FIANNA WOKE TO the sound of birdsong the next morning. Niall was curled protectively around her on the chaise, his breath warming her neck. They were high above a marine layer of fog that blanketed the coastline below.
The events of the night before rushed to her mind. The success of the runway show, the fierce tide that had nearly cost them their lives. Niall’s deft handling of the evening, the waffles and wine they’d enjoyed under the stars, the sound of his voice, and the taste of his lips on hers.
Except for the raging tide, it was all she’d imagined in the recesses of her mind, where hope and wishes and dreams resided. Niall had been completely unexpected, but not unwelcome.
She shifted in his arms, and he tightened his grip on her as he murmured in his sleep. “Mmm, Laila… missed you so much.”
Fianna froze. Laila must have been the source of his sadness. A girlfriend? “Niall, wake up, you’re dreaming. It’s morning.”
“Hmm?” His eyes fluttered open, and Fianna saw disappointment flood his face. He sucked in his breath. “It’s you.”
She managed a wan smile. “That’s right. Not Laila. Sorry.”
He frowned in confusion and rubbed his eyes. “I must have been dreaming.”
“I’d say so.” She sat up and swung her legs over the wide chaise lounge, hiding her despair. She was still wearing her robe from last night. She tugged it around her as if for protection against the torrent of feelings that rushed within her. How could she have such strong feelings for someone she’d known a few hours? “I need to change. If Kaitlin’s home, I’ll borrow some clothes.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll check for you.” Yawning, he got up and made his way through the door.
He returned in a few minutes with a blush-pink cotton sundress and thong slides for her feet. “Kaitlin is still asleep, but she won’t mind.” He paused. “I’m in desperate need of coffee. How about you?”
“I really have to go. My car is still parked at the event site. Will you give me a lift?”
“Of course.”
Niall ran a hand through his hair and stepped toward her, clearly uncomfortable with her presence. She could hardly blame him. He’d been expecting Laila, whoever that was, and he woke with her instead.
“Fianna, last night was incredible. One of the most magical nights I’ve had in a long, long time.” He drew his hands along her shoulders.
For a moment, she was tangled in his gaze, but she averted her eyes. As she did, her attention was drawn to a large painting of Niall and a fair-haired woman mounted over the fireplace in the living room beyond them. They were on the beach, their arms entwined, their expression one of pure love. She hadn’t noticed it last night because it was dark, and they’d gone through the kitchen door.
At once she knew. Laila wasn’t a girlfriend. Niall was a married man. She pressed a finger against his full lips. “You don’t have to say anything else. I understand. And nothing happened here. Nothing at all.” Though that wasn’t quite right, she stepped away and hurried inside with the clothes, angling her face from him so he wouldn’t see her grief.
What a romantic fool she was. This is why I don’t date much, she told herself firmly. She’d rushed after him like a silly schoolgirl, eager to thank him for his music, and look what happened. She’d nearly drowned and become involved with a married man. I can sure pick them.
She dressed as quickly as she could. When she left the bedroom suite, Niall was already standing by the door waiting for her, keys in his hand, sunglasses obscuring his eyes.
He tried to make conversation on the way, but Fianna had her guard up. Her answers were brief and left no openings. When they pulled alongside her car, Niall got out to open her door, but she beat him to it.
He stood with a hand on the door, sizing her up.
“Tell Kaitlin thank you for the clothes, and I’ll get them back to her in a couple of days.”
Niall removed his sunglasses and stared at her. “Fianna, what’s wrong? You seemed so…different last night. I know we’ve just met, but was it something I said or did?”
She glared at him. “I saw the painting in the living room. Your wife, I suppose?”
“Ah, yes.”
“Laila?”
He swallowed and nodded, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Well, then, there’s nothing more to say.” She opened her car door and slid inside.”
“Wait, let me explain something.”
Fianna started her car. “Do us both a favor. Don’t.” She put the car in reverse, backed out, and then headed toward the 101 highway that hugged the Malibu coastline. When she glanced in her review mirror, she saw Niall staring after her, his arms held wide, his palms still upturned as if in question.
She blinked the blur from her eyes and drove on. No doubt about it, that man would break her heart.
