In Too Deep (6 page)

Sophie opened the envelope and stared blankly down at the eerily familiar face of an attractive woman in her late thirties, Sophie’s own honey blond hair cascading past her shoulders, and bottle-glass green eyes shining in her angular face. As Sophie perused the rows of typed information, her mouth fell open in shock when she arrived at the name written at the bottom of the sheaf of legal documents: Melissa Von Norton.

“Holy crap,” Sophie whispered as she traced a finger over the smooth contours of her mother’s face. Melissa Von Norton was one of the most highly recognizable and respected actresses in Hollywood—more Meryl Streep than Julia Roberts—who was known for her relentlessly angelic beauty, as well as her penchant for accepting roles in gritty, independent films. She’d even been nominated for an Oscar one year, but lost out to Dame Judi Dench in the final moments.

Sophie closed the envelope and sat on the edge of her bed in shock. Whoa. This was big—bigger than she’d ever dreamed possible, and there was no way she was going to be able to keep it a secret anymore. She had to talk to somebody. And
fast
.

Sophie grabbed her phone and opened her call list. Madison was definitely out. At least until she knew more—like whether or not her mother even
wanted
to see her. With that thought, a spasm of fear wracked Sophie’s heart, squeezing it with cold fingers. How could she
not
want to meet her own daughter? It was kind of like asking how a mother could possibly give birth to a child, then give it away without a second thought. Sophie shivered, her spine convulsing with the idea. Better not to think of that now—or she’d never go through with any of what she was about to do.

Phoebe, as much as Sophie loved her, would only end up blabbing to Madison. Pheebs possessed a lot of admirable qualities but, unfortunately, keeping secrets wasn’t one of them. It totally sucked, because Phoebe was exactly the kind of listener she needed right now—quiet, attentive, and usually pretty helpful. Why didn’t she know anyone
else
like that? Sophie furrowed her brow and gnawed on the nail of her pinky finger, effectively destroying what was left of her manicure. Was there anyone she could count on to be completely impartial, to not blab to everyone at Meadowlark? Sophie’s eyes widened as she opened up her text messages, her fingers flying over the slick surface of her iPhone.

Can u come over?

Now?

Yeah. Busy?

No! Be up in a sec.

Sophie signed off, and opened the envelope again, her eyes transfixed on the serene planes of her mother’s celestial face as she waited for Casey’s knock at the door.

a model life

Madison strolled down her favorite stretch of pavement
on the entire Upper East Side—Madison Avenue, the street she was named for—her cognac-colored Gucci boots clacking on the sidewalk like the hooves of the sleek Arabian horses she used to jump when she was eleven. She remembered waking at the ridiculous hour of six A.M. to run out to the stables in the park and ride through the sun-dappled paths for hours, the wind in her then naturally platinum hair, the clicking of hooves on the well-traveled paths ringing in her ears. Madison sighed, pushing her white-blond hair behind her ears so that it wouldn’t get caught in the MAC Lipglass that coated her full lips in the most delicious, iridescent rose-gold sheen. Things were so much simpler back when she spent her time falling in love with horses instead of boys . . .

Madison stopped in front of Prada, mesmerized by the truly bizarre window display that featured several bald, naked mannequins surrounded by stuffed wolves, black alligator bags hanging from their thick, furry necks.
Why would you need wolves to sell purses?
Mad thought, taking a sip of the iced vanilla latte she held in her left hand.
Why wouldn’t you
? her inner fashionista answered soberly.
Good point
, she thought, smiling at the red, lolling tongues hanging out of the furry creatures’ mouths. A soft tap on her shoulder shook Madison from her couture-dominated reverie, and she spun around, startled. A tall, dark-haired man in his late twenties stood in front of her, a smattering of five-o’clock shadow decorating his impossibly square jaw, his dark eyes boring into her own.

“Scusi,” he said apologetically. “I did not mean to disturb you. I was hoping to ask you a question,” he added softly in lightly accented English.

“Yes?”
Madison said, still a little freaked out, her adrenaline pumping through her veins in a rush that felt vaguely illegal.

“Are you a model, by any chance?”

