"Chasing Harry Winston" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weisberger Lauren)

all cocky confidence and killer smiles

It always baffled Adriana why people hated flying so much. Really, what was so awful about a few hours spent curled under a cashmere travel blanket sipping champagne and watching movies? The food was hideous, of course, even in first class, but when you came equipped with the staples (Zone bars, a Whole Foods mixed-fruit salad, and an Evian mister), it could actually be quite enjoyable. Especially when, like today, your seatmate was a handsome, famous, unattached actor. A TV actor, admittedly, but still a star on NBC’s most popular primetime series, a show even Adriana watched. He’d just gone through a very public breakup with a twenty-one-year-old trashy daytime soap star with a knockout body. Adriana had followed the whole tawdry affair in US Weekly, right down to reprints of the angry BlackBerry messages they’d exchanged one night from opposite coasts, and she was convinced he could do better. She’d thought it then, but now, sneaking subtle glances at his pretty profile and his sculpted biceps, she was quite positive.

Too bad she was taken, Adriana thought with an audible sigh. This caused her seatmate to glance up, a gesture Adriana consciously ignored. Lord knew there was no more challenging species than the ego-inflated entertainer-Adriana had dated enough actors, musicians, comedians, and professional athletes to consider herself an authority-and any girl worth her La Perlas knew that they responded to one and only one thing: a challenge. They were more like children than real people, Adriana always said, and so it stood to reason that the only thing they desperately wanted was what they couldn’t have-which is precisely why Adriana pretended he didn’t exist.

She had immediately recognized him when he claimed the aisle seat next to her but had provided only a “hmm” when he politely said hello. Filling the time between boarding and takeoff with as many chatty and upbeat phone calls as possible, and switching on her iPod the moment electronic devices were permitted-before he could make the decision to drown her out-Adriana felt as though she’d done an adequate job so far. And when the cheerful flight attendant asked if she’d like a drink, a request that Mr. TV Actor repeated to Adriana, she smiled only at the flight attendant, ordered another champagne, and once again donned her headphones.

Minutes later he pulled out a script and made a big show about flashing the telltale CAA cover. He began to read, although Adriana got the feeling he was really just flipping the pages for appearance’s sake. For her benefit, naturally-she was supposed to be impressed. She rolled her eyes and allowed herself to smile, a gesture he picked up on immediately. Adriana wasn’t the least bit surprised. He was, after all, just waiting for an excuse to talk to her.

“Are you listening to something funny?” he asked, flashing a pretty decent smile of his own.

Adriana wasn’t actually listening to anything at all. The headphones were merely a prop, something that indicated her disinterest in talking, and as she’d predicted, they’d done their job to perfection.

She glanced at him, waited a moment, and slowly pushed the left one off her ear.

“Pardon?” she asked with wide eyes. “Did you say something?”

“I was just wondering if you were listening to something funny. You were laughing…”

Adriana waited a few seconds longer than necessary to throw him off balance and then stepped in to save him. “Oh, did I? No, I was just remembering something really fun.” Vague. Suggestive. Mysterious. All Adriana’s specialty.

He grinned. Christ, he was cute. “Well, I’d love to hear about it. We’ve got nothing but time,” he said, extending his arms. “Four and a half hours, to be precise.”

“I might take a rain check,” Adriana said. Slowly, she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear, making sure that he got a good look at her delicate, feminine hands, with their elegantly long fingers and pale pink lacquered nails and unblemished skin, and then offered one to him. “Adriana,” she said, giving her name a little extra Brazilian inflection.

“Dean,” he said, swallowing her hand in his.

Of course she already knew this, but Adriana made no sign of recognition. “So, Dean, what brings you to LA today?” she asked innocently.

“Just some meetings. With some directors and studio people, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, you’re an aspiring actor! I had no idea.” She was laying it on thick now, but it was necessary. Of course no aspiring actor would fly first class, but he’d gotten too famous too fast; if she gave even an inch, his ego would crush them both. Plus, just a hint of recognition on her part would instantly plummet her from a sexy and sophisticated Brazilian New Yorker to a sycophantic starstruck fan, and Adriana would rather die than let that happen.

“Uh, no, actually, I-”

“Well, good luck with your audition! Are you nervous?”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not an audition. I’m actually already-”

“Dean?” Adriana interrupted sweetly. “Would you mind flagging down the flight attendant for me? I would just adore another glass of bubbly.”

He sighed, motioned for the flight attendant, and ordered a Jack and ginger in addition to Adriana’s champagne. “Do you live in LA?” he asked, now even more eager to continue the conversation, in order to correct her misconceptions.

“Me? In Los Angeles? Never.” Adriana laughed. “I’m just visiting a friend for the weekend.” It certainly wasn’t any of his business that her “friend” was actually her boyfriend, none other than Toby Baron, a name that would probably send poor Dean’s head into a full spin. “Nothing as exciting as a real audition! Is it for TV or a movie?”

His expression indicated defeat. To correct her assumption, he’d basically have to announce who he was-something his ego would never allow. She had him now, she was sure. So sure, she began to count. Five, four, three, two, one, and…

“Say, Adriana, why don’t you let me take you to dinner? You and your friend, if you’d like. LA’s not half-bad…if you know where to go.”

Bingo. She still had it. She might be skirting thirty, but she could still get any man-well, almost any man, but that was probably Yani’s fault and not hers-to ask her out in ten minutes or less. Her work here was finished.

“Oh, I so wish I could, Dean, but I’m all booked up this weekend.” It required superhuman effort to say the words, but she was in a monogamous relationship. Just last week Toby had announced he was no longer dating other people, and he expected Adriana wouldn’t, either. Her first committed boyfriend-and perfect husband material to boot. Educated at all the right East Coast schools, made a name (and millions) for himself with big hits right out of USC film school, and currently one of Hollywood’s most sought-after directors. It gave her great pleasure to imagine her friends’ shock when, a mere few months down the road, she announced her engagement. And her mother! The woman would faint, Adriana was sure of it. Only these thoughts gave her the strength to reject this delectable treat of a man sitting next to her.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to do it in New York, then,” Dean said, all cocky confidence and killer smiles.

