rel="nofollow" href="#u664d298a-936b-544c-a4b6-2a01ef3cc828">Chapter Seven
Chapter One
Even Florence killing “Shake It Out” couldn’t pull Aubrey Hayes out of her funk. She balled up her latest sketch and tossed it atop the pile of previously crumpled drawings that cascaded out of her trash can like a river of failure. She should have brought in the Dumpster from outside just to handle the night’s work. A glance at her watch told her the store had been closed for twenty minutes and that the inspiration she’d sought at the old drafting table her boss, Yvonne, had shoved in the corner of the stockroom had deserted her like a rat on a sinking ship. She might as well give it up before she imploded into a puddle of dark curls and red lipstick.
She grabbed her bag, slapped her fedora on her head, wrapped a stripy scarf around her neck and kicked her way out of the mess she’d made. At least the one on the floor. The mess she’d made of her life would take a bit more work. She’d heard about a monastery in upstate New York. Were there female monks? Was the vow of silence a deal breaker?
Aubrey slipped on her coat and made her way into the store proper, where the girl-on-girl mannequin display she’d set up last week caught her eye. The lingerie was part of the Deco collection. Two styles, both see-through bra and panty sets with detailing to die for. She’d been pleased that Yvonne had approved of her decision to position the two girls a hairsbreadth away from a steamy kiss. Equally pleased that a complementary duo had been installed in the men’s department, but with dudes, of course.
That was her boss all over. Groundbreaking, savvy and always standing at the very edge of a cliff, whether she was mounting risqué displays or building a whole new empire of lingerie stores to rival La Perla and Agent Provocateur. Yvonne’s risk-taking had gotten Aubrey her job. A quirky window display at a Brooklyn boutique had caught Yvonne’s attention last August. The fall window design for Le Muse—daring and different enough to catch the eye of anyone walking down Broadway—had been her triumphant debut.
Yvonne’s voice scared the bejesus out of her as she reached the front door. “Aubrey, my love, I meant to come see you. How are things coming along?”
Panic blossomed like a mushroom cloud. “Great,” she lied, hoping against hope that her high voice didn’t give her away. Although next to Yvonne’s elegant French accent, Aubrey always sounded like the hick she was.
“Of course it is. I know it will be fantastic, but the suspense is driving me mad.”
“Me, too,” Aubrey whispered, then called out, “Have a great night.”
“You, as well.”
It took longer to lock up because of her shaky fingers, but finally she was outside, the sounds of Manhattan soothing her more than a hot bath. She might have been raised in a flyspeck town in Utah, but the minute she’d walked off the plane at JFK, wow, four years ago, she’d found home.
God, she needed a drink or seven. It wasn’t even nine yet, so she had a good chance of getting the roomies together for cocktails. She could always count on Sanjula and Caro for support when her own life went up in flames.
Although this crisis was particularly difficult because there was a secret she had to keep from her friends. The night of the Christmas window extravaganza, the one that was giving Aubrey fits, Yvonne was hosting a celebrity cocktail party in the store. So many models and designers and movie stars would be passing through, her roommates would go insane. But Aubrey couldn’t mention a word of it to anyone until Yvonne gave her the go-ahead.
As she pulled her cell out of her bag, her gaze returned to Le Muse. The display window itself was one of the largest in the city. Yvonne had made sure it was equipped with everything a designer could hope for, including enough depth to stage a play if she wanted to. The only limitation Aubrey faced was her own creativity. Or lack thereof.
She had to admit her fall design had been a stroke of genius. A fluke, but a brilliant one. The window display had launched the store’s soft opening in October and everyone loved her flashers. Three mannequins wearing opaque plastic raincoats held wide open, their feet planted far apart, arms spread. Really flashing the hell out of the city. Though not at first glimpse.
From the front of Le Muse you could only see the girls’ backs. Luckily, a columnist from the Huffington Post had been the first to discover that the whole window was a puzzle. Using mirrors, monitors and cameras set up from different angles, there were all kinds of ways to see that the mannequins wore to-die-for sexy lingerie. A bustier and thigh-high stockings on the redhead, a nearly nude—and barely-there—push-up bra on the brunette, and the blonde dressed in a strapless bodysuit. At least, that’s what they were wearing now. Aubrey changed things up from time to time, from the outfits to the film clips playing on the monitors. It had been the talk of the town, and in a remarkably short time they’d built a solid base of repeat customers.
If only it hadn’t been the very last good idea Aubrey would ever have.
She turned, unable to look at the display for one more second. That drink was calling her very loudly. A gust of wind hit her out of the blue, almost carrying away her hat. Quick reflexes saved the day, and as she reached up to grab for her fedora, she noticed something drifting down from the darkish sky. At first she thought it was a piece of paper, then a floating leaf. She couldn’t imagine where in the world it had come from, or why it dropped straight into her up-stretched hand.
Aubrey blinked at her prize. It was a picture. Of a man. A very gorgeous man. She didn’t recognize him, and she was familiar with most of the current models working in the fashion world, but from the size of the card, she thought he might be a sports star. Although, didn’t they wear uniforms? Mr. Blue Eyes was in a leather jacket, with a white Oxford shirt underneath.
He had dark, thick hair cut with a knowing hand, a bone structure that made her wish she sculpted and lips…well, damn.
Turning the card over led to another surprise. It was a trading card, like for a baseball star or something, but she’d never seen a baseball card with so much information up front and center. His name, the very Irish sounding Liam Flynn, was accompanied by his phone number. A Manhattan area code. Huh. Submitted by Mary Whittaker.
Submitted by? That was odd.
His profession was listed as Detective. Interesting. Private? Police? Other?
Then came the jaw-dropping words…Marry, Date or One-Night Stand. He wanted to Date. It said so, right there in black and white.
“Oh,” she whispered. This must be one of the cards from that Hot Guy thingy. The one she’d read about months ago. Actually, she’d only read the first paragraph, but if she recalled correctly, there were groups all over New York that were dedicated to women setting up their girlfriends with guys they knew.
Sanjula