“Congratulations, Fianna! Did you see the Los Angeles Times this morning?” Verena spun a newspaper around on the table at Bow-Tie, her sapphire eyes shimmering with happiness.
Fianna gasped and sat down. She’d stopped at her apartment to bathe and change, but she hadn’t had time to see a newspaper. As she read, she raked her teeth across her lower lip. Photos from the show were printed on the society page. Three in all, and of her best designs. She blew out a breath. “I’m so relieved.”
Verena grinned and sipped her grapefruit juice—fresh squeezed, Fianna knew, from the grapefruit tree that still stood on the restaurant’s property. Verena was dressed in black yoga wear, her pale-blond hair in a messy bun, and her flawless complexion a testament to the skincare line she’d just launched. Her family’s legacy skincare salon and business had been taken over by a devious investor, and Fianna was glad to see that she was making a comeback.
Verena’s boyfriend, Lance, and his partner, Johnny, often opened their Beverly Hills restaurant to friends and family on Sunday afternoons. As a chef, Lance liked to try out new dishes he’d been working on, and everyone enjoyed catching up in a welcome break between their busy schedules. Johnny was in charge of guests and ambiance, though the vintage cottage that still graced a street in the commercial shopping district hadn’t needed much help when they’d opened earlier in the year.
“Listen to this,” Fianna said, running her finger along the newsprint, which still smelled of printing ink. “It says, ‘Fianna Fitzgerald, an up-and-coming young designer, took on the monumental task of organizing a show just two weeks before The Pink Ball. But there were no frayed edges in Fitzgerald’s show.’” She squealed with joy.
This made up for the disappointment Fianna felt about Niall. And wasn’t that always the way her love life seemed to work out anyway? Married. She should have known. No wonder he’d gone backstage with his sister. Wearing dark sunglasses, he could ogle the models all he wanted.
A chair scraped beside her, and a petite dark-haired woman dressed in a sage-green shift dress and strappy sandals slid in beside her. “I wanted to see you so much I practically ran from church,” Dahlia said, hugging Fianna. “What a smashing debut for you.” She grasped Fianna’s hand, and her vivid-green eyes clouded with concern. “And what a dreadful way to end the evening. Are you okay now?”
Fianna nodded. “A little bruised, but I’m fine. And I’ll never forget to check for high tide again.” She inhaled deeply, and the scent of gardenias filled the air. “New perfume you’re wearing?”
“It’s a new formula I’ve been working on.” Dahlia shrugged with modesty. “What do you think?”
“Hmm, lovely,” Fianna said, her eyes half-lidded in contemplation. At heart, they were all creators. Verena with her skincare line, and Dahlia with her perfume. “It reminds me of gardenia blossoms after a rain shower, at that moment when the sun’s first rays fall on the wet leaves and blossoms.”
Dahlia looked impressed. “You have a good nose.”
“I still wish I had a signature perfume for my brand.” She’d asked Dahlia if her family company could create a line for her, but Dahlia’s grandmother Camille, who’d run the company for decades, had politely declined. “Your brand is not large enough yet, dear,” Camille had told her. But Fianna wasn’t giving up. She had an idea. “Dahlia, I thought Camille might like to see this review of the runway show.”
Dahlia quickly read it, and then lifted her gaze to Fianna. A smile played on her lips. “Of course. I’ll give it to her.”
It was a long shot, Fianna knew. Just because she was friends with Dahlia didn’t mean Camille would commit funds to a new, unproven brand. She hadn’t built a global portfolio of perfumes by taking unnecessary risks.
“Fianna, don’t you have something else to share with us?” Verena pressed her lips together with barely concealed glee. Fianna knew what was coming next. “So tell us about last night. You stayed at Niall’s house?”
“We fell asleep on a chaise lounge on the balcony. But nothing happened.” Fianna realized that wasn’t quite accurate. She thought of the way he’d curved his body around hers and the way he’d sang her to sleep. How quickly she’d lost a piece of her heart to a man she hardly knew.
Her heart was too easily lured, too often broken. On the other hand, her art nourished her soul, and if she allowed it to, it could consume her, day and night. Most of the time, she let it do just that.