“I guess so,” Adriana shot back without a moment’s hesitation. What’s a girl supposed to do? she asked herself. A meal was just a meal, and no one could say she hadn’t been the model girlfriend so far. He was just so cute.

They chatted for the rest of the flight, and by the time they deplaned, Adriana knew exactly what she’d do to him in bed. She remembered only at the last possible second that she was supposed to meet Toby in the baggage claim.

“Dean, querido, I’ve got to freshen up a bit. I must say good-bye now.”

“I’ll wait. I’ve got a car coming to pick me up, so I’ll just drop you at your friend’s place,” he said, stopping outside a ladies room.

“No, darling, but thank you. You go ahead.” She lowered her lashes and looked up at him through half-closed eyes. “I’d rather we just wait for New York.”

“Love it,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I’ll call you.”

“You do that,” she purred.

Adriana ducked into the restroom and killed five minutes freshening her makeup, after which she strode confidently to the baggage claim to meet her boyfriend. She wasn’t distraught to find a uniformed driver holding a sign with her name instead of a smiling Toby. They were going to have the entire weekend together, after all, and she could use a few minutes’ break from flirting, game-playing, and being otherwise fabulous. The driver hauled her Goyard trunk onto a luggage cart-rolling suitcases were so bourgeois-and handed her an envelope with the Twentieth Century Fox logo in the left corner.

“Mr. Baron sends his apologies for being unable to meet you,” the driver said, leading the way to the parking lot.

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” Adriana said brightly. “I’m just going to nap a bit in the car, if you don’t mind.”

Once installed in the plush backseat of a late-model town car, however, Adriana found she was too excited to sleep. Two and a half months and she was finally going to see Toby’s legendary Hollywood Hills mansion. She read and reread his letter (Darling Adriana, I’m so sorry to have missed you at the airport, but something unexpected arose at the last minute. I promise to make it up to you. Love, T), noted his use of love-probably just a Hollywood affectation, she thought, since there was no way he actually loved her already…was there?-and sighed with pleasure. This whole monogamy thing was a breeze. Why on earth had she resisted for so long? It might not be quite as exciting as dating half a dozen men at once, but it certainly was less exhausting. Plus, as much as she hated to admit, her mother was right. Just this morning on the plane she’d noticed her thighs spreading a touch wider on the leather seat. When she bolted to the lavatory to investigate, she noticed a tiny line near her left eye-a wrinkle. To hell with those hideous fluorescent lights and those so-called security precautions that kept a girl from bringing proper skin-care products on board! A couple more inches of thigh-spread or-god forbid-a full-fledged crow’s-foot, and she wouldn’t be landing successful directors or hot actors. It was time to get serious and find someone who could care for her properly, and Adriana was extremely pleased with her own progress so far. At twelve years her senior (and a teensy bit dorky, she had to admit), Toby was blessed to have someone as young and gorgeous as Adriana, and he, thankfully, seemed to realize that.

As if on cue, Toby’s name flashed across her cell phone’s screen. She waited for it to ring three full times and then answered.

“William?” she asked in a confused tone.

“Adriana? Is that you?” Poor Toby sounded baffled and a bit indignant.

“Oh, Toby, querido! How are you, sweetheart? What a lovely note you wrote!”

“Who’s William?” he barked.

“William who, darling?” She sighed to herself. The whole charade was tiresome, but necessary.

“You thought I was someone named William. When you answered, you said, ‘William.’ I am asking you again: Who’s William?”

“Toby, darling, I just made a silly little mistake! You know how forgetful I can be sometimes. I’ve never even met a man named William, I promise.” Adriana lowered her voice and segued seamlessly from sweet schoolgirl to sexy seductress. “Now tell me, are you excited to see me? Because I am very excited to see you.”

“I can’t wait to get my hands on you,” he breathed into the phone.

Men were so easy to manipulate it was almost criminal. How could there be so many women who didn’t understand that with the smallest bit of discipline and a touch of creativity, they could have any man they desired?

Her other line clicked just as the driver pulled onto the 405 and Adriana said, “Toby, I have to take that. Will you meet me at the hotel when you’re free?”

“Is that William?” he asked possessively.

“No, darling, I’m sorry to report that it’s nothing as exciting as a secret lover. It’s actually my mother calling.”

“So you admit there is a secret lover?”

She laughed gaily and decided to give the poor man a break; besides, it wasn’t even challenging anymore. “There is absolutely no secret lover. Just a Brazilian mother in her fifties who wants to tell me all the ways I’ve been a horrible daughter lately.”

“I’ll see you soon,” he said gruffly and hung up.

Adriana took a deep breath and clicked over. “Mama! So good to hear from you.”

“Tell me, Adi, wherever are you these days?”

“In the figurative or the literal sense?”

“Adriana, I am not in the mood for games,” Mrs. de Souza said.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, worrying not that her father had a heart attack or one of her hundreds of cousins had met an untimely death, only that her parents were considering an extended visit to New York.

“I just got off the phone with Gerard. He said you left this morning with a suitcase the size of a Land Rover.”

“You called my doorman to spy on me?” Adriana cried, forgetting that Toby’s driver could hear every word. “How dare you!”

“I called my doorman,” Mrs. de Souza shot back. “Adriana, I thought we just discussed this. Your father did not appreciate your American Express bill last month. It was, I recall, ten thousand on clothes and shoes, and another ten on travel and entertainment. You were ordered to significantly reduce all frivolous expenses, and now you’re off flitting around again.”

“Mama! I am not ‘flitting around’ anywhere. I happen to be in Los Angeles.” She lowered her voice and covered her mouth with her hand.

“I’m seeing a man. A very eligible man.” She lowered her voice even further, to a whisper. “This is not an expenditure; it’s an investment.”

