My Front Page Scandal. Carrie Alexander
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as it was. But she knew she’d regret that tomorrow when coming in and finding a mess would put her in a bad mood for the rest of the morning.
That, and the fact that David still hadn’t called.
She snorted and jumped to her feet, suddenly determined to mow through the cleanup. Even the Gaultier dress and stilettos hadn’t been enough to entice him. What hope did the real Brooke Winfield have?
Alyce strolled in, making a rare appearance in what she considered the bowels of the building, where only the display department dwelled. Brooke tried not to be insulted. Her department consisted solely of one part-time assistant and three rooms—her office, a studio workroom and storage space. Granted, natural light would have been nice. However, neither vermin nor dirt were allowed, no matter what some believed.
“Ready for cocktails?” Alyce brandished the drawings for the February windows. “We’ve got something to celebrate.”
Brooke saw the stamp on the back of the sheets. “O.M. approved them?”
“I think it was the ruby-studded thong in the shape of a heart that put him over the top. How evil are we, turning a nice old man into a lech?”
Brooke took the drawings and tucked them safely away in the leather portfolio. “You realize we’re going to draw fire from Lois and Floyd and Genevieve in the executive suite. She’s been working on IV.” IV, as in intravenous fluids, was the employee nickname for O.M. Worthington the Fourth, who was the Chief Operating Officer of the department store and far more conservative than his father.
“Eh.” Alyce shrugged. “Throw a Teflon girdle in the window as a nod to the vanguard.” She looked around and shuddered at the stone walls and wooden beams that Brooke believed gave the rooms an interesting character. “Have you finished swabbing the decks? There’s a Grey Goose honking my name.”
Brooke checked her cell one last time. Her heart almost stopped when she saw she had a text from David.
Get ready. I’m coming for you.
“He’s coming for me,” she said in a drained, disbelieving voice.
Alyce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“Oh.” Brooke put a hand to her hair. In an instant, she’d forgotten there was another person in the room. “It’s someone I met the other night.”
“What night?”
“Last night.”
“When you were working?” Alyce smirked. “I knew it. Who is he?”
Brooke licked her lips. “David Carerra.”
“How do I know that name?”
“You would if you were a baseball fan.”
“He’s a baseball player? That’s fast-track, honey.” Alyce was clearly skeptical that Brooke could keep up. “And he’s coming here to pick you up for a date?”
“I—I think so.”
Alyce snapped her fingers. “We’ll have to do something about your clothes. Fast.” She spun on her heel, calling, “Be right back!” over her shoulder.
Brooke’s knees went out. She sank into her desk chair, compulsively checking the screen on the cell. No, she hadn’t imagined it. Yes, the message was clear.
Get ready. I’m coming for you.
But that didn’t mean she had to go.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Brooke was ready, but still unsure, when the knock came at the security entrance in the back of the store. Alyce had returned with a dress and boots she’d snatched off the racks and had listened to none of Brooke’s protests as she affected a quick makeover.
In truth, Brooke’s objections had been mild. The experience of wearing the leather minidress had taught her a few lessons about the power of fashion. Looking good translated to feeling confident. Looking sexy meant her inhibitions were much easier to ignore. Looking really, really sexy was…well, she would soon find out.
If she dared.
DAVID HADN’T KNOWN what to expect. Maybe Brooke, smiling with welcome or frowning with regrets. Maybe even a security guard. For all he knew, his message might have rubbed her the wrong way.
What he hadn’t expected was a woman who oozed so much sex appeal he could taste it. And feel it, too, from the standing-room-only roar in his head to the thickening below his belt.
“Brooke?”
She nodded. Yes, it was her.
He exhaled and said, “You’re beautiful,” because he couldn’t say that she’d given him wood as hard as a baseball bat.
“Too dressy?” Her hands smoothed the champagne garment over her hips. It covered more of her than the leather one, yet she appeared almost nude. He couldn’t figure that out, except that the shimmering fabric really clung to her curves. When she moved, the light hit the dress and it seemed semi-sheer. Her breasts, her thighs, the suggestion of a shadow between them—he could see almost everything, and his imagination filled in the rest. Just when he thought he was going to have a heart attack, she turned and the dress went back to being just a dress.
“You’ll be on the back of my bike,” he said. Damn, he should have hired a limo. She deserved the best.
Yeah, then what’s she doing with you?
“That’s what the boots are for.” She wore knee-high boots, white ones with steep heels. “And I have a jacket.”
“Then let’s go.” Real suave. No wonder she seemed hesitant. “I promised you a night you wouldn’t forget.”
“Yes, you did.” She looked down and her loose, tousled hair fell forward around her face, the glossy brown waves brushing her pinkened cheeks. Her lashes were thick and dark, her eyelids painted platinum to match the dress. She was more put together than last time—and more restrained.
Maybe she’d had second thoughts. Anyone would, reading the newspaper accounts that made him sound like a shiftless drunk. Just like his old man.
“I didn’t know if you’d really come back,” Brooke said softly.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He held out his hand, suddenly more confident. She was shy, not reluctant.
“Come with me,” he coaxed. “Please.”
Go with him, said the voice inside Brooke’s head.
Growing up, wanting for nothing, yet always living her life within the bounds of the family’s expectations, there’d never been a voice. Not one peep of objection from an inner wild child. But ever since the truth about her mother had started coming out, and Brooke had learned that Lindsay Beckham, the intimidatingly self-possessed president of the Martinis and Bikinis club, was actually her half-sister, a new voice had taken hold inside.
The voice contained many shades—Alyce, who’d encouraged Brooke to break out at work; her sisters, who’d shared the same experiences but had somehow managed to avoid suffocating under their weight; even her mother, whom Brooke now realized had practiced subversive rebellions in her own small ways. Primarily, though, Brooke believed that the voice sounded a lot like Lindsay.
Fierce, independent Lindsay, who dared everything, while Brooke dared nothing.
Go with him.
And so she did.
BROOKE’S STOMACH swooped as David sped around a rotary, one of Boston’s traffic circles, at top speed. She’d grown up in Brookline, gone to Wellesley for her MFA, lived and worked in Boston proper for six years before returning to the suburbs to care for her mother for the past year. The city’s maniac drivers didn’t scare her. She’d even been known to fling curse words and bang a few U-eys herself, in her nifty silver Toyota Prius.
But