Authors: Blush
The crowd began to applaud, a smattering here and there until finally everyone was clapping. Gus hardly seemed to know what to do, but the man next to her was visibly pleased. He leaned toward Gus and whispered something in her ear.
He was almost smug, Jack thought.
Jack knelt in front of the set, searching the man's features. He was probably in his mid-thirties and handsome in a trendy, men's magazine sort of way—the Armani jacket and T-shirt look of the Hollywood ad-man. But it was the movement of his mouth as he spoke to Gus that caught Jack's interest, his profile, his thick, dark hair and eyes.
The remote slipped from Jack's hand and hit the cement floor with a
thunk.
He sprang up and stepped back, getting his bearings. He knew who Gus Featherstone's protector was. The camera's close-up on her had included him, too, and when he'd turned toward her and whispered in her ear, the birthmark hidden in the thick of his eyebrow had been visible.
He was the man who'd taken her from the shack.
Jack peered at the set, sorting out what he knew and didn't know, mentally searching for all possible scenarios just as he'd programmed his computer to do. The man who'd taken her was also the one who'd set up the kidnapping. He'd been furious that Jack hadn't followed directions and had threatened to kill him if he told anyone what had happened.
Gus's image vanished from the screen and a reporter appeared. The woman gushed with genuine excitement about Gus's "miraculous and courageous escape. " She threw out statistics, expounding on how few hostages ever escaped captivity on their own, including POWs who'd been specially trained in the military.
She made an impressive case for Gus's heroism, even to Jack, who'd become somewhat cynical about such concepts. But Jack was beginning to smell a scam. In fact, the whole thing stunk out loud, and so did her story. There were too many inconsistencies. She was kidnapped by two men who held her for thirty-six hours before moving her to another hideout? She'd been with
him
for that thirty-six hours.
He didn't like what he was thinking, but he didn't know what else
to
think. Gus Featherstone had faked her own kidnapping. It wasn't that preposterous. He could imagine several payoffs. It would be an interesting publicity stunt to further her modeling career, if that's what she wanted. Collecting her own ransom would have been an ingenious way to get access to her trust fund money. Either motive would explain why she had no real fear of him, certainly nothing close to the terror a kidnap victim would normally have felt. She'd been more frightened of the rattler than of him.
"We're told there's a celebration in the works, " the female reporter confided, breaking into Jack's concentration as she shared some gossipy tidbits about Gus's personal life.
"A gala party and fundraiser will be thrown this weekend at the Ritz-Carlton to celebrate Ms. Featherstone's courageous escape and safe return. The tickets will be pricey, but proceeds will go to the WomenPride Fashion Show, a charity event to raise funds to retrain disenfranchised women. "
Another shot of Gus and her male friend flashed onto the screen. The man had slipped an arm around Gus's waist and was leading her away from the microphones. They were whispering together, and Gus was smiling, but it was the telltale sparkle in her eyes as she inadvertently glanced at the camera that made Jack suck in a breath.
Jesus! She'd done it. The whole thing was a scam.
"But the best news about Gus Featherstone," the reporter continued, "is that wedding bells may be in her near future. Sources tell us she'll make an announcement at the party that will reveal the mystery man in her life. " The woman laughed delightedly. "Let's see, how much were those tickets? I just might have to go to this party. "
You and me both, lady, Jack thought grimly. But Jack had no intention of buying tickets. He was going to crash.
Chapter 11
"It was the hippest, hottest charity event of the sea-son, but the crowd panted for Gus Featherstone!" The
LA. Times
society page columnist hurriedly scribbled notes for her review of the star-studded charity fashion show on a cocktail napkin so as not to miss a moment of the action.
Seated at tables nearer the runway, the West Coast correspondent for
Elle
magazine called in her raves on a cellular phone not much larger than the palm of her hand, while a fledgling
Vogue
reporter gave a giddily breathless interview to one of several network camera crews who were stationed around the room, covering the splashy event.
Even a grunge-garbed MTV video jockey was on hand.
