They made it to the top of the hill and stopped at its crest. The house they’d arrived at looked wholly unremarkable from the winding street outside. It was overgrown with exuberant vines of bougainvillea that reminded her of Greece, thick curtains of jasmine she knew would bloom at night, and an invitingly green arched trellis that led to the unassuming front door of what appeared to be a very modest bungalow.
Molly knew it wasn’t. Even before she exited the limo she knew that despite appearances, there would be nothing modest about any place Constantine Skalas frequented.
And sure enough, the house cascaded down the side of the cliff, a jumble of sleek modern levels flowing in and out of each other, creating a poetry of indoor and outdoor space. Rooms that were enclosed had as few opaque walls as possible and the rest was all glass, looking out over the enduring tangle of the City of Angels, stretched out as far as the eye could see. And because the day was clear, she could actually see the thick blue ribbon of the sea in the distance.
It was stunning. Because it was his. How could it be anything else?
“We leave for the red carpet in two hours,” Constantine informed her. And shook his head as she began to speak. “I don’t want to hear excuses about how much time you need to make your appearance. You claimed you could appear in a garbage bag, did you not?”
“I was being facetious.”
He smiled, nothing but challenge in his gaze. “I want to see magic.”
“Garbage bag magic?” She kept her voice light. “Who knew such a thing existed?”
But the intensity of Constantine’s stare did not waver. “Magic, Molly.”
“Then magic it will be,” she assured him. What else could she say?
“My staff will assist you.” He nodded toward a woman who waited there at the edge of the glass room, her gaze lowered.
Molly smiled at him. “You are too good, Constantine. Really.”
And her reward was a searing, almost painful blast from those coffee-dark eyes.
A warning she really should heed, she knew. But she couldn’t seem to do that.
Molly followed the woman down a series of exposed staircases, moving in and out of the glass enclosures. Then she led the way into a room that had been transformed into the kind of salon Molly knew best. Racks of clothing stood ready, and more, she saw a fleet of men and women she instantly recognized as stylists and beauty estheticians, armed with the tools of their trade.
Very well then. This was a test he wanted her to pass, and Molly did not pass tests. She aced them.
“What is this red carpet for, exactly?” she asked the woman beside her as she scanned the clothes provided. She recognized most of the designers from the cut of their garments, as clear to her as if they’d been labeled.
“It’s a gala event,” the woman told her, and then outlined exactly what charity the gala supported and more importantly, the expected celebrity content of its guest list as well as the kind of press expected.
“We do have some suggestions,” the woman began.
Molly smiled at her. “I think I’ve got it. But thank you.”
She remembered being interviewed by a journalist once who had spent the better part of the interview making snide, not particularly passive aggressive remarks about how low-maintenance and carefree she, the journalist, was. She couldn’t imagine spending twenty whole minutes on her appearance, much less the hours and hours that Molly did. And she certainly didn’t waste so much brainpower worrying about clothes.
Though, of course, she’d been speaking to Magda.
That is why, Magda had told her imperiously, it is the words you type with your unmanicured fingers that go into magazines. While it is my face that graces the cover.
There were a lot of things Molly found herself uncertain about lately, but fashion, style, and how best to use both as her best weapons were not among them.
She changed swiftly into the smock waiting for her, and then handed herself over into the clutches of the beauticians, making her preferences known when it came to nail polish, toenail polish, brow shape, and the cosmetics themselves. She and a makeup artist had a robust discussion about lip shade and a smoky or un-smoky eye. And when she told the hairstylist her concept for hair, he agreed, his eyes lighting up.
And then all of them got to work.
One hour and fifty minutes later, she stood before the mirror with her hastily assembled team around her. She took a look at herself from each side, critically. Then she lifted her gaze so she could see everybody standing behind her. And beamed.
“You are all absolute stars,” she said, and meant it. “This is complete perfection.”
Then she walked upstairs to present herself for Constantine’s inspection, two hours to the second after she’d left his side.
And had the distinct pleasure of watching him do a double take.
He had been waiting for her with a drink in one hand, looking out one of the enormous windows over the city that lay before him as if displayed on a platter. He glanced at her, then looked back outside—only to whip that gaze back to her again.
She strode toward him, letting him take in the look she’d selected. “Does this garbage bag meet with your approval?”
For his part, Constantine was dressed in what should have been sober black tie, unremarkable in any way. But it was Constantine wearing it, so he looked not only faintly rumpled but as