Well, this seemed to quiet the old woman. Adriana found it humiliating that she was at her parents’ mercy, since it was their apartment. They could arrive anytime, without warning, and stay for as long as they liked. They could question every dollar she spent on clothes or facials or flights simply because they were paying the bills. And now, as a thirty-year-old woman, she was being forced to justify Toby. She was glad no one else was there to witness it.

“Is that so?” her mother asked. “And who, may I ask, is this gentleman?”

“Oh, just a little movie director. You know Toby Baron, don’t you?”

Adriana heard her mother gasp and was nearly delirious with pleasure.

“Tobias Baron? Didn’t he win an Oscar?”

“He most certainly did. And he was nominated for two others. Yes, he’s probably one of the top three most influential directors alive today,” Adriana said proudly.

“What is your relationship with Mr. Baron?” her mother asked.

“Oh, he’s my boyfriend.” Try as she might, she couldn’t mask the glee in her voice.

“Boyfriend? Adi, querida, you haven’t had a boyfriend since seventh grade. Do you mean to tell me you are dating him exclusively?”

“That is exactly what I’m telling you, Mama,” Adriana said. “In fact, this visit was all his idea. He said it felt strange not having me be a part of his life in Los Angeles, not knowing his friends and what his home looks like.” Again she lowered her voice and bent her head below the driver’s seat back. “Which, incidentally, I’ve heard is incredible.”

Truth be told, she’d done more than heard: In her many hours spent researching Toby online, she’d run across an article in InStyle that featured a dozen or so interior shots of his bachelor pad. Adriana already knew he preferred a sparse modern look for his four bedrooms and five baths; that his home was Balinese-style with indoor/outdoor showers and gardens, plus separate pavilions for eating, living, and sleeping; that, to top it all off, there was a drop-dead gorgeous infinity pool that looked like it stretched to, well, infinity over the valley below. She had decided sight unseen that with only a few minor adjustments (surely the master bedroom would need a built-in vanity and the immediate installation of proper California Closets), she would be very, very happy living there.

“Well, querida, we’re willing to overlook it this time. But please do show a bit of restraint in the future. I don’t have to tell you that your father has been under a lot of stress lately.”

“I know, Mama.”

“And behave yourself with Mr. Baron,” her mother warned. “Don’t forget everything I’ve taught you.”

“Mama! Of course I won’t forget.”

“If anything, the rules become even more important with wealthy and powerful men. They are the most accustomed to having women fall at their feet, and in turn are the most appreciative when they meet someone who refuses to do so.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Maintain your mystery, Adriana! I realize you go to bed with men far faster now than we did in my day, but that makes it even more important to remain a bit unattainable in other areas. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama. I understand perfectly.”

“Because you’re not setting a great precedent by flying across the country to see a man,” Mrs. de Souza said.

“Mama! It’s time. He’s been to visit me in New York four times already.” So she might have been exaggerating a touch, but her mother didn’t have to know that.

“And you’re staying at a hotel, I hope?”

“Of course. Even though it would be much less expensive to stay at his house…”

The mere suggestion of this sent her mother into a panic. “Adriana! You know better than that! Of course your father and I would appreciate your showing a bit more financial sensitivity, but this particular area is nonnegotiable.”

“I was kidding, Mama. I have a suite reserved at the Peninsula and I plan to use it.”

“And remember: no spending the night! If you absolutely must be intimate with him, then at least have the good sense to leave afterward.”

“Yes, Mama.” Adriana smiled to herself. Most moms warned their daughters against casual sex for fear of potential disease, disrespect, or reputation. Mrs. de Souza had none of these concerns; she feared only that a false move would irreparably damage the relationship’s power balance and make the end goal-Adriana’s swift betrothal to a proper man-even more difficult to achieve.

“Well, all right, dear, I’m glad we had this chat. He does sound very promising. Certainly far favorable to the men you usually date…”

“I’ll call you when I’m back in New York on Sunday, okay?”

Her mother made a tsk-tsk sound and said, “Let me see here…I’m just checking my book. Ah, yes, we’ll be in Dubai then. The cell should work, but it’s always better if you just ring the apartment phone. Do you have that number?”

“I have it. I’ll call you there. Wish me luck!”

“You don’t need luck, querida. You’re an absolutely stunning girl that any man-Mr. Tobias Baron certainly included-would be delighted to have. Just remember your responsibilities, Adriana.”

They kissed over the phone and hung up. Adriana glanced at the driver to see how much he might have heard, but he was talking quietly into his own Bluetooth headset. There was no denying that her mother was exhausting and, judging from Leigh’s and Emmy’s stories, quite different from most moms, but it was hard to argue with her accomplishments. Mrs. de Souza had turned a phenomenally successful modeling career into a lifetime of luxury and leisure, all provided by a kind, hardworking man who worshipped the ground she walked on. A compound in São Paulo, an oceanfront mansion in Portugal, and gorgeous flats in both New York and Dubai…well, that wasn’t something to sneeze at. The furs and jewels, cars and staff weren’t bad, either, and naturally Mrs. de Souza made very good use of her unlimited and unquestioned spending (a clause she’d insisted upon before the wedding ceremony took place). It might be tiresome enduring the endless “lessons” from her mother, but Adriana did not question the woman’s authority on all things men-related.

Adriana gazed out the window as they exited the 405 on Wilshire and weaved their way through Westwood and then Synagogue Alley. It had been a couple years since Adriana had last been in LA, but she was pretty sure the driver had just missed the turnoff to her hotel.

“Sir? Excuse me, I think we just passed the Peninsula. Wasn’t that Santa Monica Boulevard?”

He coughed and looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Mr. Baron has redirected us to another location, ma’am.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, I’m afraid I have to override him. I would like to go to my hotel first, please.” As eager as she was to see Toby’s palatial spread, i.e., her future home, she desperately needed to attend to her humidity-limpened hair and sallow travel complexion. And then there was dealing with the whole “ma’am” incident.

