Barefoot in Lace (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 2) (23 page)

Tom disappeared minutes after they arrived, and Gussie and Alex were swept into a waiting room that looked down over the wide boulevard where they’d be shooting.

While they waited, Alex munched on the over-the-top buffet, chatting with Gussie and pressing her face against the window to see the goings-on below. Gussie tried not to chew her lip while she tried to figure out how she’d gotten herself into this particular predicament. It was supposed to be liberating and exhilarating and once-in-a-lifetimey.

Instead, she felt raw and terrified, every flaw exposed.

“Holy crap, she must be the professional model.”

Gussie joined Alex to get a look. Oh, yes. The model. Of course she was a tall, stunning, jaw-dropper of a blonde with the longest legs Gussie had ever seen climbing out of a limo. A glamazon of pure perfection with a mane of whiskey-gold hair, wicked-sharp cheekbones, and a body that made couture designers weep with joy.

“Her name’s Johanna Holt,” Alex said. “I heard one of those guys with the headsets who brought us up here call her your competition.”

Gussie rolled her eyes. “Like that’s a fair match.”

Alex scowled. “You’re not going to back out, are you, Gussie? I’d hate that.”

She could hear the honesty in the girl’s voice and knew if she changed her mind, then she’d somehow let Alex down. Not to mention Tom.

“I’m not,” she promised. “But I still don’t know why one of the other three billion women in the world who aren’t models couldn’t do this.”

“But you represent
la femme ordinaire
!” She grinned at Alex’s perfect imitation of Madame Suzette.

“
Viva l’ordinaire
!” Gussie joked, giving her knuckles.

“Look at all those people she brought.” Alex pointed back to the model, who glided across the street trailed by three men, one carting garment bags, one rolling an oversize makeup case, and the other a beefy bruiser who was no doubt carrying a Glock.

“Bodyguard,” Gussie murmured.

Alex turned, her eyes wide and jaw loose. “No way. She gets a bodyguard to come to her shoot?”

“Well, I get you.”

That made Alex laugh while they watched more people scamper around Johanna like she was royalty. The last group to arrive on the scene included Tom, who was on the phone, camera around his neck, a few hangers-on following him.

He greeted Johanna with a warm smile and a two-sided Euro air kiss.

“Don’t be jealous,” Alex said.

Gussie snorted. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because you like him.”

“One of us has to.”

“
Mademoiselle
McBain?” The door popped open, and their escort, a young man wearing a headset, came into the room. “
Je regret
the delay.
Mademoiselle
Holt was slightly delayed. Can you come to hair and makeup now,
s’il vous plait
?” He stepped away from the door and started speaking in French into a microphone.

“Hair and makeup are my favorite words,” Gussie quipped. But this time? Not so much.

“C’mon,” Alex whispered, nudging her a little, probably sensing Gussie’s hesitation. “You can do this.”

Gussie shot her a look of gratitude.

“It’s your birthday and your freecation,” Alex added.

“How do you know it’s my birthday?” Gussie asked, shocked by the revelation.

“You told me the day I met you that you were born on August first. And I know you’re not forty.”

Gussie laughed, shaking her head, oddly touched.

“I told my uncle. Didn’t he say happy birthday yet?”

“No, but he’s a little preoccupied.”

“He will.” Alex sounded so certain, it was kind of endearing.

The French escort made his impatience known with a dramatic clearing of his throat. “Jean Claude is waiting.”

Gussie made a quick face at Alex, who giggled some more.

“Then by all means,” Gussie said, nudging Alex ahead, “let’s get to my personal idea of…”
Hell
.

But she didn’t want to reveal that to Alex. Being camera shy and insecure were such unattractive traits and not something she’d like to model for this impressionable young girl. On the contrary, she longed to show Alex the importance of strength, confidence, and fearlessness. Conquering her own fears was a great way to do that. Agonizing, but great.

“Your personal idea of what?” Alex prompted.

“Challenge,” she said, reaching for Alex’s hand. “Come on, I need moral support.”

She squeezed her fingers around Gussie’s. “You got it.”

They followed their escort to another floor into a styling salon, where he directed Gussie to a makeup chair. Alex took the empty one next to her.

