Heart of Glass (15 page)
“And?”
“That’s where I come in.”
Anna nodded. “Fair enough. So where do
I
come in?”
“Contacts. As in, who you know. I’ve pretty much got the Los Angeles thing covered. I know all the agencies here. The ones I don’t know, Sam knows. But you know the East Coast thing, the New York thing.”
Anna gave Cammie a blank look. “You are an Upper East Side of Manhattan snotty rich girl, are you not?”
Anna blanched. “Yes to everything except the snotty part, I hope.”
“Fine, fine. But, you probably have more connections in the business back there than you even realize. I’m thinking it might be hard for Champagne to get a break as a runway model, no matter how great she looks. But print—print is a definite possibility.”
Anna was silent for quite a while, and Cammie didn’t press her. Finally she spoke. “I’ll think about it. I’d like to help Champagne, that’s for sure.” She tapped a finger against her naturally full lips. “Maybe I do know someone—
“But there’s something I’d like you to do for me, too. I know you want Champagne to be a model.” “
She
wants—
” “Right, got it,” Anna agreed. “And I hope she succeeds. But I don’t think we should drop the girl if the modeling thing doesn’t work out. So you have to be willing to help her . . . no matter what. And I don’t mean hand her money. I mean help her help herself.”
Cammie frowned. “Are you going all New Visions Foundation on me?”
“I hope what I’m doing is the right thing.”
“How gruesome,” Cammie muttered, but actually, it was fine with her. She wasn’t about to drop Champagne now. Up ahead, she saw a turnout to a Phillips 66 gas station. She pulled into it, though her father’s driver made sure every morning that every vehicle in the family fleet had a full tank of gas.
“Need gas?” Anna asked.
“Nope.” Cammie turned the engine off, took the keys out of the ignition, and tossed them to Anna. “I’m assuming you can drive a stick. Take ’er to Carpinteria from here.”
“I really have barely driven a stick—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, just do it! Live a little!”
Anna didn’t say anything. She simply got out of the car and traded places with Cammie. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re right about me,” Anna admitted sheepishly, turning the ignition key so that the engine roared back to life.
“Of course I am,” Cammie agreed. “Carpinteria is about fifty miles away.” She grinned at Anna. “In this baby? You should be able to do it in thirty-two minutes.”
“C
amilla, lovely to see you,” Raymond cooed softly, kissing Cammie on both cheeks and then holding her at arm’s length to survey her outfit.
Raymond was
the
hair guru in Beverly Hills, and the acknowledged king of Rodeo Drive. You simply could not get a booking with Raymond unless you called at least three months ahead, and even then you usually had to know someone or be able to promise a really impressive favor, involving money, fame, sex, or all three.
The hairdressers who worked under Raymond would be doing the hair for the fashion show. Today, Mrs. Van-derleer had brought Anna, Cammie, and Champagne to the salon so that she could see the “look” that Ray-mond had in mind for the models at the show next week.
Raymond looked Cammie up and down. He already had several of his assistants fawning over Champagne and her gorgeous platinum hair, settling her into a chair toward the rear of his salon. The younger girl had been obviously thrilled with the attention. Anna too had been eased into a chair for a shampoo, cut, and overall beautification—not that she needed it, Cammie thought. As for Mrs. Vanderleer, she’d slipped out for a quick shopping jaunt to the Christian Dior and Chanel boutiques down the street, though Cammie had overheard her warning Raymond not to turn his back on Champagne for too long. She’d be back in a few hours to assess the efforts of Raymond’s crew and offer her comments for improvements.
“More beautiful than ever, Cammie. Volunteer work suits you.” He motioned Cammie toward his own chair. “Ready to be transformed into a sixties icon, darling? I’ve got some wonderful ideas for you, if you’re feeling courageous.” Cammie slid into the chair. “I’m always courageous.”
“Now this is another one of the wide-eyed looks we want for the fashion show,” Raymond was telling his stylists, as they gathered around Anna. “Very sixties mod, but we exaggerate the lines for dramatic purposes. Any questions?” Anna had new long, fringy bangs. As for the rest of her blond hair, it had been teased and sprayed, then twisted and pinned up in back, with pieces falling loose around her face. She’d had three sets of false eyelashes glued to her top lids and two sets on the bottom. Thick eyeliner headed for her temples, pink blush highlighted the apples of her cheeks, and a faint coat of pink lip gloss completed the look.
She was ready to get up and wash it all off when a short male assistant came running into the salon, a black garment bag in his hands.
“Try this with it. It’s from Gucci.
Vogue
was going to use it for their ‘Everything Old Is New Again’ layout, but they went with the fifties instead of the sixties.” “What size are you?” Raymond asked.
“Four,” Anna replied.
