Raw and Broken Ch. 05

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand swing out. I twisted and grabbed his wrist before he made contact. The wide-eyed look on his face told me he hadn't expected resistance.

"Don't start something you can't finish," I hissed at him.

"Daphne!"

I turned my head to see Patrick glaring at me as he pointed to the curtain.

"Nous vous attendons!"

I stepped past Edward, who was still gaping, and through the parted curtain. When we were done, I went backstage to change into street clothes. I hadn't caught a glimpse of the man described as Stefan. Maybe he'd thought too highly of himself to be here on this practice evening. But I forgot about him as Bridget hugged me, giggling and out of breath.

"Wasn't that amazing? I can't wait for the real thing tomorrow night!"

"Yes, it was." I smiled at the younger woman and remembered how I had felt attending my first fashion show here in Paris four years ago. It had always been photo shoots since then, even in California. Now here I was actually walking in a show. On second thought, 'amazing' didn't quite fit the bill. I don't think I had a word that did.

It was a miracle that I got any sleep that night. Saturday was a whirlwind of models rushing around our building calling out reminders in our respective languages of what we needed to take with us. Then we were traveling across town.

Despite all of the time and effort everyone had put into making things run smoothly, the chaos from the day before had not been ironed out. In fact, it seemed to have gotten worse. Mostly, it was from those in charge. Yelling at people to do something or stop doing something. Trying to find something that someone else just had. But some of the newer models were fidgeting and had that deer-in-the-headlights look, which didn't help matters.

I used the breathing techniques Malcolm had taught me years ago to stay collected while I stripped down to nothing but my thong and donned a silky robe. I had worried about how to strike up a conversation with Nikkole and what we'd talk about since I'd be sitting next to her for the next few hours. But she saved me the trouble as she arrived wearing a set of earbuds. She sat motionless listening to whatever was on her iPhone while Georgia started on her hair.

I passed the time talking with Georgia and thinking about Malcolm and Becca. I'd sent a text last night before going to bed, asking if we could Skype Sunday night. It wasn't our regular week, but we hadn't touched base for two weeks now except for the occasional text at odd hours of the day due to the differing time zones. I wanted to hear their voices. See their faces. Becca had responded this morning that they would let me know and wished me good luck on the show.

Georgia just gave me a tired smile as she finished Nikkole's makeup. Without even a look at me, the other model vacated her chair and disappeared somewhere in the midst of the madhouse that had become the backstage area. Once I was styled the way Pauline had requested, I moved on to wardrobe where I waited until Greta, the matronly woman near the clothing rack, helped me into my first outfit.

Patrick was lining us up for the show thirty minutes later. I still had yet to see the elusive Stefan. How could a man manage a fashion show if he wasn't in attendance? Once more, the task at hand was put back into focus as we were stepping out onto the stage. Doing the oft practiced strut with straight backs and stoic faces down the runway.

In my head, I repeated what we had practiced yesterday. I counted each walking step. Every pause. When to pop my hip and turn my opposite foot out. Which hand should be where and when. When to turn, how much, and which direction my body should face as well as which direction my face should be looking. The whole circuit—two full walks down the runway and back to the curtain with pauses and turns—lasted less than sixty seconds. Then I was rushing to change into the next outfit. Four times.

Once I was back in my robe, I plopped into the same chair I'd started in this morning. I'd completed my first fashion show! I wondered how long the high would last. It wasn't quite the same as when I was in a scene, but it was still pretty good. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had this feeling. I felt buried memories coming back, so I was grateful when Bridget and the other American girls distracted me by gathering around to take some selfies.

Pauline did a quick meeting to thank all of us for helping launch her clothing line. Before we were dismissed to attend the celebration dinner, she gifted each of the models with one of the outfits we had modeled. I selected a black, halter-top romper flecked in silver and red with sheer black panels around the arms and legs. It only made sense since it had been my first outfit down the catwalk.

With the new outfit, retouched makeup, and my hair still up in the high ponytail Georgia had fashioned with a braided section of my hair wrapped around it, I felt stylish. Ready to take on the world. Well, at least another runway. And I no longer second guessed my decision to come abroad. Malcolm, Becca, and Darryl had been right. I'd needed this trip to revitalize myself. Possibly reinvent.

