My Front Page Scandal

Brooke left the papers in the coffee shop and hurried on to work. Usually she would come in late the morning after a window change, but there was a department-head meeting today that she had to attend. Alyce was worried that a vanguard of old-time employees were planning to complain again about them pushing O.M. Worthington in a new, trendier direction.

After dropping off her bag in her office and changing from flats to a pair of designer heels, purchased frugally with her employee discount, Brooke rode the elevator to the fourth-floor executive offices. At two and three, several of her coworkers boarded.

“The new window is lovely,” said the housewares manager, a tiny blue-haired lady who’d been at the store so long rumor said that she’d started out selling rug beaters to Victorians.

Floyd Tibbet from accounting harrumphed. “It was a relief to see the last one go.”

Brooke held up her portfolio of drawings. “Wait’ll you see what I’ve planned for Valentine’s.” She was usually as sweet as pie to the old-school vanguard, but this morning it gave her a perverse thrill to see Floyd’s nostrils quiver.

The elevator thudded to a stop and the uniformed operator rolled back the gate with a rattle. Alyce Simmons was waiting. She took Brooke aside as the others rushed to grab up the best pastries from the basket on the coffee cart outside the meeting room.

With one blink, Alyce had scanned Brooke from head to toe. Brooke thought of the head fashion buyer as a very snappish woman. Snap decisions, snap judgment, snap remarks, snap dresser.

Alyce’s eyebrow went up. She did a wicked one-up, one-down eyebrow expression that made even Mr. Worthington take account of himself. “Late night?”

Brooke put a hand on her hair, freshly skinned into a chignon she’d dressed with a splashy print scarf. With her hoop earrings and a stark black formfitting suit, she’d felt very retro 70s glam. “It shows?”

Alyce blinked. “I was kidding. You look a tad tired around the eyes, but you don’t do late nights.”

“Not that kind.” Brooke’s fingers tightened on the portfolio. “I was dressing a window.”

“Ah.” Alyce nodded.

“What’s the scoop?” Brooke asked.

“More of the same. Snips and snails.” Alyce dug a stiletto heel into the marble floor. “Nothing I can’t grind out.”

“The new windows and in-store displays should mollify them. I’m not doing anything too unusual for Christmas, either.”

“Heaven forbid.” Alyce checked her platinum watch. On the dot of nine, she marched into the meeting room with a toss of her head. Her hair was red, almost magenta, and extremely short. She was probably fifty, but looked a decade younger.

Mr. Worthington was already seated at the head of the table. Alyce kissed him on the cheek and swooped into the chair at his right hand, earning daggered looks from several of the blue-hairs.

The meeting progressed swiftly, with only a minor skirmish when several of the vanguard protested Alyce’s plan to buy heavily from the lines of the season’s hottest designers. She quashed them with one upraised eyebrow and a clipped comment about who was in charge of fashion.

When Brooke’s turn came, she updated the gathering on the Christmas windows, which had been under development for months.

“And what’s upcoming?” Mr. Worthington asked. He peered at her through his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. “Anything to make my hair turn white?”

The department heads laughed heartily. The old man’s hair had once been snowy white. Now not a strand remained.

Brooke pulled out the sketches for her February windows. “We’re doing lingerie for Valentine’s Day.”

The nearest coworker, who’d gotten a glimpse of the top drawing, let out a gasp. As a group, the vanguard leaned in for a look, scowling already. Not good.

Only Alyce nodded approvingly.

Brooke steeled herself to continue. Old Man Worthington was friends with her grandfather, Admiral Henry Winfield. He liked her, sort of. “As you’ll see in the drawings, my theme is Sweet Nothings…”

3

BROOKE was forced to interrupt her busy day to race back to Brookline to keep a lunch date with her grandparents and sisters. Henry and Evelyn Winfield were old money and old school. They couldn’t seem to grasp that their granddaughters’ careers might take precedence over a command performance at the family estate. When the invitations came down, Brooke, Joey and Katie dutifully showed up, even if that meant rearranging their schedules.

“Where’s Katie?” Brooke whispered to Joey as soon as their grandmother excused herself to check on the kitchen staff. They were seated in the front parlor with less-than-stiff drinks—tonic water and lime.