Much to her chagrin, and then her shock, the driver ignored her and kept driving. Was she being kidnapped? Was the driver some pervert who lost his mind the second a pretty girl got in the backseat? Should she call Toby? Her mother? The police?

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s just that-”

“Can you please not call me ‘ma’am’?” Adriana snapped, all thoughts of imminent death gone.

The driver looked appropriately embarrassed. “Of course. Miss. I was just saying that I think you’ll be pleased with where we’re headed.”

“Are we going to Madonna’s Kabbalah center?” she asked hopefully.

“No, ma’am. Uh, miss.”

“Tom’s Scientology center?”

“I’m afraid not.” He eased the car into a left turn, a beautiful, magical, welcome left turn…onto Rodeo Drive.

“Paris’s penitentiary?” It was easy to joke now that they were somewhere so delightful.

The driver sidled up to a curb that stated NO STANDING, turned off the car, and retrieved Adriana. He offered her his arm and said, “If you’ll follow me…”

He led her past a Bebe store (on Rodeo!) and she panicked for a moment until she saw the sign. Adriana had to remind herself to breathe. She wanted to sing and cry and scream all at the same time. Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod, she thought, forcing herself to take little sips of air. It couldn’t be. Could it? A quick scan of the boutique’s stunning window displays confirmed it was true: They had just entered the hallowed halls of the Oscar Adorner Extraordinaire, the guru himself: Harry Winston.

“Oh, my,” she gasped audibly, forgetting momentarily that both the driver and a haughty-looking saleswoman were watching her intently.

“Yes, it can be overwhelming,” the saleswoman said, nodding her head in faux understanding. “Is this your first time?”

Adriana collected herself. She’d be damned if she was going to let this woman patronize her. She flashed her most brilliant smile and reached out to touch the woman’s arm. “First time?” Adriana asked with an amused little laugh. “How I wish. I was just a bit taken aback, since I thought we were headed to Bulgari.”

“Ah,” the woman murmured, clearly not believing a word. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do here today, now, won’t you?”

Ordinarily it would take every ounce of willpower in Adriana’s reserve to refrain from saying something nasty, but something about all the surrounding sparkle seemed to take the fight right out of her. Instead, she smiled. “Actually, I’m not quite sure what I’m here for…”

The woman was probably in her late forties, and even Adriana had to admit that she looked pretty good for her age. Her navy suit was feminine, flattering, and professional, and her makeup was expertly applied. She extended a hand toward a little seating area and motioned to Adriana to take a seat.

The driver discreetly slipped away as Adriana settled herself onto an antique velvet divan. It was overstuffed and inviting in all its plushness, but she could only manage to perch carefully on one end if she didn’t want to collapse backward. A plump woman in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform set down a tray of tea and cookies.

“Thank you, Ama,” the saleswoman said without a glance.

“Gracias, Ama,” Adriana added. “Me gustan sus aretes. ¿Son de aquí?” I like your earrings. Are they from here?

The maid blushed, unaccustomed to being addressed by clients. “Sí, señora, son de aquí. El señor Winston me los dió como regalo de boda hace casi veinte años.” Yes, miss, they are. Mr. Winston gave them to me as a wedding present nearly twenty years ago.

“Muy lindos.” Adriana nodded approvingly as Ama blushed again and disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain.

“How do you speak such fluent Spanish?” the saleswoman asked, more out of politeness than any genuine curiosity.

“Portuguese is my first language, but we all learn Spanish as well. Sister languages,” Adriana explained with patience, even though she could barely contain her excitement.

“Ah, how interesting.”

No, it’s not, Adriana thought, wondering if she was about to set some sort of time record for having a man propose to her. Toby couldn’t actually be about to propose…could he? No, it was ridiculous; they’d only just met at the beginning of the summer. Far more likely was that he’d started feeling a bit anxious about her imaginary “secret lover” and had decided-correctly, of course-that a little bauble might swing the pendulum in his favor.

“It’s unusually cool today, isn’t it?” the woman was saying.

“Hmm.” Enough with the chitchat already! Adriana wanted to scream. I. Want. My. Present!

“Well, dear, you’re probably wondering why you’re here,” she said.

Understatement of the century, Adriana thought.

“Mr. Baron has asked me to present you with”-as if on cue, a sixtyish gentleman in a three-piece suit with a jeweler’s loupe around his neck appeared and presented the saleswoman with a small velvet-lined tray, which she held out to Adriana-“these.”

Splayed perfectly on the black velvet lay a pair of the most beautiful earrings Adriana had ever seen. More than beautiful, actually-absolutely stunning.

The saleswoman gingerly touched one of them with a manicured fingernail and said, “Lovely, aren’t they?”

Adriana exhaled for the first time in over a minute. “They’re exquisite. Sapphire drops, just like the ones Salma Hayek wore to the Oscars,” she breathed.

The woman’s head snapped up and she stared at Adriana. “My, my, you do know your jewelry, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Adriana said, laughing, “but I do know your jewelry.” It was a wonder-no, it was downright astonishing-that Toby had remembered her admiring Salma’s Oscar earrings in an old magazine. That alone was incredible enough, but the fact that he then saved the photo and found an identical pair, two months after the fact, was almost incomprehensible.

“Well, actually, these are the exact ones Ms. Hayek wore to the Oscars. They were lent to her and we’ve received many requests for them since then. However”-she paused for dramatic effect-“they now belong to you.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Adriana breathed, momentarily forgetting herself once again and fumbling to try them on.

Fifteen minutes later, with the celeb-worthy sapphire drop earrings firmly in place and a bottle of Evian in hand, Adriana leapt into the backseat of the Town Car. She was pleased with herself, not just for her new acquisition but for what it represented: a steady, committed boyfriend who adored her and showered her with love and affection (and Harry Winston). She finally understood why all the other girls so yearned for this kind of stability. Who needed hundreds of men and all the headaches that came with them when you could find just one who had everything? Sure, Dean the TV actor was delicious, there was no denying it, but how delicious would he be when he hadn’t worked in five years and was living in some actor dorm in West Hollywood? There was no denying that she had very much enjoyed the surgeon from Greenwich and the Israeli spy and the Dartmouth fraternity boy. She had savored each and every one of them and, truth be told, countless others. But that was before, back when she was a mere child, not a grown woman with a grown woman’s desires. Adriana fingered the dangly blue gems and smiled to herself. This was going to be the perfect weekend, she was sure of it.

