Bachelor on the Prowl

In other words, Julia’s designs had a universal appeal, and the small Allentown business grew in leaps and bounds, until Julia’s designs were shown twice yearly in New York, just like all the other “big” designers.

Holly hadn’t known a gusset from an inseam when she’d started out with Julia, as her area of expertise had been in crunching numbers, chasing after overdue orders, hiring and firing—the nuts and bolts sort of work that left Julia free to create.

But the creative end of the business called to Holly, and she’d studied everything she could get her hands on, watched Julia, and soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Now, more and more, there were other employees to do the books, the ordering, the payroll and such, and Holly had taken over more of the “outward” part of the business.

Meeting with buyers, broadening their customer base, even sitting in with Julia as she selected materials, having some input on new designs.

The whole experience had been a joy, from the first day she and Julia had opened the door at Sutherland to today, when the company had grown to be one of the most recognized brands in the country.

Julia and Holly had become much more than simply employer and employee. They’d become friends, close friends, which was why Holly had been so thoroughly shocked two years earlier when this Greek god of a guy had shown up and introduced himself as Julia’s husband.

Holly took a sip of soda. Man, that had been a day. That had been weeks of “man, what a day,” actually, until Julia and Max Rafferty had figured out that their separation had been a mistake and Holly got to watch a little “happily ever after” up close.

Julia’s dad and mom, who’d been unhappily retired in Florida, had happily moved back to Allentown, and now Jim Sutherland oversaw much of the actual production while Julia and Max—and now Max, II—lived in Manhattan almost exclusively, near Max’s businesses.

Julia relied heavily on Holly, and Holly liked that, liked the responsibility, enjoyed the pressure.

But she hadn’t counted on being in charge of the initial showing of Julia’s new interest, bridal wear. Sure, she’d always attended all Sutherland showings, but it had been Julia who’d run them, and run herself ragged, taking care of any last-minute glitches, herding models, pinning ripped hems and taking the applause and bows at the end.

But Julia had Max II now, and she left her five-month-old only rarely. She had planned to leave him with a sitter today, but Max had the sniffles, and Julia had dumped the entire show in Holly’s lap saying, “I know you can do it.”

Holly looked around at the chaos that circled her like a gaggle of dyspeptic buzzards. Models, everywhere. Gowns, everywhere. Makeup artists, seamstresses, caterers, little kids chasing each other, male models posing as if there must be cameras hidden everywhere.

And yet she’d made it to the homestretch with only one glitch—Jackie’s big feet. Thank God Jackie was only scheduled to model two gowns.

Holly longed to slip into the crowd of reporters, buyers and society matrons on the other side of the curtain, just for one quick minute, to hear how they liked the show so far. She could still do that, as she wasn’t Julia; tall, beautiful, definitely recognizable Julia Sutherland Rafferty.

Because she was just plain old Holly Hollis. All five feet one inch, and one hundred and six pounds of her. Nobody noticed her, never did, not in this fashion world of the giants. She could slip outside, listen to the buzz and know whether or not the latest Sutherland venture was looking like a hit or a miss.

Holly put down the soda can and got to her feet. She walked over to the makeup area and peered into one of the mirrors, checking to make sure she didn’t look as wild-eyed as she felt. Nope, still the same old Holly Hollis.

Her chestnut hair always looked out of place, because it had been cut to look that way. Short, spiky on top to give her some needed height, with wisps cut into the sides and at the back, then sort of combed forward, to touch on her forehead, her cheeks, her nape.

Julia had talked her into the cut, saying that her small frame cried out for a little drama, and that the cut accentuated Holly’s huge green eyes, set off her slightly pointy chin.

“Right,” Holly said now to her reflection. “Now all I need is a harness and a sky hook, and I can play Peter Pan on Broadway.”

“Um…Holly?”

Holly turned around, to see Irene making a face. Not good. Irene didn’t make faces. She endured. She conjured miracles. She followed Holly around with a figurative broom, sweeping up problems and making them disappear.

“Problem?” Holly asked, figuring that, at the least, the Waldorf had just caught fire.

“It’s the finale,” Irene said, wincing as she took the clipboard from Holly. “We’re minus the groom.”

Holly looked around the huge room, counted heads. There were male models all over the place. “What do you mean, we’re minus the groom? Pick one.”

“That won’t work, Holly,” Irene told her with the tone of someone pointing out that, yes, by gum, the sky is blue.

“It won’t work?” Holly asked, abandoning her idea to go scope out the reporters and buyers. Oh well, she probably wasn’t dressed for the part of Secret Squirrel anyway, not in her kelly-green sheath, her wrist pincushion and the pink feather boa she’d forgotten she had wrapped around her neck—an expensive accessory for the bridal lingerie portion of the showing she didn’t want stuffed in some sticky-fingered model’s purse and walked out the door. “Don’t tell me it won’t work, Irene. I don’t want to hear that it won’t work.” She sighed, then ended, “Okay, tell me why it won’t work.”

