of his face. There were lines, small ones, that would have been airbrushed out on a cover, but she liked them. They gave him character and made him look as suave as he was. They were smile lines, which were always a good sign. Especially on the King of Manhattan.
She liked that he was thirty-one. Men in their twenties could have … issues. Fine, no problem, she was in her twenties and could make lists of all the things she wished were different, so no throwing stones, but guys were boys longer than women were girls, that was a fact. Charlie would be a wonderful lover, she imagined as she met him halfway to the dessert spread. That kiss had been an amuse-bouche. The meal would be like heaven.
“You look relatively unscathed,” Charlie said. “I’m shocked.”
“Why?”
“I’d have thought every straight man in the building would have been all over you.”
“Stop.”
“Not a line,” he said. “I mean it. I’m stunned. I rushed. Although I figured you could take care of yourself.”
“Based on?”
“Everything I’ve seen so far. You and Mick Jagger, for instance.” Charlie slipped his hand across her lower back. “What would you like to see next?”
Bree met his gaze. “The view from here is fine.”
He sighed, and because there was a momentary pause in the music, she heard it. The live music had stopped a while ago, and now there was recorded stuff—the mix excellent. Of course they’d have a great DJ at a party like this.
“Tell you what. Let’s do one more circuit. I promise not to drag it out, no matter who we meet, but you’re allowed to linger as long as you like, anywhere you like.”
“Wow. That’s very generous.”
“I’m feeling magnanimous.” He nodded toward a waiter. “Pineapple juice? Champagne? Pastry?”
She held up her water. “All set.”
He hugged her closer and they began the procession, and she truly did feel like a princess. Her free hand ended up around his back, and somewhere around a very large ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s David that was a bit worse for wear, her head came to rest on his shoulder. There were a number of places she thought about stopping, because the odds of her seeing these people again were nil, but not even Michael Kors himself was enough to pull her out of the spell of being with Charlie, her one-night-only prince.
THE LIMO ARRIVED, AND THANK goodness Charlie knew the driver because all of the limos looked identical, except for the radical fringe who liked their Hummers and their Bentleys stretched and bedazzled. Chivalry wasn’t dead, Bree was glad to see, as Charlie stood in the safety position blocking her as she got into the backseat. When he climbed in after, he pulled her close, his arm around her shoulders.
“That was amazing,” she said, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to get warmer.
“It was. Everyone came out to play tonight.”
“I’m still trying to get it in my head that it happened, that it wasn’t a dream.”
“Nope. A hell of a lot of the pictures and videos coming out of tonight are for Naked New York. I’ll make sure you get copies, how’s that?”
Bree looked up at him, astonished. “Really? Of everything?”
“Yep. On disk, so you can Photoshop whomever. Just do me a favor and don’t publish them. That could get tricky.”
“I won’t, I swear it. Not the Photoshop part—I’m totally going to do that, and I’m going to save every last nickel until I can get a color printer, but I swear I won’t publish. I wouldn’t abuse the privilege.” “I’m not worried.”
She couldn’t stop staring at him. “How can you not be? You don’t know me at all. I could be anyone. A competitor. I could work for Perez Hilton or Gawker, and then where would you be?”
“You don’t, though. Because Rebecca likes you.”
“She barely knows me, either.”
“Rebecca has excellent instincts about people. You’ll do well to stick with her. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s very, very smart. The smartest one in the family, and we’ve got a couple of federal judges running around, in addition to a bunch of politicians.”
“Speaking of, lately I’ve been seeing all these billboards for Andrew Winslow III. I didn’t think of it before, but are you guys related?”
Charlie’s expression turned sour. “And so it begins. He’s a cousin. Not one I’m fond of. Although, I’m not fond of most of them. Rebecca is the exception.”
Interesting, his distaste for his family. So different from her own experience. Sad, too. She didn’t know what she’d do without her family’s support. Best to get back to the relative he liked. “I’m enjoying the hell out of our friendship so far. Rebecca’s ridiculously funny. And she knows the city the way I want to some day. All the little places and the secrets.”
“Why New York?” he asked.
“The Chrysler Building started it,” she said. “I love art deco, although when I first saw pictures of the building I didn’t know what art deco was. Then I discovered fashion, then theater and what was available here, something incredible down every street. I fell for the city long before I stepped foot in it. And yes, thanks to Woody Allen, it came with a score by George Gershwin. I think I must have lived here before in another life. Not that I necessarily believe in reincarnation, but if it’s real, then I was here. This is home.”
“There’s a heartbeat to this place that’s either in sync with your rhythm or not. I notice its absence every time I travel. If you’re one of the chosen, Manhattan becomes home base and every time you come back, it’s as if you can finally breathe again. That’s how it is for me, at least.”
She smiled at him, as if they shared a secret handshake. She supposed they did. Then she leaned over, her head resting gently on his shoulder. “Thank you, Charlie. Tonight’s been one for the books.”
Charlie closed his eyes as he pulled her closer. He agreed about the night. It hadn’t been easy to leave her while he worked, and when had that happened at one of these things? He couldn’t recall.
Not that he didn’t like the women he asked out—he did. He liked women of all sorts, but he had some strong preferences, he wasn’t going to deny it. He wasn’t just dating for his own amusement, after all. His image was part of the Naked New York brand, and so were the women he was seen with. Some were better than others, some he could talk to, some couldn’t string two coherent sentences together, but to a woman they were a type.
Bree wasn’t even close.
So far she’d surprised him in almost every respect, though, and as he’d plowed through the glitter, he’d tried to remember the last time surprise had been in the mix. Scandals were par for the
