Reunion Girls (28 page)

"You greedy little—"

"Oh," Gabrielle cut him off. She just couldn't resist. "FYI—Baby Bear is getting a raise. Plus better benefits. I can't believe you didn't offer a dental plan."

"Yeah, man," Baby Bear chimed in. "What's up with that?"

She smiled at AKA Bomb Threat to show him that she still could, to prove to him that the career apocalypse had only made her stronger. He never saw the distinctions between Brown Sugar and Gabrielle. Until this moment. And that's when she picked up Bomb's fur and shoved it into his arms. Her final words were the sweetest she had ever uttered to him. "Now who's the bitch?"

A few hours later she was twirling in front of the mirror, checking out her simple Narciso Rodriguez spaghetti-strap cocktail number. God, she was practically naked. No jewelry. Minimal makeup. Just a black dress. But this is what
Gabrielle
would wear. A soaring feeling of liberation sluiced through her veins. Officially, the occasion might be Mio and Mako Kometani's birthday celebration, Unofficially, though, it was a coming-out party for Gabrielle Diahann Foster.

As promised, Lara's Town Car idled outside the Waldorf-Astoria. The anxiety of leaving the hotel settled in Gabrielle's stomach and stayed there, even after the driver zoomed away from the curb and into the dark forest of the Manhattan night.

Slow, deep breaths.

That got her through the first difficult minutes. Ultimately, her agitation receded, and she began to enjoy the fact that for the first time since the woman formerly known as Brown Sugar hit it big, the woman known once again as Gabrielle was out in the city . . . completely alone. No puppet-master producer. No entourage. No bodyguard. Free at last.

In no time, they were coasting through the Meatpacking District. The driver stopped somewhere on Ninth Avenue. Gabrielle's Manolo Blahnik heel stepped out onto the cobble-stoned street. She loved this area. The mix of old meat warehouses and retrofit storefronts against style-heavy restaurants and flagship fashion posts from the likes of Stella McCartney and Alexander McQueen was the kind of urban, eclectic success that only New York could claim.

Outside, the building was a massive, easily ignored zinc-colored metal structure. But the buzz of activity surrounding its perimeter hinted at something exciting inside. As a torrent of anticipation surged through her, Gabrielle breezed past a gaggle of smokers and into... another world. Oh, God! Yes, it was another world. She was in Italy. This was Venice!

Somehow, Lara had managed to fit into the space a replica of the Grand Canal with actual water and authentic-looking gondolas. Massive, hyper-realistic murals of the Basilica di San Marco and Palazzo Ducale rose up like mirages from a blue lagoon. The exhaustive attention to detail created a transporting effect.

Byzantine. Gothic. Renaissance. The exotic melange of styles ruled in its own way. The party had just started and already had a life all its own. Full of secrets. Teeming with romance. Open to pleasure.

She surveyed the crowd so far. The pretend city in the pretend country was overflowing with famous-energy New York.

The rich. The hot. And the sexy.

Gabrielle hit the least crowded drink trough. There was still chemical-seeker gridlock. But she killed the time with a second-tier model, going back and forth on a love-your-dress routine. Then she was up. "Raging Bull!"

It packed an eight-ball wallop—the adrenalizing caffeine sugar drink and the shot of seventy-proof Smirnoff. She downed it. She felt it. And then left in search of the kick-ass social equivalent.

Gabrielle saw Lara just beyond a Eurotrash clique, and screamed out her name.

The long blond hair was slicked back. The way-above-ten body was parading in a black catsuit. She turned, beamed at Gabrielle, mouthed something into her headset microphone, and dashed over to embrace her. "You made it!"

"What you've done is incredible!"

Lara's smiling reply was modest.

Gabrielle fiddled with the headset. "I like this. Very Lady Gaga.”

Lara laughed. "Thanks." She pointed to the stage and catwalk. "You might be interested to know that I'll be performing ‘Bad Romance’ later."

Babe appeared out of nowhere, forefinger already easing down on the shutter release of her Contax. "Okay, my bitches, smile for
212
."

Click
.

"I want one with the three of us together!" Gabrielle insisted.

