Sun-kissed (The Au Pairs 3)

She buried her face in his neck. They didn't need to say anything to each other; everything they meant to say they said with the closeness of their beating hearts. She felt so light, so airy and feminine and loved in his strong arms--as he walked down the length of the boat toward the captain's quarters.

"Oops!" he said, sliding on a few rose petals, but he regained his balance and carried her over the threshold.

Cue the Coldplay, Mara thought. This is the definition of romance.

Ryan maneuvered the door open and laid Mara gently on the king-size bed. She stared up at him hungrily and reached over to help him take off his T-shirt while he pulled up her blouse.

They were kissing again, his tongue deep in her mouth, when they suddenly noticed an incessant, shrill beeping.

"What the hell is that?" Ryan asked, looking wildly around the room.

"I don't know," Mara said, propping herself up on her elbows. She was down to her Cosabella thong and Ryan was in his boxers.

35

She spied a white, purple, and orange cardboard box vibrating in the corner. "I think it's coming from there."

Ryan hauled himself off the bed and walked over to the box. He held it up. It was a FedEx package. He looked down at the address label.

"It's for you," he said blankly, handing it to Mara.

36

is this what they call ghetto fabulous?

THE MURMURING IN THE STUDIO WAS INTERRUPTED BY A

fearful hush and the sound of one man bitching.

Sydney Minx had arrived for the run-through.

The designer was a short, squat man with a long white pony-tail who never went anywhere without his oversized blind-as-a-bat sunglasses. He looked like a smaller, fatter version of Karl Lagerfeld, and the tribute didn't end there--Sydney was waving a small Japanese fan around madly.

All the models were arranged in a row for a final rehearsal before the show at the Hamptons boutique tomorrow.

"What is this? Qu'est-ce que c'est? This is terrible! Horeeeb!" he exclaimed in an affected French accent, pointing to a model wearing an ostrich-feather-trimmed tunic and matching silk pants. "That outfit is three thousand dollars retail, but somehow it looks like it's nineteen ninety-nine at the mall!

"And will you look at this! Someone please tell me what she is supposed to be!" he cried, slapping a model on her bottom with his fan. The girl was wearing an abbreviated cotton biker jacket over a leopard-print dress. "This is Donatella Versace committed

37

suicide! This is not Sydney Minx at all! This is not my vision! Paige! Paige!"

Eliza smiled. This was the only time the rant was worth it. In Sydney's presence, Paige was reduced to a simpering yes-woman, a sniveling, wimpy Smithers to an apocalyptic Mr. Burns.

"It's Aspen East?" Paige said weakly, referring to Sydney's "vision" of the collection, which blended ski-bunny coquettishness with Hamptons-style aristocratic summer hauteur.

"This is not Aspen East! It's more like Ghetto West!"

The models cowered, the seamstresses frowned, and one of the assistants began taking the dress off the nearest model with an almost violent rage. Back to the drawing board.

"You!" Sydney suddenly exclaimed, his eyes resting on Vidalia. "Come here!"

Vidalia tentatively walked out to the center and in front of Sydney. The numerous gold chains clinked softly against her skin.

"Turn around!" he directed.

She did, taking a few steps.