“She made an excuse.” Joey wrinkled her nose. “Something creative, like going ballooning at sunrise with a million-dollar client. You know how good she is at coming up with that stuff.”

Katie was a party girl first and graphic artist second, so her flights of fancy were often true. Brooke envied that. But then, Katie was the youngest and had always been granted more license to experiment, even from their grandparents. She was indulged.

Brooke was scolded. She’d heard the same refrain, seemingly from birth: As the oldest, she must set a proper example for her sisters by living up to Winfield standards.

Her late father had been a Navy man, strict but loving. He’d expected achievement and obedience from all of his daughters. Her mother had tried not to apply that pressure, but since she’d also knuckled under to the Winfield rules, for the most part, Brooke had taken her cues from Daisy. While Brooke’s rebellions were rare, she had made a few stands—a preference for rock music, the insistence on an artistic career, her refusal to marry Marcus Finch, a family friend who’d received their stamp of approval.

No wonder her inner wild woman was buried so deep. She had generations of Winfield expectations to dig out from under.

“I wish I dared try that,” Brooke said with a sigh, thinking of Katie’s excuses. Maybe her conduct, too. Perhaps the Martinis and Bikinis club would give Brooke the boost she needed in that direction. Taking a dare might not be the most terrible thing in the world.

Joey leaned back in a chintz wing chair with her legs crossed. Her navy pinstripe suit was both conservative and sexy at the same time, an interesting effect caused by a jacket that was a little too tight and a skirt that was a little too short.

She swung a foot in circles while she studied Brooke. “Something’s up with you.”

Brooke started. “How’d you know?”

“You have that worried look you always get when you’ve done a bad deed. Remember how you’d go and confess to Mom or Dad, even before they found out?” Joey smirked. “’Fess up, Brookie.”

“It’s nothing.” Brooke resisted gnawing on a knuckle. Sure, meeting Boston’s most infamous bad boy and running around the city without panties was a great big nothing. “Work stuff.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Brooke shifted, avoiding her sister’s sharp gaze as she reached for her drink.

Joey knew. She always knew. She was a whip-smart trial lawyer, even if she still lived at their grandparents’ beck and call in the converted carriage house out back.

“Luncheon is served,” their grandmother announced. She waited for them to join her, then linked their arms and proceeded to the dining room. She’d been slightly more demonstrative since their mother’s death. Kinder and gentler, too, although of course that didn’t mean that standards had lapsed.

The Admiral was already seated at the head of the table. He was in his late eighties, grown more sickly and fragile since the loss of his son and daughter-in-law. While he’d retained his military posture, he relied on a cane to get around, or sometimes a wheelchair. Frequently a nurse was in attendance.

Joey and Brooke greeted him in turn, dropping pecks on a high forehead that still bore a fringe of silver hair.

Brooke took her place midway down the lengthy mahogany table, with Joey across from her. “How are you, Grandfather?”

He huffed. “As well as can be expected.”

A maid served plates of broiled fish and steamed vegetables. “Yummy,” Joey said, tongue in cheek. “Pass the rolls.”

Evelyn gave her a look. “And how have you girls been? We don’t hear from you nearly often enough. Please catch us up on your busy lives.”

Subtle as a paper cut, Brooke thought. That was her grandmother’s way.

“Same old.” Joey nodded across the table with a flick of her short blond hair. “But Brooke’s in trouble at work.”

That caught the Admiral’s attention. His head swung around. “Old Worthy giving you a hard time?”

“Not at all. He’s in my corner.” Brooke had begun to wonder if she’d uncovered a dirty old man, considering how Mr. Worthington had practically salivated over her provocative sketches for the Valentine’s windows. He hadn’t approved the concept. Instead, he’d taken the plans with him, for further “study.”

Her grandmother cleared her throat with a ladylike cough. “Do you need a champion, Brooke?”

“Well, not exactly.” Brooke tried not to squirm. Winfields practiced proper table etiquette at all times. “I have been pushing the envelope a bit with my window displays.”

“Yes.” Evelyn’s lips puckered. “I saw the September windows.” She swiftly moved on. Winfields did not discuss unpleasant subjects during meals. They’d yet to openly acknowledge the revelation about their daughter-in-law Daisy’s other daughter. “And how is Katie? Do either of you know?”

