CUTTING LOOSE Read online

  "You have got to be kidding," Cilla burst out from behind her. "What happened to the escort? On second thought, I don't care. Send her a limo. I've got a party to go to." Cilla paced a few steps, tension vibrating in every line of her body. "All right, all right, fine," she said shortly. "I'm in Venice. I'll be there in twenty minutes." She ended the call and cursed viciously.

  Trish stared. "What was that about?"

  Cilla turned to face her. "Apparently our designer for the couture show tomorrow isn't satisfied with our events coordinator picking her up at the airport and taking her to dinner. She's insisting that I do it."

  "Why you?"

  Cilla blew out a breath of frustration. "We've met once or twice at her shows."

  "Not to mention the fact that your family owns Danforth's and the entire Forth's chain and has more money than God."

  "Please." Cilla rolled her eyes. "The show coordinator says she's threatening to walk. I don't really have a choice."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've got to go get her."

  "But … but what about the party?" Trish asked with a spurt of panic. "I thought we were going together."

  "I have to do it," Cilla said apologetically. "It's only for a little while. If necessary I'll haul her back here— there is no way I'm missing Sabrina's documentary."

  "Maybe I can go with you," Trish tried, despising the tone in her voice.

  Cilla shook her head and buttoned up her coat to hide most of her costume. "I can only imagine the fit she'd have if you show up in Gaultier. Prima donna doesn't begin to cover it. Besides, someone has to tell Sabrina. Hey, you look fabulous." She gave Trish a quick hug. "Go in and find the rest of the gang. You'll be fine."

  Trish watched Cilla hurry off to her car and she glanced down the alley to the canal bridge glimmering at the end. If she could only snap her fingers and be back in her nice, quiet apartment for the night. She'd light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and maybe watch a movie or work on the screenplay she was writing.

  Instead, shyness was going to smother her in rooms full of strangers, while she tried to look as though she had something more to do than go to the bathroom again and again because it was a place to hide for a few minutes. Home, even if she had to walk, sounded infinitely more appealing.

  But Sabrina was expecting her. More to the point, Sabrina was expecting them, and Trish really ought to go explain.

  And one way or another, she had to find a ride home or at least get a taxi.

  All the good reasons in the world didn't mask the fact that walking through Sabrina's door was about the least appetizing prospect she could imagine. If she'd been in her normal clothes, it would have been bad enough, but going inside all alone, wearing the most revealing outfit she'd ever worn in her life? Looking at it from above, the bustier was outrageously low-cut. Her breasts billowed up out of it like newly risen bread. Cilla couldn't expect her to do this, Trish thought desperately. What if she were the only person in costume? What if she looked as ridiculous as she felt? The memory of the Trish she'd seen in Cilla's mirror receded to a pinpoint and the Trish in the now just stood on the porch and swallowed, feeling miserably conspicuous.

  Sabrina, she reminded herself. This was Sabrina's special night and she wanted her friends there to celebrate with her. It wasn't about Trish, it was about Sabrina.

  It was about being a good friend.

  "Oh, don't be such a wuss," Trish muttered to herself. No one was going to care what she looked like. They'd probably all be too busy worrying about themselves. Besides, odds were she'd never even see most of these people again. "Just do it," she told herself fiercely.

  And rang the bell.

  When the door opened, though, it wasn't Sabrina there. It was a sandy-haired boy who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, the top of his head approximately at her eye level.

  She couldn't possibly in her panic have walked up to the wrong door, Trish thought wildly. Please, God, let her be at the right house.

  "Wow," he said appreciatively. "I guess you're here for the party. My name's Lee. Wanna run away and elope?"

  Despite herself, she laughed. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone put the moves on her. "Give me a minute or two to get the prenup in order."

  "Fair enough. Come on in and we can discuss it." He stepped back and swung the door wide.

  Sabrina's living room surged with activity. A woman in neck-to-ankle red latex was tangoing with a man wearing a dog collar. A Wild-West saloon girl leaned over a shirtless construction worker sprawled on a couch. There were hookers, police officers, Catholic schoolgirls, sheiks, a pizza-delivery boy, and even what Trish assumed was a Marquis de Sade in a pale-blue frock coat and wig.