“It’s a four, should be perfect!” the assistant chortled.
“Go, go, go!” Raymond shooed her toward the unisex bathrooms at the rear of the salon.
There, she pulled off her jeans and T-shirt and pulled on a very short black A-line dress. It was trimmed in white, the sides were completely cut out, and it barely cleared her butt. The only mirror in the bathroom was shoulder-high, so she couldn’t see what she looked like.
Anna hesitantly walked out of the bathroom in her bare feet. There was a moment of silence, followed by rapturous applause from the hair designers, and even the regular salon customers. Even Mrs. Vanderleer, who’d arrived back from her shopping trip just a few minutes before, was applauding wildly.
“Damn!” Champagne exclaimed. Raymond’s minions had transformed her with a radical sixties blunt cut and flat ironing: she looked like a London model from the 1960s.
“Is that a good ‘damn’?” Anna ventured. Raymond nodded vigorously. “It’s fabulous.”
“You look fantastic. Come and see.” Champagne took her by the arm and walked her to the full-length mirror near Raymond’s hair stand. “What do you think?” Just as Anna went back to the bathroom to change, her cell rang. She fished it out of her jeans and checked caller ID.
She leaned against the wall and flipped her phone open.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” Ben’s voice floated easily through the phone. “I’m at La Dolce Vita, just down the block. You’re at Raymond’s salon?” Anna frowned. “How do you know where I am?” “Cammie. She said you’d be there most of the day.” Anna hadn’t known that Cammie and Ben had been talking. Not that there was any reason that she should. But still.
“So, you’re just about done there, right? Want to grab a bite?”
“I . . . can’t. We’re supposed to go to the museum after this for some kind of a walk-through.” That was the truth—Mrs. Vanderleer was going to drive them over and show them the actual gallery where the fashion show would be happening.
“Well, at least sneak downstairs so I can say hello, okay?” Anna considered his request. Well, why not?
“Five minutes. Okay?”
She made it down in three.
He was waiting on the sidewalk outside the salon entrance. When he got a look at her—the hair, the makeup, the dress—his jaw literally fell open. “That’s . . . you . . . oh my God . . . you’re . . .” “A girl wearing way too much makeup?” she ventured, her vow not to care what he thought vanishing as quickly as she’d made it.
“Hot. Like incendiary-hot hot. Only hotter. Like, spontaneous-combustion hot.” Anna grinned and put her hands on her hips as two older guys walked by on the sidewalk, both in expensive looking suits. They both turned to get another good look at her. Wow. Anna couldn’t deny that it gave her a fantastic, powerful feeling.
“Don’t do this too often,” Ben joshed. “You might have to hire a bodyguard. I might have to volunteer for the gig.” “Hey, they’re just trying stuff out on me for the charity fashion show,” she explained, pushing back a pale tendril that had blown into her eyes.
“Does the head-turner in the hot dress have plans tonight?” Anna shook her head.
“So?” Ben asked quietly. “I’m not working. We can do whatever you want.” “Sorry. I just . . . I can’t.” Ben stiffened. “Is it that Caine guy?” Anna nodded.
“Come on, seriously.” Ben scowled. “The guy’s a poser. Tattoos and a pickup truck, but he’s a financial analyst? Please.” “I like him. A lot.” “The same way you ‘like’ me a lot?” “I don’t know.” Ben moved closer. “How long are we going to play this? A week? A month? Until the summer’s over and I go back to Princeton?” “I’m not trying to ‘play you.’” Surely he knew her better than that. “But I can’t be with him and with you at the same time. It’s not fair to anyone.” “All’s fair,” Ben murmured.
Just as Anna was mentally filling in the rest of this quote—“All’s fair in love and war”—Ben’s hand was on the back of her neck, his lips brushing against hers so softly it made her insides ache. She forced herself to push him away, breathless.
Ben smiled. “I’m not playing fair, Anna. I’m playing to win.”
“Y
ou’re ready?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” Parker replied into his cell, a cheap LGX 3200 model he’d had forever.
“Where is she now?”
Parker put the phone in his other hand and looked in the direction of the bathrooms off the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton Huntington Hotel. It was the most luxurious hotel in Pasadena, selected precisely because no one from Beverly Hills ever went to Pasadena, unless that person was a lady who lunched or was shooting a movie on location.
He was there with Poppy Sharpe, Sam’s stepmother, Jackson’s wife. Thank God he didn’t actually have to go to a room with her.
“She went to the ‘powder room,’” Parker relayed. “Those are her words, by the way.” “Good. When you see her come out of the ‘powder room,’ I want you to end this call. Don’t even say goodbye. You can see her coming?” He peered across the hotel lobby, with its Axminster carpets, dark wood wall paneling, and Viennese lighting fixtures. At this hour of the afternoon, the premises were very quiet. The previous night’s guests had checked out, and the current night’s arrivals were still a couple of hours away.
