Evening Storm (5 page)

She quickly glanced over her shoulder. As she expected, she saw Ryan, but the woman he was standing next to was the one generating the beehivelike buzz in the room.

“I believe that's Daria Russell,” the woman she was helping said under her breath.

“I believe you're right,” she replied.

Daria Russell, an actress in her midthirties, had labored in the obscurity of character roles and theater until breaking out via a gritty role on a cable series. Since then she had become the darling of Hollywood. She had incredible range, a deft hand with comedy, and the ability to take an audience through a character's emotional journey using subtle shifts of shoulders or spine, and her expressive green eyes. She had an odd face, not characteristically beautiful, but enlivened by an uncommon intelligence and sensitivity that made her absolutely striking and very watchable. In a single glance Simone took in her untidy chestnut hair, her lack of makeup, and the way Ryan lowered his ear to her mouth the better to catch whatever observation she was making about Simone's showroom.

He wasn't wearing the Bluetooth headset today, she noticed. Jade had had to demand that he take the earpiece out of his ear, but Daria had all of his attention. Simone noticed two things simultaneously: Ryan was blatantly avoiding her eye, and she was jealous.

Lorrie approached her, all but quivering with excitement. “May I . . . ?”

“Be my guest,” Simone said, and was quite pleased with her level tone. She gave her entire attention to the client she had been helping, collecting a variety of one-piece lace body suits, then escorted her to a dressing room, but when she emerged, the tension in the room was palpable. People had their phones out, and while they weren't obviously pointing them in Daria's direction, attempts to capture an image of this A-list actress shopping for sexy underwear weren't far off. Lorrie was flustered to the point of wringing her hands, but Ryan raised his hand to catch Simone's attention, then beckoned her over.

Simone crossed the showroom floor. “Pardon me, Miss Russell, but perhaps you and your companion would prefer a more personal shopping experience?”

The woman looked relieved. “Yes, thank you very much,” she said.

Simone held out her hand toward the workroom, indicating that Daria and Ryan should precede her. She didn't miss the way Ryan put his hand at the small of Daria's back, and positioned himself so he stood between most of the other shoppers and the actress. He looked strained, Simone noted, although she wasn't sure why. Was it because he brought another woman to her showroom after their conversation on the stoop? He certainly seemed to welcome the publicity, so it couldn't be the threat of pictures posted to Twitter or Instagram. Another wave of jealousy bubbled in her gut. For a single second, she acknowledged that she was irritated Ryan hadn't contacted her, then let it go. Tried to let it go.

Lorrie opened the door for Daria. She swept through, and Ryan held back for a split second. “Thanks,” he said to Simone.

“It's nothing, sir,” she said

He stopped her from entering the workroom by shifting his weight ever so slightly to block her progress to the door. To anyone watching from the showroom, it would look like Ryan was laying down some version of
That was unacceptable. Miss Russell requires . . . ,
but Simone knew better. The sheer nearness of his face to hers, the fact that he turned his shoulders and torso to bodily block her progress made her breath halt in her throat.

“Sir?” he said. His voice was flat, not teasing.

She didn't back down, simply lifted her chin, met his gaze head-on, and said, “That is my customary way of addressing a client.”

He looked down, then back up at her through his lashes. “It's not what you think.”

“Actually, it's not what
you
think. Miss Russell,” she said as she turned her shoulders to brush past Ryan, “how can I help you today?”

“First of all, thanks for getting me out of there. It's not that I'm not grateful for all the attention, but I've been in five different showrooms today and it's starting to stress me out a little.”

“Of course,” Simone said. “Can I get you something to drink? Some water, or perhaps a cup of tea?”

“Water would be lovely,” Daria said.

“And for you, sir?” Definitely still irritated over something she shouldn't be, over a man she shouldn't want.

“Water's fine,” Ryan said.