“Here’s the logistics,” Irene told her. Irene loved to use the word logistics. She liked other words, too, like extrapolate, and phrases like in conjunction with. At forty-seven, her stay-at-home-mom years behind her, Irene had decided to forgo going back to teaching and had looked for a “glamour job.” Only she couldn’t quite beat the teacher part of her into submission all the time.

“Don’t say logistics, Irene,” Holly begged, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “My head hurts when you say logistics. And if you’re standing there trying to figure out a way of slipping in my considered opinion into your next sentence, I warn you, I may just have to hurt you.”

Irene was tall. Julia was tall. The models were all tall. The whole world was tall. And Holly sometimes got tired of looking at everyone’s kneecaps. It could make her moody.

“Don’t pout,” Irene said, obviously deciding that today was a moody day. “Now, I’ll explain. As you know, the finale is a parade of eleven of our bridal gowns, each model being escorted down the runway by a groom. That leaves the big moment for Jackie to enter wearing Julia’s real showpiece, the peach peau de soie. Eleven plus one, for a total of twelve. Thirteen’s unlucky, remember? But Jackie has to have a groom, and we only have eleven male models. A tall groom, because Jackie’s…well, she’s tall.”

“You’re all tall,” Holly grumbled. “The world is prejudiced toward tall people.”

“You mean, the world is prejudiced against small people,” Irene, always punctilious, corrected.

“I mean I’m short,” Holly said hotly. “Look at these gowns. I tried one on, you know, just in case my mother’s prayers are ever answered and I actually need some silk and lace. And I drowned. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. First thing I’m going to do when this is over and I see Julia, is to tell her that there has to be a petite collection. Not just smaller sizes, but designs that won’t overpower us short people. I mean, the gown I tried on had the loveliest poof sleeves. And I ended up looking like Joan Crawford in one of those thirties movies. Shoulders out to here,” she said, using her hands to show the width of her shoulders. “I could play fullback in my nephew’s peewee football league.”

Throughout this tirade, Irene had been counting male heads, watching the door, and counting heads again. “You’re through?” she asked with the patience of a mother of five. “Good. Now, back to our problem.”

“No problem,” Holly said. “We just ax one of the other bridal gowns and slip the groom on Jackie’s arm.”

“No can do,” Irene said, holding out the clipboard to Holly once more. “This is the finale, Holly. CNN is here, filming the whole thing for their special on weddings. One by one—with escort—we send eleven fantastic gowns down that runway, not twelve, because Jackie can’t wear two gowns. Each gown with its own close-up and description. That’s mega airtime for our ladies. Which one do you want to ax, and then wait for the hysterics? We got these top models because we promised them CNN, Holly. Do you want to take a chance on losing any one of them for Julia’s next showing?”

Holly glared at her assistant. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Ten minutes, Holly,” Irene said, glancing at the silver watch on her wrist. “What do we do?”

“Can’t she walk alone? What’s the problem with her walking alone?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Are you forgetting that gown? It’s the show gown, Holly, not really meant to ever be worn by any halfway human person. I think the thing weighs seventy pounds, and that’s without the headpiece. Jackie needs an arm to lean on, or she’s going to end up facedown in the front row of laps. That would look real great on CNN, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think Julia wants today’s event to appear on some television blooper show.”

Several thoughts went flying through Holly’s brain, most of them painful, and none of her ideas workable. “Find out who this model is who was a no-show. I’ve always wanted to be able to say you’ll never work in this town again. When I find him, that’s what I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tattoo it on his perfect forehead.”

“Nine minutes,” Irene said, continuing her countdown.

Holly came to a decision. “We yank the eleven male models and pick one to escort Jackie.”

“Airtime, Holly. For the boys as well as the girls. You’d have a riot on your hands, and I hate to see handsome grown men cry. Besides, the first two brides have already hit the runway—with escorts. Oh—eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Holly.”

“Trying for a second career doing countdowns at NASA, Irene?” Holly bit out, then grinned. “Yes! Irene, look over there. At the door. I think I see our man. Quick, what’s his name?”

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Irene said, consulting the clipboard once more. “Harry Hampshire. Has to be a made-up name, right? Sic him, Holly, while I get the tuxedo ready. And, please, don’t give him that you’ll never work in this town again line until after the finale.”

Holly was already halfway to the door. Harry Hampshire, huh? He didn’t look like a Harry. He looked, actually, like some sort of Greek god. Max Rafferty looked like a Greek god. Harry made her second Greek god in two years. That had to be her quota. She doubted she would see another in her lifetime.

Tall, definitely tall enough to make Jackie look fragile, he had the slim, muscular build of the professional model. A mane of blackest black hair, one lock sort of slipping down onto his forehead. Blue eyes that sparkled inside a fringe of black lashes any woman would die for. Full lips that were more sensual than hot fudge licked from a spoon. That square, model jaw, those creases in his cheeks as he returned the smile of one of the female models.

Dear God, he made Holly’s palms itch. Gorgeous on a stick. Masculinity refined, smoothed, and yet definitely not domesticated. The kind of guy who’d actually look good in a morning beard. The kind of guy who smiled and that smile made you blink, because surely this guy couldn’t be human. No human could be that perfect.

Yeah, well, so much for waxing poetic over some skin and bones.