Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (2 page)

“Something you’re writing?” She took a sip of wine, always happy to hear about someone’s work in progress.

“Better. Eric is the creator and coproducer of this year’s hottest new reality show,
Last Fling
.”

“Interesting title,” she said.

“Incredible concept,” Jack added, in disconcerting Hollywood-speak. “Wait ’til you hear it.”

Eric grinned and turned to Hannah. “What if...there was a surefire way to know that the person you were about to marry was 100 percent ready to make that lifetime commitment, and forsake all others unto you. As a bride-to-be, would you want that?”

“Absolutely,” Hannah replied.

“Who wouldn’t?” Eric asked, spreading his hands. “Well,
Last Fling
can prove that.”

“Okay.” She glanced from Jack to Eric who seemed to be in on some secret she wasn’t.

“Picture this.” Eric framed a space in the air with his hands. “Two engaged couples at a luxurious private resort. Just him, her...
and
the gorgeous men and women they’ve chosen for a possible last fling before they walk down the aisle. They go on dates with each one, take part in exciting challenges and then in the final episode, eliminate all but one. Do they have that last fling, or...stay faithful and prove they’re ready to say
I do
?”

As it sunk in, Hannah gaped at Eric. “You’ve created a TV show where the idea is for the contestants to
cheat
on the person they’re about to marry?”

“No, no,” Eric said, shaking his head. “You’re missing the point. They affirm their love by
not
cheating.”

“And it’s just a fling. Not cheating, per se,” Jack offered.

“But the people, the flings, whatever you call them...the reason they’re there is to try and come between the engaged couple. And the couple has actually invited them? That’s awful! What kind of sick people would do that?”

Jack glared. “Jeez, Hannah. You don’t have to be so negative. It’s a TV show.”

Eric held up a hand. “It’s all right, Jack. I’ve heard it all before.” His voice had an oily quality she didn’t associate with the sweet guy she’d known in high school. “Hannah. Look at it this way. If a couple isn’t happy, isn’t it better that they find out
before
they spend thousands of dollars on a wedding, invite hundreds of people...only to be abandoned at the altar? Or worse...divorced a year later?”

Hannah stilled. Eric had just voiced her worst nightmare.

He smiled. “We’re actually doing our couples a favor by saving them from a huge mistake.”

“I guess,” she muttered, toying with piece of whole grain pizza crust on her plate.

“And the couples who resist the flings? They can move forward with rock-solid assurance that
their
marriage will last. Which is what we all want, right? That happily-ever-after, fairy-tale ending.”

Hannah nodded, though the whole idea left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Not to mention, both couples will receive designer wardrobes, including a wedding gown created especially for each bride, fabulous prizes
and
enjoy ten glorious weeks, all expenses paid, being pampered at the luxurious Resorte Siete Mares in Puerto Rico.”

“Ten weeks,” Jack echoed, grinning.

“Ever been to Puerto Rico, Hannah Banana?”

“No, but I hear it’s nice. So this show...”

“
Last Fling
,” Jack supplied.

Hannah nodded. “
Last Fling
. It’s really going to be on the air?”

“Yes, indeed,” Eric said. “Monday nights on the Xposé Network. We start filming in mid-February and the show debuts the first week of March. Couple number one, Chris and Tammy of Daytona Beach, are already on board. Couldn’t be more excited. I’m signing up their flings as we speak.”

“What about the other couple?”

“So glad you asked.” Eric winked and turned to Jack. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

Jack looked over and tenderly touched Hannah’s hand. “Eric’s hoping it will be us, sweetheart.”

Hannah burst out laughing, and then realized she was laughing alone. Her gaze shifted from Jack to Eric and back. “Are you
insane
?”

Jack snorted and pulled his hand away. “I knew you’d react like this.”

“Then why did you even ask?”

“Because Eric’s our friend and he needs our help.”

“Help?”

Long-faced, Eric nodded. “The truth is, we had another couple lined up but—” He gave a hollow laugh. “The bride-to-be caught the groom in bed with the wedding planner, so believe it or not, they’ve called it off.”

“Then find another engaged couple. There are plenty around.”

“It’s not that easy, Hannah. There is a lot that goes into it, and our schedule has us on the ground, ready to shoot in just three weeks. That isn’t enough time to locate a couple, run all the background checks and do all the preliminaries. I know you and Jack. You’re stable, sane people with no skeletons in the closet. Plus, you’re successful young professionals.”

“Not exactly the types for reality TV.”

