Bachelor on the Prowl. Kasey Michaels
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thirties movies. Shoulders out to here,” she said, using her hands to show the width of her shoulders. “I could play fullback in my nephew’s peewee football league.”
Throughout this tirade, Irene had been counting male heads, watching the door, and counting heads again. “You’re through?” she asked with the patience of a mother of five. “Good. Now, back to our problem.”
“No problem,” Holly said. “We just ax one of the other bridal gowns and slip the groom on Jackie’s arm.”
“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. Oh—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 finale.”
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 tie, beginning to unbutton the model’s shirt. She then dropped to her 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 Holly, now standing on a small stool, 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