Feet First

“And sexy,” Marc added.

She nodded.

“We’ll see what Brooke thinks.”

Taking that as a dismissal, Jenny started to rise. “If you want to tell me her thoughts, I’ll be happy to pass them on to Sal.”

“I want you to stay.”

Surprised, she sank back into her chair. “Are you sure? Did you want me to get some nail polish?”

“No. I just want you to keep me from killing my cousin.”

Jenny blinked. “Excuse me?”

Marc adjusted his tie. “We know Brooke is a demanding, spoiled little rich girl who thinks of no one but herself. I can stand about fifteen minutes in her presence without telling her what I really think.” His jaw twitched with impatience. “We’ve just succeeded in making a deal that will bring Bellagio unprecedented publicity for Brooke’s wedding shoes. Since Sal isn’t here, I need you to be here. You successfully managed her last time, so I want you to do it again.”

Five questions popped into her brain, but the irritation on Marc’s features discouraged any indulgence of her curiosity. It looked like she would be flying by the seat of her pants. Nothing new there. She’d spent half her life walking the high-wire with no net. Today would be no different.

She stood again.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m just looking for the champagne,” she said, heading toward the refrigerator. “I wonder if this place has any chocolate.”

“It’s almost lunchtime.”

“In your world,” she murmured, opening the door to the refrigerator and nodding in approval. “Cristal, good. Veuve Cliquot isn’t enough of a treat and Dom is like an old Cadillac, grandma car, grandma champagne.” She peeked inside a cabinet.

“Grandma champagne,” he echoed. “What makes you say that?”

“Previous job,” she said with a shrug. “When I was a cocktail waitress, I learned a lot about what people want in a drink. It’s not usually about how the drink tastes. It’s more about what the drink projects.”

“Is that so,” he said, more than asked, leaning back into his seat and making a triangle with his forefingers and thumbs. A power position, she noted. Donald Trump did it all the time on The Apprentice.

His intense gaze made the back of her neck itch. “A businessman doing a deal doesn’t order a daiquiri or an umbrella drink. It’s usually Scotch or bourbon with a year and brand attached. When an older man wants to impress a woman with champagne, he chooses Dom. When a younger man wants to impress a woman, he chooses Cristal.”

“The psychology of liquor,” Marc said.

“Something like that,” she said, and opened another cabinet. She spotted a box of truffles and felt a rush of relief. “Oh, good. We’re set now. Chocolate and champagne.” She glanced at Marc. He was the unknown entity and she suspected champagne and chocolate weren’t going to do it for him at all. “Are you hungry? Would you like me to order something for you? A roast beef sandwich?” She glanced at the clock. “Is it too early for Scotch for you?”

“A soda will be fine with me,” he said, as if he knew she was trying to apply her bar psychology to him the same way she had with Brooke.

“Are you sure? You seem a little—” She broke off when he raised a dark eyebrow. The expression revealed he wasn’t accustomed to having his choices questioned. “You seem tense. Is there something else I can get that would make this appointment easier?”

“A different cousin,” he said with a cryptic smile.

TWO MINUTES LATER Marc watched his cousin saunter into the room wearing a pair of low-slung jeans, a skimpy top, a Gucci bag and what he suspected was a hell of a hangover behind her dark Oakley sunglasses. Her hair was red today, cropped close to her head. She looked scary. “Sorry I’m late, cousin dear,” she said to Marc, and gave him an air kiss beside each cheek. “I had a late night and it was so hard to get up this morning.”

“I can tell,” he muttered.

She pouted. “Where’s Sal? He’s so much nicer than you.”

“He wasn’t feeling well. He had to go to the doctor,” Marc said, but he knew the truth. Sal was going to be out of commission for a while and it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

“Well, tell him I’m sorry.” Brooke glanced at Jenny and paused. “You look familiar. Have I met you before?”

“Just once,” Jenny said. “Would you like some champagne? Maybe some chocolate.”

Brooke brightened. “Oh, that would be divine. So do we have any designs from Sal? Or did I come for nothing?”

“Right here,” Marc said. Spreading the drawings on the table, he noticed that Jenny opened the champagne with an expert hand. No lost champagne, just a gentle pop beneath the towel she’d used to edge off the cork. Although she’d lied for Sal, she hadn’t been lying about her experience as a cocktail waitress. She filled the flute three-quarters full and put the truffles on the table beside the sofa. She had a soothing kind of voice, he noticed. Almost nurturing. And her appearance was incredibly nonthreatening, he thought, taking in her black jacket and slacks. He wondered what her hair looked like down. And, for Pete’s sake, where’d she get those hideous glasses?

“Thanks,” Brooke murmured absently and slurped her champagne. She grabbed a chocolate and bit into it. “These are great.”

“The shoes,” Marc reminded his cousin, feeling his impatience ratchet up another notch.

She sighed and tilted her head to one side as she considered the drawings. “The sequins are okay. I think I like that one best,” she said, pointing to the shoe with the stiletto heel. “I’ll just have to take it off for the reception. I can run in heels, but dancing under the influence is a little tricky.”

“We could lower the heel,” Jenny suggested.

Brooke shook her head. “No, I like the height. It’s a little outrageous,” she said and smiled. “Like me.”

“Maybe we could design another shoe for your reception,” Jenny said.

Accommodating, Marc thought, adding the ability to his mental list. Sal’s assistant possessed the all-important quality of being able to listen.

Brooke gasped and tugged her shades down to peek over them. “I love that idea.”

“Well, you’ll also need going-away shoes,” Jenny added.

Brooke took another bite of truffle and nodded. “Yes, yes. This could work.”

“We need to start working on the shoes for your bridesmaids.”

Brooke shrugged. “I’m almost ready for that. I’ve narrowed down the dresses to two designs. As soon as I know, I’ll let you know.”

“The next meeting will be filmed,” Marc told Brooke. “So it would be helpful if you could be on time.”

Brooke’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. We should make it more dramatic than this.”

Marc’s gut tightened. “What do you mean more dramatic?”

She finished off a truffle and waved her hand. “Well, this is nice, but it’s boring. We need to see me try on some shoes. Can you make some models of them so I can try them on? You need to put in a few real losers like on those makeover shows.”

“Losers,” Marc echoed, clenching his jaw. The CEO, Alfredo Bellagio, would have a cow if Brooke said something like that publicly. “Bellagio doesn’t make loser shoes.”

Brooke sighed. “So touchy. Okay, not losers. But also-rans. Because I’m only going to pick one. Well three,” she amended. “When you count the reception shoes and the going-away shoes. But maybe we shouldn’t show which exact pair I choose because then it will add some suspense.”