“Keeping busy with Liam,” Joey said.

Brooke concentrated on spearing a slippery carrot. Liam James, Katie’s new lover, was still a slightly sore subject, although he and Brooke had stopped seeing each other before he’d started going out with Katie. Brooke believed that Liam had seen her only as a suitable choice for an ambitious, upwardly mobile executive. He’d been more interested in his work than her. By all accounts, Katie had ensnared his attention more fully.

Brooke couldn’t help feeling as if she’d been outshined… again.

She tuned in to the conversation as her grandmother remarked, “Perhaps we’ll finally get a great-grandchild.”

Joey chuckled. “Let’s hold a wedding first.”

Evelyn’s expression said that a Winfield would do it no other way. Smoothly, she switched subjects. “Brooke, dear, I hear that you’ve been asked to donate a painting to the Ladies’ League art auction. I do hope you’ll follow through, after turning down the opportunity to chair the clothing drive.”

“Certainly.” Why not? She’d wrap up one of her inoffensive still-life paintings and the ladies would think it charming.

“Excellent.”

Brooke nodded. Earning her grandparents’ approval had lost its vital importance since her mother’s death. Yet she continued to comply with her training, like a human version of Pavlov’s dog.

“The event should go over well. They have acquired the services of a celebrity auctioneer. A baseball player.”

Brooke perked up. “Oh? Do you know who?”

“I don’t recall the name.”

“Not David Carerra,” She blurted. Surely not.

“Him?” The Admiral snorted.

“Carerra’s back in town,” Joey said. “I read it in this morning’s paper. He’s already causing trouble.”

Evelyn shook her head with disapproval. “Then I’m certain it wasn’t him. The Ladies’ League has impeccable standards.”

Joey’s mention of the papers had given Brooke a small shock, but she couldn’t contain her curiosity. “I don’t really understand why Da—Carerra went from hero to goat all of a sudden. What did he do that was so terrible?”

“Let down the team,” the Admiral barked. “Unforgivable.”

“He quit, Brooke.” Even Joey scowled. “That might not have been so bad if it hadn’t come at such a lousy time, but he was the only one on the team who was playing any good. The Sox never recovered. And those damn Yankees—” she said the name of the hated rivals with all the scorn she could muster “—won the pennant.”

“Yes, but doesn’t anyone remember how Carerra won the World Series? That should keep him in the fans’ good graces no matter what happened the past season.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Over time, he’ll probably be forgiven for quitting, but not yet.”

For some reason, Brooke found herself riled up inside, ready to leap to David’s defense, but she managed to tamp it down and only added in a mild tone, “He might have had his reasons for that.”

Joey looked at her curiously.

Fortunately, Evelyn had had enough of baseball and she channeled the conversation toward another topic before Brooke could give her true feelings away. They finished lunch soon after, and the sisters excused themselves to return to work. On the way out, Joey asked Brooke if she wanted to run back to the carriage house for a real drink. She declined, knowing Joey and her skill at cross-examination; she’d worm the entire story of the previous evening out of Brooke in no time.

She wanted to cherish her secret, almost scandalous adventure for a while longer.

Brooke got into her car and pulled out her cell phone to check for messages. Nothing from David, even though he’d asked for her number before firing up the motorcycle and driving away with only a casual goodbye flick of his visor. Despite a hollow sense of disappointment, she told herself that she hadn’t expected him to contact her. But she knew the truth—a brief encounter with him wasn’t going to be enough.

She needed to make some sort of shocking change to her life, whether or not David called. A lasting change. So what if she’d resolved that before? This time she was following through. If David had done nothing else for her, at least he had lit a spark that continued to burn.

ALMOST SIX O’CLOCK. Brooke switched off the hard-rock radio station she’d been listening to on the radio and surveyed the mess she’d made of her desk and drafting table. Balled-up papers, scattered colored pencils and art markers, the refuse of a mid-afternoon snack, a lopsided stack of magazines and reference books. She closed her eyes for a minute, summoning up the willpower to set it all right, a task that was usually second nature to her.

