She scowled at him. She hated to mingle. In fact, she hated parties, borne from a lifetime of watching her sisters be the life of every one they had ever attended. Since from a very young age she had known she didn’t have it in her to be the life of the party, she had decided to go the other way. She hugged walls, watched people and counted away the hours until she could leave and be free of the pressure of being a Connor girl at a party.
“But I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he recanted.
Richard had watched her face fall and he’d felt a little guilty raining on her parade so quickly. She’d been truly pleased that she had been picked out from among the throng. He didn’t want to spoil that. But he also didn’t want her getting her hopes up. Next week would be the end of this particular fairy tale. And at the end of the day, he needed his sensible assistant back.
Bridget regarded him as he sipped his champagne.
“This tastes horrible,” he noted, putting the glass down.
“It’s domestic,” she informed him. When he gasped, she reminded him, “Cable, remember. The budget didn’t call for foreign. So, let me get this straight. You don’t think I stand any chance of getting another green card next week, do you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t think I had any chance this week.”
“No.”
“But I did.”
“Fluke,” he quipped. He didn’t want to believe otherwise.
“Really,” she mumbled. “Care to place a wager on that?”
“You want to bet me?”
“A bet might make things more interesting.”
“What do you want?”
“If I get the green card next week, you agree to go on a vacation with me and my family in the Poconos for an entire weekend.”
“Deal. And if I win…you have to clean my loft for a month. Laundry and cooking included.”
“Deal,” she agreed and stretched out her hand. They shook and the bet was sealed. “That’s odd, though, I assumed you would have wanted to get out of Christmas.”
“The Christmas thing is only for two days, this is clean underwear for a month,” he told her.
That wasn’t entirely true. He’d cut his tongue out before he admitted it to her, but the truth was he was glad to have somewhere to go during the holidays. Bridget was his closest friend, and there really wasn’t anyone else he would rather spend that time with. Certainly not with his overly stuffy, extraordinarily successful family who would use the holidays to grill him about his net worth, his prospects for the future and his chances of making partner at V.I.P. Not that creating ad campaigns was a job worthy of the Wells name.
No, the next time he saw his family he wanted to present them with his own business. His name on the office door. His company that he would build into a success. Then maybe, just maybe, he would be forgiven for his lifetime of underachievement.
Bridget shrugged at his response and took another sip of her champagne. He was right. It was awful. But it didn’t matter. Not tonight. She had been picked above seven other beautiful women. She planned to savor the victory.
Not for too long, though. There was work to be done if she was going to compete seriously in next week’s show and she knew just the person to help her.
“Raquel!” Bridget called to the woman standing in the group of seven. Squealing with joy, Raquel bounced her way over to where Bridget and Richard stood.
“Oh, isn’t this exciting? Imagine, me on TV two weeks in a row.”
“Congratulations,” Richard offered her.
“Thank you, but I really had no doubt. But you, Bridget. See what mascara and the right shade of lipstick can do for you?”
“I’m beginning to,” she replied. “Listen, Raquel, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, do you think you could help me out for next week? I’m going to need a dress and more makeup and—”
“More makeup?” Richard protested. “What happened to all that stuff about not giving in to society’s dictates and taking the inner beauty high ground?”
“You were the one who made me put the makeup on in the first place!”
“That was when I thought it would be just once,” he countered. “Twice might compromise your morals.”
“Hello,” Bridget replied. “One word—television. There are no morals here.”
“She’s right,” Raquel agreed. “And say no more. Raquel to the rescue. Hee, hee, that rhymes.”
Neither Richard nor Bridget had the heart to tell her that it really didn’t.
“Give me your address and I will pick you up tomorrow. Then we’ll go shopping.”
“Hey,” Richard complained. “Tomorrow is a work day.”
“And this is work,” Bridget informed him. “I’m doing this for the show and for the client.”
“It will be so much fun,” Raquel bubbled. “I know just the dress place we should hit first. They have the most marvelous things for women. Even for women without breasts!”
“I have breasts,” Bridget grumbled.
“If you insist.”
“Sounds to me like a lot of effort for nothing.” This came from Jenna who had strolled over to their group during the conversation. “You don’t actually think a new dress is going to help you, do you dear?”
Bridget had to hand it to the woman, she played the catty bitch better than anyone on daytime television she’d ever seen. As a reply, she merely held up her card. “Green.”
Jenna smiled, displaying all of her white, perfectly formed teeth. “This week.”