If I'd thought the intimate dinner with Muriel had been posh, this one was...well...fitting for the designer. She was a combination of modern meets retro. There was a lot of techno-pop music from the hired DJ along with colorful, flashing lights reminiscent of the 80s and 90s. The meal was a buffet of hors d'oeuvres rather a sit-down entrée. And there was the incessant chatter that competed with the deep base of the music.

Muriel, Claudette, and Pauline all congratulated me on a job well done while we nibbled on the little appetizers we'd gathered and sipped champagne. I thanked them all for the opportunity and wished Pauline great success. She extended the invitation to stop by her studio sometime in the next week as she'd like to use me for some stills. My bosses said they would make the necessary arrangements, and then our little group disbanded.

I stood by myself for a few minutes, just observing everything around me. I may have been on a different continent, but it felt like I was at a party in Chicago. And that made me smile.

I had just exchanged my glass for my plate that I'd set on the cocktail table behind me. As I was turning back around to do more people watching, I bumped into someone. He caught my plate as it wobbled out of my hand, saving the remaining cracker with its topping.

"Vous avez de bons réflexes," I said, laughing. "Merci."

"You have great reflexes, yourself." His voice reminded me of Robert Downey Jr. Not especially deep, but a little smoky. Very pleasant.

I tilted my head back to see the face above the tuxedo-glad chest that was in my direct eye line. My heart sped up for a moment, and my mouth went dry. I was glad there was nothing in my hands I could have dropped.

The vision rose several inches above me. He had to be six-three or four, and he was as awe-inspiring as my first glimpse at the Eiffel Tower. In fact, I would describe him as a human persona of the famous landmark. I imagined that his tux hid an equally-strong framework.

His black hair was longer on top and in the back, brushed to the left in a bit of a pompadour so it seemed to fall toward his eye. While shiny, it wasn't slicked back like a lot of men that I'd encountered in Paris thus far seemed to do. Matching dark brows framed a pair of piercing, black eyes that flashed red, blue, and green, as the lights bounced around us.

His nose was long and not overly wide as it drew my eye down to his lush lips that were neither smiling nor frowning, yet they were quite alluring. I'm sure they would remain as so no matter what his expression. The package was perfected by a five o'clock shadow and an ever-so-slightly prominent chin.

He had to be Mr. TDH. The mysterious, silent observer behind the scenes. Not exactly the brooding presence I'd imagined him to be. My throat would not cooperate as I tried to swallow. I took a sip of champagne, but it didn't help much.

"I'm Stefan, by the way. I think I missed you during the introductions yesterday."

Heat crept up my neck. Dammit, he knew I'd been late to rehearsal. Had he actually been there, or had someone told him? Regardless, I refused to kowtow to him because of a scheduling issue from my boss. At least in public. My face flushed even more from that thought. Where had it come from?

"I'm Daphne." I offered my hand, which he took and held for a moment. Just when I thought he might raise it to his lips to kiss it, he gave it a firm squeeze and then released it.

"Yes, I know. One of the Americans." His face lit up as a white light lingered momentarily when it flashed toward us. If I hadn't seen the corner of his mouth turn up, I would have thought he was mocking me. "That was a pretty smooth move with Edward."

I was glad it was dark again so he couldn't see my expression. I'm sure it was a mixture of confusion then horror that someone had seen my little stunt. That he had seen it. Of course Edward had witnessed it, but I was certain that Patrick had only noticed my delay to get on the stage. And no one else had been around...that I knew of. I guess I'd been wrong.

I struggled to think of something nonchalant to say. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Thankfully, someone stopped to talk to Stefan, saving me from looking like a fool.

As they both spoke in French, I thought it felt a little strange to talk to a Parisian in my native language. And he hadn't greeted me like a normal Frenchman, even if we were not acquainted. I finished my cracker with a curl of salmon as I considered that something about him was off. It finally occurred to me when the other gentleman left and Stefan turned back to me.

I crossed my right arm across my chest, holding my glass in my left hand. "You speak English far too well to be French. In fact, I don't detect an accent at all. If I had to wager a guess, I'd say you're just as American as I am."

