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Manolos In Manhattan. Katie Oliver
Читать онлайн.Название Manolos In Manhattan
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781474030779
Автор произведения Katie Oliver
Жанр Дом и Семья: прочее
Серия Marrying Mr Darcy
Издательство HarperCollins
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
About the Publisher
The taxi came to a stop halfway down Christopher Street. Holly James emerged from the back seat and tugged at the hem of her short back sheath. The fitted knit seemed to have a mind of its own and kept creeping up her thighs. She leaned back inside to pay the driver and gave him her last five dollars.
He nodded. “Thanks. Enjoy your evening, blondie.”
Blondie? Holly managed a curt nod and turned away. As the taxi drove off, she tucked her clutch under her arm and joined her friend Chaz on the sidewalk. She glanced past him through the gathering dusk to study the brownstone in front of her. Built before the turn of the last century, it was an art deco jewel dropped in the middle of Greenwich Village. Spotlights in the grass illuminated the elegant, four story-façade. The front steps led up to a set of leaded double doors; potted topiaries flanked the entrance.
“Dashwood and James,” she read aloud from the newly installed plaque above the door. “London/New York. Established 1859.”
Months of preparation had gone into planning tonight’s event. Judging from the limos jockeying for position in front of the building and the taxis lining the street, the private pre-launch of her father’s department store ‒ the first Dashwood and James in America ‒ was already a resounding success.
“How do I look?” Chaz asked her with a trace of anxiety. “This suit’s a Tom Ford. I got it at that sample sale last week, sixty percent off ‒ can you believe it?”
“You look fabulous,” Holly told him, and meant it. His suit was three-piece, a dark, almost purple-blue that made the most of his dark hair and olive skin. “You’ll have all the boys drooling.”
“Hope so.” He glanced with approval at her fitted black dress and leopard-print kitten heels. “You look pretty fabulous yourself. Too bad Jamie’s working tonight or you wouldn’t be stuck with me.”
“I’m not ‘stuck’ with you,” she corrected him as she linked her arm through his, “I adore you, and you know it.”
It was true. She and Chaz had clicked the minute they’d met last month at Dashwood and James, where both were employed for the summer...she, because the teen magazine she’d worked on in London had folded, Chaz because he was Rhys Gordon’s new personal assistant.
“Thanks.” He squeezed her arm briefly as they made their way up the walk to the brownstone and went up the steps. “What’s Jamie whipping up for everyone tonight? Pâté de foie gras? Raspberry and lime macaroons? God, those were seriously to die for…”
“Sorry, no. He’s doing an American menu, with Angus beef burger sliders and mini BLT wraps, zucchini frites, and chocolate whiskey cake.” Holly recited the list without thought; God knows, she’d heard Jamie discussing the menu often enough.
“Oh, lord,” Chaz groaned. “There goes my diet. Again.”
The doorman checked their invitations and smiled. “Welcome. Enjoy your evening.”
Holly paused in the open doorway, still holding Chaz’s arm, and surveyed the crowd with satisfaction.
Under the glittering Empire chandelier in the entrance hall ‒ purchased at Sotheby’s in London by her father and shipped at no small expense to New York ‒ crowds of elegantly attired men and women mingled. Laughter and conversation filled the air, along with the muted sound of a three-piece jazz ensemble playing on a raised dais in the corner. Waiters in black tie balanced drink trays on their fingertips and circulated through the crowd.
Chaz leaned forward to grab two drinks from a passing tray. He handed one to Holly and took a sip from the other. “Ugh. Chardonnay. I was hoping for champagne.”
“Oh, please. Dad wouldn’t splash out on champers for something as mundane as this. He spent more on the invitations than he spent on the entire evening. It’s all about priorities.” Holly took an experimental sip of the chardonnay and wrinkled her nose. “I could never be an alcoholic.” She set the glass aside.
“Well,” Chaz mused as his glance swept over the glittering crowd, “it doesn’t look mundane to me.” His eye moved past the men in suits and the fashionably clad guests to land on a tallish young man surrounded by a bevy of women. “Wait a minute. Who’s that?” he demanded as he set his drink down on a nearby table. “Isn’t it...? Oh my God, it is. It’s Ciaran Duncan!”
Holly followed his rapt gaze. “So it is,” she said, and glanced at the film star with disinterest. “I thought I told you he’d be here tonight.” She was far more interested in finding another drink tray, preferably one with mojitos. “He promised to come to the pre-launch tonight as a favor to Mum. He was a guest on Good Morning New York! a couple of years ago, when my parents separated and she was