Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (18 page)

As it had been the first night, The Smiling Shark was deserted, except for the bartender, Miguel. Hannah and Vlad took their drinks to the corner, which she now thought of as their spot. The only difference was that this time, Vlad sat beside her on the love seat. Again, she tried to reconcile his gentle concern with the fact that he was on this show in the first place. “I’m curious about something. Do you want to win the money so you can go back home to Russia?”

Vlad shook his head. “Not Russia. My mom is gone. The only family I have left is Uncle Ivan.” He paused, and the muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed. “And we haven’t spoken in a very long time. “He sounded so sad, and she wondered if there was anyone anywhere who mattered to him. Or anyone he mattered to.

“Then what will you do if you win?”

“Leave stripping. Finish my book. Move from Miami maybe? Finally be a respectable man, like my uncle? Or maybe not any of it. Hard to make a big change like that.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I hate the way they edit you. They make you look like a jerk. And they make me look like a loser.”

He took a sip of Corona. “We’re characters, Hannah. Don’t you ever watch reality TV?”

“None,” Hannah said, the word
character
turning in her mind. Hopeless Hannah, Queen of Denial, frumping around in ugly clothes that made her look twenty pounds heavier and shiny makeup that melted in the heat. All of it supplied by the TV show.

Hannah sat up straight and pounded her fist in her lap. “Oh my God, they’ve been making me look horrible on purpose! And I made the stupid mistake of believing that because Eric was my friend, I could trust him.”

Vlad leaned forward, listening intently. “Eric seems to care more about his TV show than his friends. But you’re making it easy for them to mock you.”

She bristled and sat up straighter, creating distance. Eric had said something similar. “How? Because I don’t walk around like this all the time?” She flashed a perky, Robynnesque smile. “Apparently, I don’t smile enough for some people’s liking.”

Vlad laughed. “It’s okay, I don’t either. Russians think Americans are crazy for going around with their teeth showing all the time.” He paused. “But it’s easy to see you don’t like being here. Often you look like you are about to cry.”

“I am about to cry. Especially when I watch Jack fall all over Miss Dental Hygiene.”

“Well, do it alone in your room. Or down on the beach, where no one can see.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. And I promise not to tell anyone.”

She smiled. “I’m not usually such an emotional mess. It’s just this show. This whole situation! Back there...” She flung her arm wide, in the direction of the mainland. “I’m successful. Accomplished. I have a great job. I live in New York City. Here, all anyone cares about is how hot I am. Or more to the point, how hot I’m
not!
”

He nodded sympathetically. “It’s TV. Unfortunately, sex sells better than other good qualities.”

“Exactly! I can’t compete. I’m not like those other women, and I don’t even want to be. But I have no choice. Not unless I want to lose my fiancé to a scheming bimbo and have the entire nation talking about what a pathetic loser I am. It’s humiliating.”

“You can always learn to be sexy.” Vlad looked her over. “You’ve got the right equipment. All you need is to learn to use it. I am around sexy women all the time. I could coach you. You know...sexy lessons.”

“Sexy lessons?” She had to laugh at that. “I’ve never thought of sexy as a learned skill.”

“It is, though. All about how you carry yourself.” He adjusted his posture and the set of his broad shoulders conveyed a confidence that was undeniably hot.

“And who better to teach me than a guy named Vlad the Bad who takes off his clothes for a living?”

“As Uncle Ivan used to say, it pays to work with best coach you can find.”

She laughed again, but didn’t entirely dismiss the idea. Putting a little strut in her stuff held surprising appeal. Yet what was the catch? A guy who went on TV to break up a couple for money must want something. “And in return?”

He thought a moment and Hannah tensed, afraid of what he might ask. Then he gave a decisive nod. “I want you to read my book. It is my second one, and only about half-finished, but when I am done, you will read it. Not just query, synopsis, “sorry not right for us,” but the whole thing. You don’t have to buy, but I want honest, professional critique of how to make it better.”

Honest and professional? Yikes. What would she say if the book was god-awful, which it likely was? He’d pinned so much hope to it, she couldn’t bear to be the one to discourage him. On the other hand, at least she would be gentle and constructive. And if it was good, this was a chance to help him achieve his dream. She imagined taking the book to Laurie. Sales and Marketing would drool over this hot Russian male stripper-turned-literary sensation. As would everyone else. And if it kept Jack from Robynne’s clutches, it was worth the risk.