She got Daria settled in one of the chairs in front of the three-way mirror, and gave her a Pellegrino. After the actress had opened the bottle, swallowed a couple sips of water, and visibly exhaled the tension from her shoulders, Simone sat down a respectful distance away and said, “How can I help you, so you can go home and relax?”

“I'm going to a gala event at MoMA tonight. We both are,” she said, nodding at Ryan with a smile. “I finally found a gown, but none of the undergarments fit quite right. You came highly recommended.”

“I'll certainly do my best,” Simone said. “Do you have the gown with you, or is it being altered?”

“No, they just finished fitting it,” Daria said. “I was supposed to wear this gown to an event I'm going to later in the month, but this invitation came unexpectedly, so I asked the designer to hurry up and finish it. I promised I'd wear something different for the next one.” She gave a little laugh. “I shouldn't sound so ungrateful. I remember when I could go months without anyone inviting me to anything, and when I was invited, I shopped the sales in the thrift shops on the Lower East Side.”

“I've found some quite good bargains down there,” Simone said. She actually liked this woman. She didn't want to like her, because Simone could see Ryan settling down with a woman composed and self-aware, but like her she did. “If I could see the gown, perhaps? I'll send my assistant to get it.”

Ryan held up his mobile. “I've already texted the driver.”

Simone rose. “Excuse me for just a moment,” she said, and went back into the showroom. Lorrie hustled down the stairs and returned with a dressmaker's bag held high to keep it from dragging on the floor. “I'll take that,” Simone said with a smile.

“The driver said he was double-parked, so he was going to move the car, and to text when he needs him,” Lorrie added, and left.

Simone carried the dress through to the workroom, hung it on a hook by the three-way mirror, and arranged a folding screen to give Daria a measure of privacy while she changed into it. Daria declined an offer of help, and disappeared behind the screen.

Lorrie poked her head into the workroom. “There's a delivery for you.”

“I'm not expecting a delivery,” Simone said.

“It's a bike messenger,” Lorrie said, and closed the door behind her.

Ignoring Ryan, Simone stood at the edge of the three-way mirror. “Ms. Russell, excuse me for a moment, but I need to take a delivery.”

“Not a problem,” Daria said from behind the screen. Simone heard the
whoosh
of denim against skin as she took off her jeans.

The showroom was busy but Lorrie seemed to have things under control. The bike messenger who had delivered Ryan's outrageous tip stood in the doorway, dressed in his helmet, blade shades, cargo shorts over tights, and a skin-tight bike jersey. Blond scruff glinted against tanned skin. He wore a messenger bag slung across his body and cradled a plant in his arm.

Not just any plant. An enormous, lush arrangement of orchids drooped and trembled in the messenger's arms.

“Oh, pauvre petite plante,” Simone said as she approached him. “You didn't put that poor thing in your bag, did you?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. His smile was quick to arrive and just as quick to disappear. “The florist was only a couple blocks away. I walked this pretty thing on over.”

While he held the plant, Simone gently touched the velvety flowers, admiring the intricate shape of the petals. Five stems surrounded by green leaves and white rocks arced from a white bowl. Each stem bowed under the weight of flowers the color of twilight, more than Simone could easily count. There was no personal card tucked into a plastic holder or the ribbon wrapped around the pot, just one from the florist explaining that another arrangement would arrive every four weeks for the next five years. She mentally revised her estimate from “expensive” to “the height of extravagance.”

“Who sent it?” she asked, her brain alternating between displaying it on the showroom counter and covetously keeping it in her apartment.

“I'm just the messenger, ma'am,” he said. “The florist might be able to tell you that. Sign here.”

Simone signed for the plant and took it from the bike messenger. He shifted his shoulders, rolling them back, a movement that seemed automatic to Simone, the kind of thing people did to ease an ache that was never actually going away. She did the same thing with her hands, massaging her palms and wrists in slow, steady motions, the way Ryan did when he told her about Jade.

