Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (8 page)

“A little,” she replied.

Cynthia gave Hannah’s hand a squeeze. “Completely understandable. The first night is always nerve-racking, and you’re about to meet your flings. Why don’t you have a glass of wine before we start our pre-party interview?”

She’d already had two, and nothing to eat, but Rox took her glass and refilled it. Cynthia led Hannah to the balcony where the camera crew was setting up. A female sound tech fastened a tiny lavalier microphone inside the neckline of Hannah’s dress as she sat in the chair facing the eye-level camera and squinted. “The sun’s in my eyes. Can I move a little?”

The cameraman shook his head. “Nope. The light’s perfect right where you are.” The camera’s little red light flashed on. “Rolling now,” he said.

Off camera, Cynthia glanced at the clipboard in her hand. “So, Hannah, Eric told me you weren’t totally on board with the idea of the show.”

Oh God, did they have to start with this? Hannah took a generous drink of wine, though she was already feeling the effects. “Umm...not at first, but it meant so much to Jack that I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

“Jack was eager to come on
Last Fling
?”

“Very. As soon as he heard about it, he was really excited.”

“And you went along with it? Personally, I think that’s great, but a lot of women wouldn’t have been so agreeable.”

Hannah laughed, but it sounded nervous and forced. She smiled without feeling it. “Jack has always wanted to be on TV. I love him and want to support him in the things that are important. Just as he does for me.”

“What does he do for you?”

“Well, he...” Suddenly her mind was blank. The question had come out of nowhere, and she wasn’t ready with an answer. The longer she paused, the more awkward the silence became. Jack did many things that were kind and considerate. But staring into the black, blank lens of the camera, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Picks up the dry cleaning!”

Cynthia smiled. “That’s so generous. Anything else?”

“Yes!” Her palms prickled with sweat and she wiped them on her dress. Her ring flashed in the fading sunlight. “This!” She held up her hand, fingers splayed. “He asked me to marry him and gave me a beautiful ring.”

“That is beautiful. And big. So you’re not concerned about the other women vying for his attention?”

“Oh, no. Not a bit,” she insisted. “Jack and I are rock solid.”

Cynthia smiled. Her gaze shifted to the cameraman and she nodded. The red light went out. “That’s a wrap. Congratulations, Hannah. You’re a natural on camera. Are you ready to head down to the party and meet your flings, or would you like another glass of wine first?”

“No more wine right now, thanks.” She rose from her chair, a little unsteady, and turned to Cynthia. Truth be told, she didn’t feel ready to meet her flings either, but knew she couldn’t stay up here all night. “Did I really do okay?”

Cynthia looped a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “You were
per
fect.”

Chapter Eight

On the way down in the elevator, Hannah thought about the list of fling candidates she’d given to Eric. Unlike Jack’s, they included no one from real life. Only Crusher, who was gay, though it wasn’t common knowledge. As for the others? She couldn’t imagine how the show could have found suitable candidates. It was entirely possible the producers wouldn’t have any flings for Hannah at all.

As she and Cynthia crossed the lobby, Hannah heard the murmur of voices and music. They passed through a tunnel of fake palm trees festooned with large silk flowers and then entered the studio. On one side of the room were a bar and a steel drum quartet tucked behind long tables, which were laid out with an amazing spread. Hannah’s empty stomach did a happy dance.

“Thank goodness! I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m starving.” Not to mention feeling a fierce buzz after three glasses of wine.

Cynthia laughed. “Help yourself, but be careful of your dress.” She summoned one of the servers. “Can you cover her up so she can eat?”

The girl grabbed a rolled linen napkin from the buffet, shook it open, then tied it bib-style around Hannah’s neck. Aware she looked ridiculous but too hungry to care, she grabbed a plate and loaded it quickly, determined to eat her fill before the cameras found her. Hannah helped herself to grilled shrimp and scallops, fried pastries stuffed with marinated octopus and mashed plantain patties stuffed with sliced steak. Everything was delicious, but oddly, no one else seemed interested.

