Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 23

EPILOGUE.

Eighteen months later 'YOU know you said you might try acting again,' Cyn said to Lisa.

'Yeah.'

'Well, we have a job for you.'

Lisa frowned. 'What sort of job?'

Max casually pulled his wife off the edge of his desk and onto his lap. 'You did a good job of playing fairy G.o.dmother, when you introduced us to each other.'

'And when you found Jason a new job,' Cyn added.

'No, that was Max. He was the one who gave him a chance to wipe his slate clean,' Lisa said. 'I just typed the letter. And you were the one who got Helen back on the straight and narrow.'

'Splitting hairs.' Cyn waved a dismissive hand. 'Anyway, we have another fairy G.o.dmother role for you.'

'Minus the fairy,' Max added.

Lisa blinked. 'You what?'

'Fairy G.o.dmother. Minus "fairy". Equals...?' Cyn made frantic small circles with one hand. 'Do the maths, Lise.'

Lisa just stared at her, dumbstruck.

Max sighed. 'I told you that you were being too oblique, Cyn. Lisa, we want you to be G.o.dmother. To our baby.'

There was a two-second pause while it sank in. Then, 'Oh, my G.o.d, you're having a baby!' Lisa shrieked.

'Gratifying, isn't it?' Max asked, stroking Cyn's hair and grinning.

'Definitely. This time, she screamed even louder than when we asked her to be bridesmaid,' Cyn responded, laughing.

'I'm going to be a G.o.dmother. I'm going to be a G.o.dmother!' Lisa yelled.

Max handed her the phone, adding in a stage whisper to Cyn, 'I think our secretary might have some personal calls to make...'

Heidi Betts.

When the Lights Go Down.

One.

T he moment Gwen Thomas opened her eyes, she knew it wasn't going to be a typical Friday in September. Oh, sure, she'd get up, get dressed and go to work just like any other day, but...She stared at the ceiling above her bed, trying to figure out why she felt so strange, almost depressed.

Then she remembered. It was her birthday. And not just any birthday-her thirty-first.

With a groan, she threw back the sheets and stomped to the bathroom. Thirty-one years old, but she felt more like fifty. Where had the time gone? And when had she turned into little more than a hamster on a wheel...every day the same as the last, the scenery never changing?

Twenty-nine had come and gone. She'd barely noticed thirty, surviving that milestone with no hint at all of an early midlife crisis. But thirty-one.... She'd been upset about turning thirty-one for weeks.

Now her birthday had arrived and she was officially a thirty-one-year-old virgin.

An old maid.

Oh, G.o.d. The only thing missing was a houseful of cats. Thankfully, her apartment building didn't allow pets or she'd probably fit that part of the stereotype, too. Then again, she did have a lot of ceramic kitties scattered around the apartment.

How did a semi-attractive woman get to be thirty-let alone thirty-one-without ever going to bed with a man? Gwen wondered. She squeezed a dollop of paste onto her toothbrush and began to scrub.

Granted, her parents had been overly protective of her as a child, and she'd been shy and a bit of a bookworm in high school. But she'd dated some very nice guys in college. None of them had ever made her knees go weak or sent her heart beating out of control, though, which she supposed was why she'd never returned their advances.

After rinsing her mouth, she washed and dried her face, then lifted her head to glance in the mirror over the sink. She wasn't beautiful by any means, but she also didn't think her looks would send men running in fear.

Her eyes were a nice comforting brown, a few shades darker than her somewhat lackl.u.s.ter mouse-brown hair. And her figure was okay, if a bit small in all areas. She was pet.i.te, with b.r.e.a.s.t.s that would probably only fill a teacup if they were lucky. But still, it wasn't as if she had a hump or missing teeth.

Walking back into the bedroom, she stopped in front of her open closet and studied the lineup of dresses inside. For the first time she noticed how similar her entire wardrobe was. Some long, some short, but all sun-or baby-doll dresses in lightweight, floral fabrics. Lord, could she be any more Little House on the Prairie?

After closing the closet door, she plopped down at the foot of the bed and sighed with disgust. Thirty-one years old and she was still dressing the same as she had in high school. And she knew without having to pull them out that every pair of shoes she owned were flat and matronly, in one of two shades-black or brown. She still sported the same long, straight hair that reached the middle of her back and bangs cut across her forehead with almost military precision.

It was enough to make a girl curl up under the covers and never leave her apartment again.

The thought rattled Gwen. She refused to let another year come and go without at least attempting to take a bite out of life.

Rolling across the mattress, she picked up the phone and dialed the Georgetown branch of the D.C. Public Library by memory. When the head librarian and her boss, Marilyn Williams, answered, Gwen feigned a hoa.r.s.e cough and asked for the day off.

Marilyn was suitably shocked by the request, considering Gwen had never asked to take a sick day before, but she quickly agreed and promised to call one of the part-time librarians to cover for Gwen if things got hectic.