Vlad narrowed his eyes. “So do we have a deal?”

A bit more certain, Hannah laughed and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

Vlad clasped it; his grip was firm and strong and when they shook, he looked her squarely in the eye. “Good then. Now, we get started. Lesson number one.” He held up one finger. “When the cameras are around...you don’t have to be like this.” His toothy, TV-host grin made her laugh. “But you can’t act like you’re afraid of camera either.”

“Even if I am?”

“Even if you are. Try to look more like this.” He lifted his chin in an assured manner, narrowed his eyes and stretched his mouth into an alluring smile.

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Sure you can. Try for me.”

For a stripper, he really was very sweet, and instead of feeling self-conscious, she felt confident, knowing he wouldn’t laugh. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and straightened her back and shoulders, settling her face into her best imitation of Beyoncé.

Vlad smiled and saluted her with his beer bottle. “Much better! See, that’s not so hard, right?”

“No. Except I have to remember to do it all the time.”

“That’s why you have a coach, to remind you until it becomes habit. Next your clothes.” He frowned at her latest flowered caftan. “Please tell me the show supplies them.”

“They supply the dresses, but everything else is mine.” His mouth twisted with disapproval. “I don’t like to wear tight clothes that show a lot of skin. I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s embarrassing to look the way I do.”

“Why? You are beautiful. In Miami, women pay thousands to look the way you do all on your own.”

“Yeah, but when I was a kid, I was bigger than everyone else my age, and I felt like a freak. Kids at school laughed at the way I looked. Someone even started a rumor I stuffed grapefruits under my shirt. Boys used to grab me in the halls to see it if was true.”

“That’s terrible, Hannah, and I’m sorry that happened to you. But it was, what? Twelve years ago? Fifteen? Has nothing to do with you now. So maybe for the show, you can wear something that doesn’t look like you stole it from babushka?”

“Maybe.”

“Tammy said that there’s a girls’ day in San Juan coming up. Are they taking your team, too?”

Hannah nodded. “Friday.”

“Good. Here’s lesson number two.”

“I thought we were on lesson one.”

“We’re taking them two at a time. There is lots of catching up to do. Lesson two is to buy some clothes that show you off. And something to wear underneath.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I have underwear.”

“I’m sure you do, but nothing like what I mean. You are going to do like European girls. Underwear always matches. Bra, panties go together, as if they expect someone to see. Most American girls just throw on whatever.”

He was certainly familiar with international lingerie customs. “I’m definitely a ‘whatever’ girl.”

“Not anymore,” Vlad said. “On shopping day, you have to buy sexy underwear.”

She stiffened, thinking of the awful chain store experience. “And where am I supposed to find that? You have no idea what you’re asking.”

He shrugged. “Stacked women wear sexy underwear, and they must buy it somewhere.”

“This is silly.” She crossed her arms and glared, ready for this conversation to end. “What difference does my underwear make? It’s not like anyone is going to see it.”

“You will see it, and know you look good. And when you look good, you feel good, right?”

Well, her underwear didn’t look good, and she definitely didn’t feel good in it. Could the reverse be true? It was possible. She sighed. “All right. I’ll give it a try.”

Her reward was a bright smile that sent her pulse racing, and was worth the potential humiliation she might suffer at the hands of a snarky lingerie clerk. “Excellent. And underwear cannot be white. Black or red only. Or animal print. Leopard spots are always good.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for leopard spots. How about pink?”

He thought for a moment. “Hot pink, okay, but not pale pink, it’s not sexy.”

“Says you.”

“That’s right, says me. I give assignment, I make the rules. Just like school. But I guess school wasn’t so good for you?”

“Not that part of it.”

“So here’s a chance to do differently. And I promise to say nothing about grapefruits.”

Chapter Sixteen

The last thing Hannah wanted were cameras following her to the lingerie shop, so the moment the women arrived in San Juan, she put her escape plan into action.

In her oversize shoulder bag was a straw hat, sunglasses and a map of the Old San Juan district she’d found in a rack of brochures in the hotel lobby. According to the map, most of the boutiques were on the same street, just a block or two from Vida del Agua, the chic restaurant where they were having lunch.