"The tunes are huge!" she could be heard to squeal, turning her back to the camera as live music by Nine Inch Nails rocked the Grand Ballroom of the Beverly Regent Hotel. "Don't you
love
Trent Reznor? Wait till he whips out his penis!"
Her enthusiasm was genuine enough, but no one else seemed much interested in the rock star's storied "johnson. "
All eyes were riveted on the laser-lit runway. The usual throng of paparazzi were stationed around it, snapping madly at anything that moved. The fiery crackle of their exploding flashbulbs and the machine gun chatter of their camera shutters rose to a crescendo with the appearance of each new model.
Every entrance became a minor media event in itself as the laughing, leggy beauties, dolled up in the latest from Chanel, Donna Karan, and Isaac Mizrahi, strutted their stuff down a luminous ramp that lit up the stately ballroom like a futuristic road to Oz. Supermodels from the New York and Paris scene shared the limelight with movie stars and society mavens, all of them donating their time and their svelteness to WomenPride.
The night's theme was inspirational women, and illuminated posters of historical and modern heroines glowed from the periphery of the room. Even more luminous was the news announced by one of the show's sponsors, super designer Donna Karan herself, when she made her opening bows. "Our first annual WomenPride fashion show is a smash sellout, ladies and gentlemen, " she told them. "The demand for tickets exceeded our expectations by two hundred percent. I'm thrilled to say that people had to be turned away!"
Karan didn't have to announce what everyone already knew. The record numbers who'd flocked to the Beverly Regent were there for more than fashion and philanthropy. They'd come to see the cause célèbre, the WomenPride Foundation's guest of honor.
The crowd was affluent, artsy, and mostly black tie, with the exception of some rather dramatically costumed cross-dressers and a few dedicated grangers. The younger set rocked in their seats to the headbanger music, while their elders tapped their spoons. All waited expectantly, and the show's master of ceremonies, Christine Takamura, a local television anchorwoman, played on their anticipation for all she was worth. When it was time for the honoree's grand entrance, Christine brought the charity fashion show to a dead halt.
"Let's have an old-fashioned drumroll!" she cued the band.
Inspired, the band pounded away, hammering the crowd with drums, cymbals, and everything else they had. The result could have shattered stoneware, much less crystal.
Gus stood in the wings, exhilarated by the fanfare, yet quaking inside. All her life she'd felt like an outsider, loitering at the edges of the playground, waiting for someone to welcome her into the fold and embrace her with open arms. It had never happened, and by now she was realistic enough to know it never would. This was not her world, either. She was not a bona fide member of the fashion elite. They were happy to use her looks and her name as long as both were strong currency, but she wasn't one of them any more than she was a Featherstone.
She was too headstrong for most people, too pretty and privileged for others, and too low-born for her own family. Rarely had anyone bothered to look past the beautiful brat image, but perhaps that was because she'd been afraid to let them, afraid they would discover what she'd always believed to be true about herself—that she wasn't worthy.
She would never have the acceptance she craved, the love.
Somehow she knew that.
But tonight, this seminal night, she would come close. She had been introduced to society at sixteen and to modeling at seventeen, but this was her real debut. Tonight she was more than a beautiful mannequin, gowned and coiffed by the pillars of haute couture. She was a heroine. She had done something meaningful, something the world considered courageous. And because of that they would open their arms to her. Her dreams would be their dreams, made worthwhile because she was worthwhile. Let them withhold their love. She could live without that. But her so-called acts of bravery had ensured that they could not withhold what she wanted from them now, what she must have—their admiration and respect. That was what she needed to finish this quest she'd started. The public's acknowledgment, their allegiance. And she was willing to do anything to get it, even pretend to be an escaped hostage.
"Get out there, " her dresser whispered, tugging at the backless silk and chiffon jumpsuit that had been designed especially for her. "They're waiting for you. "
Gus drew in a breath that seemed to ripple up from the soles of her feet. She closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and released the air through her nostrils in a steamy rush. Her hands were suddenly dripping. Her throat was as parched as when she'd been stranded in the desert.