She turned to Richard and moved up against him, definitively invading his personal space. “It’s good to see you again, Richard. I never really got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed dinner with you the other evening.”
“Uh…” he stuttered. “Sure. Dinner. It was nice.”
Bridget watched the scene in complete fascination. She wasn’t jealous. Richard had dated several women throughout the three years she’d known him, none of whom had ever exceeded his four-date limit. He had several goals in life, but as far as she knew establishing a long-term relationship wasn’t one of them. Which was really one more reason why any nebulous and burgeoning feelings she might have for him were ludicrous. She was the ultimate long-term relationship girl. At least, she’d always thought she would be. Those kinds of thoughts, however, were for another time.
For now, Bridget needed to concentrate on Jenna. Maybe she could learn something from her. Currently, she was wielding seduction skills the way a samurai wielded a sword. Bridget watched how Jenna slid her hand up the front of Richard’s suit coat. The way she leaned into his body without actually touching him. The way she tilted her neck at just the right angle to give a man a few ideas. And Richard, Bridget did not doubt, was a man who could quickly get ideas.
Jenna made it all seem so effortless.
“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” she purred, then chuckled. “That is, if Brock doesn’t pick me to be his wife.”
“Sure,” Richard concurred.
“Ladies. Until next week.” She turned and sauntered away and again Bridget couldn’t help but be impressed by how she managed to walk on those heels. It was something Bridget was going to have to practice. Right after she bought a pair of shoes with heels.
For effect however, she turned to glare at Richard. She wasn’t really angry with him, but there was no point in letting him off the hook that easy.
“What?” he asked in reference to her glare. “I was interviewing her.”
The glare continued.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” he replied to her silent accusation.
Her eyes only narrowed farther.
“Okay, maybe it is fair, but nothing happened. She’s trying to mess with you. Don’t let her get to you.”
“I don’t plan to,” Bridget assured him. “Now, I believe someone promised me ice cream.”
“That was for when you lost,” he said. “You won, which means you treat.”
Bridget scowled but figured that was only fair. “Want to come along, Raquel?”
“And do what?”
“Eat ice cream,” Bridget explained although she was pretty sure that had been obvious given the fact that they were going out for ice cream.
“Ice cream? You mean that stuff with all the fat and sugar and calories in it?”
“Yep, that about sums up ice cream.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
But Bridget could see she was tempted. “When was the last time you had ice cream?”
“I don’t remember,” Raquel whispered as if she were committing some sin by even considering it.
“It’s really good.”
“I suppose, maybe, they have a low-fat variety?”
“Nope. Not this place. All fat and hot fudge.”
“And sprinkles,” Richard added.
“Sprinkles,” Raquel repeated as if she were saying diamonds instead.
“My treat.”
“Okay, but I want to state for the record that I agreed under stress,” Raquel proclaimed and marched off in search of her coat.
Richard considered that. “I think she meant duress.”
Bridget smiled. Her new friend might not be the brightest, but she was an artist, and Bridget was planning on putting her face, hair and body safely in this woman’s hands.
She only hoped that Raquel was up to the challenge.
3
“YOU HAVE to come out,” Raquel explained patiently. “Or how can I possibly see what the dress looks like on you?”
“Trust me. It’s no good,” Bridget said from behind the dressing-room curtain.
“That’s what you’ve said about every one so far.”
“Because they have all been no good.” Bridget looked in the mirror and winced. This dress was a clingy, strapless silk number done in a deep purple that fell to just below her butt. Every time she tried to pull it down to completely cover her bottom one of her breasts popped free.
Suddenly, the curtain was thrust aside and Bridget tried to cover her exposed breast with her hands.
“No,” Raquel determined. “That’s not right.”
“Thank you,” Bridget sighed. “Let’s face it. It’s hopeless. We’re never going to agree. Why can’t I just find a nice, simple, black cocktail dress?”
“Because the point of this game is to stand out. We have to be like the peacock and ruffle our feathers.”
“What are you wearing?”
“A black cocktail dress,” Raquel admitted. “But I am, by my very nature, a peacock.”
Having no idea what that meant, Bridget instead glanced down at the one-billionth dress Raquel held in her hands.
“Try this one.” Raquel shoved the dress at her, pushed her back into the dressing room and closed the curtain with a deft motion.
Bridget stared down at the garment and sighed. It was time to face facts. A dress wasn’t going to turn her into a beauty. She looked into the mirror and took in her white skin, dark hair, which today she had pulled back into a ponytail, and her sticklike body.
