perfection of the night-time panorama before her.