Eric wagged a finger. “Not true, Hannah. Not true at all. The reality TV viewer is actually quite upscale. By going on the show, you’ll broaden our demographic appeal. Chris and Tammy are hardworking, salt-of-the-earth Southerners. You and Jack? Well-educated, affluent professionals from New York City. Everyone in America will have someone they can relate to.”

“How am I supposed to take ten weeks off work?” She turned to Jack. “How are
you
supposed to take ten weeks off work? Big and Little Windsor barely let you out for lunch.”

“Eric’s a client, so I’m sure they’ll see the advantage of having me there on-site. And you can work remotely. Doesn’t Bettendorf use freelance editors from all over the country?”

“What about my promotion?”

Jack groaned. Eric leaned forward. “We’ll arrange your shooting schedule around your workday, Hannah. You’ll have all the time you need.”

No one would be happy about her being gone for so long, but she might be able to make arrangements, provided she stayed on top of her work. And really, what better place to edit beach books than at the beach? But even with her employer’s blessing this felt wrong. “Jack...reality TV? Last flings? This all seems so...sleazy.”

“It doesn’t have to be. We get a free vacation in a gorgeous place. You get a wedding dress designed just for you. Weren’t you saying that you hate how every dress is strapless? Now you can have exactly what you want. We don’t have to take it seriously. Let’s just go have some fun for once, and help out an old friend.”

She drummed her fingers, and then turned to Eric. “You won’t make us eat spiders or anything, will you?”

Eric laughed. “No spiders, I swear.”

She swallowed and asked the real question weighing on her mind. “We don’t have to go through with the last flings, do we?”

He held up one hand. “Absolutely not. The choice is completely up to you.”

For her there was no choice, but the eager look on Jack’s face only fueled her doubt. “Can I sleep on it?”

Jack heaved an exasperated sigh. Eric patted her hand. “Sure, sure. Take all the time you need.” He took out a business card and slid it across the table. “Call my cell in the morning, and let me know your decision.”

They said good-night shortly afterward, and Eric caught a cab to his hotel. As they walked home, Jack was sullen. So much for her celebratory night out. “Why couldn’t you have just said yes?” he asked.

Because it might blow her chances at a job she wanted very badly? Not to mention a few other reasons. “Do you really want to do this, Jack? Frankly, it bothers me that you’re so eager to go on a show where other women are trying to seduce you.”

“Hannah, we’re engaged. This has nothing to do with other women.”

“Then why does it mean so much to you?”

He thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat. Short breaths puffed from his nostrils and formed clouds in the cold air. “Because Eric is living the life I wanted, that’s why.”

She paused, then drew in a breath, remembering. “Billy Bigelow,” she said, softly. He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded.

Jack’s senior year star turn as the doomed lover in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
Carousel
brought every female in Port Pleasant—Hannah included—to tears. He had sent a video to the UMass Theater Department and landed an audition, only to have his parents refuse to pay for college if he majored in theater. That had been the end of his dream.

“Since I was a kid, I’ve wanted to be in show business. Instead, I’m an entertainment lawyer watching a guy with half the talent I had succeed, while I...” He clenched his jaw, and then raked one hand through his wavy blond hair. “You’re lucky, Hannah. You work hard, but at something you love. Me? I spend ninety hours a week sucking up to assholes, and doing something I hate.”

“I know,” she said, gently. “But it’s not forever. Five years and then you’ll have enough experience to leave and open your own firm. By then, I’ll be making enough to support us while you’re getting it off the ground. It’s going to work out. I know it is.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, and stared down at the street, his breath forming a cloud in the air. “But sometimes I’m so miserable I don’t think I can stand it another day. It’s as if I’m living someone else’s life. Can you understand how that feels?”

Truthfully, she couldn’t. Her life was perfect just as it was. But for his sake, she nodded. “Of course I do.”

He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Then let’s do something totally crazy. Something other people would kill to do. We get our fifteen minutes of fame.” Jack chuckled. “We’ll piss off our parents. You’ll even get a wedding gown designed just for you. How cool is that?”

“Kinda cool,” Hannah admitted. “But what about—”

“The promotion will be there. If not this time, then next time.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to ask. What about the flings?”

“What about them? No one said we have to take this seriously or go through with it. You heard Eric, it’s just for fun. Come on, honey. Say you’ll do it. Please?”

Hannah wanted nothing more than for Jack to be happy, and if going on Eric’s stupid reality show would accomplish that, she was willing. Even if there was a cost. She smiled up at him and gave a decisive nod. “I’ll talk with work tomorrow.”