The restaurant was closed for the shoot, and inside, a blue-tiled table set for ten stretched across the dining room. Robynne, Gina, Kirstin and Miss October grabbed the seats at the end where the light was best and the camera crews could film from multiple angles. Tammy and a few other wannabes took seats in the middle. Hannah, still a pariah since Monday’s show, took the vacant chair nearest the wall.

“Mind if I sit here?” Alison Michaels smiled and pulled out the empty seat across the table from Hannah.

“Please do,” Hannah replied. At least one person was willing to associate with her.

The seat to her right was still open, and when Cristal Glass emerged from the ladies’ room, she had no choice but to take it. There was a satisfying irony to see her secret coconspirator stuck at the loser end of the table, where she clearly didn’t wish to be. Texas’s wealthiest widow emphasized her displeasure with a dramatic roll of her heavily lined eyes. She pulled out the empty chair and flopped down dispiritedly. “Guess I’m stuck down here.”

“Guess so,” Alison said, her gaze fixed on the menu. “Fresh snapper with lobster mofongo and chicarrón butter. Not sure what it is, but it sounds fabulous.” Not to mention expensive. Hannah’s eyes widened at the price. “Mahimahi, ceviche. The seafood tower with oysters and steamed mussels? So hard to decide.” She flipped to the wine list on the back. “Oh, look. They have Cristal. 2006. We
must
order a bottle.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Cristal said, as she tossed a gloomy look at Robynne and the others preening for the camera at the other end of the table.

Hannah shrugged. Why not? It was five o’clock somewhere. A bit of liquid courage might also make it easier to try on leopard-spotted bras.

The waiter came for their orders. Not only did Alison order the pricey champagne and one of the most expensive entrées on the menu, she added the ninety-dollar platter of oysters, mussels, shrimp and ceviche for them to share. The ex-starlet seemed unconcerned about the show’s budget, and after a long week of
Last Fling
-induced misery, Hannah wasn’t either. She chose the same meal as Alison, while Cristal selected the steak and lobster, bargain-priced at thirty-five dollars. When the waiter returned and poured champagne, Alison caught Daphne’s eye and the girl pushed her glass forward. “Oh, gosh, I don’t think there’s enough for all of us,” Alison said, then turned to the waiter. “We’ll need you to bring another bottle.”

The man hurried away to fetch another bottle of $200 champagne. Alison sat back in her chair and smiled contentedly. “Ahh, this is nice.” She lifted her glass. “Cheers, everyone.”

“Cheers.” Hannah took a sip of her champagne. It was light and dry, but flavorful, easily the best she’d ever had.

Cristal swirled her champagne and took a hearty swig. “I don’t get Robynne. She annoys the crap out of me, but everyone else just loooooves her.”

“She plays to the cameras,” Alison said.

“
I
play to the cameras,” Cristal said, pouting. Then she turned to Alison. “Do you ever miss it? You had it all and then poof!” She snapped her fingers. “Gone.”

“That’s usually the way it works.”

“Not for me. Once I get to the top, I’m staying there.”

Alison flashed a tight smile. “Good luck with that. How about you, Hannah? Is
Last Fling
your ticket to the top, or just Jack’s?”

“It’s a favor to Eric.”

“And Eric’s shown his appreciation in so many ways. So true what they say, that no good deed goes unpunished.”

Daphne held up her glass to the waiter for a refill. “At least you got a free vacation out of the deal.”

Some vacation
. Though as the champagne flowed and the women ate and laughed, it occurred to Hannah that it had been a long time since she had spent a day like this. Too long.

“What do you guys think of Will?” Daphne asked as they dined on their delicious—and ridiculously expensive—lunches. “He’s moving back to Sydney after the show is over and asked me to come. He said there are lots of bars where I could get a job.”

“You guys are hooking up?” Cristal asked. “How’s Chris taking that?”

“He doesn’t care. He’s totally in love with Tammy. Will and I have only hooked up once, but he’s so hot. And not really into Tammy, either. Nor is she into him. I think Vlad’s the one she wants.”

“Really?” Hannah asked, determined to keep her voice casual. “He’s not very nice to her on camera.”