“For a woman,” her mother had told her, “you have an unnatural ambition, an unhealthy obsession with work. You’ve become such an American,” she added with disdain. Her mother had meant it as an insult, but Fianna was proud of her accomplishments. She was keenly aware of the dedication and persistence required to be successful in her field.
Fianna dragged her attention back to her friends.
Verena’s expression dimmed with disappointment. “Niall sure seemed taken with you. What did he say this morning?”
“He didn’t need to say anything.” She shook her head in disgust. “I saw a portrait of him and his wife in the living room. He’s married.” How could she have found herself in such a situation? She was always careful to avoid the jerks, but this one had slipped through her defenses.
Dahlia drew her finely arched brows together. “No, you’re mistaken.”
“He even called me by her name. Laila.”
Verena and Dahlia traded looks, and Dahlia went on. “Fianna, Niall was married. But his wife passed away three years ago.”
“Are you sure?” Heat gathered around her neck, and now she felt like an idiot. She’d lashed out at him without fully understanding the situation. But then, he hadn’t told her, had he? She rubbed her temples. “How do you know?”
Dahlia motioned to the newspaper. “I read the papers.”
“Since when do you read the obituaries?” Fianna asked, bewildered.
“When they’re on the front page of the Entertainment section.”
Verena motioned to Johnny to bring more juice to the table. “It was everywhere on the news and social media. Surely you remember.”
Fianna ran a hand across her brow. Why did everyone seem to know Niall but her?
Dahlia’s bow-shaped lips parted in surprise. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Niall is.”
“He said he writes music.” Fianna rested her chin in her hand, remembering the sensuality in his rich voice.
Verena laughed. “Just a little.” She shot a look of disbelief to Dahlia. “I forgot. You don’t listen to rock music, do you?”
Fianna shook her head. Jazz, opera, classical—she’d picked that up when she lived with Davina. She’d never been a celebrity fan either. She’d met plenty of them in her store and had become accustomed to their eccentricities. Some were lovely, normal people, like Maude Magillicutty, a 1960s siren who’d invested in Bow-Tie, but others, like the recently indicted Gina “Fleur” Georgopoulos, who’d once been a law client of Scarlett’s, had let fame go to their heads.
“Unbelievable.” Dahlia swung her dark hair over a shoulder. “Niall Finley managed to find the only woman in town—and an Irish woman, at that—who doesn’t know who he is.”
“Then enlighten me.” How could she be so out of touch? She’d been working nonstop in her business for years, immersed in fashion. She certainly didn’t have time to stay abreast of the latest gossip or television shows. Or rock stars, evidently.
“He was the lead singer of Finley Green,” Dahlia explained. “The day his wife died, he walked out.”
“Well, I doubt he’ll ever want to see me again.” Fianna remembered how she’d left him; she recalled the despairing look on his face in her rearview mirror. Maybe she’d been wrong about him. But a dead wife didn’t make him a saint.
Fianna winced at her thought. She wasn’t really that callused. What was she thinking? She twisted her napkin. She’d been protecting her heart for so long that her shield had become nearly impenetrable.
“Ladies, your fresh-squeezed, ruby red grapefruit juice.” Johnny filled their glasses with a pitcher and sat down. “I hope you’re hungry. Lance is whipping up a new recipe, and Scarlett’s mother is experimenting with a new empanada: Asian fusion.”
“Yum, sounds good. I’m starving,” Dahlia said. “Johnny, can you believe Fianna had no idea who Niall was?”
Fianna drew a hand over her face, slightly embarrassed.
Johnny looked quizzically at her. “That’s right, you’re the Enya fan. And opera.”
“I’m afraid I might have insulted him.” Fianna blinked at the memory. She often spoke before she thought. She was working on that.
“He’s had a rough time of it.” Johnny ran his knuckles against his dark, day-old stubble. “Decked a paparazzi at his wife’s funeral, as I recall. Practically became a hermit after that.”
“I don’t blame him,” Fianna mumbled. Last night, trapped among the rocks in the black raging water, he’d been willing to give his life so she could live. Niall was far more complex than she’d given him credit for.
