“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, but she could read the shock on his face, as if the idea were repugnant.
“Is it?” she prodded, trying to at least keep him talking so the idea would have a chance to sink in. “Stacy told me you haven’t even picked up the Alvarez since Cara died. Before she got sick, it never left your side. You traveled with it everywhere you went. You wouldn’t even leave it at the studio overnight. Now, you can barely even be in the same room with it.”
“You’re talking about it like it’s a person. It’s just a guitar. A piece of wood and some strings and a few electronics.”
“You don’t really believe that. It’s more than just a guitar. It’s the living embodiment of your talent. It’s the heart and soul of your success as an artist. And you’ve turned your back on it just as clearly as it turned its back on you.”
“I don’t think that.” His tone was quiet, but with so little emotion, she knew he had to be straining to keep it from his voice. “That’s completely illogical.”
“Of course it is. I’m talking about feelings, not logic. You’re the one with the soul of a poet. You know better than anyone that there’s no logic in the heart.”
He met her gaze for a second, unnerved by the understanding he saw there. Damn, but she was perceptive. She’d pegged him so easily, it unnerved him.
But she still sounded doubtful. And by the time he left, he wasn’t sure if she’d finally agreed because she really wanted to go with him or if the luster of dating a star was already starting to wear thin.
Ana knew she was in trouble the second the package arrived. No one had ever sent her a dress before. Still, she’d grown up watching old Doris Day movies and she’d seen enough of them to know that when a thirty-six by twenty-four inch box is couriered to your door, there’s a fancy dress inside. Or maybe a mink coat. But no one wore real mink anymore.
In the movies, the delivery of the dress always preceded one of those whirlwind dates, where the hero whisks the he**ine off to some exotic locale with the intent to seduce her. Inevitably, he failed. She returned home, virginity intact, but her beauty and charm—and stalwart defense of said virginity—inevitably won the hero’s heart. That was the nice thing about being a movie he**ine. You always came out on top. It was a good gig if you could get it.
But Ana had no illusions. She wasn’t Doris Day. She wasn’t even the Mexican-American Doris Day. And while she didn’t cling to her virginity with any particular sentimentality, she did have her standards. And the deep-seated fear that if she did let Ward sweep her off her feet, she might never again find solid footing.
And so when the dress box arrived on Friday morning, she accepted it with a grim smile, but resisted opening it. After all, she had a perfectly acceptable black dress hanging in her closet.
By the time she and Emma had met at the Bistro after work, she’d almost forgotten about the box sitting ominously on her bed. Emma’s wedding was in the morning and they were celebrating with nonalcoholic champagne. The ceremony would be quiet and small, with only family and a few close friends in attendance. Still, Ana couldn’t be happier for her friend.
And so, Ana really had forgotten about the dress by the time Emma came back by Ana’s house to check out the new digs. Emma hadn’t seen the house since Ana had moved in.
Naturally, when the impromptu tour reached the bedroom, the first thing Emma did was saunter over to the bed.
“What’s this?” she asked. With her good hand, Emma struggled to get enough leverage to pull off the lid.
“That’s nothing,” Ana hastily said. She quickly explained about the Hudsons’ Valentine’s Day bash that would take place the following evening.
“Holy cow!” Emma exclaimed, fluffing back the tissue to see the dress inside. “That’s not nothing.”
“I’m sending it back,” Ana rushed to explain.
“Why on earth would you send this back?” Emma pulled the dress from the box. Yards and yards of ocean-blue chiffon fluttered to the floor.
Ana, who hadn’t seen the dress until now, nearly gasped. She recognized the fabric before Emma had even pulled it from the box. She was intimately acquainted with the dress.
“Never mind that,” Emma kept talking, apparently in conversation with herself. She held the dress up, admiring it. “Forget where it came from. How could you afford it?”
“I couldn’t,” Ana said grimly. “It’s from Ward.”
Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “From Ward?” She drew the question out so that it was obvious she was asking about far more than merely the dress.
“Yes, from Ward,” Ana repeated.
“And he’s sending you clothes…why, precisely?”
Beneath Emma’s inquisitive gaze, Ana remained steadfastly silent.
“Oh, come on,” Emma protested. “You’ve got to give me something to go on! Taking you to the Hudsons’ party for work, I could buy that. But why is he sending you clothes? Are you dating?”