Ryan, who now stood in Simone's workroom with an actress that stole this year's Best Actress Oscar as a dark horse in a field of thoroughbreds. Ryan, who had taken her hand in his and massaged the aches away, following them up her forearms to her elbows, where the tendons and muscles had tightened into intricate knots.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked the bike messenger. “Water, or a pain reliever?”

He jerked as if she'd poked him hard in the ribs. His hand fell away from his shoulder and he straightened. “No, ma'am,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“Thank you,” she said again, but he was already through the door and taking the stairs to the street two at a time.

She carried the orchid into the workroom and set it on the table closest to the three-way mirror. Daria was still behind the screen. Ryan leaned against the table, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. He glanced at the orchid. “Nice,” he said.

He lived in a world where a monthly delivery of four hundred dollars worth of orchids was
nice
. “It is,” she agreed.

“Who's it from?” he said absently.

“No idea,” she said, but she had an idea, and it was as bad as if Ryan had sent it to her.

Daria emerged to stand in front of the three-way in a strapless gown of rich cream brocade that set off her flawless skin and eyes to perfection. The gown hung open, baring her slender back to her tailbone. Tucking his phone in his front pocket as he walked, Ryan stopped behind her and zipped up the gown. As the zipper went up, his fingers grazed her spine. Standing slightly behind them, Simone watched Daria's eyelids flutter as a frisson chased up her spine.

Chemistry. It couldn't be manufactured or bought. Two people had it or they didn't. Ryan and Daria had it.

“A beautiful choice,” Simone said as she studied the cut of the dress's back and bodice. “Allow me to bring you some items that may suit.”

“Oh, please do,” Daria said with a smile. “Thirty-two B, probably.”

Simone made a whirlwind tour through the showroom, selecting structured bras with lines that would suit the dress, and matching panties. Lorrie seemed to have the showroom under control, so she brought the selections back to Daria. “That one,” Daria said after they retreated behind the folding screen again. She pointed at a bra made of cream silk charmeuse. “You're French,” she said as Simone helped her into the bra then into the gown. She wore white cotton bikini underpants, a practical choice that made Simone smile. No artifice here.

“Yes,” Simone said. “I began my career in Paris and moved to America about a year ago.”

“Which houses were you with in Paris?” Daria said as she studied her reflection in the three-way.

“I was with Demarchelier,” Simone said. “Perhaps something with more lift?”

“Agreed,” Daria said. They made the exchange, and returned to stand in front of the mirror. “Demarchelier designed my gown for the BAFTAs last year.”

Simone did not remember that, partially because she never worked in the evening-wear division of her family's house, and partially because last year they designed gowns for two actresses far more recognizable than Daria. “Did you work with Julian, or with Genevieve?”

“Julian,” Daria said as she studied herself in the mirror. “Do you know him?”

“He's my brother.”

“That certainly explains the showroom,” Daria said. “You have a similar eye for fabrics and structure. He knew how to design for a woman's body so she made something beautiful out of the dress as much as the dress made something beautiful out of the woman.”

“Thank you,” Simone said, genuinely pleased. “Our father taught us as his father taught him, and his father taught him.”

Daria turned from side to side, studying her reflection in the mirror as she hunched her shoulders and stretched to check for gaps. “That's perfect. Are there matching panties? I don't wear thongs unless I absolutely have to. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

Ryan chuckled, reminding the women of his presence on the sectional behind them. They both turned to look at him. He gave Daria an amused, bad-boy grin, then looked down. Daria turned back to the mirrors, but Simone kept her gaze on Ryan. When he lifted his eyes to hers again there was a very subtle question in them. She gave him her most professional smile.

“Which do you prefer?” Simone said as she showed Daria the bikini underpants and high-waisted version that were her salute to the styles worn by the pinup girls in the fifties. She noted that Daria didn't turn to Ryan for his approval. Instead she pointed at the high-waisted version and said, “I'll take those.”

It would be a striking ensemble when Ryan removed the gown. Simone felt her smile falter, and covered it by saying, “I would be happy to take your card and ring you up while you wait here.”