Madison laughed, relieved that he wasn’t some random, totally gorgeous psychopath. He was just horny, and in Madison’s, albeit limited, experience horniness made guys do stupid things—like walk up to total strangers and annoy them with a bunch of dumb questions. “No,” she said, throwing her hair back as it whipped around her face in the cool breeze. “I’m not.”

“Well,” he said, his smile revealing rows of straight, white teeth that shone in their close proximity to his olive skin, “would you like to be?”

“That depends.” Madison angled her body closer and smiled coquettishly. “Who are you, anyway?”

The dark-haired hunk of gorgeousness in front of her held out his hand apologetically, and bit his full lower lip sheepishly before answering. “My name is Antonio Phillipe—I am a scout for Verve Model Management.” Madison took his hand, which was so large that it made her giant man hands feel tiny by comparison. That was the worst thing about being tall—everything about her was larger, including her Jolly Green Giant-sized hands and feet. Whenever she had to shake anyone’s hand, she practically broke out in hives from the fucking stress of it all. “Perhaps you have heard of us?” Antonio inquired, still clutching her hand like it was an inflatable raft and they were lost at sea.

“Of course,” Madison said, trying to come off like she met scouts from world-famous modeling agencies every day of her life. Verve had represented Cindy Crawford at the absolute height of her career,
and
Naomi Campbell, aka, The Body—or the phone-wielding lunatic, whichever you preferred. Standing there with Antonio’s hand in her own gargantuan paw, Madison had the feeling of absolute rightness, the sense that some great destiny was being fulfilled right there in the middle of the traffic and bustle of Madison Avenue. And why shouldn’t it? After all, she had, in one way or another, been preparing for this moment for her entire semi-adult life. Now it was here—and she wasn’t about to blow it. Not by a long shot.

“Let me give you my card,” Antonio purred, reaching into the inner pocket of his black Hugo Boss blazer and removing a silver monogrammed card case. He snapped it open with a flourish of the wrist, and handed her an embossed business card, his dark eyes holding hers until she thought her knees might buckle. “A woman like you is too beautiful to be walking down the city streets—you should be on a runway with men falling at your feet, the best photographers in the world capturing your every move.”

Damn straight
, Madison thought, taking the card between her fingers and dropping it into her Furla tote, praying to God that it didn’t get lost among her endless credit card receipts and Trish McEvoy makeup brushes.
This guy is definitely cheesy—but good
, she thought, moving the hair from her face so that it flowed down across her back. Antonio definitely had game—Madison doubted that Drew could pick up a girl so effortlessly. Drew was cute, but Antonio was . . . hot. And hot completely slayed cute any day of the week.

“Thanks,” Madison said, trying to look both humble and totally irresistible at the same time.

“Call me,” Antonio said, pointing an index finger at her before walking away.

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” Madison murmured under her breath, transfixed by the yummy sight of Antonio’s perfect ass framed by dark washed jeans. Madison floated down the street in a daze, her boots barely touching the pavement. It was all going to be so perfect she could barely stand it. By Thanksgiving she’d be gracing the catwalks of Manhattan, Paris, and Milan—she’d have a hot new career and an even hotter new boyfriend. High school boys were so totally last year . . . Even so, she couldn’t help smiling smugly as she pictured the look on Drew’s face when her glowing visage showed up on the cover of
Vogue
—or when Antonio picked her up in front of Meadowlark for their first of many dates, a red rose in his hand . . .

No—red roses were a total romantic cliché. Madison stepped into the cool perfumed interior of Barneys, scanning the makeup counters with a practiced eye. He’d be wearing a dark suit, and holding a spotless, white African daisy . . . Madison wandered over to a glass display of imported men’s cologne, spraying the testers liberally. The Acqua di Parma cologne that lingered in the air above her head filled the store with a lemony freshness, and fairly reeked of warm Mediterranean sands and the Italian Riviera—just like Antonio.

Madison sprayed herself liberally with the citrusy scent, and exited the store, blanketed in the summery, lemony musk. This was going to be the best year ever—not only would all eyes be on her, as usual, but those eyes would include most of the entire
planet
. Look out world—Madison Macallister was about to become a household name, which was unarguably better than just being somebody’s girlfriend. Besides, Madison knew from experience that revenge was sweet—but success was bound to induce a diabetic coma.