Just once, she was tempted to leave the disorder as it was. But she knew she’d regret that tomorrow when coming in and finding a mess would put her in a bad mood for the rest of the morning.

That, and the fact that David still hadn’t called.

She snorted and jumped to her feet, suddenly determined to mow through the cleanup. Even the Gaultier dress and stilettos hadn’t been enough to entice him. What hope did the real Brooke Winfield have?

Alyce strolled in, making a rare appearance in what she considered the bowels of the building, where only the display department dwelled. Brooke tried not to be insulted. Her department consisted solely of one part-time assistant and three rooms—her office, a studio workroom and storage space. Granted, natural light would have been nice. However, neither vermin nor dirt were allowed, no matter what some believed.

“Ready for cocktails?” Alyce brandished the drawings for the February windows. “We’ve got something to celebrate.”

Brooke saw the stamp on the back of the sheets. “O.M. approved them?”

“I think it was the ruby-studded thong in the shape of a heart that put him over the top. How evil are we, turning a nice old man into a lech?”

Brooke took the drawings and tucked them safely away in the leather portfolio. “You realize we’re going to draw fire from Lois and Floyd and Genevieve in the executive suite. She’s been working on IV.” IV, as in intravenous fluids, was the employee nickname for O.M. Worthington the Fourth, who was the Chief Operating Officer of the department store and far more conservative than his father.

“Eh.” Alyce shrugged. “Throw a Teflon girdle in the window as a nod to the vanguard.” She looked around and shuddered at the stone walls and wooden beams that Brooke believed gave the rooms an interesting character. “Have you finished swabbing the decks? There’s a Grey Goose honking my name.”

Brooke checked her cell one last time. Her heart almost stopped when she saw she had a text from David.

Get ready. I’m coming for you.

“He’s coming for me,” she said in a drained, disbelieving voice.

Alyce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Oh.” Brooke put a hand to her hair. In an instant, she’d forgotten there was another person in the room. “It’s someone I met the other night.”

“What night?”

“Last night.”

“When you were working?” Alyce smirked. “I knew it. Who is he?”

Brooke licked her lips. “David Carerra.”

“How do I know that name?”

“You would if you were a baseball fan.”

“He’s a baseball player? That’s fast-track, honey.” Alyce was clearly skeptical that Brooke could keep up. “And he’s coming here to pick you up for a date?”

“I—I think so.”

Alyce snapped her fingers. “We’ll have to do something about your clothes. Fast.” She spun on her heel, calling, “Be right back!” over her shoulder.

Brooke’s knees went out. She sank into her desk chair, compulsively checking the screen on the cell. No, she hadn’t imagined it. Yes, the message was clear.

Get ready. I’m coming for you.

But that didn’t mean she had to go.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Brooke was ready, but still unsure, when the knock came at the security entrance in the back of the store. Alyce had returned with a dress and boots she’d snatched off the racks and had listened to none of Brooke’s protests as she affected a quick makeover.

In truth, Brooke’s objections had been mild. The experience of wearing the leather minidress had taught her a few lessons about the power of fashion. Looking good translated to feeling confident. Looking sexy meant her inhibitions were much easier to ignore. Looking really, really sexy was…well, she would soon find out.

If she dared.

DAVID HADN’T KNOWN what to expect. Maybe Brooke, smiling with welcome or frowning with regrets. Maybe even a security guard. For all he knew, his message might have rubbed her the wrong way.

What he hadn’t expected was a woman who oozed so much sex appeal he could taste it. And feel it, too, from the standing-room-only roar in his head to the thickening below his belt.

“Brooke?”

She nodded. Yes, it was her.

He exhaled and said, “You’re beautiful,” because he couldn’t say that she’d given him wood as hard as a baseball bat.

“Too dressy?” Her hands smoothed the champagne garment over her hips. It covered more of her than the leather one, yet she appeared almost nude. He couldn’t figure that out, except that the shimmering fabric really clung to her curves. When she moved, the light hit the dress and it seemed semi-sheer. Her breasts, her thighs, the suggestion of a shadow between them—he could see almost everything, and his imagination filled in the rest. Just when he thought he was going to have a heart attack, she turned and the dress went back to being just a dress.