As soon as she hung up, Gwen stripped out of her mint-green nights.h.i.+rt-also covered in a tiny flowered pattern-and changed into one of her sadly out-of-date cotton tunics and a pair of shoes. She grabbed the phone book and began searching for a beauty shop, a nail salon and a trendy boutique, to start.

She wasn't sure yet exactly what she planned to do, but with any luck, this might just be the last day she was a thirty-one-year-old virgin.

Some nights, Ethan Banks stayed in his office high above the dance floor, feeling the rhythm of the loud music vibrate through the structure's steel beams while he worked at his desk or watched the flashy club-goers through the soundproof windows having the time of their lives. Other times, like tonight, he went downstairs and lent a hand behind the bar to mingle with the crowd.

The Hot Spot was one of downtown Georgetown's premiere nightclubs-and his pride and joy. He'd rented and completely renovated the rundown building nearly five years ago, and the place had been packed just about every night since.

He was proud of the club's success, but even prouder that he'd done it on his own, without a dime of his parents' money. Not that they hadn't offered. Jack and Karen Banks loved their children and supported all three in whatever they wanted to do with their lives. But Ethan hadn't wanted his family's wealth to have any impact on his personal successes or failures.

Of course, his decision to strike out on his own and actually work for something he wanted hadn't sat well with Susan. Which was why she was now his ex-wife.

Divorce hadn't been on his agenda, but being single certainly did have its perks. Especially for a man who owned the city's most popular nightclub.

A shapely blonde wearing rhinestone chandelier earrings and a hot-pink, skintight bodysuit unzipped nearly to her belly b.u.t.ton rested her ample b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the bar and bounced in time with the blaring hip-hop tune while he mixed her a Screaming o.r.g.a.s.m. The way she was eyeing him, Ethan suspected that, if he wanted, he had a pretty good chance of taking her home after closing and giving her a taste of the real thing.

Thanks to The Hot Spot-and, he liked to think, his own charming personality-his bed was empty only when he wanted it to be.

He handed the blonde her drink and was about to lean forward to make his first move when a flash of gold at the end of the bar caught his attention. c.o.c.king his head, he took in the olive green polyester jacket, slicked-back hair, and excessive jewelry of one of the club's regulars. An obvious sleazeball, the man made a habit of haunting The Hot Spot, hitting on everything that moved-everything female, at any rate.

Normally, Ethan considered him harmless. Or at least a.s.sumed that any woman dumb enough to hook up with the gigolo deserved what she got. But his eyes s.h.i.+fted to the man's current companion and something about her demeanor struck him as a little less worldly than the club's usual clientele.

She looked the part, in a little black dress, her auburn hair teased and sprayed. But he hadn't seen her dancing, she wasn't mingling with the crowd, and she didn't seem overly interested in whatever this throwback from the disco era was whispering in her ear. She simply stared down at the appletini she was stirring with a plastic swizzle stick, seemingly mesmerized by the liquid swirling round and round in the funnel-shaped gla.s.s.

He watched the guy run the backs of his fingers down the length of her bare arm. The auburn-haired woman lifted her head, turned to look at the man who was touching her and blinked as though she'd just woken from a particularly confusing dream.

Silver teardrops dangled from her earlobes, reflecting the strobe lights circling the dance floor at her back. Her gaze lowered to the dark fingertips resting against her pale white skin before she licked her lips, swallowed, then slowly nodded her head.

The slick-haired fellow hopped off his high bar chair as if his pants were on fire. The woman finished the rest of her drink, wrapped her hand around the small, beaded purse beside her gla.s.s and followed suit. A sick feeling slid through Ethan's gut.

Something didn't feel right about what he was witnessing. He didn't normally get involved in his customers' affairs, but when he looked at the auburn-haired woman and the polyester-clad man, all he could picture was a big, ugly spider lying in wait for a tiny, innocent b.u.t.terfly to unwittingly land in its web.

Busty blonde suddenly forgotten, Ethan walked to the end of the bar, stopping only long enough to tell his regular bartender that he was once again on his own.

Rounding the bar, Ethan stepped in front of the gigolo before he could drag the woman off to G.o.d knew where. The man raised his eyes to Ethan's, a smirk twisting the pencil-thin mustache above his upper lip.

Ethan gave the guy a once-over, decided not to waste his time, then turned his attention to the pet.i.te woman standing none too steadily at his side.

"h.e.l.lo there," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Ethan Banks, owner of The Hot Spot."

Her gaze never s.h.i.+fted from his as she took his hand. Not counting her stiletto heels and her teased hair, the top of her head would probably only reach the underside of his chin. Since he was exactly six feet tall, he figured that put her somewhere around five foot three or four inches.

He usually gravitated toward tall, leggy women who could take care of themselves-the polar opposite of this waiflike creature. Maybe that was why he felt this sudden urge to protect her from predators like her current companion.

Leaning forward, he pressed his mouth to her ear and raised his voice to be heard over the pounding music. "I don't mean to intrude, but it looks like you've had a bit too much to drink, and I think you might want to reconsider your decision to leave with this stranger. As owner, I a.s.sure you that I will see you home safely."