And Drew Van Allen was in for the sugar shock of his life.

poison ivy

“Phoebe, darling, is that you? ”

Madeline Reynaud’s voice rang out through the foyer just as Phoebe stepped through the front door of the Reynauds’ apartment, the stiletto heels of her black leather boots clicking jauntily on the Italian marble floor as Bijoux let go of her hand and ran screaming across the foyer and into the kitchen.

“Sebastian,” she called out to their Parisian chef, who, from the mouthwatering scents of roasted meat wafting from the kitchen, was busy making dinner, “I want cooooookies!”

Phoebe frowned, throwing the white wool Tahari trench she carried over one arm onto a polished oak credenza that hulked in the front hall, and tossing her Tod’s cream leather tote on top. “Yes,” Phoebe called out tiredly to her mother, stopping in front of the sterling silver starburst mirror that graced the foyer wall, staring at her reflection in the shining glass. “Coming.” Her cheeks were pink from the chilly outside air, and her eyes glowed in the soft, amber-and-bronze colored lamplight drifting through the apartment from her mother’s extensive collection of rare Tiffany lamps. She was lying to one of her best friends—shouldn’t it show? “You’re a fake,” she murmured to herself. “A fake and a liar. Just like your mother.”

“Phoebe!” Madeline’s voice rang out again, this time with a decidedly exasperated note. “Will you
please
come into the living room
maintenant
? There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes and walked toward the sound of her mother’s excited chatter. The Reynaud living room was almost unbearably formal, decorated with lumpy, overstuffed furniture and lots of spindly, gilt-edged little chairs that Phoebe was always nervous to actually sit on—and for that reason it was hardly ever used, except for the rare occasions when Madeline wanted to impress someone. A glittering seventeenth-century French chandelier hung from the ceiling, the sparkling crystals drawing attention to the elaborate crown moldings that were painted the color of fresh cream. A black and crimson rug dominated the large rectangular room, partially covering the shining mahogany hardwood floors underfoot. Madeline and an unfamiliar woman were perched on the larger of the two overstuffed sofas in front of the white marble fireplace, shimmering crystal flutes of champagne clutched in their hands, their heads huddled together, their whispers echoing in the cavernous room. Despite the unseasonably warm temperature, white birch logs snapped and crackled happily on the hearth, filling the space with the cheerful, autumnal scent of burning wood. As Phoebe walked in, Madeline looked up, her blue eyes bright with champagne and excitement. Phoebe knew that combination well, and it made her suddenly nervous.

“This,” Madeline said, twisting her wrist to point toward the stranger in a slow, practiced arc, her gold Cartier Love bracelet sliding in languorously toward her bouclé blazer the exact hue of crushed cranberries, “is Andrea Cavalli, the best personal college admissions coach in Manhattan.”

Phoebe quickly gave the woman a once-over: smart, well-fitted clothes—beige, red, and black Burberry Nova Plaid skirt, and snug, black cashmere blazer, thick, black hair pulled back neatly into a ponytail, square glasses with black rims sitting on the bridge of her nose, and sensible-chic red Ferragamo pumps with a wooden stiletto heel. A gold Tiffany charm bracelet tinkled on her wrist as she pushed the black frames up on her tiny nose. She was nondescript, but in a way that was subtly aware of being so—as if everything she wore, every groomed strand of hair and patch of skin was the way it was for a definitive purpose. It was an artful nondescript.
If this were a movie,
Phoebe thought to herself,
this woman would definitely be cast as a hardcore assassin—like Uma Thurman in
Kill Bill
—except you wouldn’t see Andrea coming until it was way too late.

“Phoebe—a pleasure,” Andrea said, rising from the couch and reaching out her perfectly manicured hand—clear nail polish—to shake Phoebe’s, whose nails were lacquered in Chanel Vamp, a deep purple-blackish retro shade that Andrea, she somehow knew, would immediately notice. And take note of.

“Andrea,” Madeline said, her voice practically purring with pleasure, “is going to get you into Harvard. And you’re going to do whatever she says—no questions asked.”

Andrea smiled broadly, and sat back down, crossing her legs, which produced a whooshing sound when one thin, silk-stockinged thigh grazed the other.