Out of Her Comfort Zone Read online

  Emily looked down and couldn’t help smoothing her midi-length corduroy skirt. It was hard enough to keep geeks focused on clean lines and getting the coding right, why distract them by wearing a miniskirt?

  “People respect your mind, Em, and they fall for your voice. But I want them to see what a hot chick you are. I want you to know, to feel, how desirable you are, and to see how I desire you.”

  “I know that already.” She heard the tentative edge in her voice.

  Elliot heard it and tilted his head, spilling a half-smile out. “Be the object of everyone’s admiration. Let ’em ogle you.” He shrugged. “You won’t always have that bodacious bod. Show it off, just this once.”

  She had to admit, she was tempted. She knew she was passable, having heard enough cat-calls and whistles in her time. She had consciously chosen to play it down. But, again, she had always wondered. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad? Might be damned good.

  “Now you’re piling on,” she said, trying to put scorn in her voice and failing miserably.

  Elliot grinned. “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  ****

  Emily was used to heads not turning as she opened the door to her company’s second-floor office. After all, most folks who worked here were coders and testers, eyes glued to their screens and ears filled with ear-buds delivering sound straight to their cortexes. She could see the tops of heads over the four-foot movable mauve walls, grungy from the office’s last tenants. A former newsroom, this seemed the perfect place to perfect an app that blocked all unwanted communication.

  Still, something was different this morning. Or maybe she just saw things a little differently. After their coffee shop snack the afternoon before, Elliot had left for a confab in San Mateo and Emily had come to work. She hadn’t thought to get much done, what with The Proposition buzzing about inside her head, but staring deeply into a screen of code mesmerized her into productivity. She hadn’t come up for air – or rather, a bathroom break – until two in the morning. It was already nine-thirty now, full sun here and well into the afternoon over on the East Coast.

  Had she left the coffee brewing last night? Impossible with the new pod machines. The lights on? No, she coded in the dark, to help her concentrate.

  Had she crashed the system again? No, she could hear the clickity-clack of keyboards. But she also caught surreptitious glances as she passed. Nobody seemed able to focus this morning.

  When she reached Josh leaning in his chair in the back corner, dark with black bookshelves behind him and his desk light off, she didn’t even say good morning.

  “What’s up?”

  “The ten o’clock scholar.”

  “That’s not it. Spill. Is it the patent suit?”

  “No news there, sad to say.” Her business partner rolled to his large feet, a grin nearly splitting his dark beard. How his Ginny even kissed that thicket of face-curls Emily couldn’t fathom.

  “Found something in the paper, though.” He stepped past her to a large white poster board, the brightest thing in his corner. He flipped it around and Emily had to take a step back.

  It was a blow-up of a photo of her, with Elliot, at the NoMa cafe. It must have been taken through the window. Her head was as big as life. Panic shot through her sinews – Elliot was going to freak. But almost as soon as she felt it, it was gone, replaced by the joy she saw in her paper image.

  Elliot was kissing her hand. Her eyes were closed, her lips soft as if she were melting a perfect piece of chocolate in her mouth. It was a beautiful moment, even if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world.

  There was no way Elliot could object to this. Sure, it was a gross invasion of privacy, but she’d seen many, many photos of lovers, and weddings, and all. And this, this was beautiful.

  “You had this done this morning?”

  “Ordered it last night, when the tabloid put it online. Ginny saw it first. And happened to notice something odd, though.” Josh pointed at her hand in the photo. “A new piece of jewelry? On the hand you write with?”

  “Yes, it’s an engagement ring, whatever.” She couldn’t help the grin, and apparently Josh couldn’t help matching it.

  The sounds of whoops and cheers rolled over her. She turned around to see all her people, her team, clapping and smiling. Josh punched her shoulder lightly. “Give them the Queen’s wave. You need the practice. You’re going to be royalty now.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The richest guy in the city last year.”

  “Actually, Elliot told me I made more than him last year, because our app sale was recorded in December.”

  “But he still has that diva of a mom.”

