Who Wants To Marry a Heartthrob?. Stephanie Doyle
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told her parents how amazing her work was and how, when he did leave to start his own ad agency, she was the only one he wanted to come with him. He’d said that he couldn’t succeed without her.
And he’d meant it. The bastard!
One lousy night and suddenly she found herself doing the strangest things, like fussing with her appearance. Something she never did. Her sisters had taught her at a very early age that she was never going to be as pretty as they were so there was really no point in trying. Bridget agreed. In fact, she’d gone so far as to rebel against makeup, styling products and all beauty accoutrements. She preferred looking like herself and not some made-up version of herself with too much eye shadow. And in doing so, she felt that she was making a personal stand for inner beauty in women everywhere.
Not to mention it saving her a lot of money.
Until now. These days she wore perfume to the office and tried to style her long, straight hair rather than wearing it in a bun every day. Not that Richard had noticed any of it. Heck, he didn’t even think she would make the cut on his stupid show.
Wouldn’t that show him if she did make the cut? What would he think then?
The fact that she shouldn’t care so much what he thought didn’t enter into Bridget’s thought process at the moment. Instead she realized that making it to the second round of his stupid show might just prove to him and the world that she was, in fact, a woman.
A desirable woman, if not a spectacularly beautiful one.
Bridget’s mind raced with the possibilities. If she could somehow manage to get close to Brock and dazzle him with her keen wit and natural charm, maybe she could convince him to keep her around for a while. Maybe he might actually fall for her and then Richard would be forced to acknowledge that it was possible for other men to find her attractive.
The seeds of a plan sprung deep in her cortex. All she had to do was attract Brock’s attention.
Bridget turned her gaze to where he stood amongst five of the bevy of beauties. He was flexing his bicep. They giggled, he smiled, and Bridget wanted to puke. Okay, maybe he wasn’t her type. Still, all she had to do was get close enough to talk with him, maybe make him laugh, and she might have a shot.
If that didn’t work, she could always try bribing him. It would be worth anything, if for no other reason than to see Richard eat his words.
“I’ll do it,” she finally announced.
“Really?” he asked, clearly astonished. “I thought you were going to make me do a lot more begging and pleading. All of which, I have to admit, I was willing to do.”
“Not so fast,” she said. “My surrender comes at a price. There is a condition.”
“Damn, I knew that was too easy,” he cursed under his breath. “Okay, let me have it. What do you want?”
“Christmas is coming up in a few months…”
“Oh, no.”
“How many minutes before we go live?”
Her smile was sweet, albeit sinful, and his eyes narrowed as he pantomimed rolling up his sleeves. It’s not as if he didn’t know who he was messing with when he began this particular game. He knew exactly what she was playing for, and considering the stakes, he was willing to negotiate. “One day.”
“Two.”
“A day and a half.”
“Christmas Eve dinner, Midnight Mass and brunch the following morning, all in the presence of my family.”
She was going for the gusto. But so was he. “Fine.”
“And you have to buy me a present.”
“Evil,” he whispered.
“It’s a little game I like to play called hardball, Richard. You should know it, you’re the one who taught me how to play.”
“Agreed. Now, let’s try and do something with you.” Richard scanned the contestants. He remembered from their résumés that one of them was a makeup artist who worked in a salon. “Rachel,” he called to one of the girls and motioned her to come over.
A buxom, blue-eyed blonde stood and made her way toward them in a hip-swaying walk that drew the attention of every man in the room. “It’s Raquel,” the woman said in a perfect imitation of Marilyn Monroe’s breathy tones.
“Okay. You’re the makeup lady right?”
“I am an artist,” she replied, somewhat affronted.
Richard pushed Bridget in front of the woman’s face. “Can you do something with her?”
Raquel studied her face. “Well, first we would have to remove all that awful white powder.”
“I’m not wearing any makeup,” Bridget said.
“Ahh!” the woman gasped clearly horrified at such an announcement.
“Except for my Bobby Brown eyeliner,” Bridget conceded. “I mean a girl’s got to have something.”
“Look,” Richard snapped. “We’re running out of time. Just do something. Okay?”
“I can try,” the woman replied. “I’ll need my kit. Come with me.”
“Can’t you just get it and bring it here?” Bridget asked.
“Oh, I can’t carry it. It’s way too heavy. My boyfriend…I mean my ex-boyfriend…took it upstairs and left it in one of the bedrooms. Follow me.”
“Hurry,” Richard urged, only to have Bridget stick her tongue out at him as she walked by. “And while you’re at it, take off those glasses, too!”
BRIDGET FOLLOWED the voluptuous Raquel up the stairs, noting the makeup artist’s walk as she did. She tried to mimic the hip-swaying action, but each time she thrust her hip out to the left or to the right all she managed to do was throw her body off balance. Tripping her way up the stairs was nowhere near as sexy.
They reached the top hallway and turned into one of the bedrooms where a full-size trunk sat at the end of the bed. Raquel flipped the latches and opened the lid to reveal a treasure trove of color beneath it.
“Wow,” Bridget reacted. She hadn’t seen this much makeup in…she’d never seen this much makeup.
“I know. I’ve collected shades from all over the world.”
“Really?”
“No, I just think it sounds more exotic when I say that. But they’re definitely from all over the tri-state area. New York, New Jersey and Long Island.”
Bridget considered informing Raquel that Long Island wasn’t a state, but decided they really didn’t have enough time. Instead she grabbed a chair from a corner of the room and pulled it close to the trunk. She took off her glasses and tucked them into the pocket of her black capri pants.
“Okay,” Bridget said lifting her face. “Have at it. Just don’t make me look like a hooker.”
Again, Raquel appeared to be offended. “Do I look like a hooker?”
Bridget considered the body-hugging strapless red dress that clung to the woman’s figure like plastic wrap. “Uh…no?”
Moments later various brushes were running over her face as Raquel talked. “The truth is you have very smooth skin. If I had more time, and could do something with your hair, and your clothes and your breasts—”
“Hey, no messing with my breasts,” Bridget stated. But the idea did have merit. If she could stay on the show for another round, get a little professional help, maybe she could pull an ugly duck–beautiful swan transformation. That would mean Raquel would have to stick around, too. “So, do you think you’ll make the first cut?”
“Of