“Definitely,” Parker confirmed. “A straight shot. I’ll see her.” “Great. Then do exactly what I told you. Let’s go over it again. She’ll want you to register. Don’t bother. Tell her to wait in the Lobby Lounge. There’s a beige couch in there with three burgundy pillows. If you can get her on that couch to wait for you, that’s the best. If not, get her someplace close. When you come back to her, kiss her. Then, do whatever you need to do for her to take you home. I suggest feigning intestinal distress.” Parker felt a bead of sweat roll down his brow, despite the lobby’s very excellent air conditioning. Sam had everything covered, but he was nervous anyway. “Are you here, watching someplace?” “No. Definitely not. I’ve got someone else there for me. And Parker? When you get home, call that waitress from the Polo Lounge. The one named for the fruit. You haven’t called her yet, right?” “No.” “You want to. Call her. Okay?” “Okay.” “Great. Now do what you have to. Oh—one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If she gets cold feet, don’t try to talk her into staying.” “Got it,” he agreed.
“This is all up to her, remember. If she backs away, just call and tell me.” “You’ve got a photographer here, then?” He could almost hear Sam grin. “Listen for the click. Okay, you better go.” He and Poppy had been exchanging e-mails and phone calls on Poppy’s private line ever since the night of the
Ben-Hur
toga party. It had all been at Poppy’s initiation, too. She’d even arranged one meeting in an out-of-the-way bar in the valley, where she’d rubbed his thigh under the table. Finally, she’d invited him to meet her at a hotel.
It was sad, really. She was married to one of the most famous men in Hollywood. She was beyond rich and had given birth to Jackson’s baby. The man deserved better.
“Sam?” “Yeah?”
“Here she comes.”
Damn. She looked good but had the morals of a bonobo. Okay, so he wasn’t much better sometimes. But that was to help his career. What was her excuse? Still, he had to admit that she was hot. She was just twenty-two, and definitely back in shape again post-baby. She’d worked a little urban flava into her look by shimmying into a Baby Phat catsuit with a plunging back, matched with metallic bronze stiletto heels. Her red hair was pulled back into two low pigtails, and her lips were coated in some shimmery gloss that pretty much begged to be kissed.
She strode right toward him with a “come and get it, big boy” look on her face. “Gotta go,” Parker whispered quickly, turning away to pocket his cell. Then he swung back in the opposite direction and greeted Poppy with a big grin. “Hey.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.
She snaked her arms around his neck and kissed his mouth. “You gonna check in for us?” “Sure. Come on. Wait in the Lobby Lounge. I’ll walk you there.” He let her take his arm and strolled with her across the lobby, his perma-grin turning into a floodlight. Acting, he repeated to himself. You’re acting. But knowing that Poppy was both married and this easy made him lose just a little faith in love. He felt her soft hand on his arm.
“You okay?” she asked. “Oh yeah, sure.”
“You know, human beings have needs,” she told him with a straight face. “If you block the flow of energy by not expressing yourself physically on a regular basis, it builds up toxins. I’m totally serious.” “Uh-huh,” Parker agreed, as if he was actually interested in her lame New Age excuses for why she was cheating.
“Besides, I knew from the first moment I saw you that our auras were the same color. You’re just so cerulean.” She put a hand on his chest. “I’m sure Jackson still screws around on the film set,” she continued. “After all, that’s how we met. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” The actor in him kicked in. “I’m great, babe.” They reached the Lobby Lounge, passing the big sign advertising their famous formal afternoon tea at four o’clock. Beige couch, burgundy pillows . . . Bingo, there was his drop zone, near a massive arrangement of several dozen roses. He steered her toward it and dared to try out a line. “I was just thinking about what the next two hours—naw, four hours—are going to be like. When do you have to be home?” “I left a message for Jackson that I wouldn’t be back from shopping until after nine. Of course, he won’t be back from the movie set until ten. Not to worry. I’ve got three nurses for Ruby Hummingbird.” Her arms went around his neck again. She gave him a kiss with way too much tongue. “Mmm. You’re hot.” “Yeah, you too,” Parker said, his eyes darting this way and that. The lounge was empty, save for an elderly woman in a green floral dress, sitting alone with a cup of tea and the
Los Angeles Times
. Yep. That had to be her. The PI with the camera. Nice disguise. “Wait here and order a cocktail. I’ll check us in and be right back. But I need one more kiss first. A good one.” Poppy obliged, this time biting his lower lip in a way that felt more predatory than sexy. As she did, he heard the soft click he’d been waiting for. And then another, and another, and another. His work was done. So he winced.