Jack’s face brightened. “Hannah Levinson, I love you!”

“I love you, too, Jack. I love you so much.”

He scooped her into his arms and whirled her in a circle, right in the middle of the sidewalk. People paused to stare, and then applaud, as snowflakes sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight. For a thrilling moment she would always remember life felt like a movie and she was the star.

Chapter Two

Vladimir Shustov crossed his arms over his bare, oiled chest and glared at the scrawny Hollywood producer straddling the locker room bench. Eric Conrad’s black clothes and pasty skin made him look woefully out of place in steamy, sweaty Miami. “And the $150,000? What do I have to do to get that?”

“Not what you think.” Conrad’s voice had a high-pitched, defensive edge. “Just be nice to her.”

“Just nice?” Vlad echoed, in disbelief.

“That’s right. Nice. Become her favorite. If she complains about something her fiancé does, do the opposite. Create some drama. You seem like a guy who understands how the world works. Help us make good TV and everyone benefits. Not only do you become rich, you’ll be famous, too.”

Famous as what?
Vlad pushed the thought away. He had made compromises before and didn’t believe for a minute the bullshit line that he could go on a show called
Last Fling
and be rewarded for not having one.

“Tammy said she was here last summer. August, I think. For her sister’s bachelorette party. Do you remember her?” the producer asked.

“I don’t. There are so many.”

Conrad chuckled. “I’m sure there are. Well, she definitely remembered Vlad the Bad.” He tapped his tablet and held it out. “Does she look familiar?”

The photo showed four girls in matching blue dresses, all bleached blondes with dark roots and tanned, shiny faces. Three were attractive. The fourth had chubby, well-inked arms, coarse features and wore an overly wide smile that only emphasized how unhappy she was.

“Tammy’s the one on the end.”

Vlad had already guessed that. He’d probably given her some special attention that night. Usually that meant nothing more than a few extra dollars stuffed in his thong, but sometimes the girls misinterpreted. That seemed to be the case with Tammy Bradford, who had apparently chosen him as someone she’d like to have a last fling with. He handed the tablet back. “What does her husband think about this?”

“Not her husband, fiancé.” Conrad held up a hand and Vlad noticed the man’s oversize watch. Black face, crown insignia. Rolex. The guy was doing well, or wanted to give that impression. “He’s all in, too. In fact, I’m flying to Chicago straight from here to sign up one of his.” He grinned. “Remember the old
Somerset High
TV series?”

Vlad shook his head. “I didn’t grow up in America.”

“I think it was popular in Europe, too.”

“Where I lived we didn’t get much TV. I read mostly.”

Conrad raked Vlad up and down from behind his glasses. He didn’t need to say anything; it was obvious what he was thinking. The fact that a guy who took off his clothes for money had a brain seemed to surprise people.

“Well, then. Speaking of reading.” He slid a stapled packet of pages across the bench and clicked open a pen. “Look this over, sign at the bottom of page twenty-eight and we’ll have a deal.”

Vlad scanned the first page, which was dense with legalese. He’d been in this country more than five years and his English was very good, but even native speakers probably couldn’t make sense of this. Maybe he ought to show it to a lawyer. He didn’t have one, though a friend who used to dance at The Male Room attended law school for a while. Tony might be of some help. Vlad read on. Physical exam, psychological screening, drug test, credit checks. “Nondisclosure?” He glanced up from the page at the baby-faced producer.

“It means you can’t discuss the outcome of the show, or the terms of your contract with anyone. If you do, you won’t see a dime.”

Could they really do that? He’d have to ask Tony. Scanning the paragraphs, he spotted what interested him most—the $100,000 he would be paid for ten weeks’ work. If he was selected as a Final Fling and
“...satisfactorily fulfilled the requirements, stipulations and contractual conditions outlined herein...blah, blah, blah...producers’ discretion, so on and so forth,”
he could pocket another $150,000.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Money like that could change his life.

He flipped to the last page, and held the pen over the blank line with his name printed beneath.

Vladimir Ivanovich Shustov
.

The sight of his full name made him blink. No one called him Vladimir anymore. Americans simply shortened it, incorrectly, to Vlad, and he had grown accustomed to it. It was the same with his patronymic, which he also no longer used, though it was something he’d once felt proud of. Ivan was actually his uncle, not his father, but he was the closest thing to one Vlad had ever known. He hadn’t thought of himself as Vladimir Ivanovich in a very long time; not since he’d left Arkhangelsk to live a life that made him feel unworthy of the name. Seeing it on the contract, knowing what Uncle Ivan would think, made Vlad pause.

