The music slowed. Ziggy lifted his clipboard with theatrical flourish. “And the winners are…Harriet and George.”
Frankie let out a mock gasp. “Damn. I thought for sure I bribed the judges better than that.”
Marcus grinned. “Hard to beat George’s smile.”
“True,” she said softly. “But I’m more partial to yours.”
He stepped closer, voice low. “Not nearly as partial as I am to your body. You look so damn sexy tonight it’s a miracle we aren’t banned from the dance floor. Maybe we should skip out early. Your ride back to Manhattan is coming too fast.”
The light in her eyes dimmed.
“What?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Nothing. Just…for a second, I almost wished I was staying in Gi Gi’s Crossing a little longer.”
The words hit like a gut punch. Shealmostwished to stay.
He took her hand. “Let’s get out of here. We need to talk.”
“Is talk code for sex?”
“Not exactly.”
He was about to say something honest, maybe even hopeful, when a voice cut through the crowd.
“There she is!”
His spine locked.
Not here. Not now.
He turned and spotted the last person he wanted at this party—Melanie Carter, Channel 8. Microphone up, cameraman in tow, eyes pinned to Frankie like she’d just found a unicorn in Louboutins.
Panic slammed him. Their intel had been wrong. Fuck.
He had no idea whether Melanie knew the man’s name. One look at him and Frankie together and the what-if would light up. And once it lit, she would dig. She always did. Straight for the secret they couldn’t afford to be discovered.
“Three, two, one… We’re live,” the cameraman said as the light flared.
Marcus pulled the ballcap out of his pocket, slipped it on, lowered his head, and slid into the press of bodies, rounding the fountain, using sequins and feathersas cover until he disappeared along the dark edge of the square.
Melanie’s voice rose, bright and polished. “Viewers, I’m Melanie Carter, and in case you don’t recognize her, this isNaked Runway’sFrankie Peterson. The woman Manhattan media calls the Runaway Editor in Chief. The woman who threw a stiletto during Fashion Week.”
He didn’t hear the rest.
By then, he was already gone.
Chapter 39
Frankie stared into the camera’s red blink and prayed for a miracle she knew would not come. A bead of sweat slid down her spine, chased by something colder. Recognition.
Ten minutes ago, she’d been floating through Gi Gi’s Crossing’s Gatsby night, all brass and laughter and borrowed stardust. She and Marcus had Charlestoned until her cheeks hurt, and for one dangerous beat, she’d let the town, the music, and the man convince her that soft might be safe.
The spell cracked under a voice she hadn’t heard since the post-stiletto press conference.
“Frankie, would you be so kind as to answer a few questions?”
Her heart thudded once. Hard.
