Out of Her Comfort Zone(7)
“Lovely,” Mona cooed. “You went with the simpler setting, as I recommended. My mother-in-law had the stone reset three times, can you imagine?” Emily had the feeling that Mona did not allow her jewelry out of her sight long enough to reset it. No, that’s just nerves talking. Elliot’s mother was not a menace, just a little formal. And a lot controlling.
Mr. West handed a drink to his wife, and used his free hand to pound Elliot on the back. “El, my man, well done.”
“Glad you’re glad, Tee.” The older man was also named Elliot, but with an extra consonant. As a child, Elliot had called his stepdad Tee, and had received his own nickname in return, El. Emily expected that was the source of his nickname for her, too – Em.
“You must try the mushroom heads. To die for.” His mother waved away the server with platter of steak tartare. “How is our dear Mariah taking it?”
“Like a man, I’m sure.”
“I doubt it. She’s been truly kind to us in the press, and all we give her is access and the hope of something more. Now that hope is gone. Don’t take a step wrong for a while there. And when is the big day, anyway?”
Her husband gave her a squeeze, which she accepted with an eye-roll. “You mean you didn’t plan that, already, my dear?”
Elliot took two of the flutes of champagne from a server’s tray, handing one to Emily. “Still in negotiations. We might have a small wedding, and a big party after.”
“Small, as in a hundred people?”
“More like six, or four. You know Emily doesn’t like crowds, and who really wants to sit through another wedding? It’s the party everyone comes for.”
“Of course, dear. We’ll take that into consideration in the planning.”
Emily’s smile froze. What could she mean? Elliot squeezed her hand reassuringly. He was hers no, no matter what Mona could do. Another new couple arrived, and Mona’s attention was drawn to them. As soon as Mona disengaged from them Elliot scooted Emily away, and into a quiet corner. A curtain separated them from the noise of the sidewalk; a column from the rest of the foyer.
“You survived the gantlet.” He’d noticed.
“And you helped.”
“So, dare you muss your lipstick now?”
She did. His lips took possession of hers and his grip tightened on her hip. Her hands stole under his unbuttoned jacket and around the solid muscle of his waist, sneaking under the belt. She didn’t forget she was nearly in public, but somehow the idea made her wanting even stronger. She liked this. She might like more. And despite Emily’s vaunted shyness, it was Elliot who pulled away first.
“You’re spilling champagne down my back.”
“Sorry.”
“Far be it for me to complain when my fiancée forgets herself in company.” His traced her lower lip with a finger. “Something happened to your lipstick. Here, let me fix it.”
She closed her eyes, drinking in the sensation. A thought popped out.
“Why not?”
His hand stilled. “Why not what?”
She opened her eyes and drew his gaze in. “I’ll do it.”
“The party? Next week?”
Her brows drew down. “But I don’t know where to go, how – ”
He stopped her with a finger across her lips. “I know the best place. And the best teacher.”
****
“What sort of look are you going for?”
Emily scanned the racks of splash and shine. When Elliot recommended the place, he’d told her Madame Z’s was at Folsom and Eighth, but somehow she hadn’t realized that meant everything in the store would be bondage and brass. Not a boa anywhere, and where were all the other customers? “Something that will make me fit in?”
“With that attitude, you’ll do the opposite.” The big Madame laughed, but not unkindly, her kohl-trimmed eyes crinkling. “Every other girl in the room will be trying to stand out. You fit in by doing the same: Big color, big eyes, big arms. Work it.”
She pulled an emerald green corset from the rack and held it against Emily’s chest. “You’re yellower than I thought. And such a tall, willowy thing. Let’s try red.” That didn’t seem to work, either, but a black satin passed muster. “This one, and a fire-engine red wig. And a wide hip-swinging strut. No one would know you then.”
But the corset was latex. Within seconds of Emily’s wriggling into it, a rash started under and over her arms, and her breasts began to swell.
In the open space in the circle of black-and-silver-studded dressing rooms, Madame Z unzipped her quickly. “Well, that’s one way to a bigger bust line. Let’s try something else.” But Emily’s skin reacted to all the plastics, and latexes, and even one of the coatings on the leathers. After multiple tries, she was starting to suspect her skin had hit its limit and would reject even terry cloth.