As if on cue, Finn showed up, his eyes falling on the camera clutched in Babe's hands. "I'll take it."

Babe hesitated. A nanosecond later, she was giving him a quick lesson in good party photography.

Finn listened. Barely. "Enough, Professor Leibowitz. Get in the picture already. This looks just like my old Polaroid."

The expression on Babe's face told the rest of them that he would have been better off calling her mother a truck-stop whore. A tight tension descended.

Finn sliced through it. "I'm kidding. Touchy. I know women who aren't that sensitive about their own babies."

There was a burst of laughter, and then they formed a chain of impossibly photogenic female solidarity. The embraces were warm, the smiles real, and the feelings for each other as comforting as cashmere.

Click
.

As easily as if someone had yelled, "Courtney Love!" they suddenly scattered, Lara to deal with an emergency, Babe to chronicle the VIP night, and Finn to finagle an introduction to
CSI
stud George Eads.

And that's when Gabrielle saw him making his way down the narrow, faux-Venice street. For a moment, he took her breath away. His smile is what got her. It started slowly on the outside of his lips, lit up those baby blues, and opened up his gorgeous face like a delicate flower in sunlight.

Gabrielle tensed. There was something about the way that he looked at her. A strange, emotional entreaty. As she struggled to make sense of it, the butterflies flew loose in her stomach.

"I've never seen you so beautiful."

She laid her fingers on his arm as he leaned in for a kiss, his lips touching hers one second longer than casual social manners allowed. A whiff of work sweat hit her nostrils. You could bottle it and earn a fortune. No-Nonsense Masculine by Dean Paul Lockhart.

"Are you here to work or play?"

"Both. We just wrapped our piece." He smiled. "I did a Q&A with the guests of honor." One beat. "Longest five minutes of my life. They're pretty, though. Did you know that people actually pay them to show up at parties and be boring?"

Gabrielle laughed. "Lara has told me stories."

He gave her that look again. A brave honesty sparkled from his eyes. "Jesus, Gabby, I feel like I'm about to explode. We have to talk. I've got to tell you something."

Gabrielle took a deep breath as he piloted her away from the crowded bar and toward a less populated area close to the catwalk. She bit down on her lip, chewing on it gently.

Around them, the crowd partied on.

And there was that look again. It arrowed through to the part of her that she had shut down long ago. Steeling herself, Gabrielle groped for air.

Dean Paul's hands took her bare arms gently. "I love you, Gabby."

She said nothing. The silence stretched on and on.

A shadow of confusion darkened his face. "Did you hear me? I said I love you."

Gabrielle stared back, touched by the adoration in his eyes. It spoke of true commitment, a lifetime together, even grandchildren . . . at least for right now.

Suddenly, in the face of the reverse heartbreak in the making, she discovered true amusement.
Did you hear me? I said I love you.
If a collection of Dean Paul quotations were ever published, that one would have to make the final cut.

Gabrielle found herself smiling at the sweet narcissism of his expectations. In his mind, he had just said three very important words.
I love you.
Of course, she loved him and would say them right back. He was, after all, Dean Paul Lockhart.

"Gabby, say
something
."

"You just got married."

"That was a mistake. It's over."

"Has Aspen's plane even touched down in Las Vegas yet?"

He shook his head. "Aspen doesn't have anything to do with this, Gabby. I felt this way at the wedding. I thought about it on my wedding night with her sleeping right there. Everything makes sense to me now. You're the one that I want. Don't you understand? I love you."

Gabrielle's hand was still gripping his firm forearm. She squeezed tighter and smiled calmly. "Right now I believe you mean that."

Dean Paul reacted against her placid demeanor. There was a wild look in his famous eyes. "What do you mean
right now?
I love you. Period."

"My God, think of everything that's happened. Just between the two of us. Your marriage. Your new job. The end of your marriage. And me—I was shot at. I became a tabloid fixation. My career went from platinum to tin. How can you be sure of
anything
in the cyclone of such craziness? And I didn't even include Lara and Babe's public dramas. Don't think they don't play a part in this, too."

His face was stubborn. "This has nothing—"

"This has
everything
to do with them. It always has. It always will. You've had a lot of girlfriends in your life, Dean Paul, but we're like some sacred harem to you. It always comes down to one of us. Who you want to fight with. Who you want to save. Who you want to love."

