Drakes and been whisked away to an exclusive party held just for her. Incomparable, the number one modeling agency in the world, had pulled out all the stops to make the night memorable. They’d rented a castle for the grand affair, a testament to the fact she was the agency’s queen bee. The guest list read like a who’s who of fashion, entertainment and sports. One of the guests was Ace Montgomery, a runway veteran at the ripe old age of twenty-one, whose sexy underwear ads had made him one of the most recognizable, bankable and sought-after models on the globe. London had not been immune to his charm, had salivated over his pictures like any red-blooded woman would. His eyes had seared her from across the room, caused a shiver down her spine and a flutter in other places. Throughout the evening she caught him looking. Or vice versa. But he didn’t approach. She guessed him to be arrogant and aloof, so when chance brought them together in the long hallway of one of the castle’s quieter wings, his shy, somewhat corny nature had thrown her off guard.
“Hi.” His voice was softer than she’d imagined it would be, and raspy.
“Hey, what’s up?”
He stopped. She didn’t.
“London, right?”
Already steps away from him, she paused, turned and answered while walking back to where he stood. “Yeah.”
“Last name Bridges?”
She gave him an eye roll.
“Fog?”
A hint of a smile, just barely.
“London lightbulb? On account of how bright you’re shining?” The comment combined with the doofus-looking expression on his face made London laugh out loud.
“You’re stupid!”
“Sometimes.” He held out his hand. “Ace Montgomery.”
Her eyes slid from his eyes to the extended hand and back. They were the only things that moved. “Like I don’t know who you are.”
“No, like I’m just being courteous and greeting you formally.” His arm remained outstretched.
She placed her small hand in his extralarge one. An electrical shock ran through them.
“Whoa!” Ace snatched back his hand. “Did you feel that?”
“That’s what happens when you touch a lightbulb,” London deadpanned. “Nice talking to you.”
London walked away without looking back. He was exquisite to look at, but the shine faded when he opened his mouth.
That was her first impression. Later that night her publicist yielded her seat in the crowded room so that London and Ace could sit and “get to know each other.” No coincidence, London knew. Her publicist was strategizing. Always on the hunt for a story that would keep her client in the public eye. The flashbulbs that went off shortly afterward confirmed this belief. The conversation that followed led to a better second impression.
In the next half hour Ace came out of his shy, quiet shell and became quite engaging. He flawlessly handled the stream of admirers that came his way but continued to make London his central focus. Impressive. Not easy to do.
Photo ops and interviews pulled them away from each other. When London saw him an hour and two glasses of wine later, she asked the question that had tickled the tip of her tongue all night.
“I have a question for you?”
“Sure.”
“Is the bulge beneath those sexy black boxers you made famous real or concocted?”
“Concocted—good word.”
“You know, like from a sock or a certain vegetable or something.”
A bit of the cockiness London expected oozed through Ace’s megawatt smile. “No, baby. What you see in those pictures is grade-Ace beef.”
London’s look was dubious.
“Don’t believe me?”
“Nope.”
“Want to see for yourself?”
A slight lick of his lips brought moisture to a set of hers.
“Sure, why not?”
He took her hand, led her to an empty bedroom and locked the door. They didn’t come out for two days.
* * *
“London...” Quinn softly nudged her.
“Hmm?”
“Stop thinking about the cute guy and pick up your glass. Diamond wants to propose a toast.”
“Oh. Okay.” London lifted her champagne flute, unaware of when it was placed there or filled.
Quinn and Diamond shared a glance, but she said nothing more.
While others shared a glass from a bottle of the vineyard’s premiere champagne, Diamond, its namesake, lifted a glass of sparkling white grape juice. “To our dearest Papa Dee. May he have half as good a life in heaven as he had here on earth.”
“All of those young beautiful angels in heaven? Papa won’t be resting at all!”
“Right!” London chuckled at Katrina’s comment. They’d crossed paths at their large biannual family reunions but this was her first time really hanging out with this funny, feisty and fearless cousin from North Carolina. For equally carefree London, it was love at first hug.
Katrina’s statement brought much-needed levity to what had been a sad and exhausting day. More than five hundred people, including over one hundred members of the Drake clan, had gathered at the resort to pay last respects to the family patriarch, David “Papa Dee” Drake, who at the blessed age of 104 had earned his angel wings. Three of London’s cousins and two of her in-laws had decided to separate from the throng of friends and relatives still at the resort for some quieter, more intimate bonding before tomorrow, when everyone would start going their separate ways. For a while, funny stories of Papa Dee and recollections from the past two days dominated conversation. But eventually it came back around to London and the cute guy, courtesy of Katrina.
“So, London, who’d you see earlier that had you falling on the stairs?”
“Hopefully not another stalker,” Quinn offered.
“No stalker, thank God.”
And never again, she hoped. London still got chills when she thought of the man who’d followed her from Paris to Milan, all the way to a hotel room in New York. He’d been arrested, deported and jailed, so it couldn’t be him. And again, London thought, thank God.
Burying the thought, she turned to her cousin. “And I didn’t fall, Katrina, not even close. Not even when I climbed the tourist-unfriendly mountain to Papa Dee’s final resting place in my five-inch Choos.”
“Which is why I strongly suggested you choose a different, more appropriate shoe.”
