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CHARLEYTOOKANunsteady breath as she stepped out of the taxi onto the torchlit lawn of the staggering stone-and-glass mansion on the Tiburon Peninsula.
Built on an extensive piece of untouched land in Marin County, the Broussards’ home had spectacular views. The lack of any nearby developments afforded the guests, as they walked to the dramatic arched entrance, a panoramic vista which included Angel Island, the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges, and San Francisco’s towering skyline across the water.
Charley was no stranger to luxury living, or the parties of the rich and famous. After all, she’d once been one of their number, in her own backhanded fashion. But she’d learned the hard way to hate that life—the wild parties, the endless hotel rooms, the long workdays and even longer play nights which had eventually become a blur of overindulgence, anxiety, and exhaustion, sucking up all of her adolescence.
She lived frugally now, in a flat in London’s up-and-coming East End bought from her earnings as a model—her new life funded by the trickle of revenue from the growing cache of exclusive clients she had managed to impress with her innovative and eclectic dress designs.
Her passion for fashion was one of the few upsides of her short-lived career as a teenage catwalk model, which had mostly just exposed the ugly grit behind the glamour of the industry. But after three years at fashion college in London, learning her craft as a bespoke designer, and an end-of-year show which had piqued the interest of Cassandra Broussard—enough for thetech billionaire’s influential wife to become her first buyer—she was now set to finally make a success of her life...on her own terms.
So when Cassandra’s email had dropped into her in-box, inviting her, oh-so-casually, to one of the most sought-after and exclusive social events of the summer on America’s West Coast, she’d maxed out her credit card to buy an economy class ticket to San Francisco International—and spent every spare evening in the meantime sewing by hand the cocktail dress she was currently wearing—without a single hesitation.
All she needed to do now was model the design at the Broussards’ party, without making it too obvious she was touting for business...
Cassandra had handed her a golden opportunity to showcase her signature design style with the exclusive Silicon Valley crowd who were Charley’s dream clientele. Now, if she could just get a handle on the butterflies in her stomach, which had turned into dive-bombers on the flight across the Atlantic...
She brushed shaky palms down the bronze silk which stopped mid-thigh and tucked the matching purse under her arm, thinking momentarily about all the hours she had spent painstakingly sewing on the beading.
Look confident. And no one will know you’re terrified of doing this sober!
The ankle boots she’d chosen to go with the dress—because, for a garden party, heels were definitely out—clicked on the stone path in time with her rampaging heartbeat. She took a deep breath and offered the uniformed security guard a bright smile along with the QR code on her phone.
The man nodded after checking her ID, then handed her over to a young woman in a tailored suit—who beamed at her.
‘Miss Courtney, I’m Alex Burley, Mrs Broussard’s assistant. Luke and Cassie are delighted you could join them tonight.Would you like me to give you a tour of the estate, or do you want to go straight through to the party? There’s a lounge area by the pool, cocktails on the terrace, or the band, who have started a dance set in the garden.’
‘Brilliant, Alex, thanks,’ Charley said with a confidence she didn’t feel, but had learned how to fake years ago.
She needed to locate Cassie and say thanks to her personally for the invite, and the opportunity. But the sound of the music coming from below the house—a joyous if unfamiliar mix of R&B and rock ’n’ roll accompanied by some insane fiddles—was undeniably infectious.
‘Actually, I’d love to check out the band,’ she said, because she needed to loosen up before she started networking.
‘Good choice.’ Alex beamed some more, then led her around the house before excusing herself.
Charley walked down stone steps into the garden, enchanted by the informal surroundings—which had the vibe of a music festival rather than a posh society party.
Fairy lights adorned the arbour of trees and twinkled in the glimmer of twilight, framing the view across San Francisco Bay and making it magical as well as breathtaking. The fast-paced fiddles had been joined by an accordion on the stage, and the dulcet tones of a singer—whose throaty French patois seemed to sink into Charley’s soul—had her heels tapping of their own accord.
But what enchanted Charley more was how unselfconscious everyone seemed. As if they were enjoying the chance to let off steam, rather than trying to be seen.
The throng of guests chatted and laughed, drinking more beer than champagne, while a huge hog roast was being served on the level above the stage. The dance floor had been laid out under the stars, and was packed with people young and old, some famous, most not, wearing everything from jeans and T-shirts to boho dresses and designer couture as they twirled and boogied in a couples’ dance.
In the centre of the mêlée were Luke and Cassandra Broussard.
Charley’s pulse kicked against her throat, and she felt weightless for a moment—which had to be her excitement at the stellar business opportunity tonight’s event presented, and not the romantic sight of the Broussards dancing together in joyous unison, as if they were completely alone.
She didn’t believe in love. Her own parents’ marriage—from the little she could remember of it—had been a disaster. And her brother, Adam, had never managed to hold down a serious relationship as far as she knew.
But even so, Charley found herself spellbound.
Cassandra Broussard was a brilliant businesswoman who was warm and kind, and also impossibly serene and sophisticated. But tonight, wearing a summer dress which floated around her body as her husband launched her into a twirl, she looked incandescent. When she threw back her head and laughed at something her husband had whispered in her ear, Charley had the weirdest urge to believe what the Broussards shared was real and would last, when Charley had never had such a cheesy thought in her entire life.
Not even as a little girl.
Especiallyas a little girl. The vague memory of her mother’s broken sobbing and her father’s brutal criticisms soured the happy glow.
‘Hello, Charlotte. Why aren’t you on the dance floor?’
The low, husky voice at her earlobe had Charley swinging round to find a fierce blue gaze she recognised locked on her.
