Unforgettable: Book Three (A Hollywood Love Story #3)(76)
Chaz grinned sheepishly. “Darling, this is not a department store; it’s a friggin’ studio. The try-on room is right here. Off with your clothes.” A sweeping hand gesture accompanied his command.
Hesitantly, I stripped off my sneakers, jeans, and crew neck sweater. Clad in just my cotton bra and panties, I was practically naked. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, but then I reminded myself Chaz was gay and more like a brother. And he probably saw a lot more flesh with his daily slew of fitting models.
I slipped on the dress and the shoes.
“Oh my God. That’s so amazeballs on you!” It was Libby, with a handful of little black dresses strewn over her arm.
“Really?”
“Girlfriend, take a look at the new you.”
Libby led me to a nearby full-length mirror. Unsteady in the killer heels, I held on to her shoulder. Chaz pranced behind us, belting out “I’m Too Sexy.”
Removing my glasses, I gawked when I saw my reflection. Wow! The LBD accentuated every little curve in my body and made my long legs look impossibly longer with the six-inch heels on my feet. I did look unbelievably sexy.
“Bradley better have you on a tight leash tonight,” teased Libby.
“Nah, sis. This girl needs to get unleashed.”
Chaz’s words whirled around in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. But it wasn’t my reflection that filled my head. It was the image of Blake Burns.
The art gallery was located not far from our house on chic Melrose Avenue. While we could have easily walked there, I was glad Chaz was picking us up in his Jeep. The thought of walking in my six-inch heels scared me. Given how accident-prone I was, the possibility of tripping and breaking my ankle was a reality.
While the event began at six o’clock, we showed up at seven—fashionably late as Chaz put it. We were not the only ones. We stood in a long line of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and Ranger Rovers, not to mention a few Bentleys, Rollses, and limos—waiting our turn for a valet to take our vehicle. Paparazzi were lined up outside the gallery.
“Look! There’s Jennifer Lawrence!” I cried out as I watched her gracefully step out of a stretch limousine, followed by her handsome date.
“Ooh! I’m so in love with her,” cooed Chaz as he inched up the car.
Oh my God! Brangelina!” exclaimed Libby, who was a total celebrity hound.
Wearing contact lenses at Libby’s insistence, I found the gorgeous Hollywood power couple in the crowd. Paparazzi were stepping over each other to take photos. Wow! This wasn’t any ordinary gallery opening. It was the kind that made headline news on Entertainment Tonight. My heartbeat sped up with apprehension and anticipation.
We dispersed as soon as we stepped foot inside the bustling gallery. I didn’t even have a chance to grab a flute of champagne when a familiar angry voice assaulted me.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been here for an hour.”
I spun around. Facing me was Bradley, sticking out like a sore thumb in khakis and a navy Brooks Brothers blazer, in this über-cool sea of black. While I felt out of my league, I felt grateful to be wearing Chaz’s chic little black dress. It was perfect.
“We just got here,” I muttered.
“Well, I want to leave soon.”
My heart fell to my stomach. Why couldn’t he for once do something I wanted to do? And didn’t he even notice my new dress?
“Okay. Let me take a quick look around and we’ll go.” Damn. Why didn’t I tell him I wanted to stay? Take in the art and hang out with Libby and Chaz.
“Good. I’m going to look for some herbal tea. By the way, the food here is awful and I’m starving. We’ll pick up something on our way home.”
Lowering my eyes, I noticed that two of his fingers were thickly bandaged. “What happened—”
He stalked off before I could ask. A white-gloved server passed by me, holding a tray of skewers. The alternating cubes of grilled meat and veggies looked and smelled delicious. As Bradley faded into the crowd, I grabbed one and savored it. I was starving too. For some nourishment. And affection.
Dozens of intriguing paintings lined the walls of the spacious gallery. I was eager to check them out, but first helped myself to a glass of champagne from another passing server. I took a sip of the bubbly. The zing took the sting out of Bradley’s words. Sometimes, he could be such a jerk. With my champagne in hand, I padded over to the painting nearest to me.
I studied it. It was a self-portrait of the artist PAZ, whose full name was Payton Anthony Zander. Upon entering the gallery, I’d been handed a short bio. He had painted hundreds of oils, but his career was tragically cut short by a self-inflicted gunshot at the age of forty-five. A suicide. Such a shame because the artist was truly talented. I admired the rich Van Gogh-like brushstrokes and the juxtaposition of bright colors. I moved on to the next painting. Another portrait entitled Portrait of Delilah at Noon. It was a portrait of the late artist’s beloved wife and muse. An abstract nude. Her captivating, dark-eyed beauty lit up the canvas. Sadly, her infidelity and their subsequent divorce had driven PAZ to his untimely death.
A warm breath curled on the nape of my neck. “What does this painting do for you, Ms. McCoy?”
Startled by the familiar velvety voice, I spun around and almost spilled my champagne. Oh my God! It was Blake Burns. In my six-inch heels, I was nearly eye level with him.