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“Fine, go.” He released her. “But come back fighting, Kirsty. No running. Fighting.”
He gave her a smile heavy with meaning.
“I know you can take me,” he said.
She ducked her head and fled. But not before he saw a spark flash in her eyes.
“That’s my girl,” he whispered with pride.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kirsty pushed her way through the crowd, blissfully unnoticed by the press, but then she didn’t exactly look and act like the model she’d once been. There was no reason why anyone should recognise her. She shut her shop door behind her, leaned her head against the cool glass and concentrated on breathing slowly.
Fight me, Lake had said. Use everything you have.
The words fanned a flame of courage inside her. Instead of thinking about what she didn’t have and couldn’t do, she needed to start thinking about what she did have at her disposal. Her heart began to race. For the first time in years it was from excitement rather than anxiety. What did she have at her disposal? She had a shop full of lingerie, half a body and a scandalous past. And now she had a plan.
Without taking time to analyse her decision, lest she chicken out, she marched through her shop, stopping only to pick up a tangerine satin corset set and sheer stockings. She ran up the steps to her flat and rummaged in the back of the wardrobe for the coat her mum had given her for Christmas two years earlier—it was white, ankle length and made of faux fur. It was one of the gaudiest things she’d ever seen. Poor Mum, she never did have any taste. Still, she was grateful for it now. In the bathroom she ran some mousse through her hair, giving it that tousled bedroom look. Thick black eyeliner, a brush of grey shadow and an extra set of eyelashes and her eyes were smoky and sexy. Pale pink lipstick and she was done.
Back in the bedroom, she opened the closet door to reveal the full-length mirror she never looked in. Her eyes flicked to the window and the crowd down below in the street. They would be leaving soon.
It was now or never.
Her stomach clenched at the thought. She tried to calm it with logic. Telling it that this was nothing she hadn’t spent years doing. Before her stomach could answer back, she stripped and pulled on the corset set. The satin material stretched across her body and hid the scar that curved round her right side and onto her stomach. She smoothed on her stockings, clipping them into the suspenders. There were no scars on the few inches of skin that peeked out between the stocking and the lace edge of her panties.
With great effort she looked at herself objectively. The coat would hide the scars on her shoulder and arm, but the scars on her neck worried her. She would have to make sure she held the collar up while she posed, otherwise the pictures would be all about the scars. With a deep and shaky breath, she pulled on the fur coat. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated. She picked out a pair of designer shoes. They were several seasons out of date but she doubted anyone would notice.
The voice in the back of her head told her she looked more like a cheap hooker than a once popular model. She ignored it. In her modelling days she’d made stuff a lot tackier than this look classy. She could do it again.
Taking a deep and shaky breath, she headed for the stairs before she could stop herself, or before she passed out from thinking about what she was going to do. As her hand rested on the doorknob, a thought hit her. She turned and walked through to her office. She took the long strand of papier-mâché beads from the bowl on her desk and slipped them over her head. They didn’t exactly go with the outfit, but they felt right. For some reason the fact she’d worn them on her last professional photo shoot, before the accident, made them seem like the perfect thing to wear now. Her hand trembled as she stroked the beads. She was literally half the woman she’d been the last time she wore them.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispered out loud.
Her stomach lurched. She knew that it was a lie. She probably wasn’t going to be okay. She was probably going to make a fool of herself in front of the town and the national press. Her scars would be revealed, the coat would slip or the wind would blow—something would happen. She was sure of it. And then all anyone would talk about would be the scars. Not the fact she was healthy and alive. Not the fact her shop needed the business. Not even the fact she was fighting again.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” she said aloud. “Nothing is set in stone. You don’t know what will happen. You don’t.”
Now she was really beginning to feel like she’d lost her mind.
With a shuddering deep breath, she opened the door to her shop and stepped out into the crowded high street. For a second, everything was surreal. She was dressed like a cheap hooker on a Saturday afternoon in Invertary. Her steps faltered. Then someone shouted above the crowd.
“Isn’t that Kirsty?”
Slowly everyone turned towards her. Kirsty forgot how to breathe. With great effort she smiled at everyone and took a step. The ground did not open up beneath her. She took another step and another; her hips began to sway as they remembered the walk she’d perfected as a model. And before she knew it, she was halfway across the road.
There was no going back now.
Lake felt the atmosphere change before he became aware that people were moving towards the front of her shop. The excitement in the chatter went up a notch.
“Holy smoke,” Betty called from where she was posing “for her fans” next to his tuxedoed cut-out. “It’s Kirsty.”
Everything within him went on high alert. He pushed his way through the crowd. He made it to the door as things grew eerily quiet. They parted for him, like the Red Sea for Moses. Next thing he knew, he was standing on the pavement watching Kirsty sway towards him in an ankle-length fur coat.
“Shut your trap,” Betty said beside him. “The drool is ruining your fancy suit.”
His mouth snapped shut.
Kirsty walked straight at him as cameras clicked and flashed. Her eyes never left his. Those deep, smoky eyes. She stopped in front of him, both hands fisted in the fur, holding the coat shut at her neck.