  And wasn’t she a stickler. “Right. Make sure I stop working at four today, wouldja?”

  “You’re only going to give yourself a half-hour to get ready for the biggest social event of the season? You should go home at two and primp it right.”

  “Can’t. Gotta fix that scroll bug we found. Beta’s coming.”

  “So’s Christmas. Yeah, don’t take my advice. I’m only the marketing and social guru, whatever.” But his pat on the back was friendly.

  Emily couldn’t believe he’d done this all. “Thanks, Josh.”

  “Least I could do. Elliot brought us together, didn’t he? And once the poor guy fell for you, he couldn’t even profit from it.” Because he’d wanted to date Emily, Elliot had had to recuse his firm from doing financial deals with hers. She’d tripled the investment of another VC firm instead.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “But then, he got the better of the deal, after all, didn’t he now.”

  ****

  In a stroke of luck, Emily’s gown for the opera gala was ruby red velvet. Elliott liked shoulders bare, but Em couldn’t bear the idea of nip-slip, so the bustier was as secure as she could stand. She’d dusted her shoulders with a little sparkle and carried the sheer wrap Elliott bought her when they were in Hong Kong. Such a beautiful safety blanket.

  As she stepped out of the elevator, she saw the Elliott-mobile, black and sleek, already waiting at the curb. The War Memorial Opera House wasn’t even a mile away, but they had to make an entrance. He pushed the door open from the inside and stepped out to let her in. He’d need to be the first one out on the sidewalk when they arrived. The press photographers usually ate him up quickly, and by the time Emily was out and on her way the media horde was on its way to the next victim.

  But it would be different now, he’d told her on the phone this afternoon. They had to show as a team, whether they liked it or not.

  “Shooting us at the coffee shop? Invasive bastards,” he’d said. “They’re forcing our hand.”

  “I’ll always remember how you proposed, and how I felt. But I only saw it from inside. Now I see how beautiful it looked outside, too. I’m glad they took it.”

  “Glad?” He huffed in derision. “For every beautiful photo, they take a hundred ugly ones. And it’s the bastards’ choice which one they run. Careful what you wish for.”

  Even now, hours later, Elliott looked a bit flushed. Did he believe ruminating forever on an event would ever change any piece of it? Emily stroked his two-tone hair and gave him a quick air-kiss. “You get in first, right, from now on? So I will get out first.”

  “Right, right,” he said, shaking his head as if to get his thoughts straight. “You go in, and I’ll go around.”

  Settled in and on the move, Elliott was still chewing on his thoughts, his face abstracted. After a long couple of minutes, he looked sidelong at her. “How long are you going to put up with me acting like this?”

  She looked out the window at the warm fall night, rich with the setting sun. “Looks like three more minutes.”

  He laughed. “You know, Mariah will be on the prowl.”

  “She loves you. Or her cameraman does.”

  “Now she’ll have to love us both.” But he sounded angry about it. He seemed to notice, because his next words
were more conciliatory. “And she’ll have to admit, you are a gorgeous creature. With lipstick to match.”

  So he also had noticed that she hadn’t wanted to touch his skin with her glossed-up lips. “The color’s called vixen,” she said.

  “Tease.” He took her hand in his, warming the ruby between his strong fingers. She sank happily into his love.

  The Opera House scene was raucous, a great show for the start of the artistic season. Though it was missing the crowds of random gawkers that attended film premieres, the sidewalk was abuzz with members of the gentry alighting from their modern carriages and media and opera handlers flitting about them. From the car’s window as they waited their turn in line, it looked as if the socialites and politicos were borne inside on a wave of chatter and hand-flutters.

  Soon enough it was their turn. Elliot signaled Emily should wait until their driver opened the door for her. She opened Elliot’s door first, so he could scoot around and was ready to hand Emily out of the car like a gentleman from some long dead era. She stepped clear, no problems, but before she could straighten her wrap, the flashbulbs arrived, with the Daily’s hungry young social secretary, Mariah Karan, on their heels. The elfin creature gave her the usual ice-stare, and Emily stalled her step forward, giving Elliot space for the photo. But he’d caught the look too, and reached back to take Emily’s hand. Like some Renaissance troubadour he lifted it high, as if drawing her into a dance step, and as she drew near, dropped it to his lips. Eyes on hers, he gave her knuckles the lightest, most promising kiss. She couldn’t help her delighted chirp of laughter.