“You don’t get paid enough to make house calls,” Russell murmured as he stroked Leigh’s back gently, with just his fingertips.

“You’re telling me,” she said, praying he wouldn’t stop. She snuggled in closer against his wide, warm, nearly hairless chest and buried her head in his underarm. She had always loved their cuddling, and even now it encouraged her; she might not want to have sex with Russell, but at least she wasn’t repulsed by his touch. Leigh remembered Emmy going through that with Mark, the boyfriend before Duncan. She claimed the sex had never been great, not even in the beginning, but things grew steadily worse-mostly in Emmy’s mind, she admitted-until she recoiled in disgust every time he tried to touch her. The story had always haunted Leigh, someone who understood perfectly what it felt like to shrink away from a boyfriend’s kiss, but that was precisely why she found these snuggle sessions so reassuring. She wouldn’t want to lie naked in bed with Russell, spoon with him and enjoy his touch, if there was something wrong…would she? No, it was a clear indication that everything was as it should be. What woman didn’t have shifts in sexual desire at times? According to the article in Harper’s Bazaar she’d read at the nail salon the week before, a woman’s libido was a tenuous thing, affected by stress, sleeping patterns, hormones, and about a million other factors she couldn’t control. With a little time and a lot of patience-something Russell had exhibited in spades until very recently-Bazaar swore that most women would return to normal. She would simply wait it out.

“So what’s he like?” Russell asked. “Is he really as crazy as everyone makes him out to be?”

Leigh wondered when Russell had Googled Jesse. “What do you mean? He seems like…I don’t know, like an author. They’re all nuts.”

Russell rolled over on his back and slung his arm over his eyes to block out the early-morning sun that streamed in around the sides of the window shade. “Yeah, but he sold five million copies and won the Pulitzer and then vanished. For six years. Was it really a drug problem? Or did he just lose it?”

“I have no idea. We’ve only had one lunch; he hasn’t exactly confided in me.” Leigh tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but it wasn’t easy. “Look, I’m not dying to go out there, either.”

Which was true enough. There were definitely things Leigh would rather do with two days out of the office than drive to the Hamptons right before Labor Day weekend.

“I know, sweetheart. Just don’t let him push you around, okay? He may think he’s some hotshot, but you’re still his editor. You call the shots, right?”

“Right,” she said automatically, although she was really thinking how much it rankled her when Russell sounded so much like her father. Mr. Eisner had said those exact words to her the night before in what was probably intended to be a helpful pregame pep talk, but which to Leigh had sounded like a condescending lecture from the consummate professional to the flailing amateur.

Russell kissed her forehead, pulled on a pair of boxers, and strode to the bathroom. After turning the shower to its hottest setting, he headed to the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind him. There he’d wait for the bathroom to get all hot and steamy-just the way he liked it-while he made his daily power breakfast: soy protein shake, fat-free yogurt, and three scrambled egg whites. This ritual irritated Leigh beyond description. What about all that wasted water? she asked him over and over again, but he merely reminded her that water was included in the monthly maintenance fee she paid, so it didn’t particularly matter. It was just one of the things about him she found utterly maddening. She completely understood the need for him to wear a full face of TV makeup once a week when he recorded the show, but she loathed watching him remove it. He used her makeup remover and pads and swabbed so delicately under his eyes and around his nose, and although she couldn’t quite pinpoint why, she found it revolting. Not quite as revolting as when he forgot to remove it and she ended up with pillowcases smeared with man foundation, but still-the whole thing was just gross.

She chided herself for being so rigid and intolerant and took a deep, relaxing breath. It was only nine o’clock on a sunny Thursday morning and already she felt like she’d been awake for forty-eight hours and lived through a world war. Exhausted yet still simmering with low-level anxiety, Leigh hauled herself from bed and ducked into the steam-drenched bathroom.

She managed to throw on a pair of white jeans and pack everything else before Russell finished his own shower, so she blew him a kiss through the bathroom door and quickly left. She rolled her small suitcase to Hertz on East Thirteenth Street and, after accepting all the insurance offered-better safe than sorry!-Leigh grabbed a large iced latte from Joe, popped two pieces of Nicorette, and slid into the driver’s seat of her red Ford Focus. The trip took less time than she’d planned; in a little over two hours she pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Estia’s. It was shaped like a little clapboard cottage, just as Jesse had described it; she went inside to use the bathroom and gulp another cup of coffee before calling him.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Jesse? It’s Leigh. I’m at Estia’s.”

“Already? I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

She felt her blood pressure rise even higher. “Well, I’m not sure why, considering we spoke just yesterday and I told you that I’d be arriving between twelve and twelve-thirty.”

He laughed. His voice sounded like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, but who’s ever actually on time? When I say noon, I really mean three.”

“Oh, really?” she asked. “Because when I say noon, I actually mean noon.”

He laughed again. “Got it,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll be right there. Have a coffee. Try to relax. We’ll get right to work, I promise.”

She ordered yet another coffee and flipped to the Thursday Style section someone had left on the counter.

She heard his entrance before she saw him, since she was staring fixedly at the newspaper, pretending to be completely absorbed in an article on natural boar-bristle hairbrushes. All around her, the restaurant patrons-all locals and, from the look of it, not associates of the Billy Joel set-waved and called out their hellos. One particularly crusty-looking old guy in workman’s overalls and a sewn-on name tag-the original, not one of the retro ones on sale in the Bloomingdale’s young men’s department-that read SMITH, raised his coffee mug and winked at Jesse.

“Morning, sir,” Jesse said, clapping the man on the back.