She nodded and leaned heavily against his side.

"Sorry, buddy," he told the man, who had turned a mottled red with indignation. "Looks like I'll be taking over from here."

Without waiting for a response, Ethan wrapped an arm around the young woman's waist and guided her through the crowd to the club's entrance. Once outside he led her to the edge of the sidewalk and scanned traffic for an available taxi.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

Gwen blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust from the darkness of the club to the brightness cast by the streetlight over their heads. She still wasn't sure what had driven her to leave with one complete stranger over another. The only thing she could think was that the first man who'd approached her at the bar had been a little creepy and not terribly attractive, while the man who now held her hand was very attractive and made tiny fireworks go off low in her belly.

He had dark, almost black hair that was long on the sides but shorter in the back. His eyes appeared hazel, but could have been green, and his sapphire-blue jacket was tailored to fit the line of his strong, broad shoulders. He was tall, too. So tall that she had to tip her head to look at him, even in her heels.

Raking the length of his exceedingly masculine body, she finally caught his eye and recalled that he'd asked for her name.

She cleared her throat in embarra.s.sment. "Gwen," she answered. "Gwen Thomas."

"Gwen." A small smile touched his lips, sending another explosion skyrocketing through her system. "That's a pretty name. So tell me, Gwen Thomas, have you been clubbing long?"

She paused in the act of tugging her dress a few inches closer to her knees to consider his question. Frankly, she didn't know what he was talking about.

She'd felt that way all night, wondering what all of those young, brightly dressed people found so entertaining about the music blaring at them. Or the heat and crush of so many bodies pressed into such a small s.p.a.ce.

But as soon as the girls at the beauty salon, who had cut, colored, blow-dried and spritzed her hair, found out her birthday plan to be wild and uninhibited for once in her sad, lonely life, they'd insisted she go to the most popular nightclub in town and pick up a hot guy. She suspected they would enjoy her predicament a little more than she was, but had to admit she wouldn't have gotten half as far without them.

They'd also done her nails and makeup, then directed her to a boutique down the street where a tall, black woman with fuchsia highlights in her hair had put her in this strapless black dress and four-inch stiletto heels.

"I can tell by your lack of response that you haven't been on the scene all that long," he said wryly, opening the door of the bright-yellow taxi that pulled up, then handing her inside.

Watching him slide into the backseat beside her, Gwen frowned. So much for being wild. She couldn't even keep up with today's vocabulary.

That realization and the knowledge that this handsome, sophisticated man had found her out made tears well in her eyes.

"Hey, take it easy."

He reached over and brushed the moisture from beneath her eye with his thumb. His blue sports jacket opened with the movement, giving her a better view of his chest, broad and well defined beneath a tight black T-s.h.i.+rt. The sight, and his nearness, made her mouth go dry.

"I could tell you weren't a regular the minute I saw you," he continued. "But that doesn't mean you aren't welcome at The Hot Spot. I'm glad you came in to check the place out."

He followed that statement with a comforting, lopsided smile, and Gwen felt some of the tension ease from her limbs. He was being so nice to her. And if he'd told the truth about being the club's owner, he probably had better things to do than watch out for one lone, out-of-her-element patron. Even so, she was beginning to think she'd been lucky to be rescued by Ethan before she'd actually gone off with that other man in the terrible polyester suit.

What had she been thinking? she wondered now. She wasn't that desperate to lose her virginity, was she?

"So where do you live, Gwen?" He tipped his head toward the driver. "I'll have him take you home."

The address was on the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out. But if she gave it to him, the taxi would go there, drop her off, and take Ethan back to the club. Her night would be over without a single act of recklessness. All of her efforts to find a new hairstyle, new clothes and supposedly new att.i.tude would be for naught, and she would still be a thirty-one-year-old virgin.

The alcohol she'd consumed earlier threatened to revolt as panic seized her. "No!"

Ethan looked equal parts confused and amused by her outburst. "No?"

Meeting his gaze in the dim backseat of the cab, she shook her head. "I don't want to go home. I just got here, and it's my birthday, and I'm not going home until..."

"Until?"

Until I've done something wild, she thought. But what she said was, "Until I'm ready."

"Does that mean you want to go back inside?" he asked. "Because I don't think that's such a good idea. You've already had, what, two or three apple martinis? No offense, but it doesn't look like you could handle much more to drink. And the guy who tried to pick you up is still in there, so he'll probably just hit on you again. Do you really want to deal with that?"

No, she really didn't. But if she went home now, she would only curl up under the covers and cry herself to sleep. Then she would be so disappointed in herself, she might never get out of bed again.

Taking a deep breath and lifting her chin, she said, "I don't care. I'm not going home yet."

"If you don't want to go home, and you don't want to go back inside, where do you want to go?"

The idea popped into her head like magic and sent a shock of naughtiness skating down her spine. "To your place."