  Flash, flash, flash, and her smile started to fade. He dropped his hand to her hip and drew her up beside him, turning his gaze, and his grin, to Mariah.

  Who looked less than pleased, even as her photographer was nodding his approval. “So, it’s true, then? Another millionaire is off the market?”

  “So she is,” Elliot said. “And I’m glad of it.”

  Mariah looked at Emily as if to say, why her? Emily didn’t know either, and so didn’t say anything. Mariah’s mobile features formed into feigned surprise, as if she’d had a thought. “What does this mean for the storied stag party?” Her gaze flicked to Emily and her mouth twitched. Elliot just squeezed her waist tighter.

  “What’s a party when you’ve found the love of your life?”

  “Very pretty,” Mariah looked at her photographer, who nodded he was set. “Have fun at the show.”

  “Always, Mariah.”

  As they made their way across the carpet and into the foyer, done up in a vague 1920s theme, silver and black, Elliot’s hand slid from the middle of her back to the top of her ass. “Commando?”

  “Didn’t want the panty line.”

  “How Midwest of you.” He leaned close to breathe in her ear. “And so… provocative.” Her skin goose-bumped, and a shiver of pleasure shot across her mind. But before she could sass him back, his mother caught up to them.

  Head of the Opera Angels committee, Mona West had once been a prima ballerina in New York. She retained the regal carriage, but had dropped the bun-head in favor of a classic chignon and her new husband’s diamonds.

  “Dearest, and his Emily. Congratulations. How does it look?” She looked down, and Emily realized she wanted to see the ring. As she lifted her hand, she saw Elliot’s lion of a stepfather coming near, carrying the usual two bourbons.

  “Lovely,” Mona cooed. “You went with the simpler setting, as I recommended. My mother-in-law had the stone reset three times, can you imagine?” Emily had the feeling that Mona did not allow her jewelry out of her sight long enough to reset it. No, that’s just nerves talking. Elliot’s mother was not a menace, just a little formal. And a lot controlling.

  Mr. West handed a drink to his wife, and used his free hand to pound Elliot on the back. “El, my man, well done.”

  “Glad you’re glad, Tee.” The older man was also named Elliot, but with an extra consonant. As a child, Elliot had called his stepdad Tee, and had received his own nickname in return, El. Emily expected that was the source of his nickname for her, too – Em.

  “You must try the mushroom heads. To die for.” His mother waved away the server with platter of steak tartare. “How is our dear Mariah taking it?”

  “Like a man, I’m sure.”

  “I doubt it. She’s been truly kind to us in the press, and all we give her is access and the hope of something more. Now that hope is gone. Don’t take a step wrong for a while there. And when is the big day, anyway?”

  Her husband gave her a squeeze, which she accepted with an eye-roll. “You mean you didn’t plan that, already, my dear?”

  Elliot took two of the flutes of champagne from a server’s tray, handing one to Emily. “Still in negotiations. We might have a small wedding, and a big party after.”

  “Small, as in a hundred people?”

  “More like six, or four. You know Emily doesn’t like crowds, and who really wants to sit through another wedding? It’s the party everyone comes for.”

  “Of course, dear. We’ll take that into consideration in the planning.”

  Emily’s smile froze. What could she mean? Elliot squeezed her hand reassuringly. He was hers no, no matter what Mona could do. Another new couple arrived, and Mona’s attention was drawn to them. As soon as Mona disengaged from them Elliot scooted Emily away, and into a quiet corner. A curtain separated them from the noise of the sidewalk; a column from the rest of the foyer.

  “You survived the gantlet.” He’d noticed.

  “And you helped.”

  “So, dare you muss your lipstick now?”