“Chief,” the man said with a nod and a swig of coffee.

“Still on for Monday night?”

The man nodded again. “Monday.”

Jesse made his way down the breakfast counter, greeting each and every person along the way, before taking the empty seat next to Leigh. Although she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, Leigh thought he looked better today than he had at either of their previous meetings. Still not hot or even handsome in the conventional sense, Jesse again looked casually rumpled and, as stupid as it sounded, cool. It was partly the way he dressed-a slim-cut vintage plaid shirt with Levi’s that looked custom-cut for his body-but it was also something more than that, something in the way he carried himself. Everything about him screamed “effortless,” but unlike the self-conscious grunge of the nineties or deliberate bed-head hair, Jesse’s look was genuine.

She realized she was staring.

“What’s going on Monday?” she asked quickly; it was the first thing that came to mind.

“Not into the usual niceties, huh?” Jesse asked with a smile. “Me, neither. Monday is poker night and it’s Smith’s turn to host. He lives in a minuscule studio apartment above the village liquor store, so he arranged for all of us to meet at the East Hampton Airport-he’s a flight mechanic there. We’re going to play in the hangar, which I’m rather looking forward to. It will be doubly festive since we’ll be celebrating both the end of summer and the end of the Great Asshole Invasion-at least until next year.”

Leigh shook her head. Maybe all the gossip and tabloids were right, and Jesse really had lost his mind. A few years earlier he was jet-setting on international book tours, gorging himself on the world’s finest food and clothes and women, using his newfound literary fame to chase every next hot party, and now he was sequestered away in this working-class neighborhood of eastern Long Island, playing poker in deserted airplane hangars with mechanics? The new book had better be damn good, that’s all Leigh knew.

As if reading her mind, Jesse said, “You’re desperate to get started, aren’t you? Just say it.”

“I am desperate to get started. I’m only out here for two days and a night and I still haven’t the first clue what you’re working on.”

“Let’s go, then.” He slid a $10 bill to the woman behind the counter and led the way outside. The instant his feet hit gravel he lit a cigarette. “I’d offer you one, but something tells me you’re not a smoker.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer; instead, he jumped into his Jeep.

“Follow me. The house is only a few minutes from here, but there are lots of turns.”

“You sure I shouldn’t check into the hotel first?” Leigh asked, twisting a piece of her ponytail around her finger. She was staying at the historic American Hotel in Sag Harbor village, a place that was just as famous for its clubby, wood-paneled, old-fashioned hospitality as it was for its mammoth martinis.

Jesse leaned out his window. “You’re welcome to try, but I called on my way over here and they insist that check-in isn’t until three. I’d be more than happy to wait till then, trust me…”

“No, no, let’s get moving. I’ll take a break this afternoon to check in and then we can get back to work.”

“Sounds like a dream.” He rolled up the window and threw the Jeep into reverse, the back wheels kicking up dust in his wake.

Leigh rushed to her rental and pulled out behind him. He turned left onto Sagg Road and drove straight through the village and past the hotel, which he indicated to Leigh with a wave in his rearview. The main street was absolutely adorable. There were quaint boutiques, family-owned restaurants, and local fresh-food markets interspersed with the occasional art gallery and wine shop. Parents pulled kids and vegetables in red wagons. Pedestrians had the right of way. People seemed to be smiling for no reason. Everyone had a dog.

They drove through town and toward the bay, which was fronted by a marina straight out of central casting, and then over a bridge before careening back into the winding, wooded roads. Jesse’s driveway was half a mile long and unpaved and the glints of light that darted through the trees gave it an ethereal feel. As they drove a bit farther, Leigh spotted what looked like a guesthouse off the side of the path. It was a small white cottage with blue shutters and a charming little porch for rocking and reading. Another five hundred yards beyond that was an elaborate-and brand-new-children’s outdoor play area. It wasn’t one of the brightly colored plastic Fisher-Price ones, either; rather, it appeared almost hand-carved from a rich mahogany and included a rock-climbing wall, tree house, canopied cupola, sandbox, kiddie-sized picnic table, and two slides. This left Leigh momentarily breathless. She knew Jesse had a wife (although he had given Leigh the impression that she wasn’t in the Hamptons), but she had never, ever envisioned him as a father. Of course it made complete sense-it would almost be strange if he weren’t-but something about seeing proof of this made her feel vaguely irritated and a little disappointed.

By the time they reached the house, her heart had started to beat faster and her breath began to shorten in the telltale signs of anxiety. In front of her, Jesse climbed out of his Jeep and approached her car. She felt a sweat break out on her forehead, and she wished she could be parked on her couch, reading a manuscript or chatting with Russell about his upcoming interview with Tony Romo. It’d be worth it even if he wanted to have sex and watch SportsCenter and the upstairs neighbor was hosting a dance party full of leg brace-wearing guests. Anywhere but right here, right now.

Jesse opened Leigh’s car door for her and led her down a walkway to the front porch, a wide expanse of open space decorated with only a hammock and a love-seat swing. Beside the swing was an empty bottle of Chianti and a single dirty wineglass.

“Are your children here? I’d love to meet them,” Leigh lied.

Jesse looked around the porch, appearing confused for a minute, and then smiled knowingly, like he could read her mind. “Oh, you mean the playground? It’s for my nephews-not my own.”

Something about the way he said this seemed definitive; even though she told herself she didn’t care either way-and despite being well aware that it was rude and way too personal-she pushed it. “Does that mean you just happen not to have kids, or you don’t want them ever?”

He laughed and shook his head while he opened the front door. “Jesus Christ, you say whatever you’re thinking, don’t you?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Well?” she asked.

“No, I don’t want children. Not now, and not ever.”

Leigh held up her hands in mock defense. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”

Jesse tried to suppress his smile, but Leigh caught a glimpse of it anyway. “Anything else you’d like to know? How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping?”

“Well, then, we got the kid thing out of the way. So…how are you eating and sleeping?” She grinned broadly and felt her anxiety begin to dissipate. She’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with him.