  "Let me take your coat," Lee said, whisking it off her before she could protest.

  And then she stood in front of the room in just her outfit.

  One head after another turned to look at Trish. She stifled the urge to flee. Maybe a seam had split, she speculated, feeling her face heat. Maybe one of her breasts had popped out entirely. It would be just her luck. Or maybe her outfit was just too much, period. Granted, most people were in costume, but she hadn't really seen anyone in quite as outrageous a getup as hers. Then, across the room, she saw a sleek, exotic-looking woman dressed in eye-popping leather.

  With a start, Trish realized it was her reflection, thrown back at her from an ornate mirror hanging on the wall.

  Giddiness rushed through her. Sabrina's guests weren't staring because she looked ridiculous, they were staring because she looked good. Gaping wouldn't do, and yet Trish wanted nothing more than to rush over to the looking glass and drink it all in, gawk at her image until she could convince herself that it was really her. For tonight, anyway.

  But oh, what a night it would be.

  Sabrina's home was built vertically, the rooms rising around a central atrium, each side offset half a story from the other so that the rooms stair-stepped up from one another. Trish glanced up and found her gaze snagged by that of the Marquis de Sade, who leaned carelessly on the waist-high barrier of the open loft overlooking the living room. Thin leather strips dangled from the ebony handle of his flail. An ornate silver mask covered his face from the hairline of his white-powdered wig to below his nose. Trish could see only his mouth, defined by the clean lines of a modified Vandyke. And she could see his eyes, looking out through the holes in the mask.

  Staring directly at her.

  Trish glanced to either side to see if he was looking at someone else, and then back up to find his gaze still pinned to hers. Something skittered through her veins. The thing was not to get embarrassed. She looked good, she knew it. Better than good. Maybe that was why he was staring, or maybe he was admiring her outfit. Maybe he was into Gaultier. Perhaps, she thought with a smile, he thought he was looking at a kindred spirit.

  Lee the doorman nudged her. "So, can I get you a drink?"

  "What?" Trish blinked, dragging her gaze away from the Marquis. "Um, actually I should probably find Sabrina first."

  "My cousin? I saw her a couple minutes ago. I'll show you."

  "Are you even old enough to be at a party like this?" Trish asked, squinting at him.

  "Are you kidding?" He gave her an affronted look. "I'm at UCLA. I'm almost nineteen."

  It wouldn't do to smile. "Oops, my mistake."

  "I can think of one or two ways you can make it up to me."

  She gave a startled laugh. "Sorry, cradle-robbing is not my thing."

  "Once you try it, baby, you'll never go back." He gave her what was probably meant to be a roguish wink, although he had to narrow both eyes a bit to do it.

  "I'll let you know if I change my mind," Trish promised, struggling to keep a straight face. She tensed, though, when he started toward the staircase that zigzagged its way up the side of the atrium. Toward the Marquis. "Where are you going?"

  Lee glanced back at her. "You wanted to go to Sabrina. She's up on the roof with some friends, I thi
nk."

  The Marquis watched her walk across the room. And he wasn't the only one, she realized uncomfortably, catching a head or two turning out of the corner of her eye. She glanced again at her image in the mirror across the room. That's who you are tonight, she reminded herself and laughed. Work it. A cowboy with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel winked at her and hefted the lariat he held. "I've been really bad, mistress. Want to tie me up and teach me a lesson?"

  Trish gave him a mock severe look. "It'll take more than just rope to teach you a proper lesson."

  "I'll be waiting."

  Lee led her up the risers of the stairs. She could feel the gaze of the Marquis on her. Being watched like that added an exaggerated level of self-awareness to her every move. She climbed the stairs, knowing he was studying her. She pushed back the spill of her hair, knowing he would see. Then the plaster bulk of the next flight of stairs crossed between them, blocking her view of the Marquis, at least until she nearly reached the landing.