Another man came in seconds later, clapping his hands like a schoolteacher. “The world’s greatest beauty specialist has arrived,” he announced in a heavy French accent. “I am Jean Claude. And you must be my test
du jour
.”

Might as well get right out there and be the ugly American. Literally. “Brace yourself,
monsieur
. I’m opinionated and”—she lifted her ponytail—“I’m partially bald.”

“I am more bald,
mademoiselle
.” He rubbed his own hairless head and adjusted hipster-style black-rimmed glasses to get a better look at her scar, then gently pulled her hair out of the silky tieback. Gussie watched his expression in the mirror, waiting for the usual sympathy or even disgust.

He frowned, gnawing on his lip, angling his head from one side to the other, studying her scar like it was a work of art he couldn’t quite understand.

“Mmm.” He looked into the mirror to meet her eyes. “May I?” He fluttered his fingers.

“You may.”

He started to lift and finger-comb her hair, which was thick enough in the front and sides that from this angle, she looked perfectly normal.

“I know several styles that can almost completely cover it,” she said. “If you just—”

“
Non
!” He barked the word, startling her. Then he broke into a grin. “We can use it.”

Use it?
“Um, don’t you want a wig? I can’t wear extensions because—”

“Marie!” He clapped his hands as he called the name, and instantly an assistant appeared. Then he spewed a string of incomprehensible French.

Marie nodded. “
Et
Suzette?” she asked.

“
Oui, oui, oui
!” He clapped again, dismissing her. “We do makeup first.”

“And then…”

He glared at her like she was a disobedient child. “Makeup first.” More clapping. More assistants appeared, one carrying a load of color palettes, the other rolling out a satin bag of makeup brushes with the same flair as a chef presenting his cutlery.

“What is all this stuff?” Alex whispered as the others chattered in French.

“Other than heavenly?” Gussie asked. “Oh, Alex, those are Kevyn Aucoin brushes that retail for about a hundred apiece.”

No less than three artists went to work with those pricey brushes on Gussie’s face, speaking rapid French with no regard for the fact that she didn’t understand them.

“You have perfect skin,” Jean Claude said, brushing Gussie’s cheek. “Marie says it is like a baby’s ass.”

Alex snorted.

“And your bow!” He tapped her upper lip. “Deep and delicious. Made for kissing.”

This time, Alex cleared her throat in her own distinct
ahem
.

“But it is your lovely symmetry that makes you a true beauty,
cherie
.” He stroked her face from cheekbone to cheekbone. “You have been kissed by the beauty gods.”

And here she thought she’d been
dissed
by them.

When they finished, Gussie opened her eyes and blinked, stunned at the results. For her, makeup was extreme or nothing, but this was subtle, warm, and beautiful. Before she could comment, the door opened, and six more people crammed into the room, led by the stately LaVie executive Suzette, who was obviously calling the shots today.

French volleyed back and forth, the conversation loud and bubbling with constant interruptions, with all attention riveted to her scar.

Due to the perfectly applied foundation, Gussie couldn’t see her face flush, but she could feel her entire body burn with embarrassment. They looked at her like she was some kind of museum exhibit.

During the discussion, Alex slipped off her chair and took Gussie’s hand. The simple moved cracked Gussie’s heart, opening it like she had to make room for the girl. They exchanged a smile, and then, suddenly, all of the French people went silent.

Every eye in the room fell on Suzette, who stared at the scar with her arms crossed.

Gussie couldn’t take it anymore. “I wear wigs,” she said. “I wear them very well, as a matter of fact. Would you like to see how well?”

Suzette finally took her gaze from the back of Gussie’s head to meet her eyes. “A wig?
La femme ordinaire
does not wear wigs.”

Well, la bald femme did.
“I’m sure we can find one that’s very natural.” Gussie swallowed hard, but refused to let her voice waver. “Or another model.”

Suzette shook her head. “No. I like it. I like it very much.” She gave a gesture of permission to Jean Claude. “He will finish up,” she said, the English clearly for Gussie’s benefit. “Johanna’s set is nearly complete, and they will be ready in fifteen minutes.” She smiled coolly at Gussie. “You are perfect.”