"A quick observer, as well. Very interesting." He took a glass off a passing server's tray and tilted it against mine so they clinked. "So you are not amused with Edward's ritual?"

"That was a smooth transition. Somewhat noncommittal."

"I was merely returning to our previous topic."

"What is—"

"Just answer the question, Daphne."

I cocked an eyebrow, feeling more confident. "If you must know, I don't trifle with amateurs. Now can we move on from your fascination with Edward and my ass?"

Stefan paused with his glass at his parted lips.

I suddenly wanted to capture that look. Seductive. Startled. Susceptible. Maybe I should look into doing photography. Be on both sides of the camera.

Something flashed in his eyes as the white light hit us again, and then it was gone, along with the light. He gave me slight tilt of the chin and took a drink. "The ensemble you selected. It's very flattering."

"Why thank you. It was my favorite. Pauline has a great eye for fashion. I hope she goes far."

"Speaking of amateurs, you seemed quite in your element this evening for being in your first show. Were you nervous?"

Not as much as I seemed to be right now. How did he know these things about me? I took a gulp of my own bubbly wine. "I've been modeling for a few years, but I took a break for several months. It's nice to be involved again."

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Involved, Daphne?"

I saw Bridget over his shoulder, and she was gesturing for me to come over. I gave Stefan a returning tilt of my chin and said, "Avoir une bonne soirée, Monsieur."

He blinked at me as I stepped past him and made my way to my flatmate.

Eventually, the noise level rose to where it was hard to carry on a conversation. Not to mention, it gave me a headache. I stayed a respectable amount of time and then excused myself.

I was heading toward the door when I noticed Stefan talking to Claudette and Nikkole. His eyes wandered over to me as I stepped past a couple of models . We exchanged silent nods, and then I continued outside into the cool but peaceful air to find the nearest taxi stand.

###

Christmas Eve morning, I woke to see soft, white flakes falling outside my window. The little garden sparkled under the fresh blanket. I'd missed that the year before. Although some parts of California did receive snow, we'd lived where it was too warm. It was inviting now, and I almost rushed out to dance in it. But I didn't want to mar the perfection.

I watched it for a long while until Bridget knocked on my bedroom door, letting me know she was out of the shower. I took my turn cleaning up. While I got dressed and packed a bag, I heard the other girls chattering away in what we would have considered the living room.

Right at eleven o'clock, two black limos showed up to take us to Claudette's house where both agencies were gathering for the holiday. The plan was to stay through weekend, then back to work on Monday. Not surprisingly, the Americans piled into one vehicle while the French girls chose the other.

I stared out the window as we drove through the snow-covered streets. A tear trickled down my cheek. It was Christmas, for crying out loud.

I'd spent it last year sitting in a short skirt and sleeveless top across the table from Drake while we silently shared the smallest turkey he could find as the California breeze fluttered in from the open patio door. He'd gotten a table-top tree and put some garland on it, but I'd not had the heart to put up any other decorations. After dinner, we'd watched TV and played around until we were both exhausted and went to bed. It had felt like any other night of the week.

Throughout the day, I'd still been ruminating about overhearing him tell his mother a few days earlier that we wouldn't be going back east for the holiday. At the time, I'd been brave in telling him being with his family was the one thing I'd looked forward to. That I'd gone along with tricking his sister into going to the collaring ceremony, I'd moved out west without question, and I'd forgiven him for cheating on me before we were married. So why couldn't he have done this one thing for me? He'd backed me up so I was facing the wall, growling that I was not to question his decisions. Then he'd fucked me but left me without release. It had been my worst Christmas ever. I hadn't told Malcolm or Becca that part.

I had expected to be with them this year, with or without Drake. Now here I was, almost four-thousand miles away from them...over a thousand more than I'd been last year! It had helped that we'd spent an hour on Skype last Sunday. I'd cried then, too. As had Becca. Even so, I missed my family more than ever.

