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“It’s a gala event,” the woman told her, and then outlined exactly what charity the gala supported and more importantly, the expected celebrity content of its guest list as well as the kind of press expected.
“We do have some suggestions,” the woman began.
Molly smiled at her. “I think I’ve got it. But thank you.”
She remembered being interviewed by a journalist once who had spent the better part of the interview making snide, not particularlypassiveaggressive remarks about how low-maintenance and carefree she, the journalist, was.Shecouldn’t imagine spendingtwenty whole minuteson her appearance, much less the hours and hours that Molly did. And she certainly didn’t waste so much brainpowerworryingaboutclothes.
Though, of course, she’d been speaking to Magda.
That is why, Magda had told her imperiously,it is the words you type with your unmanicured fingers that go into magazines. While it is my face that graces the cover.
There were a lot of things Molly found herself uncertain about lately, but fashion, style, and how best to use both as her best weapons were not among them.
She changed swiftly into the smock waiting for her, and then handed herself over into the clutches of the beauticians, making her preferences known when it came to nail polish, toenail polish, brow shape, and the cosmetics themselves. She and a makeup artist had a robust discussion about lip shade and a smoky or un-smoky eye. And when she told the hairstylist her concept for hair, he agreed, his eyes lighting up.
And then all of them got to work.
One hour and fifty minutes later, she stood before the mirror with her hastily assembled team around her. She took a look at herself from each side, critically. Then she lifted her gaze so she could see everybody standing behind her. And beamed.
“You are all absolute stars,” she said, and meant it. “This is complete perfection.”
Then she walked upstairs to present herself for Constantine’s inspection, two hours to the second after she’d left his side.
And had the distinct pleasure of watching him do a double take.
He had been waiting for her with a drink in one hand, looking out one of the enormous windows over the city that lay before him as if displayed on a platter. He glanced at her, then looked back outside—only to whip that gaze back to her again.
She strode toward him, letting him take in the look she’d selected. “Does this garbage bag meet with your approval?”
For his part, Constantine was dressed in what should have been sober black tie, unremarkable in any way. But it was Constantine wearing it, so he looked not only faintly rumpled but as if the effort of standing upright was almost too much for him, so profoundly was he a creature who ought to have been horizontal. Stretched out lazily in the nearest bed, and not alone.
“I expected something ornate,” he said, but she didn’t think it was criticism.
Molly turned in a full, slow circle for him before he asked—or twirled that finger of his—so he could see the full effect. “You asked for starry-eyed adoration. And I think we can agree that I’ve delivered it.”
She already knew how the pictures would look. She had picked the simplest gown on offer, in a deep, luxurious blue. It looked like nothing much on a hanger, but she knew the designer well and had known at a glance that it would hug her perfectly and more, make her skin look luminous. She had the makeup artist make her look fresh and dewy, with a little bit of glamour around the eyes, on the off chance she couldn’t quite pull off full-on adoration at all times. And to top it off, the hairstylist had created a breathtaking bit of ponytail art that made her look like the girl next door.
Molly looked like innocence personified, and next to Constantine, she might as well have taken out a billboard announcing that she was Little Red Riding Hood, and he the Big Bad Wolf.
She could see by the way he grinned, slow and sure, that he agreed.
“The only question,” he said as he drew close, then took her arm in a possessive grip that made her whole body tighten, then melt, “is whether or not anyone will believe that a woman such as Magda could ever be innocent.”
“Love makes innocents of us all,” Molly said quietly, wishing those words sounded as arch as they had in her head. “Isn’t that the story you’re selling here? Magda, a known whore who is also the daughter of whores, is rendered into a Disney heroine at one touch of your wicked hand. What tabloid could resist such a lovely tale?”
He was still holding her arm, that hard palm of his wrapped around her bicep, which meant he was much too close. She knew his scent, now. She knew his heat. And the danger of his heavy-lidded gaze that only seemed to grow worse with time.
Or perhaps it was that she grew more susceptible with each day that passed.
“Why would anyone resist?” he asked, his voice rough.
And for a moment, while he gazed at her, she forgot where she was. She forgot who she was. The California sun streamed all over them both, but all she saw was the rich dark of his gaze. Her heart thudded. Her blood seemed to sing in her own veins, loud and clear.
When he turned away, steering her toward the door, she realized she had been holding her breath. And more, that she’d wanted absolutely nothing in that moment but to feel his mouth on hers again.
But Constantine did not kiss her that night. He waited.
First there was the red carpet in Los Angeles. Then it was a jaunt across the Pacific to Singapore, then on to Dubai, and then, in quick succession, Rome, Madrid, and then finally to Paris.
