how to behave badly. Very badly. She made it her business to work hard, play hard and then read the hard online copy of her triumphs. It was quite simply the most delicious way to promote herself in the dog-eat-dog world of international fashion. And tonight—the culmination of a whole season of glamorous graft—tonight, her wild streak was shining like neon body paint in a nightclub-dark room.
‘But what am I going to do?’
Barely aware of the feet that drummed beside hers under the table in the shady booth, Tara dipped into her clutch and pulled out her compact. Another streak of siren-red over her pout while she was still sober enough to care.
‘You’ll be fine,’ she managed to say, looking at her reflection in the tiny mirror.
The thick slicks of liquid eyeliner were almost perfect—crazy that she had never rocked this look before—it was so, so burlesque!
‘But I’m sure he’ll be on his way here next! And if he catches me here…after I told him I was going straight home…’
Tara replaced the lipstick in its little case. Honestly, there was no getting through to this girl.
‘Fernanda.’
She swept a glance from the now resting silver platforms to the mouthwateringly beautiful face of Fernanda Cruz—the sexiest Spanish teenager to grace the runways and the tabloids in a decade. Her brown mane hung sexily over one eye and her fuchsia silk mini-dress rode high on endless thighs. The girl looked as if she had never even heard of the word carbohydrate.
‘What?’
Tara pointed her lipstick at her.
‘You need to stop this. First of all, you’re not even sure if he’ll definitely turn up. Secondly, if he does…and—let’s face it—it is quite likely, then you need to stand up to him. Tell him to get out of your life and stop acting like the overbearing, macho pain in the ass that he is.’ She flipped open the compact again and checked her slightly wonky teeth for lipstick, rubbing at them until they squeaked. ‘It’s not as if you’ve done anything wrong, Fernanda. It’s only an after-party! ‘
‘But you don’t understand. My brother Michael rules the family. If he is here, I’m…’ She mimed being garrotted.
‘And he has to realise that a life in fashion these days means you have to promote yourself—be seen, get papped, kiss Harry…’
‘But I’m his baby sister, Tara! And he hates it. Hates all of it. He wants me to study to be an accountant or something. He thinks models are airheads and designers are fakes.’
Tara’s snapped her clutch closed with a little more attitude than was necessary. She knew all about the über-dominant Michael Cruz, Fern’s brother and legendary King Machismo. Ten hours earlier, as Fernanda had sublimely showcased Tara’s funkiest spring/
summer dresses on the runway of her London show, her sickeningly handsome brother had sat in the front row, looking as bored as if he were watching paint dry—the dull shades.
And, though no one had dared tell Tara at the time, the press had been all over it. Photos of him in his immaculately tailored suit, with his perfectly masculine jaw and utterly uninterested expression had hit every online fashion site within moments. Thank heavens his other sister Angelica had shown enough enthusiasm for the whole row. And had been kind enough to drop that she was ‘considering’ commissioning Tara to design her wedding dress. That just about made up for the arrogance of the man!
‘Fern, honey, we’ve worked hard. Our careers are just taking off. For me, this party is as important as the show. And for you it’s what you’ve been looking forward to for the last month. And we’ve got it all to do again in two weeks’ time in Paris! Cha-ching! So if he is here we’ll tell him to…to go and count his own beans—and we’ll mingle and dance and see what column inches we can capture. Come on!’
She grasped Fern’s hand and pulled her to her feet. All six feet of her size zero frame only served to highlight Tara’s own whipped cream curves. Fattest woman in fashion. Overeater von Tease. Yep, she’d heard them all. And sometimes it hurt—of course it did. But she’d learned long ago that even if she ate air and drank dew she was only ever going to be voluptuous. So she’d put her voluptuousness to good use—she knew how to enhance a cleavage and minimise a belly better than any bra or pair of magic pants.
And, now that the fashion elite had begun to show interest, getting some mainstream press was her next mission. Hence the headline-grabbing dress from her show—she’d styled it The Seven-Year Bitch: Marilyn meets Madonna. Though maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to go this short when there was nothing surer than a cringe-worthy ‘getting into the limo badly’ photograph appearing in the morning’s news feed. More column inches, and even more reasons for Team Devine back home to decry her. Devine girls were supposed to put up and shut up—two of her weakest skills…
The DJ changed and the music turned darker. Tara saw Fern head onto the dance floor with some up-and-coming young cutie and wandered off herself into the throng, smiling and air-kissing the other bottom-of-the-food-chain celebrities. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and moved back out to the foyer—keen to avoid having to chat with her Dutch financier, easily the most boring man on earth. But when her breath seemed to catch as a gulp of fizz hit the back of her throat, and the faces of the crowd all turned, she realised that someone very A-list had just arrived.
Everything in Tara Devine’s life happened at a million miles an hour. Her brain processed thoughts that her mouth duly delivered. Which sometimes led to problems. Like when she didn’t actually know what she’d just said or done until two seconds too late. But here—now—she felt as if she had slipped into slow-mo. She watched, transfixed, as the foyer seemed almost to fade and there, stalking along the red carpet, was the arrogant alpha himself. Michael Cruz. Incorporated.
As the camera flashes whited out the space he turned his head slightly, as if a mildly irritating noise had sounded. Now that she could see him clearly, she saw he was as tall as she had imagined, his physique as perfect. And, though she rarely dressed men, she just knew what lay under the cut of cloth on his back. The ripple of muscle over the perfect masculine ratio of shoulders to waist was flawless.
One hand was at his hip, pushing back his jacket, and the perfect illumination of a white silk-linen shirt gleamed. He turned, paced, and took something handed to him by one of his security team. He slipped it into his pocket, seemed to search out the faces closest to him, and then…
And then a flash of intensely dark eyes landed on her. He scanned her, and her heart raced the moment his gaze probed and zoned over her. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her chest and she instinctively lifted her arms to shield herself. He turned full body to face her as he continued to stare, his eyes sliding down, over and up her legs.
The cameras whirred and flashed, people were talking, calling out to him, capturing his appraisal of her. And then, with what seemed infuriatingly like a condescending smirk, he turned away, dismissing her.
Tara felt colour rush up her chest and burn her cheeks—the stab of childhood sensitivities all over again. It had been a long time since anyone had pierced her armour. And that made her even angrier—how dared he? She made to step forward, to tell him what she thought of him—him and his dull, dark, bespoke suit. He was here in the hub of one of the most creative cities in the world, at one of the most exciting times—when the eyes of the fashion media were trained upon young talent—and he was being openly dismissive of anything other than twenty-four-carat conservatives just like himself.