Please let me pull this off, she thought. Let me give them the new Gus Featherstone, survivor par excellence. A changed woman. Everything depends on my being able to do this. Everything! But she was still quaking and perhaps as frightened as she'd ever been in her adult life. She didn't know how to be anything
but
the beautiful brat. It was the role that had saved her from letting anyone get close. If you didn't care what people thought of you, you couldn't get hurt. If you defied people to love you, it was no surprise when they didn't.
"Get going!" the dresser hissed, pushing Gus out onto the proscenium.
She fumbled the first step or two, awkward in her delicate silvery sandals and her newfound terror. Had her reception been anything but welcoming, she would have backed off the stage and prayed to vanish in a mortal shudder of humiliation. But thank God for applause and spotlights. Yes, thank God, she thought, squinting into the blinding kliegs.
Almost the instant the latter enveloped her, she was transformed. White hot and radiant, the lights burned through her confusion like a surgical laser, transfusing her with energy. The raucous music, the sudden swell of clapping, seemed to lift and carry her toward the glowing ramp. The charge in the air, the excitement, was her fix of self-esteem.
Her jumpsuit sparkled around her like an iridescent mist, picking up every color of the rainbow from the lights that sheened and gathered like water in its silky folds. The halter-style bodice dropped from her throat to her waist, where it was cut away from the pants in an arc that revealed her slender, golden midriff. She'd lost weight in the desert, but the outfit was designed to cling to her curves. Transparent chiffon shimmering with silvery threads hugged her from full breasts to hips, then flared in palazzo pants that sparkled around her ankles. Adversity breeds champions.
It didn't matter that Gus hadn't embraced that philosophy; the American culture had, and the rapt expressions of the audience, their wide smiles, told her that this crowd believed it fervently. For perhaps the first time in her life, everyone was cheering her on. They wanted her to shine, all of them. She was living proof of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity, and she wasn't that much different from them. If they could believe in her, they could believe in themselves.
Even Trent Reznor was waving something at her, but it wasn't his hand. Gus let out a soft hoot of laughter. She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't. This was fabulous. The beautiful brat would have lifted her chiffon front and flashed her breasts at the rock star. The changed woman merely shot him an encouraging wink and sauntered on by, off to see the wizard.
She was just hitting her stride as she reached the end of the ramp and spun around. The crowd roared with approval when they got a look at the back of her jumpsuit. It was cut down to her "other" dimples and came very close to revealing cleavage that was as creamy as her breasts. The flirty hint of décolletage was accentuated with every graceful swing of her hips, and the effect struck more libidinal sparks than a nudie shot in a men's magazine could have done. It was breathtakingly sexy, not to mention the perfect exposure for a woman who'd won awards for her derriere.
Christine Takamura summoned Gus to the podium. "Come on over here, Gus, and say a few words. Everybody wants to know how you're doing. Don't we, folks?" The response nearly blew the ballroom roof off.
It's going to work, Gus thought. It's going to work. Oh, God. let it work. Please do.
"Augusta Featherstone was taken hostage by terrorists, " Christine told the audience as Gus joined her. "The world already knows her story, but for those of you who might have been off visiting another planet, this is the woman who defied death by leaping from a freeway overpass to escape the desperate and dangerous men who kidnapped her. "
Scattered laughter erupted in applause. Christine waited for it to subside. "Tonight," she said, "the WomenPride Foundation takes pleasure in giving her special recognition for that amazing feat of bravery. She's a singular example of great courage in the face of grave danger, and because of her extraordinary mettle, spirit, and nerve, the foundation would like to extend to Gus an honorary seat on its board of directors. They would also like to give her this beautiful plaque commemorating her appearance here tonight as guest of honor. "
Gus could hardly see through the teary blur that assaulted her vision. She accepted the gleaming plaque, glancing over the words as she cradled it in her arms. The engraved tribute to her bravery struck home as nothing else had since she began this ordeal. She wanted badly to be worthy of the honor, which made it all the more painful that she wasn't. She was a fraud. She was lying to them, to everyone. This wasn't a prank, though it had sometimes felt like one. It was a deception of monumental proportions.