Pinning up my braid with a few loose bobby pins I found on the sink counter, I stepped into the deep tub and sunk into the steamy water. On contact, I let out a loud sigh and felt my tension melt away. I leaned my head against the marble and stretched my legs out long. Reaching for the large sponge, I circled my firm, heavy breasts, brushing over the quarter-sized scar I wore above my heart. I closed my eyes to block out the memory—the secret—that scar harbored. It never worked. I always relived it. I always shuddered. As I swept my hand over my sensitive pink nipples, my mind, unannounced, switched channels from the memory of that horrible night to another unsettling reality show—Jaime Zander!
He was back in my head. I had to admit he was gorgeous. And sexy as sin. The way he looked at me with those intense denim blues was unnerving enough. But when shot me that cocky smile, I became completely undone. And he knew he affected me. Damn him!
It had to stop. Control was something that I clung to and needed to survive. The thought of losing control petrified me. I had spent hours in therapy dealing with my control issue and the roots of it. Dr. Pepperdine, my shrink, believed it stemmed from my mother… that I feared to become her, a pathetic addict who craved sex as much as she did crack, relying on men to feed her sick habits. In part, she was right. But what she didn’t know was that my need for control was attached far more to the scar. The secret. Boris Borofsky was out there somewhere and could take everything that was precious to me away from me. Including my life.
Enough. It was time to step out of the tub and focus on getting ready for the party. With the towel draped around me, I stood before the mirror and did my makeup. My routine was simple, even for a glam night out—mascara, eyeliner, a little blush, and some Gloria’s Secret lip-gloss. Refreshed and polished, I padded back to my bed where I’d carefully laid out what I was going to wear. Shedding the towel, I began with my lingerie—an underwire, front-closing black lace bra, matching bikinis, and complementary garter belt—all part of our bestselling “Sexy Nights” collection. I then lowered myself to the bed and languidly inched the sheer lace-trimmed silk stockings up my long smooth, waxed legs. Real silk stockings from Paris were my one non-Gloria’s Secret indulgence—a habit I’d inherited from my mentor, Madame Paulette, who I was visiting tomorrow.#p#分页标题#e#
I slipped into my dress. Okay, confession. It, too, was not from the Gloria’s Secret catalogue. It was a splurgy little black number by Alexander Wang—a designer whose line I admired and wanted to work with down the road. I was thinking of asking him to design a reasonably priced line of dresses for Gloria’s Secret the way Target and H&M were approaching top designers. His cutting-edge sexiness was a good fit. There was definitely money to be made.
After pulling up the side zipper of the dress, I stepped into my black satin, red-soled Louboutins, another designer I wanted to approach for a collaboration. Lastly, I grabbed my black pashmina shawl and clutch. Both finds were from Loehmann’s Back Room—one of impeccably dressed Madame Paulette’s passed-on secrets. I quickly re-braided my long blond hair and glanced at myself in the floor length mirror opposite the closet. I was pleased. I looked polished and confident. Ready to work the Gloria’s Secret after-party.
As I was about to scoot out of my suite, my cell phone rang. I expected it to be from Kevin, who was already likely manning the after-party. Not. Instead, it was from my driver Nigel.
“Miss Long,” he said hesitantly, “my daughter’s water has prematurely broken.”
It took me no time to put two and two together. His beloved only daughter, who was married to a Brooklyn-based writer, was giving birth. I knew what he was going to ask me before he could utter another word.
“Nigel, you must be with her. Get to the hospital right now. I’ll just take a cab.”
“Are you sure, Miss Long?”
I smiled. We’d been together for a long time. Although he knew nothing about my past, he genuinely cared about me and protected me. I loved him like a godfather.
“Of course. Call me the minute the baby is born.”
“Thank you, Miss Long.”
“No, thank you, Nigel. Congratulations!”
I sighed as I hung up the phone. At thirty-three years old with no long-term relationship in sight, a baby and a family were likely not going to be mine for the having.
I’d forgotten how hard it was to get a cab during rush hour in New York City. Make that impossible. It made me appreciate Nigel even more.
Forget who I was. I was lined up behind at least twenty other guests at the hotel’s entrance where a valet was desperately trying to hail cabs with the help of an ear-piercing whistle. Occupied cabs kept whooshing by. Shit! At this rate, I’d probably be in line for at least a half hour. I needed to be at the Gloria’s Secret party. Now!