  She did. His lips took possession of hers and his grip tightened on her hip. Her hands stole under his unbuttoned jacket and around the solid muscle of his waist, sneaking under the belt. She didn’t forget she was nearly in public, but somehow the idea made her wanting even stronger. She liked this. She might like more. And despite Emily’s vaunted shyness, it was Elliot who pulled away first.

  “You’re spilling champagne down my back.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Far be it for me to complain when my fiancée forgets herself in company.” His traced her lower lip with a finger. “Something happened to your lipstick. Here, let me fix it.”

  She closed her eyes, drinking in the sensation. A thought popped out.

  “Why not?”

  His hand stilled. “Why not what?”

  She opened her eyes and drew his gaze in. “I’ll do it.”

  “The party? Next week?”

  Her brows drew down. “But I don’t know where to go, how – ”

  He stopped her with a finger across her lips. “I know the best place. And the best teacher.”

  ****

  “What sort of look are you going for?”

  Emily scanned the racks of splash and shine. When Elliot recommended the place, he’d told her Madame Z’s was at Folsom and Eighth, but somehow she hadn’t realized that meant everything in the store would be bondage and brass. Not a boa anywhere, and where were all the other customers? “Something that will make me fit in?”

  “With that attitude, you’ll do the opposite.” The big Madame laughed, but not unkindly, her kohl-trimmed eyes crinkling. “Every other girl in the room will be trying to stand out. You fit in by doing the same: Big color, big eyes, big arms. Work it.”

  She pulled an emerald green corset from the rack and held it against Emily’s chest. “You’re yellower than I thought. And such a tall, willowy thing. Let’s try red.” That didn’t seem to work, either, but a black satin passed muster. “This one, and a fire-engine red wig. And a wide hip-swinging strut. No one would know you then.”

  But the corset was latex. Within seconds of Emily’s wriggling into it, a rash started under and over her arms, and her breasts began to swell.

  In the open space in the circle of black-and-silver-studded dressing rooms, Madame Z unzipped her quickly. “Well, that’s one way to a bigger bust line. Let’s tr
y something else.” But Emily’s skin reacted to all the plastics, and latexes, and even one of the coatings on the leathers. After multiple tries, she was starting to suspect her skin had hit its limit and would reject even terry cloth.

  “What do you do for condoms, sweetie?” the exasperated matron asked.

  “We have to order them special.”

  “Of course you do. But we don’t have time for that, do we? Let me just check upstairs.” Leaving Emily in her panties staring at multitudes of her ruddy, goose-bumped self in the banks of mirrors, the Madame climbed up a rolling ladder to the loft behind. A garbage bag flew from that direction, landing with a thud by the stairs, but the lady took the stairs back down. Emily pulled open the loosely knotted bag, and a dozen torso-shaped pieces tumbled out.

  “Silk, from our previous iteration,” the Madame said.

  “Silk? But why are they so stiff?”

  “Stays. The real antiques use whale bone but I think these are wood or ivory. Hopefully not rubber. Here’s a likely one.”

  Emily slipped it on, and thank the heavens, her skin did not disapprove. In fact, it felt damn good. She slid her hands from under her now-perkier breasts and across her belly. Smooth as butter. So this was what it felt like.

  “Now don’t go having too good a time there. We have to practice our strut next.”

  On “strut,” the Madame’s voice took an odd dip. Emily suddenly realized that Madame Z was not a woman. Something in Emily’s face must have shown it, because the good Madame knew immediately.

  “It’s the Adam’s apple, wasn’t it?”

  “The voice. But I made excuses.”

  “It’s what you expect, so you give me the benefit of the doubt. That’s how you’ll make it work. Your clientele will do the same for you.”

  Her – his – kindness made Emily brave. “You must pad your bra. I want to, too.”

  “Honey, you don’t need any padding, with that perfect little B-cup. Where you need it is in the behind. You a runner?”

  “Swimmer.”

  “Well, some shark must have bitten you down to the bone down there. Almost completely un-slapworthy.”

  “Slapworthy?”