“Is there a problem?” Conrad asked.

“No. Just surprised to see my full name. No one calls me that anymore.”

“We check all of the candidates before we approach them to be sure there are no outstanding legal issues. You came up clean.” The man’s thin mouth quirked in a condescending way. “Surprised?”

“No.” He held the producer’s gaze, refusing to be intimidated, even though the Hollywood guy had a Rolex and all the money, while Vlad wore no shirt and tear-off pants.

The producer looked down and rolled the pen between his fingers. “So. Do we have a deal?”

“I want to think it over before I sign.”

Conrad’s brows shot up, and Vlad held back a smile. The guy assumed he would jump at this. Wrong. No issue with the money, but how would it feel if the only man in the world Vlad respected found out?

“What’s the problem? I already said that you don’t have to fuck her. Unless you want to.” He hadn’t thought a TV network could legally force him to that, and it really wasn’t the issue. He was only twenty-five and had already done a lifetime’s worth of things he wasn’t proud of, and for far less in return. Still, did he really want to add one more to the list? Even if Uncle never knew about
Last Fling
, Vlad always would.

“The offer won’t last forever.” The producer took back the contract and stuffed it in his man-purse. He handed Vlad a business card. “When you make up your mind, call my cell. Tomorrow, before noon. Otherwise, we’ll go with someone else.”

Vlad looked at the card. It was slick and shiny, with raised black letters. Renegade Productions, Los Angeles. Conrad seemed legit, though younger than Vlad would have expected a Hollywood big shot to be. Nerdy, too, and definitely uneasy in the locker room where muscle-bound dudes were using pink lady razors to shave their groins. Though who was he to judge? The guy was doing something with his life. More than dancing around in a thong at least. He tucked the card in his wallet. “I’ll think about it.”

As the producer left, Jared came in, a garment bag slung over his shoulder. “Who was that?”

“Nobody important.”

Music thumped through the locker room’s walls, The Black Crowes, “Hard to Handle.” He had done a routine to it a while back, which Lamar was now using. Years of working with ice dance choreographers had paid off in ways Vlad never could have imagined. The door swung open again. This time it was Stella, the leathery old biker chick who owned The Male Room. She scowled. “Jesus, Vlad. Aren’t you ready yet?”

“I had company.”

Stella rolled her eyes. “So I saw. Look, you owe somebody money, keep it out of my club. Now move. You’re up next.” She gestured with her ever-present lit cigarette.

“Send out Xander.” Vlad glanced over his shoulder at the Brazilian rookie practicing his routine with headphones on. He remembered doing the same thing before skating competitions, only in more clothing. “I have to warm up first. It’ll be worth it, trust me.”

“Cocky asshole. Warm-ups, Jesus Christ. It’s The Male Room, not the fucking Ice Capades.” She dragged on her cigarette and waved her arms to get the rook’s attention. “Yo, Xander! You’re up, muchacho.
Vámonos
!”

Xander followed Stella out, and Vlad went into his warm-up stretches. His figure skating days might be long ago and far away, but old habits died hard. It worked, too. He danced four nights a week without so much as a pulled muscle.

Jared took a cop uniform from the garment bag and hung it in the open locker next to Vlad’s. “Full house tonight. Eight private parties.”

Vlad counted out knee bends. “How private can they be if there are eight of them?”

“It’s business, that’s what I care about.” Jared pulled off his tight green surfer T-shirt and took a bottle of baby oil from his locker. He squirted some in his palm and rubbed it over his chest. “Plenty of regulars, too. Money should be good tonight.”

That was welcome news. It was the end of the week, and the first of the month. Rent and the payment on the Hummer were both due.

“You’re going to Lamar’s after-party?”

Vlad shrugged. “Probably.”

“That chick I told you about who dances over at Sunset Strip? She’s going to be there and wants to meet you.” Jared grinned. “You’re not still seeing that college girl, are you? Kelsey? Candy?”

“Katie.” The name brought a melancholy twinge. “Not anymore.”

“Whatever. You’ll forget all about her once you see Electra. And she likes three-ways, so you don’t have to limit yourself.” Jared wiggled his eyebrows, still new enough at the life to be awestruck. “Gonna be fuckin’ wall-to-wall pussy at Lamar’s, bro.”