"Gabby, what's wrong with you?"

She knew her eyes were blazing now. "Why does something have to be wrong with me? So you tell me that you love me. Am I supposed to fall to my knees and say, 'Yes, he loves me! Now I can live!' " She pounded her chest dramatically. "Because that era has passed. Your chance for that kind of worship was back in college."

He glanced around temporary Venice, fuming. "This is what you want to do? You want to withhold your feelings from me because I ran out on a college romance?"

"You haven't even asked me what my feelings are. You just assume that I'm in love with you. Well, alert the media. Go get your
Hollywood Live
crew. Because I'm not. I
love
you. But I'm not
in
love with you. Do you want to know what I'm in love with? Do you really want to know?"

Dean Paul's lungs grew still. His heart—if it was still beating—was slowly breaking.

Gabrielle swallowed hard. It pained her to hurt him, but she had to get this out into the air. "I'm in love with the friendship I've rediscovered with Lara and Babe. Don't get me wrong. You've been wonderful to me throughout this ordeal. You really have. But those two
anchored
me. Especially Lara. It's like, I look at them . . . and . . . I see a clearer reflection of myself. And I know that if I got back together with you . . . I would lose that. I've already lost it once. Back in college. Over you. I'm not going to lose it again."

For a long, simmering moment, Dean Paul just stared at her, as if he were angry at getting bumped to second string for some girls' club. "Honesty seems to be your theme for the night. You're being honest when you say you don't love me. How about being honest about what happened to change you. Why did you write off your parents? Why did you fall into that Brown Sugar masquerade in the first place?"

The instant horror began to tumble over in her mind. She pushed it away. "I won't go into that. Not tonight. Not here."

Dean Paul didn't budge. "Then when, Gabby?"

"Ask me tomorrow. You've got the exclusive, remember?"

She left him to seek out the bar. God, she needed a drink. Maybe two. Shit, just give her three. People were laughing, dancing, and talking animatedly around her. But all she could do was wonder if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Gabrielle stood alone, chasing down Raging Bull number two, gearing up for a third. Her body language spelled out ALOOF, KEEP MOVING in big neon letters. And to think that she had secretly thought about this event as
her
party. Some party. It sucked. Were Mio and Mako having a good time? They should be. It was their birthday spectacle.

From behind, she felt two male hands on her bare arms.

At first, she thought it was Dean Paul. But then her body suddenly recoiled from the touch. Bourbon breath rained down on her neck. The voice whispered in her ear . . .

"You're the one who calls herself Brown Sugar, right? Tell me, baby. Where'd you get a name like that?"

Gabrielle froze. A chilling fear called up the memory.

Come on, brown sugar. Give us some of that sweet chocolate.

Her brain ran the frightening test, comparing the haunting voice in her head with the live voice in her ear. It was a match.

With a counterfeit calm, she slowly turned to face him. She had to look him in the eyes. She had to hear him say it again. She had to be sure. "What did you just say?"

"You're Brown Sugar, right? Where'd you get a name like that?"

If a black girl could go pale, then Gabrielle Foster would have been as white as a ghost. Her heart stopped beating. It was him.

She fled imitation Venice. Minutes into her search for the Town Car, she gave up and took a cab back to the hotel. Baby Bear's presence gave her a renewed sense of safety. But there would be no sleep for her tonight. She lay in bed wide awake, living out the horrible memory over and over again in her mind . . .

“Come on, brown sugar. Give us some of that sweet chocolate.”

Gabrielle continued walking, ignoring the obnoxious drunk and his two equally drunk buddies.

It was after midnight.

There was a great deal on her mind, and none of it had anything to do with the beer-fueled taunts from three horny and dateless college losers. Dean Paul had moved on. She was stuck in a forlorn rut. Something had to give.

"Come on, brown sugar. Give us some of that sweet chocolate."

The voice was closer now. An awareness rolled over her that this could be more than a boys-will-be-boys catcall.

"Hey, guys, I've never dipped my stick in black pudding before. How about you?"

Gabrielle stopped and turned angrily to face them.