Who Wants to Marry A Billionaire?(9)
She rifled through the hangers in her closet, trying to figure out what one wore to accept a counterfeit proposal of marriage. It was like one of those sticky situations sent to an advice columnist, “Dear Etiquette Edna, A billionaire playboy has asked me to marry him, but not really marry him, just kind of fake it. I have to go accept his bogus proposal. Are stiletto heels appropriate? Or should I wear something more low key?”
Her wardrobe Nina realized, was not just sort of boring, it was boring. There was the ugly bridesmaid’s dress from her cousin’s wedding, jeans and sweaters for off hours, and then a bunch of drab, professional clothes in black, brown and grey. There was one little black cocktail dress she’d fought for at Filene’s Basement, the dress she wore to every Foundation fundraising gala. She held it up; it still had the dry cleaner’s tag on it from the last time she’d worn it. Why not, she thought. She felt so crappy on the inside - why not try to look her best on the outside? Rummaging around in the bottom of her closet, she pulled out a pair of heels. They were imitations of Louboutins, without the red soles, but nice enough looking shoes. She liked the stacked sole on the shoes as it boosted her from 5’7” and a bit, to nearly 5’10”. Next, she dug through her jewelry box and found a pair of simple pearl earrings. The hardest part was finding a pair of hose that didn’t have a run in them, but at the very bottom of her sock drawer, she found a pair with a black seam running up the back of the leg that had once been part of a Halloween costume.
After her shower, Nina straightened her hair some, pulling it back with combs so that it looked quite elegant. She never wore much make-up, but decided to pluck a few strays around her eyebrows, give her long lashes some mascara, and then added a touch of color to her lids and lips. If she was going to play a part, she thought, she might as well disguise herself.
When she stepped off the elevator on the 30th floor, the receptionist sat up at attention and put on her best professional voice, and then Nina realized, the woman didn’t recognize her.
“Nina Alves—I have a noon appointment with Mr. DeVere.”
The receptionist tried to not let her surprise show. “Yes, of course, Ms. Alves. He’s expecting you.”
The door to the executive offices magically whisked open, and Nina nodded a little dismissively at the receptionist. If she was going to be Mrs. DeVere, she might as well start playing the part.
The door to Daniel’s office was open, and he was in the same spot as the first day she arrived at the office. He stared out toward the sea, his hands clasped behind his back. The thick carpets had absorbed the sound of her feet, and she studied him silently, reluctant to announce her presence. Daniel absently ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that seemed to her like that of a little boy. There was nothing boyish about the figure he cut though; he had been a competitive swimmer when he was in school, and his body still had that shape: broad muscular shoulders, a narrow waist and hips, and she imagined, a belly like iron. Although Daniel’s more dissolute lifestyle, as of late, may have softened his form.
She tapped lightly at the door.
When Daniel turned, a low "wow” escaped his lips. He could now see now that Nina would be able to physically carry off her role. The dress she was wearing fit her beautifully, he thought, showing off her curves to advantage. And what man didn’t like to see a pretty, curvaceous, woman wearing high heels? There was something wholesome about her too; she didn’t have that anorexic look of so many of the rich girls, who starved themselves to achieve impossible ideals. It hit Daniel that there was a lot to be said for a woman with a shape like a woman, rather than one that looked more like an ironing board. Her eyelashes fluttered, and he fought to pull himself from his reverie.
“Hi Nina. You look lovely.” He smiled, and she could tell it was his real smile, not the one he flashed for photographers. “I hope you have some good news for me.”
She wandered toward his bookcase full of treasures, and picked up a framed black and white, autographed, photograph. It was Hepburn and Tracy. It seemed incongruous for a thirty-one year old playboy to care about such a thing, but maybe a decorator had been responsible for the choice. She smiled to herself, thinking about some of her favorite movie scenes with the pair of actors, but then she remembered how they had hid the true nature of their relationship and Tracy’s problems for so many years. Not every Hollywood story necessarily has a storybook ending. She could feel herself getting emotional over what she was about to do and set the picture down. This was a business transaction, and she needed to keep it professional. Nina turned to Daniel.
She tried to simply say, “I accept your proposal.” But it came out sounding like the cry of a demented whooping crane. Daniel looked like maybe he wanted to call security. Nina tried again, “I_AH_LAR_N_OOP_TIS. Daniel stared at her, a little horrified, trying to decide what was wrong with her. Frustrated, Nina grabbed her phone out of the clutch she carried, and began frantically texting as he looked at her, puzzled. A moment later, his phone beeped, and he took it out of his pocket. He read it aloud, “I’m not crazy. I just have laryngitis. I accept your proposal.” He started laughing.
The magic mini-bar revealed itself once more, and Daniel took a bottle of Dom Perignon out of the little cooler. He held up the bottle, apologetically “Oh this is just for everyday, we’ll have some of the good stuff later, but I think we should seal our deal with a toast.” He popped the cork and poured two glasses. Handing one to Nina, he smiled again, “Things are getting off to a great start don’t you think? Every man dreams of a wife who won’t talk back!”