“Like always.”

Jared finished with the oil, and held out the bottle. “Need any?”

“I’m good, thanks.” He preferred cocoa butter, which looked just as shiny, but made him sweat less.

Jared shrugged on the cop shirt and smoothed the Velcro fasteners to close the front. “Still writing your book?”

“When I can.” Truth was, he had hardly written a page in weeks. The characters were no longer a constant presence in his mind. Not a good sign. He needed time away, a break from the routine. Like maybe ten weeks in Puerto Rico?

Jared shook his head. “Never knew anyone who did that once, let alone twice. I get to read it when you get it done, right?”

“Sure thing, man.”

Jared had loved the first book, which wasn’t half as good as
The Flesh Zone
promised to be. He wasn’t the most sophisticated critic, but that wasn’t the type of reader Vlad wanted to impress. Vlad fastened the fake pearl snaps on his white dress shirt, and then tore it open to check that it parted easily. In the mirror, his bare chest gleamed, his gold crucifix resting comfortably against his skin. He resnapped the shirt and tied his black bow tie. A loud thump sounded on the door, followed by Stella’s raspy voice. “Vlad! Now!”

He grabbed his tuxedo jacket and shades and then stepped out of the locker room, into the noisy hallway that led to the upper part of the stage. The Male Room had been a disco back in the day, with an elevated platform and steps leading down to the main dance floor. Xander’s act wasn’t quite over, and Vlad moved to the salsa music, hidden from view, waiting for the beat to carry him away. Usually it didn’t take long but tonight it did.

Jared’s question about the book weighed on him, as did the baby-faced producer’s offer of two hundred and fifty grand. Real money. He could finish writing
The Flesh Zone
and sell it to a publisher. It was good, easily as good some of the crap he had read lately. He could walk away from The Male Room. He could be what he always longed to be. A man like Uncle Ivan. Someone good and honorable.

Dating Katie had offered a taste of that. A respite from partying until dawn, then waking up midafternoon broke and hungover. He liked living in the daylight again. He liked being with a woman who had interests beyond the next party. He’d done some of his best writing and, though Katie was studying for her MBA, she enjoyed hearing him talk about it. The relationship had ended three months ago, when her internship was over and she’d returned to Chicago. Neither of them considered making a go at anything long-distance, which had bothered Vlad much more than he expected. It reinforced that he was not the type of man a young woman with a bright future would want in her life...even as a part of him longed to be.

Xander’s dance ended to a cacophony of applause and cheering. The Male Room’s newest dancer came offstage, sweaty and smiling, with cash poking from his red sequined trunks. He nodded as he passed, and Vlad pulled his dark shades from his pocket.

“Give it up for Prince Xander, ladies!” The DJ’s voice boomed through the club. “All the way from Rio, and way too hot to handle! Though wouldn’t we all love a chance?” The crowd cheered wildly. “Next up... The Male Room proves that smokin’ hot doesn’t only come from south of the equator. Presenting the most intoxicating Russian import since vodka... Vlad the Bad!”

As his music began, Vlad strutted onto the stage and struck a pose, the ultimate Hollywood bad boy with gel-spiked hair and Ray-Ban shades. Spotlights flickered, like paparazzi camera flashes on the red carpet. Through the synth intro to Lady Gaga’s “Applause,” he swiveled his hips in slow, sinuous movements intended to make every woman in the place think he was doing it just for her.

At the start of the first verse, he took off his shades and tossed them to the prop guy backstage, making eye contact with the women seated closest to the main floor. He glanced up at the VIP seats in the balcony, which were empty at the moment, then down at the audience that surrounded the main floor on three sides. At the foot of the stairs he paused and then thrust his hips forward in one hard motion. The room erupted with shrill screams.

Though it was hard to hear the music, he relied on muscle memory and innate rhythm to keep him on the beat and let attitude do the rest. He moved to the center and executed a perfect spin, then tossed his jacket aside. More screams. The women were primed and ready as he moved to the left side of the parquet square.

Seated closest was a bachelorette party of girls in their early twenties. The bride wore a sparkly pink veil, and he danced before her, thrusting toward her smiling face. She grabbed his hips as he tugged loose his tie. When it was off he looped it around her slender wrist and brought her hand up to cup his bulging crotch. The girls shrieked and cameras flashed. There was a pile of cash on the table, and a few girls, obviously first-timers, held out money. It wasn’t time yet, but he grinned and winked, letting them know he’d be back.