“Sort of. I don’t know.” Ana gave a frustrated tug at a lock of hair. Explaining her relationship with Ward was far too complicated. Besides which, she was pretty sure Emma would not approve of her plan to have a quick fling with Ward. She gestured toward the dress Emma still held. “So I don’t know what to think about this, damn it.”
Emma smiled smugly. “When a man sends me a generous gift, I rarely curse him for it.”
“It’s not the generosity that I have a problem with. It’s the dress itself that…”
She swallowed her curse of frustration, choosing instead to snatch the dress out of Emma’s hand. Some tiny part of her just wanted to rip the thing to shreds. But she didn’t dare. After all, she’d worked too hard on it.
“I made this dress!” She shook it, the gossamer fabric cascading from her hand.
“What?” Emma asked.
“The last movie I worked on.” She’d slaved over the dress, over several versions of it actually.
“That sword and sandals epic?”
“Exactly. This is the dress the female lead wore in the big finale when she was about to be sacrificed to Scylla.”
“Oh.” Emma’s eyes widened and then her brow furrowed into a frown. She moved closer to give the gown a better look. “How did Ward get it?”
“I have no idea.” With a sigh, she unclenched her hand from the delicate fabric and studied the dress. As fitted the story line, the gown was Grecian in style, all flowing fabric and delicate tucks. Rhinestones had been sewn on to the wide strap that draped over one shoulder. Though Ana was curvier than the actress who’d worn the dress originally, the other woman had some help in the chest department and the dress was loose about the hips, so the dress should easily fit her.
Emma ran her hand over the gleaming stones. “I didn’t know they had BeDazzlers in ancient Greece.”
“They didn’t have horrible sea monsters either. I don’t think they were striving for authenticity.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine how he got ahold of it.”
“Ward does have a lot of connections.” Emma stood beside her to study the gown. Then she gave Ana a knowing smile. “But he must have gone to a lot of trouble to find it. Especially at such short notice.”
“Exactly.” That was what made her so uncomfortable. When she’d made the quip about regretting that she’d never had the chance to wear one of her creations, she’d never dreamed he’d go to these incredible lengths to let her live out that fantasy.
“Why does that bother you?” Emma asked.
She held up the dress again, struggling to put her concerns into words. “It’s a dress designed for a goddess. Literally. Don’t you think I’m a little ordinary for a dress like this?”
“You are a lot of things, my friend, but ordinary is not one of them.” Emma bumped her shoulder playfully against Ana’s.
“Don’t you think it’s a little—” Ana broke off, searching for the right word. “I don’t know. Extravagant?”
At this, Emma’s smile grew broad and self-satisfied. “Not at all. Chase said that Ward is very romantic. That when he was dating Cara, he did all kinds of crazy grand gestures for her. Why do you think he wrote so many songs for her?”
Hearing it put like that, all of the anxiety that had been brewing in Ana’s stomach coalesced into a tight ball of dread. She had expected their relationship to be all passionate sex. Instead, he was taking her on romantic dates and buying her presents. How was she supposed to stay emotionally uninvolved under these circumstances?
She forced a smile to cover her dread. Shaking the dress out with a flourish, she grabbed a hanger from the footstool by the bed. As she slipped the dress onto the hanger, she said cheerfully, “Well, if I’m going to this grand bash, I might as well make the most of it.”
Emma’s face blossomed with glee. She looked like she might very well have clapped her hands if her cast hadn’t prevented her. “Okay, we’ll need to start with a pedicure and manicure, then we’ll need to figure out something for your hair. I’m thinking something Grecian and piled on top—”
“Hold on there, fairy godmother,” Ana interrupted, as she propped open the door to her wardrobe and hung the dress from the edge. “I can handle that all on my own tomorrow afternoon after your wedding. And you’re the one getting married tomorrow. What I meant was, if I’m going to be hobnobbing with the rich and famous, I might as well find a way to drum up some interest in Hannah’s Hope.”
Emma’s expression went from excited to crestfallen. “Most people would sell their left foot to go to a party like this. On the arm of Ward Miller no less! And all you see is a chance to shill Hannah’s Hope? Do you ever stop working?”
“Nope,” Ana answered with a cheerful grin. “Can’t afford to. Too much work to do.” Then she jabbed Emma delicately in the ribs. “And admit it. If you were in my shoes, you’d do the same.”