  Anticipation had her wondering what it would be like to see him up close. Then suddenly she was stepping onto the landing at the level of the loft, practically close enough to reach out and touch him. A current of air whispered over her bare shoulders and brought out goose bumps on her skin. She swore she saw his eyes darken. He stared at her, running his fingers slowly through the knotted thongs of his flail.

  It suddenly seemed outrageously erotic.

  Their gazes locked with the snapping jolt of static electricity. Her footsteps slowed. Something about the fact that the mask obscured most of his face focused her attention on the lean line of his jaw and the hint of a cleft in his chin. As though he knew what she was looking at, one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. He brought two fingertips to his lips and blew her a mocking kiss.

  Trish flushed and started up the next flight of stairs.

  And finally she was at roof level and stepping out into the cool night air. A small knot of people stood at the far end, looking out at the lights of the city. A glance at them calmed the nerves that danced in her belly, because she knew these people almost as well as she knew herself.

  The laughing woman with the cap of dark hair was Sabrina, and at her side her lover, Stef. Irrepressible Kelly waved her hand around as she told a story with the help of her boyfriend Kev, who, as usual, looked as if he'd been hacking at his hair with garden shears. Delaney, still the corn silk blonde, hooted. Maybe the generic-looking man at her side was her date, Trish speculated. Or maybe not. More likely he was there with cool, self-possessed Paige. He had that innocuous, trust-fund-preppie look that most of her men seemed to have.

  They might all be older and wiser, but the Sex & Supper Club was still together, and just as close as they'd ever been. She would have walked through fire for any one of them.

  After all, she'd walked into the party alone, hadn't she?

  Sabrina swung toward them in the dimness. "Hey, Elliot, who's your friend?" she asked casually.

  Trish gave Lee a sidelong glance. "Elliot?"

  He blushed. "My friends call me Lee."

  "Oh my God, it's Trish!" Kelly yelped, suddenly breaking away from the group and rushing over to Trish. "I didn't recognize you. You look amazing."

  In an instant, Trish was surrounded. "Look at your hair," Delaney said, running her fingers through the silky strands. "You look like something out of a Vogue spread."

  Trish couldn't stop the grin. "Cilla did it. You know her, just some old rag from her closet."

  "Yeah, an old rag that cost about as much as a small car. So who knew you were a size three?" Kelly marveled.

  "Size five, Cilla says," Trish corrected in embarrassment.

  "Like that's any more real than a three," Kelly said unconcernedly. "Where is Cilla, anyway?"

  "She had to go take care of something for her fashion show tomorrow. She said she'll be here in a couple of hours. Where's Thea?"

  "She's got the flu, poor baby," Sabrina contributed. "Called me sounding like a seal. Not feeling her friskiest." She gave Trish a mischievous look. "So, the real Trish at last?"

  Trish grinned. "It's not the real Trish, it's my alter ego."

  Kelly snorted. "Are you kidding? You could look this good all the time."

  "Oh, yeah. I can just imagine how thrilled my sister would be if I showed up at the office for my list of errands and things wearing leather and studs."

  "Seriously, though," Kelly persisted. "Forget the leather. With very little effort you could look amazing enough to have men eating out of your hands."

  She wasn't at all sure that she wanted to be that conspicuous. "I think you're exaggerating."

  "Oh, yeah?" Sabrina countered. "Let's ask Elliot."

  "Lee," Trish corrected her in an undertone.

  Sabrina raised her eyebrows. "Lee?"

  "Cut him some slack," Trish murmured, "he's trying to grow up. Everybody should be allowed to change."

  A smile stole over Sabrina's face. "You're right," she said, and swung around to look at her cousin, who was talking with Stef and Kev. "Hey, Lee," she called, "what do you think of Trish, here?"

  He glanced over. "Hey, I wanted to get married. She was the one who shot me down."

  Sabrina turned back to the group. "There, see?"

  Trish rolled her eyes. "He's just a kid, Sabrina."

  "Well, we'll just have to take a bigger poll. The casting director for Runway Dreams is here somewhere."

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. "Rob Carroll? You do run with a hot crowd."

  "He's the Mr. L.A. right now," Sabrina said.