Cristal snorted. “Since when does nice matter?”

“I think it matters,” Alison said.

Daphne shrugged. “Vlad’s not as bad as they make him look. He’s actually a decent guy. But I don’t think he’s hooked up with anyone, so that’s kind of weird.”

“Maybe he’s gay,” said Cristal, cutting off a large bite of steak. “He wouldn’t be the only one.”

When lunch was over, and dessert was on the way, Hannah decided it was time to make her escape. She was sorry to be leaving, but stood a better chance of evading the cameras if she left before everyone else. In the ladies’ room, she put on the floppy hat and glasses and swapped the bright red jacket she had worn over her sundress for a pale green scarf. She dropped the lav mic in her purse and buried it at the bottom, beneath the red jacket. Disguised and hopefully unnoticed, she slipped out of the back door.

Dama Hermosa lingerie boutique was one block north of the restaurant, in the middle of San Francisco Street. Hannah paused before the turquoise-painted storefront and gazed at the window display of silky, slinky things that would never fit her. Places like this were for petite, perky women like Robynne—not inverted triangles who required industrial-strength support. However, she had promised Vlad she would give it a try, and she didn’t want to disappoint her coach.

Little bells on the door announced her arrival, as Hannah stepped into the jasmine-scented shop, cooled by a white wicker paddle fan rotating from the ceiling. She fingered a lacy pink-and-black bra with matching panties, and tried to imagine herself wearing it. The mental image simply would not come.

“May I help you find something?” A saleswoman approached. Pinned to her tailored silk blouse was a nametag that read Maria.

Hannah pushed back her self-consciousness. The woman was here to sell underwear, not laugh customers out of her shop. “Do you have any of these in bigger sizes?”

“What size you need?”

Hannah was embarrassed that she did not know for sure. “Thirty-six double-D. I think.”

She eyed Hannah’s chest, brow furrowed. “You sure about that,
chica
?”

Hannah’s cheeks burned, and she shook her head. She knew this would be a mistake.

The saleswoman smiled. “No worries. We get you fitted and find exactly what you need. Fitting room is in the back.”

The strange experience got stranger once Hannah had undressed and the woman came into the room, armed with a tape measure and a barrage of questions about poking underwire and droopy straps. With a brisk, professional manner, she measured Hannah’s chest and lifted each breast to examine its shape. She jotted a few notes, than announced her verdict. “You’ve been wearing the wrong size. You’re actually an F-cup.”

“An
F-
cup?” Hannah echoed. It was even worse than she thought.

Maria laughed. “No worries,
chica
. That’s what I wear.” Now Hannah noticed the woman’s figure. She was busty for sure, but it looked in proportion to the rest of her body. “I’ve got lots of pretty things to fit you. What colors you like?”

Feeling hopeful, Hannah smiled back. “Red or black. And leopard print if you have it.”

Thirty minutes later, Hannah was the proud owner of five new bras and ten pairs of matching panties, two in each color. As she waited for Maria to wrap her purchases, she turned sideways to view herself in the mirror beside the counter. She looked and felt good. No. Not good. Great. Confident, beautiful, and—for the first time—sexy.

The bells on the door jingled and Hannah gasped as Alison, Daphne and Cristal entered the store. But at least the cameras hadn’t found her. Not yet, anyway.

“We thought you’d drowned in the fucking toilet!” Cristal made her way over to the counter, eyeing the purchases Maria was wrapping in pink tissue paper. “Lookie, lookie. Someone’s been shopping. Who’s that meant to impress? I bet it’s Heathcliff.”

“Maybe it’s Jack,” said Daphne. She held up a fuchsia bra. “Need some fresh ammunition?”

“Uh, it’s me.” Hannah said. “I decided it was time for some new things. Everything I wear on the show makes me look drab and dumpy. My vanity team has been making me look ugly on purpose.”

“It’s not about making you look ugly,” Alison said. “It’s about presenting you in a certain way that fits the character they’ve given you.”

“Well I don’t want to be that character anymore. I’ve decided to be a different one.” Daphne grabbed a handful of Hannah’s bushy hair. “I wondered why they didn’t do something about your frizz. My hair’s just like yours, but they put stuff in it to make it look wavy.”