I put on a happy face once we reached a gated estate out in the countryside. In all these years, I'd not forgotten my first love: acting. I was better at it than modeling, which I was damn good at given the compliments Pauline had given me two days ago in her studio as we discussed her proposal for another fashion show with Muriel. I could pretend I was happy for the next four days. I was sure I'd be fine once the holiday was past.

Claudette met us at the door and had her servants show us to the rooms we'd be staying in. I was slightly relieved that Bridget and I were rooming together. That I didn't have to share a room with Nikkole. Something about her rubbed me the wrong way. They said that the French weren't really rude, they just looked that way because they rarely smiled. But I begged to differ when it came to her.

Once we were settled, everyone joined our hostess on the main level. With all of the models lingering around the room that resembled a large den, I tried not to laugh as I thought that this must be what it was like for holidays at the Playboy Mansion. All we needed was Hugh Hefner in a velvet robe, and we'd be set. Then again, the bunnies were more ample in the chest area than most of our lot.

It was hard to just sit still. To be waited on. I wanted to help make the meal, like I had for Thanksgiving. This was all too formal for me. Even if I couldn't be back at the mansion on the beach, I would have rather celebrated the holiday in my flat with Bridget and the other four girls from overseas. It would have been more...homey.

I compensated by slowly traveling the room. Mentally critiquing the sculptures and artwork. I'd made it halfway around when I heard the hardwood floor creak behind me.

"Merry Christmas, Daphne."

I spun around from studying an Impressionist-style painting consisting of multiple colors and shapes that was mostly shadows due to the lack of light on this side of the room. I pressed my back against the wall as Mr. TDH's eyes focused on mine. I licked my lips and managed a weak, "Merry Christmas, Stefan."

He leaned in and gave me the customary greeting this time.

My response was half-hearted, mostly from the shock of seeing him. I guess I should have assumed he'd be here since he was on the team. Thankfully, he stepped back and gave me some room to breathe.

He nodded at the painting. "Do you like it?"

"What?" I glanced over my shoulder and then back at him. "Oh. It's hard to see. I guess it's interesting."

"I found it at an art gallery in Italy a few years back. I'm not sure this is the best place for it, though. It's too modern with the antiquated décor in here. I told my mother it would look better in my den."

I just blinked at him.

Stefan offered me a white grin. "Oh, did you not know Claudette was my mother?"

I shook my head, my mouth dry. "Isn't she French?"

The chuckle that came from him told me that the answer was 'No.'

"There you are, Stefan," Nikkole said in broken English as she joined us. She looked down her nose at me. "Daphne."

I smiled at her, although my instinct was to snub her. She didn't offer her hand for a shake, and she wasn't close enough to do the bises—as if I wanted to do that with her—so I merely said, "Bonjour."

She ignored me while she gave Stefan bises.

"Merry Christmas, Nikkole." Stefan reciprocated the gesture. "I was just telling Daphne about my painting. Don't you think it would look better in my den?"

"Oui. Over your desk."

Her response made me think she was very intimate with this house...and the den. Particularly that desk.

"I shall have my mother move it."

"She is looking for you."

Stefan turned to me. "I must leave you to admire my painting on your own, if you will excuse me."

I nodded. "A plus tard, Stefan."

"Adieu, Daphne," Nikkole said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a sneer, telling me she wasn't being sarcastic. She intended the literal meaning of the word...she hoped to never see me again.

"My mother's real name is Claudia," Stefan whispered in my ear with his parting kisses before he walked away with Nikkole on his arm.

Nikkole glanced back with that same sneer then flicked her hair as she turned back around.

I rolled my eyes at them both. Adieu to you, too, bitch.

A few minutes later, an elderly man announced with a hand-held gong that dinner was ready, and we all filed into an elaborate dining room. The food was very good, although I felt uncomfortable sitting around such a long table with a bunch of people I'd only known a few weeks. I made the best of it and tried to contribute to the conversation with Bridget and the other American girls.

After the meal, I excused myself to go lie down. The second I pulled the sheet up over me, the tears started to fall. They were silent at first. Then wracking sobs, which I tried to smother in the pillow.

Nikkole's scathing attitude toward me stung more than I'd let on. I didn't know what I'd done to make her hate me. I just wanted to enjoy my time over here and do the best I could with what I was assigned.