Half an hour later, I don’t quite recognize myself. The black dress that Ana stuffed me into is Gucci, with a bustier-style top that I more than fill out and lacing up each side, giving a peek of a sliver of bare skin through the lacing from my breasts all the way down to the hem. It means I can’t wear a bra with it, and although the cups in the front are supportive enough, it makes me feel more bare and vulnerable than I’ve ever been. “If there’s a stiff wind outside, you’re going to be able to see my nipples through this,” I complain, but Ana just shrugs. “And it’s so tight.” Thankfully my stomach is flat enough that the dress lays perfectly over it, but it hugs me so tightly that you can see every curve. “You can see my underwear lines.”
“So wear a thong.”
“I don’towna thong,” I retort plaintively. “Anddon’ttell me I can borrow one of yours, that’s going way too far.”
“So go without.” Ana shrugs.
“What?” I turn a shade of red that could rival a stop sign. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.” She grins at me, fishing two pairs of heels out of her closet and bending over enough that I can see the flash of a lace thong upherskirt. The dress she’s wearing is the same cherry red as her lips and her nails. She called it a “Hermes bandage dress,” which means nothing to me, but is evidently a big deal, based on her tone.
A moment later, Ana emerges with the shoes, a pair of silver sandals for her and black pumps for me, both with the red bottoms that even I recognize. “I can’t wear these,” I protest. “What if I fall? What if I break a heel? These probably cost as much as a month’s rent.”
Actually, if anything happened to them, Icouldtechnically more than afford to replace them. But I don’t like admitting that. I’ve felt weird about the money in my account since the day I turned eighteen and it started appearing, and I don’t feel any less uncomfortable about it now. If I told Ana about it, she’d rightfully have a million questions, and there’s no way for me to explain it when I don’t even have the answers.
Of course, I’m talked into the shoes and out of my underwear exactly the way I’ve been talked into everything else, and as I totter to the bathroom in my new six-inch stilettos and an uncomfortable awareness that I’m wearing absolutelynothingunder this dress, Ana prepares to do things to my hair and face that I’ve only ever seen in movies. There’s products spread across her entire bathroom counter, from one end to the other, and I stand mutely in front of it as she goes to work.
When she’s done, I have to admit, I look incredible. My hair is curled into thick spirals that fall loosely around my face and make my hair look twice as thick as it ever has, and she’s done something to my eyes that makes them look huge and full and round, with a thick, sharp cat eye at each corner. Topped off with the same cherry red lipstick, I look like a Hollywood actress.
“You look gorgeous.” Ana looks thoroughly pleased with herself. “You’re going to be the envy of every woman in Manhattan tonight.”
“I’m pretty sure those women have panties on,” I mutter, gingerly touching one of the fake eyelashes that she applied. They feel heavy and strange on my face, but I have to admit they make my eyes stand out.
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Ana gives me a cheeky grin. “I already called our Uber, so we’ve got to head down.” She caps the lipstick and tosses it into her small silver purse, then hands me a sleek lacquered black clutch. I open it to see another tube of lipstick, a thin sleeve of tissues, and nothing else.
“Don’t I need an ID? I’m not old enough to drink for another two months—”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Ana says confidently. “No one will question you. You’re with me tonight.”
Something about the way she says it makes me nervous. I shrug it off as anxiety about going out, and it’s not until we’re already in the Uber and headed into downtown Manhattan that I recognize the feeling. It’s the same one that I had eight years ago, when a man I didn’t recognize brought me a letter from my dead father.
That feeling is a warning.
I just don’t know why, after all these years, I’m feeling it now.
Luca
My head is pounding, loudly enough that I don’t think I heard a single word of what my secretary just said to me. It’s been pounding since I woke up this morning with the hangover of the century, sandwiched between two gorgeous naked blondes, breathing in the heavy scent of perfume and sex.
That, in and of itself, was strange. I don’t usually allow women to sleep over—I prefer having my California king all to myself, and no questions to answer in the morning. Nowhat are weorwhen can we do this againor evenwill you call me?No awkward breakfasts in which I pretend that I’m going to call and she—or they—pretend to believe me.
Most of them don’t come home with me expecting more than one night of passion, though. I’ve been Manhattan’s most notorious playboy since the minute I was old enough to legally fuck, and even more so once I had a penthouse to call my own. At thirty-one, I’ve had more nights with one or more women in my bed than without. They just rarely stay over. In fact, I can only think of a few occasions—and those were usually somewhere else, on weekend benders when I did little other than stay in bed, fuck to my heart’s content, and order room service and champagne in between.
Eight years ago, I was given a get-out-of-jail free card, a pass on holy matrimony for the rest of my life, and I’ve enjoyed it to the fullest. I intend to continue doing so—but these days, there’s more meetings and business trips and fewer hazy weekends in Ibiza.
Which brings me back to my pounding headache, and the secretary that I should probably be paying attention to.
“Franco called—he wants to know if you’ve got his bachelor party booked. He was very insistent that it be out of the country, somewhere with fewer restrictions on—”
“I’m sure I know what Franco wants.” I rub a hand over my face. “Look, just make the arrangements, and run them by me before they’re finalized, okay?”
“Yes sir.” The secretary—I think her name is Carmen---shifts from one foot to the other. “And the engagement party—”
I look directly at her, bypassing her generous cleavage to gaze straight into her eyes. “Let me be clear, Karen.”
“It’s Carmen, sir.”
“I don’t care.” I sit back, wincing as another bolt of pain shoots through my temples. “I don’t give a fuck about the engagement party. Call Mrs. Rossi. It’s her daughter’s party, for fuck’s sake.”