Nightingale (34 page)

Grumbling, I stepped out of my undies and pulled off the matching camisole. Piper passed me a lacy bra and panties.

“Now the dress,” she said, handing it over.

The gown Piper had picked out was short and funky. The fabric was a petal-soft, jersey knit with plenty of stretch. The knee-skimming hemline and long sleeves ended in uneven zigzags, with tatters of fabric layered over the top of them. A wide, patent-leather belt looped around the waist, matching the black velvet trim that piped along the edge of the skirt and sleeves. The dress dazzled me so much, it took me a minute before I realized what color it was.

I laughed. “Cobalt blue? Isn’t that overkill?”

Piper smiled. “I thought you might like to wear your man’s colors. Besides, that shade will rock on you.”

I started to pull the dress on. “Um, won’t Fiona miss this?” I asked, catching sight of the
FFF
label—and the three-thousand-dollar price tag under one arm.

“Nope,” Piper said. “I brought her a dozen hamburgers, twenty hot dogs, five buckets of fries, and enough soda to float a battleship for lunch from Quicke’s today. I also stopped by Olé and got her one of those five-pound burritos, three orders of chips and salsa, and fifteen sopapillas with honey. Then, I gave her the fourth-quarter reports, which showed sales rose almost ten percent. She told me to take whatever dress I wanted, along with the shoes and accessories.”

I shook my head. Fiona’s rampant love of food was going to get her into trouble one day. It was a wonder it hadn’t bankrupted her already. I shimmied into the dress and stepped around the partition.

“Nice,” Piper said. “Although, it would look better if you’d take your socks off.”

I curled my wool-covered toes into the carpet a second before doing as she asked. Piper picked up a pair shoes and held them out. They were more sandals than heels, with long, thin straps that wound up to my knees. They too were cobalt blue.
 

Piper didn’t stop there. She put a black velvet choker with an elegant blue cameo around my neck and handed me a small, boxy purse. I opened the top and looked inside. She’d stuffed essential items in it, like breath mints, tissues, clear nail polish, a small tool kit, and condoms.
 

I held up one of the foil packets. “Ever the optimist, I see.”

She grinned.
 

I put on the shoes. Piper put her hands on my shoulders, marched me over to the three-sided mirror, and then stepped out of view.
 

I twirled this way and that, watching the skirt swirl around my legs. Piper was right. The cobalt-blue fabric made my pale skin look delicate and dainty, instead of just ordinary, and the deep V-neck maximized what cleavage I had. Overall, I didn’t look half-bad, even if the shoes were already starting to squeeze my toes.

“Now,” Piper said. “Phase One is complete. On to Phase Two—hair and makeup.”

#

Sabrina St. John waited for us at the cosmetics counter, along with a guy with a short, spiky Mohawk.
 

“This is Harold,” Sabrina said. “He’s going to do your hair, while I work on your makeup.”

I smiled at Harold, my gaze flicking up to the orange streaks in his hair.
 

The two of them pushed me down into a chair and covered my designer dress with a black smock. Piper settled into a chair and flipped open the latest Confidante comic book, this one featuring the Fearless Five on the front. Harold and Sabrina eyed each other as warriors would on the battlefield. Harold sank a brush into my hair, while Sabrina grabbed the first of the three dozen pots of makeup she had lined up on the glass counter.

And so it began.

Harold snipped, teased, and sprayed my hair, muttering about my split ends. Meanwhile, Sabrina tweezed, exfoliated, and moisturized my face. Harold tilted my head back. Sabrina yanked it forward. Harold brandished his scissors at Sabrina. She made a threatening move with a mascara wand. I was caught in the middle, like a tennis ball whacked to one side of the court, then slammed in the opposite direction. Both kept barking commands at me through the whole, torturous process.

Harold: “Sit up straight.”
 

Sabrina: “Close your eyes.”

Harold: “Bend your head down.”

Sabrina: “Pucker your lips.”

