Now I'm standing before the trifold mirror the team set up in front of my fireplace, and I have to admit I look pretty good. The cocktail dress is flirty, yet classy, in black and white chiffon with a low-cut bodice that shows off the ruby necklace that's just low enough to draw the eye to my cleavage. And the red gemstone perfectly matches the ruby earrings and tennis-style bracelet.
The shoes are also a deep blood red. And, as an ironic plus, they're Christian Louboutins. Too bad I can't keep them and wear them to Blacklist someday when Nessie's working.
Of course, even though they look amazing, I have to wonder how well I'll survive the night. With so much waitressing on my resume, I tend to live in flats, not heels, and I'm pretty certain I'm going to be wincing by the time I hit Blacklist and can change back into flats for my ten o'clock shift.
As for my hair and make-up, I look like I could be on the cover of Vogue, with my cheekbones contoured, my eyes smoky, and my lips a soft red that complements the jewelry. I look pretty. Glamorous. And the way my blond hair frames my face in bouncing waves only accentuates the look.
"Amazing," Franko the hair guy says. "I'm a genius."
"Only because she's such a stunning canvas," Marianne, the make-up and wardrobe woman, retorts. To me, she says, "You're absolutely lovely."
She glances at her watch, then frowns. "All right, then. We'll be packed up and gone in ten minutes. Lionel will be here in fifteen to drive you downtown. You're expected at six-thirty for a drink and appetizers before the opening."
I nod, wondering if either of them know the nature of Marjorie's business. Probably not. For all these folks know, Marjorie is my manager, and I'm the next big thing, about to make my magnificent public debut.
I bite back a grin, amused by my thoughts, then move to stand by Skittles as Marianne and Franko zip around my living room, packing their things up with expert efficiency. Once they're gone, I have just enough time to grab a quick sip of water and give Skittles a goodbye scratch behind the ears before Lionel rings the bell at my gate.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Sugar," he says as I slide into the back of the car. Then he shuts the door, and I'm all alone. In theory, it's cool being driven around by a private driver, but with the privacy screen up, it's just me and my nerves and my thoughts about Lyle.
Because the truth is, I don't know what to expect. This is a public event, yes, but is he going to want to escape somewhere private? Will there be public displays of affection? Is he going to kiss me for the cameras?
I haven't got a clue. In fact, all I know for certain is that I want to see him again. And not just because he's gorgeous and kissed me with such intensity it made my toes curl. It's more than that. It's the spark of humor that laced our conversation. And it's the pain I saw hiding behind his eyes, a pain that still calls to me. That for some reason I want to try to soothe.
And all of that is well and good, but I need to remember that it's not the reason I'm in this car. I'm here because Lyle needs a date with the woman he was caught kissing. Because he's putting on a show for the public.
It's not a date; it's a job.
And as Lionel pulls up in front of Cut 360, a high-end restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, I remind myself to keep that fact very firmly in mind.
But every one of my sternly issued edicts dissolve in a puddle of goo the moment I step into the restaurant. Because that's when I see him. He's standing at the reception desk checking his phone, but it's as if he feels my eyes on him, because he looks up, then slips his phone into his pocket. He's wearing a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a red tie that matches my jewelry. He has just a hint of five-o'clock shadow on his jaw, and his hair is tousled--but whether from the wind or purposefully styled that way, I don't know.
He has an edgy, devil-may-care attitude, and as I stand there soaking him in, I completely understand why this man has been on the cover of every magazine imaginable.
For a moment, he just looks at me. Then he smiles, slow and sexy, and that's when I start to feel it. A low sizzle in the pit of my stomach. And when he takes a step toward me--when he takes my hand and whispers, "Laine," that's when I feel that zing all over my body, a sweet, shocking tingle, as if I've been caught in a lightning storm.
"How do you know my--"
"Marjorie told me." He tilts my chin up. "It's a lovely name," he murmurs, then brushes his lips over mine. "But I think I'm still partial to Sugar."
He takes my hand, then signals to the hostess, who leads us to a secluded booth in the bar area. Several heads turn as we pass, the attention making me uncomfortable. Lyle, however, doesn't even seem to notice.
"I'm sure they'll have a bar and appetizers at the opening," he says once we're seated, "but I wanted the chance to talk before we jumped into the deep end of the pool."
"That's good," I say. "Because from what Marjorie said, we're supposed to act like we've been dating. And right now, all I know about you is what I've learned from Google."
"You researched me?" He looks amused.
"Well, I didn't pull a credit report, if that's what you mean. But I poked around."
"Really." His mouth curves into a frown. "And what did you find out?"
I shrug. "Not much," I admit, then pause as a waitress comes to take our order. I decide on wine, figuring I can have one or two glasses early in the evening and still be fine for my shift at Blacklist later. And since I'm starving, I also order cheese fries, even though this really isn't a cheese fries sort of restaurant.
From Lyle's smile, I'm pretty sure he's thinking the same thing. "I figure there will be tuna carpaccio and barbecued shrimp appetizers at the opening," I tell him. "Besides, I always go for greasy food when I'm nervous."
He nods at the waitress, dismissing her, then reaches across the table to take my hand. "Are you nervous?"
"On a scale of one to ten? I'd say I'm at a thirteen."