Reality TV Bites (10 page)

I want to feel a sense of accomplishment after all this work, but like the first show, it just isn't there. We came in, we subdued the natives, we made the room over using the required materials, but I don't feel like we made the room better.

I think Miranda and Josh have some of the same feelings because they're silent on the drive back to the office. Fed up with work, I skip the office and go straight home and plop on the couch. I don't feel like getting ready to go out, even if it is a Ciara St. Loren fashion show with Nicolo.

Instead, I flip on the TV and
While You Were Out
is on. For the first time in recent memory, I switch the channel.
Fear Factor
is on the next station, and I turn that, too. E! has the
True Hollywood Story
of reality TV stars, but I can't stomach that, either.

I mean, what are these people looking for? Fame? Money? Why are they messing with lives that are perfectly good already? Why am I?

When Nicolo calls a while later, I tell him I'll meet him at the fashion show. He doesn't like it, but I'm trying to keep our relationship casual and friendly. I learned a long time ago not to get involved with guys I work with. There was a professor at Columbia College in Chicago who taught History of Architecture I. Now I don't know about you, but I think
history, architecture,
and
ew!
But when I walked into Professor Montford's room—Stéphane's room—I remember thinking,
ooh.

Stéphane Montford was an Olivier Martinez clone, but sexier. Longish brown hair, dark, brooding eyes, straight nose, soft sensuous lips. God, the man knew what to do with those lips.

He and I had a little fling the first semester of my junior year. It was really hot, then really cold. Unfortunately, Stéphane also taught History of Architecture II. For a whole semester, we glared at each other three days a week. And the bastard gave me a D!

Well, architecture isn't my forte, so maybe I deserved the D, but it taught me a lesson. Nicolo and I still have to work
together for a few weeks, so if things don't pan out, I could be in for a shitload of misery.

Since this is a fashion show, I dress to kill. I put on a short, short, short black skirt by MaxMara, high, high, high heels by Jimmy Choo, and a white and silver top by Armani.

It's no fun being around a bunch of models all night, but I put in the extra effort anyway. The show's at an upscale club downtown. I've been there before, but I arrive a few minutes late, toss the car-struck valet the keys to the Z4, and walk in.

The club is dark, and a runway has been set up in the center of the dance floor. Funky techno music plays, and people are starting to find seats on both sides of the runway and standing at the second-floor railings. I don't see Nicolo, so I go to the bar and order a mojito with a stalk of sugarcane for garnish. I take a sip and scan the club. Still no Nicolo. But there are lots of Chicago bigwigs, and I wave at a couple from my parents' country club.

Someone comes up behind me, and I smile, anticipating Nicolo's low murmur in my ear. Snap! The strap of my bra slaps against my back.

“Ouch!” I spin around and there's Grayson, grinning like he used to when I first started wearing bras and he, four years older at sixteen, snapped them at every opportunity.

“I hate to tell you this, but someone stole the bottom of your skirt.”

I roll my eyes. Big brothers. “Ha-ha. Snap my bra again, and the next time you're not paying attention, I'll snap your underwear.”

“I don't wear underwear.”

“Yeck. TMI.”

“Aw, you know you love me.” He hugs me, then says, “Since we're giving out info, what are you doing here?”

“I'm the guest of a VIP,” I say and toss my hair like I used to at thirteen. It still irritates him. “What are you doing here?”

He leans one elbow against the bar. “I'm in the fashion show.”

“Oh.” I probably should have figured that out, since Gray is a model. Gray is the most gorgeous man on the planet. Yes, I know he's my brother, and my opinion is slanted, but I'm being totally objective here. Gray is the best-looking man I know. He's also my favorite brother. He's my only brother, but that doesn't make him any less great. Especially considering he's the only person that keeps me sane around my parents.

Looking at him now, it's hard to believe he's the same scrawny kid who sported two rows of braces, had stringy brown hair, and wore the same jeans and T-shirt until my mother pried them away from his dirty body to wash. Now the braces are gone, and he's got straight whiter-than-white teeth. Of course, you'd never know it because he never smiles. I guess smiling isn't cool in modeldom. His stringy brown hair is still kind of long and stringy, but it's the look now, and these days it's blond.

