Playing Her Cards Right. Jo Leigh

at it. And the details about tonight. And, thanks,” she said, but the word was carried away as she got swallowed by dozens of people all heading for the same entrance.

      He lost her before she went inside. He knew BBDA took up four floors of the skyscraper, could picture where the copywriters sat. But he didn’t go after her. He’d see her tonight. He pulled out his cell as he went to the corner to hail a cab. He needed to get the blog update done, call the attorney, make arrangements with the stylist.

      After he told the cabbie his address, he looked back at Bree’s building. No more nights like last night. Well, damn.

      BETWEEN THE PHOTOGRAPHERS blinding her and the constant tweets, Bree barely had time to enjoy the party. It would have been overwhelming regardless. This event was much smaller. Maybe five hundred people?

      Put on by one of the most sought-after design celebrities, it was being held at The Lighthouse in Chelsea Piers. The huge room had been decked out in Asian-themed splendor with floating lanterns, Zen gardens artfully placed between tables and paper dragons so large and beautifully decorated they were works of art. Even the view of the Hudson River from the floor-to-ceiling windows stole her breath, and that was before she met a mind-boggling parade of fashion idols and A, B and C-list stars.

      The good and bad news was that Charlie had been even more extraordinary, which she hadn’t thought possible. He hadn’t left her side, which was wonderful, but what got to her even more was how he’d introduced her to his people. And God, they really were his people. He made her sound as if she were the brightest new thing to hit the scene since Lady Gaga. It was totally over-the-top, but, and this went directly into the bad news category, it was totally to support the blog series. She wasn’t important; the image was important, the mystique, the hip-by-association coupled with her “innocence” to make her a mini celebrity.

      The plan was working though because after dinner—which was to die for, and God, how she’d wanted a doggie bag—she’d been approached, over and over.

      Not that she hadn’t realized before that celebrities were never what they appeared to be. They might feel as if they’re old friends, having been on her favorite TV series, or in so many movies she knew. But who they were had no relationship to the person she’d created in her head.

      She knew that, and she was fine with it. People had always had icons. It made them feel connected. Twitter, Facebook, Naked New York, Perez Hilton, E!, People. They were watercoolers, the center of invisible towns where neighbors gathered.

      Being one of the chosen, knowing everyone she met, whether they were famous or seeking fame, had already made up a story about who she was, what Charlie saw in her, what would happen next, was bizarre in a way she couldn’t have predicted. There was no preparation for this kind of exposure, and the strangeness of it was messing with her sense of time. One minute she was reeling from too many gazes centered on her, the next, she was standing beside a window staring out at the water without having any idea how she’d gotten there.

      Charlie had helped. His hand on her arm was a steadying force, his presence, his introductions easing the way. But he was acclimated, and she was still gasping for oxygen.

      It didn’t help that each time, every time, his touch gave her a frisson of excitement that made her breathless once again. It was ridiculous. She should be over it by now. Knowing this was a business arrangement and nothing more didn’t help. The disconnect between her brain and her desire worried her. It was as if she’d been given electric shocks all evening, each one immediately followed by a stab of regret.

      “You ready?” he asked, his mouth so close to her ear she could feel his heat. It must have been a shout because the music was blaring all around them, but it felt like a caress.

      She nodded, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders as they went from the steamy inside to the icy outdoors. Again, there were enough limos to fill a football field, but there were also dozens of valets, running off to find drivers in what must have been an underground madhouse.

      “What did you think?” Charlie asked. “Better?

      Worse?”

      “You tell me,” she answered. “You were watching me like a hawk.”

      He studied her expression, and she was struck yet again by how much she liked his face. It really was absurd how outsize his eyes were. They weren’t comicbook large or even unsettlingly out of proportion. They were definitely the first thing one noticed about him.

      He raised one dramatic eyebrow. “You liked this one more, despite having to work. I think partly because you knew more about what to expect, and partly because you got to speak to some of your favorite designers.”

      She smiled even though his conclusion wasn’t quite accurate. “You’re dead-on. Is that a problem?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I’m incrementally not as innocent. By Friday night, I’ll be a stone-cold cynic.”

      Charlie laughed, and there were the lines on his face that made it impossible for her not to touch his jacket, touch him. Why lines? It’s not as if they were deep grooves or anything close to it. He was in his early thirties, and they didn’t make him look a minute older. Perhaps it was because lines of any kind, even laugh lines, were practically forbidden in this glamorous, youth-obsessed culture. She’d hate it if Charlie had Botoxed his out of existence. His lines made him seem genuine, made him seem attainable. Seem being the operative word.

      “Trust me on this,” he said. “While you’re very savvy and not to be underestimated, you’re nowhere close to jaded. It won’t be as unbelievable to meet famous people in a week or two, but the thrill will still be there.”

      “Good.” She wanted the thrill, at least as it pertained to celebrities. She could do with fewer thrills when it came to Charlie. “Sorry I’m making you leave so early. I imagine you close down these kinds of parties.”

      “Not at all. I stay until I have enough material, then head home. I have to get up early to get the blog in on time.”

      “So the photographers send their pictures before they crash for the night?”

      “Yep. I go through them in the morning. I also get the freelance pieces and gossip tidbits. I put together the blog, send everything to my assistant Naomi, and she does her thing until it’s online by 10:00 a.m. If you’ve got a sidebar about tonight, I’ll need it by nine.”

      She nodded, not wanting him to see how his mention of that aspect of the job terrified her. The words would be hers. Not an illusion, not a gimmick. She’d sink or swim based on talent. God, she needed to sit down.

      “You okay?”

      “I’ve been meaning to ask. The stylist? What are we aiming for here?” She looked down at the dress she’d worn, one she’d made back in college. It was a pretty green, a shade lighter than her eyes, and it was sleeveless with a purple-and-green bolero jacket. It would have been perfect for a night on the town with Rebecca and friends, but she was outclassed here by ten miles. She figured that was the point. Make her look like the hick she was.

      “Ah. You’re going to like this part. Glam to the max. Everything from shoes to gowns. The whole shebang, complete with makeup, hair, body airbrushing, everything.”

      “I don’t understand,” she said, unsure whether he was joking with her or not.

      “Those sidebars? They should be about the entire experience. What it feels like to become a princess, to go to the ball. To be plucked out of obscurity and shot to the stars.”

      She blinked at him as people pushed forward to get to their cars. Watched a smile bloom on his face. Wished like hell she could jump into his arms and hug him for yet another incredible surprise.

      “And you get to keep all the swag.”

      She shoved him. Kind of hard. “Do not mess with me, Winslow. I will hurt you if you’re lying.”

      “Not