“You’ll be on the back of my bike,” he said. Damn, he should have hired a limo. She deserved the best.

Yeah, then what’s she doing with you?

“That’s what the boots are for.” She wore knee-high boots, white ones with steep heels. “And I have a jacket.”

“Then let’s go.” Real suave. No wonder she seemed hesitant. “I promised you a night you wouldn’t forget.”

“Yes, you did.” She looked down and her loose, tousled hair fell forward around her face, the glossy brown waves brushing her pinkened cheeks. Her lashes were thick and dark, her eyelids painted platinum to match the dress. She was more put together than last time—and more restrained.

Maybe she’d had second thoughts. Anyone would, reading the newspaper accounts that made him sound like a shiftless drunk. Just like his old man.

“I didn’t know if you’d really come back,” Brooke said softly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He held out his hand, suddenly more confident. She was shy, not reluctant.

“Come with me,” he coaxed. “Please.”

Go with him, said the voice inside Brooke’s head.

Growing up, wanting for nothing, yet always living her life within the bounds of the family’s expectations, there’d never been a voice. Not one peep of objection from an inner wild child. But ever since the truth about her mother had started coming out, and Brooke had learned that Lindsay Beckham, the intimidatingly self-possessed president of the Martinis and Bikinis club, was actually her half-sister, a new voice had taken hold inside.

The voice contained many shades—Alyce, who’d encouraged Brooke to break out at work; her sisters, who’d shared the same experiences but had somehow managed to avoid suffocating under their weight; even her mother, whom Brooke now realized had practiced subversive rebellions in her own small ways. Primarily, though, Brooke believed that the voice sounded a lot like Lindsay.

Fierce, independent Lindsay, who dared everything, while Brooke dared nothing.

Go with him.

And so she did.

BROOKE’S STOMACH swooped as David sped around a rotary, one of Boston’s traffic circles, at top speed. She’d grown up in Brookline, gone to Wellesley for her MFA, lived and worked in Boston proper for six years before returning to the suburbs to care for her mother for the past year. The city’s maniac drivers didn’t scare her. She’d even been known to fling curse words and bang a few U-eys herself, in her nifty silver Toyota Prius.

But she’d never risked her life on the back of a motorcycle, at the whims and reflexes of a daredevil. By the time they’d negotiated their way through a quicksilver tour of the city, her heart was stuck permanently in her mouth and she’d begun to wonder if David Carerra had a death wish.

The bike slowed, but she didn’t look up. She felt much safer with her head tucked against David’s back and her fingernails slicing through his clothing to the bare skin beneath.

They turned, then stopped, idling. He put a booted foot on the ground and the bike tilted, just enough to make a squeak fly out of her mouth.

He chuckled. “You can open your eyes now.”

“Are we here?”

“Yep.” He cut off the motor. She continued vibrating. “Trattoria Vicenzi. My favorite North End Italian restaurant. Take a look.”

She unclenched her hands and lifted her head. The steamy visor obscured her vision. Apparently she’d been breathing after all.

David twisted around to lift off her unwieldy helmet. She swiped a palm over her sweaty forehead and took bearings. They were in an alleyway. A narrow, shadowy, stinking alleyway, complete with an overflowing Dumpster and a wraith of a cat that disappeared behind a heap of produce containers.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, regretting her promise to kiss the ground if they arrived safely.

David swung a leg over the front of the bike and stood with a groan that told her he was still feeling the effects of his accident. “Don’t go by looks, darlin’.”

Brooke nodded without taking her eyes off him. He was not smoothly handsome or sophisticated like most of the men she’d dated. But it was that very difference that had engaged her. His earthiness, his lack of pretension was refreshing. With every minute they were together, she felt herself easing away from the uptight Brooke and inching toward the freedom she craved.

Her job was all about visuals. She was an aesthetic creature, raised with money and privilege, accustomed to the finer things in life. But she’d also learned to look for beauty in unconventional places, thanks to Elway Sinclair, a window dresser as revered as Worthington itself. Elway had taken Brooke under his wing when she’d first been hired at the store. He’d sent her out onto to the streets of Boston with a camera, sketchpad and the instruction that she must find inspiration from every nook and cranny of the city, before she became an uptight Beacon Hill Brahmin.