He's wearing tight jeans and a loose shirt, open to reveal his six-pack abs. He's very proud of those. We work out together sometimes, and I've learned that Gray and I have different ideas about how long a workout should last. The first time we went to the gym together, I left after an hour to get a smoothie. He told me he was going to finish with his abs and then he'd be done. I bought the smoothie, drank the smoothie, and then went looking for him, and he was still crunching.

Grayson is fab, but there is one annoying thing about him—wherever we go, girls fall all over him. It has to be the
abs. I'd like to be magnanimous and say that all the fawning twentysomethings don't faze him, but Gray is pretty much a player. He needs a girl like Natalie to settle him down.

Now he's giving me that intense model look, which always seems sort of out of place on his baby face. He's thirty-six, but he looks twenty-four. Disgusting, isn't it? You'd think by thirty-six his modeling career and womanizing days would be over. Nope. Gotta love those Holloway genes.

“You look good,” he says after a minute. “I like your hair that way, but you should push it forward more.” He reaches out, presumably to perfect my hairstyle, and tousles it violently instead. Brothers never change.

I grab his hand and reach for his head, but he says, “Whoa! Not the hair, baby.”

“Jerk,” I say, pushing my once carefully coiffed hair out of my eyes, and he laughs and gives me a hug. He's like six-three, so even in my FM Jimmy Choos, I feel like a little kid again.

“I see you have found another companion,” an accented voice behind me says. Gray releases me, and I turn to Nicolo. His face is hard and his mouth a thin line.

“Nicolo, I was looking for you.”

“In his chest?”

I raise a brow and glance at Gray to see if he thinks this is as funny as I do. He's not smiling. I turn back to Nicolo. “Are you jealous?”

He snorts. “Not at all. If you want to go home with this pretty boy, go ahead.”

See how young Gray looks? “Well, considering the pretty boy is my brother, I don't think that's going to happen. Grayson, Nicolo. Nicolo, Grayson Holloway.”

“Hey,” Grayson says, inclining his head coolly. I frown. You'd think the guy could at least shake Nicolo's hand.

Nicolo doesn't attempt to shake Grayson's hand, either. “I am sorry. I misunderstood.”

The lights flicker up and down, and Grayson releases me. I didn't even notice that he still had his arm around my shoulder.

“I gotta go change. See ya tomorrow, Allie.” He kisses my cheek and looks at Nicolo like he might say something but turns and walks away instead.

I shake my head. “Sorry, he was raised by wolves. He hasn't quite got the hang of human interaction yet.”

Nicolo waves a hand and offers his arm. “I am the same way with my younger sisters. He is older, yes?”

I nod, distracted as Nicolo leads me to two reserved seats on the side of the catwalk. I've never been a front-row girl at a fashion show before, and when the lights go down and the music starts up, I can hardly contain my excitement.

The first model struts out in a gorgeous flowy chocolate dress, and I lean forward to memorize every stitch. Nicolo says in my ear, “Your brother was really adopted?”

“No.” I glance at him. “Just a joke.” I turn away, watching the next model, dressed in gray wool slacks and a checked wool peacoat, unbuttoned enough that we can see she's not wearing a top underneath.

“He does not look like you.”

I glance at Nicolo, reluctant to take my eyes from the runway. “It's dark in here. If you saw us in the light, you'd be able to tell.”

“Hmm.” Nicolo seems satisfied for the moment, so I focus back on the stage in time to see a model in a black chiffon dress turn off the runway. Damn.

A few minutes later, the first male model comes out, and I sit forward to watch for Gray. I've seen him model a hundred times. He's really good—a natural—but watching someone
you know so well put on a show can be pretty hilarious. He looks so mean, his eyes ferocious and his mouth pouty. It cracks me up every time.

A minute later he strides out in a charcoal suit—jacket, slacks, and tie—no shirt. I stifle a giggle. He has to show off those abs.

“Why do you laugh?”