Okay, maybe not sticklike, she decided. She did, in fact, have breasts, just not that much of them. She knew that because they kept popping out of dresses at the most unexpected times.
This dress was red. A vibrant red. A red so bright, she considered putting on sunglasses before trying it on. But she knew if she balked, Raquel would stomp her foot and pout, and for whatever reason, Bridget found herself slightly intimidated by the pout.
So she removed the purple concoction and stepped into the red number. It circled her neck leaving her shoulders and arms bare. It fell to the top of her knees, for which she was truly grateful, and when she turned…
“Something is missing,” Bridget announced through the curtain.
Again, it slid open and Raquel stood in the doorway. “What?”
“It’s got no back. Go out there and find it for me will you?”
“Silly, it’s not supposed to have a back. Now turn around and let me see the front.”
Bridget did as instructed and Raquel oohed. “You’re oohing. Don’t ooh. This is not an ooh dress. It’s got no back.”
“Just look at yourself, will you?” Raquel moved out of the way and Bridget left the tiny dressing area. Three full-length mirrors stood at the end of the tiny dressing-room hallway and Bridget walked toward them, wondering the whole time who the girl in the red dress was. It shimmered as she moved. Instead of making her seem too pale, it made her skin glow. The neckline plunged, but the gathered material sort of left the contents of her chest a mystery and when she turned…
“Ooh,” Bridget moaned.
“See.”
The dress did scoop dramatically, barely covering the small of her back, but the effect was…not so bad. Who knew she had such a killer back?
“This one?” she asked Raquel, confirming what she already suspected.
“That one.”
Bridget turned and studied herself again. “I’ll take it.”
“Wonderful,” Raquel stated.
“Does this mean we’re done?” Bridget asked hopefully. She couldn’t remember a day when she’d worked harder, and all they had done so far was shop.
“Don’t be silly. Now we need shoes.”
Bridget groaned. Shoes. She was never going to make it.
LATER THAT DAY, she limped her way into Richard’s office. He looked up from his drafting table and grimaced. “What happened to you?”
“Shoe accident,” she muttered. She hung her dress, draped in black plastic, on his coat rack then hobbled her way to the stool positioned on the other side of his drawing table. She climbed up on it and sighed in blessed relief to be off her feet.
“Shoe accident?”
“Yeah, I fell off a pair. You would be amazed at how high those things can actually go.”
He chuckled and nodded his head toward the dress. “Is that it?”
“It is.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.” She wanted it to be a surprise. Raquel had big plans for her including the dress, the sandals they had picked out to go with it that were currently being dyed to match, a new hairstyle and makeup. When all was said and done, Bridget was going to be a new woman and she wanted the effect to be startling.
So startling Richard might feel compelled to walk up to her, proclaim to the world his hidden passion for her—which, in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she exactly wanted him to have, but it played much better in her fantasy—and then sweep her off her feet.
At least she hoped he would sweep her off her feet. She really didn’t walk so well in the shoes.
“What are you doing?” she wondered aloud, taking a peek at his drawing.
He glanced around to make sure no one was passing by his office door then answered, “Stuff.”
“Stuff” for Richard meant non-work-related comic-strip stuff. Bridget never understood why he got so anxious about people uncovering his big dark secret. The great mystery was that the creative force behind most of V.I.P.’s successful ad campaigns was also a truly gifted cartoonist.
Whenever she asked him when he’d begun drawing comics, he’d shrug and mumble something about being a kid. Then invariably he would try to pretend it meant nothing to him. He would demean it by calling it a hobby. Or recreational drawing. Her favorite was when he referred to it as his creative Drano. Whenever the ideas stopped flowing for a product, he invariably turned back to the strip to get the creative juices moving.
The first time she saw one of his strips, she had immediately fallen in love with his talent. For months afterward she had begged him to submit the strip to a paper, a magazine, someone who could render a professional judgment. But he refused. Every once in a while, she would broach the subject again, but invariably he would balk.
Comic strips weren’t serious; advertising was serious, he would tell her.
The last time he’d said that she’d pointed out that writing an ad for a company called Breathe Better Mouthwash was not exactly what she would call serious. But he hadn’t budged.
“Let me see this one,” Bridget said.
He pushed the white paper filled with the neatly arranged boxes over the top of the two-sided desk and let her study it.
“So what has Betty gotten herself into this time?” Betty was his latest cartoon character. She’d shown up over a year ago in a drawing and had been a constant in his work since then. Betty coincidentally bore a striking resemblance to…well, Bridget.