“He used to stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel and take meetings in the Polo Lounge,” Johnny said. “That’s how I got to know him. He’s a really good guy.”
“It figures, doesn’t it?” Fianna twisted a wavy red lock of hair around her finger, guilt consuming her. I mistreated a man who offered to give his life for me. And I wouldn’t even listen to him before I roared away. Should she call and apologize?
“Hola, mi amor.” Scarlett walked up behind Johnny, slid her hands across his broad back and kissed him. “Smells like Mama is in the kitchen.”
Johnny rose and hugged her, ruffling Scarlett’s coppery blond hair. “I’ll see what’s ready back there. Take over for me here.”
Fianna grinned at Scarlett, who’d become her business attorney. “You look like you’ve been at the beach.”
“I had a long walk this morning,” Scarlett said, rubbing her bare arms, bronzed from the sun. “It was warmer than I thought it would be.”
Verena and Dahlia quickly filled in Scarlett about Niall and Fianna.
“That’s enough,” Fianna said, laughing in protest. “I just met the guy, and knew him for what, ten or twelve hours, at the most?” She tossed her twisted napkin on the table.
“You’re right, let’s change the subject,” Verena said. “Fianna, with the exposure in the newspaper, it might be a good time to call the buyers from Saks and Barney’s. I know them, so you can use my name.”
Scarlett nodded. “Verena’s right. If you can get your line in the stores, even a few pieces on consignment, that will go a long way in forming the licensing program we’ve been talking about. With your red carpet exposure in magazines, you have a good publicity foundation, but distribution is so important. Shoppers have to find your work in the stores.”
“They do, but it’s not mine.” She made a face and shook her head in disgust. After the Grammy Awards last year, two of her designs had been knocked off by a mass ready-to-wear manufacturer within the month.
Fianna had a dream she’d harbored since she was a girl, and that was to delight as many people as she could with her whimsical, flattering designs. Later, when she started her business, her long-term goal was to sell her lines into the most exclusive stores and then engage licensees for accessories, such as handbags, sunglasses, and shoes.
Scarlett’s specialty was intellectual property licensing, particularly in cosmetics and fashion. In fact, she’d been instrumental in recommending and negotiating Penelope’s recent deal with High Gloss Cosmetics. Now, Penelope was a spokesperson for the company and had her own branded line with them. Ever since Scarlett left the large law firm she’d been with, she’d been working with a number of entrepreneurial clients.
“And I have another show coming up,” Fianna said, thinking about her trip to Ireland. Her aunt Davina had arranged a runway show for a major charity event in Ireland. The event showcased a top designer every year, and Fianna had been chosen because of her Hollywood red-carpet connections. She’d dressed many stars for televised award shows. She didn’t make money from loaning cocktail dresses and evening gowns, but the exposure was valuable to her growth. Her trip to Ireland would be expensive, but it could be an important stepping stone in her career.
“Who’s hungry?” Wearing chef’s whites, Lance appeared at the table holding a tray of food, dished up family-style in large bowls and platters. “Today we’re trying an Asian theme, with Asian fusion empanadas—vegetarian or seafood—and a new garlic lemongrass crab recipe I’m testing. Bon appétit, and let me know what you think.” He placed the tray on the table, and then sat next to Verena, giving her a sweet little kiss before he began serving.
Johnny and Scarlett joined them at the table. Scarlett’s mother, Isabel, who had come out of retirement to assist in the kitchen, sat down, too. Wine and champagne bottles were passed around, and everyone was happy to catch up with friends and eat delicious food.
These lazy Sunday afternoons were the high point of Fianna’s social life. Only when she met someone like Niall—which wasn’t often—did she wonder about the choices she’d made in her life. As she took a bite of a steaming empanada, the lightly fried pastry pocket burst with flavor. “This is fabulous, Isabel,” she said, enjoying herself.
Bow-Tie was known for its food and ambiance, and today, Fianna was simply happy to be eating delicious food and laughing with friends. Niall is too complicated anyway.
That’s what she told herself. She sighed. Still, she couldn’t deny the effect he’d had on her. She wondered if she’d ever see him again.