Sun-kissed (The Au Pairs 3)

as she could. The Perrys kept to a tight schedule and expected everyone to adhere to it.

Why, oh why, had she put packing off for so long? Jacqui wondered, even if she knew the answer only too well. Senior Week. Instead of spending time getting ready for the Perrys' annual pilgrimage to East Hampton, Jacqui had chosen to celebrate with her friends. The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind-there'd been a boozy bash at the Maritime Hotel, mini-golf at the Chelsea Piers, and an overnight retreat to the Catskills (campfire hookups and roasted marshmallows). Between the festivities and schlepping the Perry kids to their after-school activities, there just hadn't been any time to pack.

Her head hurt from a massive hangover, thanks to last night's tequila-soaked grad party. She opened drawers haphazardly, throwing and discarding items at random. Pucci scarf. Yes. Cashmere cardigan. No. (Too hot.) Duro Olowu caftan. Yes. Juicy cover-up. Too last year. Havaianas. Yes. White Levi's. Definitely.

She ran a hand through her thick black hair--the short, spiky fauxhawk she'd weathered for a fashion show last summer just a memory. The pixie cut had been cute, but she felt more like herself with her long dark tresses.

Her first year in New York had been nothing short of magical. The Perrys had installed her in a studio apartment formerly occupied by their ex-nanny. Jacqui had gasped when she saw the six-hundred-square-foot space--a charming, cozy room with

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floor-to-ceiling windows, a pretty alcove bedroom, a full kitchen, and a working fireplace. Only a block away from the Perrys' massive town house, the apartment was close enough that Jacqui could come over and watch the kids easily but far enough that she had her privacy.

Jacqui had enrolled for her senior year at St. Grace--a small, all-girls' parochial school on the west side that had accepted her after Stuyvesant, one of the most competitive public schools in the country, did not. The Perrys had covered her tuition as part of her compensation, and Jacqui's classmates quickly idolized the brash, beautiful Brazilian in their midst. Jacqui had studied hard through the year but had still managed to become very popular. After all, she was the only one at school with her own apartment, and she'd hosted a lot of parties. She found an empty beer bottle underneath the bed and chucked it in the garbage can.

The doorbell chimed again, and this time Jacqui could definitely make out Anna and Kevin Perry's quarreling voices behind the door.

"I'm talking to you--don't answer your phone when I'm talking to you!"

"Anna, this is work. It's important. Give me a sec, all right?"

"You never listen to me. Work always comes first!"

"Babe, please shut up. I need to take this."

"Oh, just go ahead, then! Where is she? Jacqui! Jacqui!"

"Coming!" Jacqui yelled. She ran over and opened the door.

Anna Perry, a vision in sparkling Chanel tennis whites, tapped

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her French manicure impatiently in the doorway. "The limo's here. We need to get to the Thirty-fourth Street helipad pronto or we'll lose our departure time," she ordered briskly. Kevin Perry, who looked tense and rumpled in a gray wool suit, gave Jacqui a curt nod as he put a cell phone to his ear.

"Yes, yes, sorry--just--give me a minute." Jacqui nodded, closing the door in front of Anna's face. The Perrys might pay for the apartment, but it was still her own. Besides, she totally had to hide the keg that was standing in the middle of the living room.

18

mara achieves golden-girl status

MARA STRODE CONFIDENTLY THROUGH THE AIRPORT, TAKING a little-known shortcut to the baggage claim area. She was so focused she didn't notice the many admiring stares in her direction. She cut a sharp figure in her tight white Michael Stars T-shirt, pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer clam diggers, and Tory Burch for TRB wedge sandals--recent purchases thanks to congratulatory checks from her grandparents. Her thick chestnut hair was expertly colored and styled, falling sexily just below her shoulders, and she was tan from spending a weekend on Block Island as part of graduation festivities.

She retrieved the rest of her luggage, piled it on a cart, and walked out of the sliding glass doors to look for Ryan. She found him leaning against a flat red Ferrari Enzo illegally parked by the curb.

He ran over toward her, taking long loping strides. "Hey, gorgeous," he said, plucking a garment bag from the top of the pile.

"Hey, yourself," Mara replied, her heart skipping a beat--it always did whenever she saw his handsome face. She smiled at him over her matching butter-leather Coach

suitcases--graduation

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booty from her sister Megan, who had quit the beauty shop for a gig as a sales rep, meriting a deep discount.

Ryan was wearing his hair longer, in a shaggy, college-boy cut, but otherwise he looked the same, the same burnished tan, the same slightly disheveled clothing--a worn Aboveground Records T-shirt over a pair of holey Rogan jeans, his usual rubber flip-flops, vintage Ray-Ban aviators perched on top of his forehead. Mara set the cart by the sidewalk and walked over to him, putting an arm around his waist as he fed the bag into his trunk.

"New wheels?" she asked, admiring the Italian sports car.