His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven and pale. Even his hair looked a little dull-not dirty or greasy, exactly, just uninspired. He struck an exaggerated modeling pose-hip jutted out and lips pursed-and said, “You tell me. How do you think I’m eating and sleeping?”

“Like shit,” Leigh said without a moment’s hesitation.

Jesse laughed and pushed the door open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Leigh looked around. She took in the creaky floors and the gigantic, well-worn farmhouse table and the crocheted blanket flung haphazardly across the sofa and, although she had already fallen in love with the whole house based on this first room, sighed loudly for effect and said, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse…did you really spend all your earnings on cocaine and hookers, like the tabloids claim?”

He shook his head. “Cocaine, booze, and hookers.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Okay, then, should we get started? I mostly work out back, through the living room, so why don’t you get set up there and I’ll bring drinks.” He pulled open the fridge and bent sideways to look inside. “Let’s see, I’ve got beer, some shitty white wine, some not-so-shitty rosé, and Bloody Mary mix. I think it’s a bit early for red, don’t you?”

“I think it’s a bit early for any of it. I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

Jesse snapped his fingers and pulled a half-full bottle of Ketel from the freezer. “Excellent choice. One Bloody Mary, coming right up.”

She already knew there was no point in arguing with him, and besides, he looked like he needed a drink to take the edge off last night’s hangover. Leigh vaguely remembered what that was like. Back in her postcollege years in the city, when her body allowed her to drink until three and still be at work by nine, she’d occasionally had a few sips of wine with breakfast to ease the pain. She remembered all the nights out with Emmy and Adriana, traipsing across the city, from happy hour to birthday party, drinking too much, smoking too much, and kissing too many nameless, faceless boys. God, that seemed like forever ago…the seven, eight years felt like a lifetime. Now the heels were never quite so high (how had she ever worn something so uncomfortable?) and the packed bars had given way to more civilized restaurants (thank god) and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up all night for any reason other than work or insomnia. But, Leigh reminded herself, some of those happy memories must have been revisionist history. How could they not have been? Back then there was no prestigious job, no independently owned and operated apartment, and certainly no doting fiancé.

Leigh wandered through the skylight-lit living room and opened the sliding glass door to reveal one of the most welcoming outdoor spaces she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a backyard so much as an oasis in the middle of the forest. Huge towering oaks and maples created an enclosed area that was covered with inviting, but not overly manicured, green grass. A small gunite pool-so small that perhaps it was only a plunge pool or a hot tub-was flanked by two chaises, a table, and chairs, and seemed to blend into the background, allowing one’s attention to focus on the real draw: a perfect little pond, maybe twenty feet by thirty, with a floating, cushioned sun dock and the simplest of wooden rowboats tethered to the shore. Behind the pond, at the very edge of the property, tucked under a cluster of leafy trees, was a Balinese-style teak daybed, the kind that easily fits two people and provides shade from a roof atop its four posts. It was all Leigh could do not to walk directly to the daybed and collapse; she wondered how, with so beautiful and relaxing a place, Jesse ever got anything done.

“Not bad, huh?” he asked, stepping onto the stone patio and handing her a Bloody Mary complete with celery stalk and lime.

“My god, this place doesn’t look like much from the front-or the inside, really-but this…this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“No, really, have you thought about having this photographed? I can so picture it in one of those design magazines, what are they called? Dwell. It’s perfect for Dwell.”

He ran his hands through his hair and swigged from his bottle of Budweiser. “Unlikely.”

“No, really, I think it could be-”

“No reporters or photographers in my home, ever.”

“I hear that,” Leigh agreed, although she couldn’t help but remember the spread of Russell’s apartment she’d seen in Elle Décor before they’d ever even met. It was included in an article on the city’s best bachelor pads and featured Russell’s ultramodern TriBeCa loft as its pièce de résistance. At the time Leigh had pored over the pictures of the kitchen, which looked industrial enough to serve as a catering hall; the wenge platform bed, which was so low it may as well have been a mattress on the floor; and the bathroom, which looked like it was pulled directly from a W Hotel and plunked down in the middle of the apartment. She’d read that the place was twenty-two hundred square feet of completely open space, huge windows, and hardwood floors lacquered black, but it wasn’t until their third date that Leigh saw it for herself. Since then, she’d spent as little time there as humanly possible; all that steel and black lacquer and all those sharp corners made her even more nervous than usual.

Jesse took a seat at the table and motioned for Leigh to claim the one opposite him. After another slow, deliberate pull on his beer, he took a deep breath, undid the clasp on a tatty canvas messenger bag, and pulled a phonebook-sized sheaf of paper from its center. He presented this to Leigh with both hands, the way an Asian waiter might present a check or a business card. “Be gentle,” he said quietly.

“I thought you wanted honesty, not gentleness?” She took the manuscript and placed it in front of her, not sure how she could resist tearing into it for another moment. “‘No one’s straight with me, I’m coddled and yessed and I just want an editor who’s going to tell it like it is.’” She imitated the speech she was told he’d made in their first meeting in Henry’s office.

Jesse lit a cigarette and said, “That was all bravado. Bullshit. I’m a complete baby who can barely handle constructive criticism, much less a thorough slashing.”

Leigh pressed her palms into the table and smiled. “Well, that, Jesse Chapman, makes you exactly like every other author I know. I haven’t had any God complexes yet, but a debilitating lack of self-confidence coupled with constant self-doubt and self-flagellation? That I can handle.”

Jesse held up his cigarette in a “stop” motion. “Whoa, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. That”-he pointed to the manuscript-“is this year’s, if not this decade’s, finest contribution to literature-of that much I’m sure. I was just requesting a little sensitivity on the off-chance you should run across a paragraph or two that’s not to your liking.”

“Ah, yes, of course. A paragraph or two. I’m sure there won’t even be that much.” Leigh nodded in mock seriousness.