  "And sleeps with anything that moves," quipped Kelly.

  "Picky, picky. We'll find another man. Shoot, my famous cousin said he'd stop by later."

  "You mean me?" Lee called over.

  "No, my other superstar cousin," Sabrina said fondly.

  "You mean Ty Ramsay, box-office hero?" Kelly asked. "Wait a minute. I thought you swore you'd never let him near anyone you cared about."

  Sabrina gave a bashful look. "I shouldn't have said that. I was just ticked because he'd played hit-and-run with a girlfriend of mine."

  "Your friends ought to know better. You've warned us often enough," Paige pointed out.

  "He's actually a pretty cool guy as long as you're not dating him," Sabrina said. "His problem is that he's just a terminal romantic with ADD."

  "You know, I saw him interviewed one time about Megan Barnes back when they were engaged," Delaney said. "The way he talked about her was really sweet. He seemed totally sincere."

  "He is totally sincere," Sabrina said, "fatally so, at least at the time. It's just a month or so later when the buzz wears off and he comes back down to earth that's the problem."

  "Okay, well, who else have you got?" Kelly demanded.

  "There's Kyle Franklin. He's—"

  "In the interest of the brotherhood, I've got to break this up," interrupted Kev, walking up behind Kelly to slide his hands around her waist. "Lay off the poor guys. We can't all have flawless taste and judgment." He kissed her ear and Kelly gave a goofy smile.

  "But give us credit," Stef said, coming up beside Sabrina to tangle his fingers in hers. "We usually figure it out."

  "That you do," Sabrina said, beaming at him.

  "Don't you guys start doing that cute couple thing," Delaney warned, turning to include Paige and her date, as well, who weren't even remotely doing cute. "You're not going to win me over. Some of us are just fine and dandy being single. In fact, some of us like it." She linked arms with Trish and gave a naughty grin. "Now if you'll excuse us bachelorettes, we're going downstairs to play the field."

  * * *

  2

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  Trish stood in Sabrina's loft, where the caterers had set up the sushi bar, idly sipping sake and staring out the glass wall into the night. Delaney had drifted off to dance. Normally, then, Trish would have started planning her exit but not this time. She'd never been to a party quite like this one. The hours floated by in a ha
ze of laughter. Every time she stopped moving, she was drawn into conversation. Men smiled, flirted, and it didn't matter that she was too nervous to talk much because they did the talking for her.

  And always, always when she looked up, the Marquis was watching her with that enigmatic smile. Somehow watching him watch her made her savor it all the more. Would he approach? she wondered. Just a matter of time, the words rose in her mind, and she laughed. Whenever she'd heard women say that, she'd wondered how they could be so absurdly confident, how it was that they didn't understand how capricious romance could be. Suddenly, though, half intoxicated with her own power, she understood.

  Trish raised her sake cup to her lips and tasted only air. It was empty, she realized. Turning to the table that held the carafes of different sake, she studied the information cards and reached out.

  "It's bad luck to pour your own sake."

  She knew it was him before she saw the blue brocade at her elbow. Somehow she'd known he'd have a voice like that, deep, with just a faint whisper of roughness. It was the kind of voice that could mesmerize a woman, the kind of voice that put her on her guard. Taking her time, Trish moved to face him.

  And saw the sea green of his eyes.

  When she'd been in fifth grade, Trish had gotten hit in the stomach during a dodge-ball game. It had been like this, that sudden, helpless sense of all the air rushing from her lungs, that shocking, indisputable contact. From across the room, he'd intrigued; this close, he riveted. His eyes should have been cool, with their mix of blue and green and gray. Somehow, though, they shone with an intensity, a heat that left her staring helplessly back.

  Then they crinkled in humor and released her.

  Trish gave a shaky laugh and handed him her cup. "I'll pour yours if you pour mine," she said lightly.

  "At your service, mistress," he said, with a bow. "And which would you like? We've got bichu wajo, if you like herb overtones," he read off the information card. "Or how about koi no kawa? That translates as 'love river,' by the way," he added, lifting the carafe temptingly.