I’d never had so many beauty products on my body at one time. Vanilla-scented hairspray. Raspberry-flavored lip gloss. Styling gel that reeked of jasmine. Blush that smelled exactly like its Apple Blossom name. A migraine tried to pound to life inside my skull at the smelly onslaught, but I took deep breaths and ignored it. Nobody ever said getting beautiful was easy. Besides, I was doing this for Wesley. I could suffer a headache for him.

To amuse myself while I got worked over, I tried to guess the names of the colors of the various cosmetics arranged on the counter, but I was always wrong. What I thought looked like Gunmetal Gray eyeliner turned out to be Quicksilver. The Midnight eye shadow was Black Velvet. The Almond foundation became Ivory Tower. And on and on, with each name more colorful than the last. Something about the names nagged at me, but Sabrina and Harold started working on me once more, and the thought was pushed to the back of my mind.

The bickering beauty consultants worked on me for about thirty minutes before both seemed satisfied. They stepped back and stared at me.

“You good?” Sabrina asked.

Harold nodded. “Yep. You?”

She nodded.
 

Sabrina whipped off the smock around my neck, while Harold spun the chair around so I could see what they’d done. I met my own eyes in the mirror.

Amazing—that was the only word to describe my transformation. Harold had taken my plain, brown hair, given it a bit of volume, and twisted it up into a fancy bun. Curled tendrils framed my face, softening the harsh line of the bun. Two sapphire chopsticks held the updo in place.
 

My face glowed thanks to the bronzing powder and blush Sabrina had used. She’d painted my eyes a smoky black and lined them with a silver shade, making them seem big and bright. She’d colored my lips a deep raspberry, sealing in the vibrant pink with a layer of clear gloss.
 

I looked better than ever before. Polished. Put-together. Sophisticated. And dare I say it, sexy. Abby Appleby was gone. So was Wren.

Tonight, I looked like Nightingale.

I just stared into the mirror, awestruck by the change. The consultants took that as a sign of approval.

“You’re welcome,” Sabrina said, packing up her powder puffs and pots of color.

“Ditto,” Harold echoed, grabbing his own gear.

Sabrina handed me a plastic bag full of bottles and brushes. “Here are some trial sizes of everything I used on you tonight, along with Harold’s stuff. Try them out. If you like the look, come back next week, and we’ll see what other products might work for you.”

Both passed me their cards. I palmed the cards and nodded, still too dumbstruck to speak. The consultants moved off into the crowd. I kept staring into the mirror.

“Abby, you look wonderful!” Piper squeezed my hand. “Wesley is going to take one look at you and wonder where you’ve been all his life.”

I squeezed her hand back, but my answering smile quickly faded.

Underneath the fancy dress, perfect hair, and marvelous skin, I was still the same old Abby—the same woman I’d always been. Was a little color on my lips and cheeks going to be enough to dazzle Wesley? I didn’t know.

But I was ready to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Piper had to return to work to take a late conference call. She promised to swing by my office, pick up Rascal, and bring him to the party. I grabbed another taxi and headed back to the convention center, arriving a little after six. Things weren’t officially supposed to get under way until seven, but I wanted to double-check the food and decorations one more time. I wanted—no,
needed
—everything to be perfect tonight.
 

I pushed through the doors of the center and waved to Eddie at the front desk. He frowned, as if he didn’t know who I was, but I kept walking. Well, tottering would have been a better description. The sandals matched my dress perfectly, but they were hell on my feet.

I made my way to the break room. A lone cigarette sat in an ashtray on one of the tables. Colt must have just left. I spun the combination dial on my locker, grabbed my can of air freshener, and doused the whole room.
 

When the air was somewhat clear, I shrugged out of my coat and stuffed it into the locker, along with the miniscule purse Piper had given me. It might look pretty, but it wasn’t big enough to hold my supplies. So, I put on my Party Vest, zipped it up, and checked the pockets. Piper had been more than thorough. She’d restocked every single hidey-hole with the appropriate item, from breath mints to garbage bags. She was a good friend.