“Excellent. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” He paused and peered at her and then said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

“I will once you leave me alone.”

Jesse’s eyes widened. “Alone? I didn’t know that was standard procedure.”

Leigh laughed. “You know as well as I do that nothing about this is standard procedure.”

Jesse feigned a look of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Standard would be my boss editing your book, not me. Standard would be me having read your manuscript-or even just an outline and a sample chapter-before driving two and a half hours to meet with you. Standard would-”

Jesse held up his hands as though to block himself from the onslaught and stood up. “I’m bored,” he announced. “Holler if you need anything. I’ll be upstairs taking a nap.” Without another word, he disappeared inside the house.

It was a moment or two before Leigh realized her fingernails were digging into her palms. Did he try to irritate her, or was it something that just came naturally for him? Was he kidding about being oversensitive to criticism, or thinking this book-whatever it was about-really was the second coming, or was that all just a facade? He could be so charming and irreverent and witty, and then-bam!-a switch flipped and he reverted right back to the cocky asshole everyone reported him to be.

She checked her watch and saw that she had another hour to kill until she could check into the hotel, so with a sip of Bloody Mary and a lustful eye toward the pack of cigarettes Jesse had left behind, she began to read. The novel began at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club in Phnom Penh and included a displaced, hard-drinking American narrator that Leigh couldn’t help thinking felt very familiar. Not plagiarism familiar, just a bit hackneyed: The End of the Affair, The Quiet American, and Acts of Faith came immediately to mind. This alone didn’t much worry her-it was easy enough to change-but as she read the next few pages, and then the pages after those, her concern increased. The story itself-about a twentysomething kid who stumbles into best-sellerdom with his very first book-was compelling in a wonderfully voyeuristic way; not surprising, considering the author’s firsthand knowledge. It was the actual writing that worried her: It was flat, unoriginal, even droning at times. Totally un-Jesse-like. She took a deep breath and reminded herself it could have been far worse. Had the story itself been a disaster, she wouldn’t have even known where to start.

By the time Jesse shuffled back an hour later, bleary-eyed but having traded in his beer for a bottle of water, Leigh was beginning to realize how very out of her league she was. How on earth was she, Leigh Eisner, junior editor and until now virgin editor of any bestselling author, supposed to tell one of the most literarily and commercially successful authors of his generation that, in its current incarnation, his newest effort wasn’t going to top any bestseller lists? The answer, she realized, was simple: She wouldn’t.

Jesse lit a cigarette and slid the pack to her across the table. “Live a little. You’ve been eyeing them all day.”

“I have?”

He nodded.

So she did. Without another second’s consideration and only a fleeting thought of how disappointed Russell would be if he knew, she plucked one from the pack, placed it between her lips, and leaned eagerly into the match Jesse held out. She was surprised that the first inhale burned her lungs and tasted so harsh, but the second and third were much smoother.

“A whole year down the drain,” she said ruefully before inhaling again.

Jesse shrugged. “You don’t strike me as someone who overindulges in booze or drugs or food or…anything, really. If smoking a cigarette every now and then is going to make you happy, why not just enjoy it?”

“If I could only smoke one every now and then, I would,” Leigh said. “The problem is that I have one and ten minutes later I’m working my way through a pack.”

“Ah, so Ms. Put Together has a weakness after all.” Jesse smiled.

“Great, I’m happy my addiction struggles amuse you.”

“I don’t find it so much amusing as endearing.” He paused and appeared to think for a moment. “But yes, I suppose it’s amusing, too.”

“Thanks.”

Jesse motioned toward the manuscript and said, “Any thoughts so far, or is it not standard procedure to discuss it until you’re finished?” He swigged from his water bottle.

Relieved he’d given her an out when she hadn’t yet thought of one herself, Leigh said vaguely, “I’m only seventy pages in, so I’d rather wait until I’ve finished.” She coughed.

Jesse peered at her with an intensity Leigh found discomfiting. He seemed to be studying her face for clues, and after nearly a full minute, she could feel herself start to blush. Still, he didn’t say anything.

“So, I should, uh, probably get checked into the hotel,” Leigh said, dropping her cigarette into the makeshift ashtray Jesse had made from his Poland Spring bottle.

“Yes.”

“Should I come back here afterward, or would you rather meet somewhere else? The hotel lobby? A cafe? How does four, four-thirty sound?” The tension was palpable and unnerving; Leigh had to remind herself to stop talking.

“Come back here, but not until you’ve finished the manuscript.”

Leigh laughed but quickly saw that Jesse wasn’t kidding. “It’ll take me another five, six hours minimum to read it all the way through. We could get started talking about timing, at least.” When Leigh realized she sounded like she was asking his permission, she mustered up her most authoritative voice and said, “Henry made it very clear that this deadline is nonnegotiable.”

“Leigh, Leigh, Leigh,” he said, sounding somehow disappointed. “Every deadline is negotiable. Please read the manuscript. Come back whenever you’re finished. As you may imagine, I am not early to bed.”

She shrugged in a halfhearted attempt to convey casualness and gathered her things. “If you want to be up until all hours, it’s fine with me.”

He lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t be cross, Leigh. It’s going to take us a little while to find our process. Be patient with it.”

Leigh snorted and, without thinking, said, “‘Find our process’? ‘Be patient with it’? What, did you learn that at one of your ashrams, post-rehab? Wait, are you still recovering?”

For a fleeting moment he looked as though he’d been slapped, but he recovered quickly and grinned. “Glad to hear at least you’ve read up on me,” he said with a smoky exhale.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to-”

“Please, Leigh, run along now.” He waved his cigarette toward the door. “I haven’t had an editor in many years, so forgive me if I’m a bit unwieldy at first, will you?”

Leigh nodded.

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing you later. No need to call first; just come whenever. Happy reading.”

As she navigated her rental down Jesse’s unpaved driveway, Leigh realized that she had no real idea if their first meeting had been a decent jumping-off point or an unmitigated disaster. But she suspected, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, it was probably the latter.