She had admired Daphne’s loose flowing waves, yet never imagined her hair could look the same. “I had no idea. I don’t read magazines or follow fashion. I’ve never paid any attention to this.”

Cristal smirked. “About time you started.”

Alison smiled and touched her arm. “Want us to help?”

Before leaving the lingerie shop, Cristal, Alison and Daphne convinced Hannah to buy two bikinis in aqua and hot pink, and a black silk nightgown oozing retro Hollywood glamour for Final Fling night. The camera crew caught up to them at the boutique next door, where they filmed Hannah modeling outfits chosen by her new friends. She bought colorful tank tops, short shorts, and long skirts and dresses that reflected her Bohemian style, yet still showed skin. From there, they went to a shoe shop and finally to a salon and spa, where a stylist trimmed Hannah’s hair, shaped her brows and recommended styling products and makeup suited to the climate.

On the bus back to Resorte Siete Mares, she was aware of her castmates’ curious glances, but the protective presence of her new friends served as a buffer. Yet as she returned to her room to await the vanities, her confidence began to falter. Could she make the
Last Fling
producers bend to her demands? As she unpacked her new clothes and admired her new hairstyle and makeup, she rehearsed her speech, and then suddenly stopped short.

She was the one with power, not them. Yes, they could argue and refuse to do things her way. But really, what could they do? Fire her? Send her back to New York? If they did, there went half of their stupid TV show. She closed the last drawer and leaned against the bureau, staring at the back of her room door, ready for the knock.

Bring it on
.

* * *

Deena narrowed her eyes. “You changed your hair. You’re not allowed to do that.”

Hannah stood with her arms crossed. “It’s not the only thing I’ve changed. Over there on the vanity are the cosmetics and hairstyling products you’ll be using from now on. And Lupe?” She nodded at the rolling wardrobe rack loaded down with hideous clothes. “You won’t be needing that either.”

Lupe wagged a finger, as if she was scolding a child. “You can’t make that decision. That’s the producers, not you.”

“But it is. You see, I won’t go on if you don’t do things my way.”

The stylists exchanged glances and Rox pulled out her phone. “I’ll call downstairs.”

Hannah expected it would be Cynthia Bishop summoned from the production catacombs, but her rebellion brought a visit from not only Eric, but also Mr.
Last Fling
himself, Cody deWylde. The first sight of Hannah seemed to surprise them both. While Eric continued to look flummoxed, Cody’s face assumed its customary smarmy smile

“Hannah, Hannah. What’s this Rox tells me that you’re threatening not to go on?”

“I’m happy to go on. I have a simple request, though—from now on, my style team actually makes me look attractive. I know all about what you’re doing, with the melting makeup, frizzed-out hair and clothes three sizes too big and I’m tired of you embarrassing me.”

Eric puffed his chest out self-righteously. “We’re not embarrassing you. You’re the one embarrassing yourself.”

“Exactly,” Cody added.

Ignoring deWylde, she turned to Eric. “Don’t do this. You aren’t like him. You aren’t a bully. You’re my friend and you made a promise to me so I would come on the show. Well I’m here. I held up my end of the deal. Now it’s time for you to hold up yours.”

Eric stepped forward and held out his hand. Hannah stepped back, not wanting him to touch her. “We’re trying to tell a story. A good story. As an editor, you should understand that. This is entertainment, that’s all. The illusion of reality,” he said softly.

“Stories change, Eric, and this one is changing. Either adapt to it, or send me home. Your choice.”

“You roll the reality dice, you take your chances, sugar bean,” Cody said. “Haven’t you heard? The only thing worse than bad publicity is no publicity, and if you earn a reputation for being difficult, that’s exactly what you’ll have.”

“The only thing I care about ending up with is Jack, and the life I had before I came on this show. If Hollywood doesn’t want to work with me, fine. More than fine. I can see this conversation is a waste of time. If you’ll excuse me, I need to pack.”

“If you walk, we can sue for breach of contract.”

“I’ll risk it.” She opened the closet and dragged out her suitcase.

“Both of you stop!” Eric held up his hands. “Hannah, put the suitcases away. Cody, let me handle this. We’ll make this work. Hannah, if you don’t like the way you’re portrayed, show us something else. Fight for your man.”