I shut the locker and headed down the long hallway that ran through the middle of the center. When I reached a door labeled
Main Kitchen
, I dug my key out of my vest and let myself in.
 

Kyle and his staff were already there. Strawberries, kiwis, and other fruits painted every visible surface with a rainbow of pinks and greens. An army of apron-clad chefs chopped, peeled, and mashed everything from avocados to zucchinis. The steady
thwacks-thwacks-thwacks
of their flashing knives created a weird harmony. Trays of bread warmed on racks, while more workers filled glasses with ice water and limes. Kyle arranged cream cheese canapés on serving trays. His hands blurred together as he stacked the appetizers on top of each other.
 

Kyle slowed at the sound of the door slamming behind me. He blinked once and did a double take. He stopped, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Then he let out a low whistle. “
Nice
dress, Abby.”

“Thanks.”

I stalked through the kitchen, my eyes flicking over the pots and pans. Tomato bisque simmered on the stove, while potatoes baked for a second time in the industrial-size ovens. Chefs dumped pounds of pasta into boiling water, while others pan-seared chicken over open flames. Pepper, cinnamon, vanilla, and more spiced the air.
 

I opened my mouth to launch into my usual tirade about serving times, but Kyle beat me to the punch.

“The hors d’oeuvres will start circulating at seven,” he said. “Dinner begins at seven thirty, followed by the speech at eight. We’ll roll out the strawberry and chocolate fondue fountain at eight fifteen, and more hors d’oeuvres will be available at eight-thirty when folks decide to start dancing. Did I miss anything?”

I gritted my teeth. “No.”
 

“So, relax, Abby.” Kyle gave me his usual lazy grin. “Try to have a little fun tonight. Everything will be perfect.”

“It better be,” I warned. “Or else—”

“Or else you’ll chop off my fingers and feed them to me,” he finished, still smiling. “I’ve heard it all before, and I haven’t lost my fingers yet, have I?”

I clamped my mouth shut. Damn. I really needed to get some new threats.
 

#

I left Kyle to his canapés and walked to the auditorium. The disco balls hanging from the catwalk caught the dim light and reflected it back. Everything shimmered and shined, from the sparkling silverware on the tables to the white and black tiles in the checkerboard dance floor. The two guitar-shaped ice sculptures towered into the air at the foot of the auditorium, creating a perfect frame for the stage behind them. Workers scurried back and forth at the bar, popping corks off champagne bottles and cutting up limes, lemons, and oranges.

Everything looked perfect, but I couldn’t relax. I knew from past experience things rarely went off without a hitch—no matter how much I planned. I strolled toward the bar to make sure nobody was being particularly clumsy. Up on the stage, Stanley Solomon talked to Hilary Hoover, a young woman with bright pink hair. Hilary was the drummer for Miked, Melody Masters’s band. Stanley played bass guitar. His dark eyes fell on me, and he gestured for me to climb the stairs and join them.
 

Hilary rushed over as soon as I set foot on the stage. “Abby! Thank goodness you’re here!”
 

“What’s wrong?” I asked, sighing on the inside. Nobody ever rushed up to me unless there was a major problem.

“Melody is sick,” Stanley rumbled. “Which means we don’t have a lead singer for the band tonight.”

I closed my eyes. Of all the things that could happen, this was near the top of the list in terms of badness because the event theme revolved around rock ’n’ roll. The disco balls, the guitar ice sculptures, the dance floor. What would a rock ’n’ roll party be without the actual rock ’n’ rollers?
Boring
—not hip or fresh or cool, just a boring letdown. Besides, if I didn’t have any music at this thing, people would riot. They had to have something to drink and dance to.

“Where is she?” I asked.
 

Melody had looked fine when I’d seen her earlier. Maybe if she wasn’t too sick, she could do at least one number—

“In the hospital,” Stanley replied. “She passed out earlier today at The Blues.
Her temp was a hundred and three. Doctors think it’s a bad case of the flu. They’re giving her fluids and keeping her overnight for observation.”