Gussie gave a sardonic grunt. “Since you just had a twenty-minute discussion about how imperfect I am, that’s really not true.”

“
Au contraire, mademoiselle
. Our campaign celebrates the beauty on the inside. Beauty that is more enhanced by LaVie than any of this.” She swept her hand over the makeup brushes strewn on the counter. “I believe your imperfection, as you see it, is something women can relate to.”

“Not exactly,” Gussie said. “A few extra pounds, less-than-creamy skin, a weak chin. These are flaws women can relate to. A scar that leaves a bald spot on the back of your head? That’s not relatable.”

“We shall see,” she countered. “We all have the scars, inside and out. And in the hands of TJ DeMille, you will be indescribably beautiful.”

She’d like to be in the hands of TJ DeMille right now. And not for sunrise sexy times. She’d really rather strangle him for putting her in this situation.

As quickly as they’d arrived, the French contingent of marketing geniuses disappeared, and without a word, Jean Claude went to work styling Gussie’s hair.

She’d lost the fight, so she closed her eyes and endured combing, clipping, and more hands-on attention than her hair had gotten in the fifteen years and…twenty-eight days since the accident.

Not that she was counting or anything.

She didn’t open her eyes until she heard his comb hit the counter and Alex gasped audibly. And then she had to blink to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

“Wow,” Gussie whispered. “You’re good.”

Jean Claude threw up his hands as if to say, “It’s about time you realized that.” Then he gave a sly French half grin, clearly pleased with his work. As he should be. Her hair had been cut into layers—something she’d never dared attempt—and now had a bounciness she’d never even tried to achieve. Why bother? She hated her hair because it wasn’t all there.

No, she hated her hair because it was a constant, endless reminder of the worst day of her life.

“Would you like to see the back?” he asked, holding a hand mirror.

She generally avoided that angle, but she had to look. Taking the mirror, she gasped at how beautifully he’d styled the back. The scar was visible, but somehow he’d cut and layered the hair around it so it wasn’t quite so ugly. Why couldn’t she have done that?

Because she’d never really tried. Instead, she hid her hair and scar, as if she could hide away her pain of that night.

She lowered the hand mirror and looked at the bald Frenchman beaming in front of her. “Thank you,” she mouthed, worried that if she spoke, her voice would crack, then the tears would pour and she’d wreck her makeup, and Jean Claude would kill her.

Instead, she was going to kill this photo shoot.

Chapter Eighteen

On one knee, Tom angled his lens away from the sun, checking the last set of shots after they’d dismissed Johanna.

“No one’s going to buy water from her,” he murmured to Monique, the only assistant who spoke decent English.

“Three-thousand-dollar shoes, yes,” Monique agreed. “But not water. This woman, though”—she tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention—“could sell me anything.”

Tom looked up, blinking into the sun and shadows that fell on the backstreet of Cannes.

“Whoa.” For a second, he froze the frame in his mental lens, letting the background fade away to a blur, but Gussie burned in stark clarity, taking his breath away.

“And she’s
not
a professional,” Monique said, unaware, like most of the freelancers in Cannes, that he and Gussie knew each other. “This is the
femme ordinaire
test shot.”

But, damn, there was nothing
ordinary
about that woman.

It wasn’t just the way her hair was styled, although it was natural and pretty, utterly pleasing to the eye. Nor was it the lacy white sundress that floated above her knees, giving her an unexpected innocence, or the subtle makeup that enhanced a face he already admired.

No, it was something inside Gussie McBain that had her striding with confidently squared shoulders and an air of authority. She tossed a comment to Alex, who laughed with a spirit he’d yet to see much of, and then the two gave each other a friendly knuckle tap and a quick hug as Alex stepped away from the set.

Tom tried to take it all in—the woman, the moment, the ease of her relationships—but instead of a single coherent thought, he stood there with his heart racing unnaturally.

Only when she gave him a nod of acknowledgment did he walk across the cobblestone street to meet her.

“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” she teased.

“Let me guess… ‘I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille’?”

She laughed guiltily. “I guess you’ve heard that about a hundred times.”