I shake my head. “He cracks me up when he models. His face—” I start laughing again.

The next time Gray comes out—this time wearing a shirt, but also wearing fifties-style glasses—I start laughing again.

“You will upset him,” Nicolo says.

“No, with the lights, they can't see anything up there,” I say.

“Really?” I feel his hand on my thigh, and look down to see his white fingers caress the expansive area of leg between my knee and the skirt's hem.

I glance at him, and he's watching the models intently, as though the last thing on his mind is the way his fingers are now sliding up my inner thigh.

“Nicolo. I said the models can't see, not the rest of the audience.”

“They are watching the models.” His hand slides higher, and I gasp. His mouth curves into a smile as the tips of his fingers graze the lace of my panties. He gives me a sideways look, then one finger slides the scrap of lace aside and touches flesh.

Oh, my God. If he moves another fraction of an inch, I'm going to come off my chair. Somehow I manage a strangled, “Stop.”

“You know you want this.”

What? His hand moves again, but I don't feel any pleasure. “No, I don't. Not here.”

He looks at me, his expression curious. “Stop your teasing. You are no virgin.” He smirks. “Far from it, from what I hear.”

My mouth drops open, and I wiggle away from his hand, which he pulls back very reluctantly. “Are you calling me a slut?”

His eyes skim my shirt, skirt, then shoes, his answer clear on his face.

“Excuse me.” Ice-cold rage coursing through me, I stand and stalk away. It feels like all eyes are on me as I walk past the other front-row girls and through the club. Behind me, the show goes on, and I give the club's door a vicious push. I hate to leave good fashion. I hand the valet my ticket as the door swings open behind me.

“I grow tired of chasing you. I do not like standing on street corners and arguing. It is common.”

“I guess I'm just a common girl.”

He spreads his arms. “What did I do now? Do not tell me you didn't like me touching you. You were wet.”

I dart a glance at the two remaining valets. They are trying very hard to pretend they didn't hear that last part.

“Well, that comment's going to be in the paper tomorrow.”

He dismisses the valets with a wave, then gives me a narrow look. “I embarrassed you inside?”

I shake my head. “It'll take more than you feeling me up to embarrass me.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“You treated me like a whore!”

The valets aren't even pretending not to listen now, but as they're both frowning at Nicolo, I figure they're on my side.

“I gave you pleasure.”

“Bullshit. You wanted to see how far you could go. I'm
not some royalty groupie, following you around and waiting for a handout. You think because you've got a title, you can do whatever you want. Guess what? I'm not impressed.”

He doesn't respond, and I don't know if his silence is out of agreement or anger.

The valet pulls up with my car and holds the door for me.

“You know what, little Prince Nicolo? Why don't you go home and enjoy your
droit du seigneur
there, because this American isn't interested in stroking your ego.” I climb in, punch the button, and the BMW's top goes down. “Or any other part of you.”

 

The next day, Gray doesn't say anything about Nicolo on the drive to the basketball camp, and I'm glad.

“This is a pretty area,” I say when we're out of the city.

“Yeah. At least the last moments of my life will be spent in—Jesus, watch out for that truck!”

I wave his whining away. “Loosen up. You're supposed to be a cool camp counselor today.” Grayson just winces as I pass an eighteen-wheeler, narrowly avoiding colliding with another car as I skirt in front of the truck a second before the oncoming car passes us.

The camp is on Fox Lake in Ingleside, an area west of Chicago. As I drive into the Illinois interior, the traffic thins, the lanes narrow, and the trees thicken. We pass pine, maple, oak, linden, and butternut trees. The buildings and houses disappear, and we drive by cornfields and farmhouses.

The area reminds me of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—about ninety minutes from Chicago—where my parents have a cottage. Gray and I call it a cottage because everyone else does, but I doubt most people would consider a mammoth structure with two stories, a formal dining room, five bedrooms, three and a half baths, a pool, a garden, and a
boathouse a cottage. Of course, compared to the medieval-style castles and English manor houses down the street and across the lake, our house
is
a mere cottage.