As she tore into a chicken leg, she spotted Jack on the other side of the room. In his blinding white dinner jacket and with his perfectly groomed blond hair, he was dreamboat-handsome. Who cared whether she had any flings? There was no man she wanted more than Jack Gordon.

She nibbled away the last of the meat from the chicken bone, and then licked sauce from her fingers, eager to get to Jack. She paused, suddenly conscious of the camera trained on her. Did they always have to film her at the worst possible time? She hastily dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “You’re not going to use this, are you? Please tell me you won’t.”

“Ain’t up to me. Look this way, please.”

“No.” She raised her hand to block the lens. “Go away. Once I’ve eaten, I’ll come over and play with the others and you can film all you like. But right now, I’d like to eat in privacy, please.”

“Privacy? Oh my dear girl, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place.” Hannah turned toward the mocking male voice. Cody deWylde, the show’s host, approached with more cameras in tow. “Looks like you’ve enjoyed the barbecue.” He touched his lower lip. “Missed a spot.”

Again, she swiped the napkin across her chin. “Better?”

Cody smirked, and then cleared his throat. “All ready to meet the rest of the cast...including your lucky gentlemen?”

She responded with a nervous laugh. “I think so. I see Jack’s here.”

“Oh yes. He and Robynne were among the first to arrive.”

“They were?”

Cody offered no reply, only his arm. It was odd to walk arm in arm with someone she knew only from TV. Cody deWylde had been an athlete at one time, but mostly she thought of him as someone who was famous for being famous. His main accomplishments seemed to be centerfold girlfriends and colorful arrests. He led her toward a cluster of about twenty exceptionally attractive people, dressed in tropical-influenced evening wear. The sole exception was a big sunburned guy wearing jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. The women showed as much skin as possible. At the edge of the group was a petite blonde who looked vaguely familiar. “Who is that?” she asked Cody.

“Alison Michaels. She used to play Missy Goldsmith on
Somerset High
.”

“I remember. The bitchy one. She was my favorite character. I thought she died.”

Cody snorted and rolled his eyes. “Just her career.”

A rather sad downfall for an actress Hannah had once loved watching each week. “Who are the rest?”

“This is one-half of Team Red.” He gestured to the big Harley guy. “That’s Chris and these are the girls he invited. Patrice was a finalist on
Starmaker
and the redhead...” He paused. “I can’t think of her name, but she was last year’s Miss October. The other two are Daphne and Felicia. Daphne works at Chris’s favorite bar and Felicia is his fiancée’s best friend.”

“Her best friend?” That was as bad as Jack wanting to have a fling with their dental hygienist.

Cody shrugged. “She wants a fling with his BFF. That would be Trent, the guy with the beard doing shots by the bar.”

Hannah shook her head. These people were crazy. Cody nudged her arm. “And of course, you know Jack.”

She turned to see her fiancé approaching, with Robynne on his arm. “Hi, Hannah.”

“Hi.” Again, her mind went blank. She knew she needed to be clever and witty, but clever and witty had never been her strong suits. With cameras hovering and a microphone inside her dress, it was even worse, though she was going to have to get used to it. According to Cynthia, she should expect to be miked whenever they were filming. “Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“Yeah. I played volleyball down on the beach.”

Robynne giggled and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Jack’s such an amazing athlete. Because of him, our team won every game.”

Jack looked entirely too pleased by the compliment. Hannah did her best to appear unflappable. “Sounds like fun. You should have come and gotten me. I would have played.”

Jack frowned. “I thought you didn’t like volleyball. Or beaches.”

“I like beaches,” she snapped, then remembered the cameras and returned to her fake smile. “But it’s nice you two had fun.”

“So, Jack...” Cody tilted his head, toward a corner of the studio. “Can we just pop over here for a quick on-the-fly interview? You can come, too, Robynne.”

She squealed and followed them away. The only bright side was that at least the cameras were gone, too. Hannah’s face felt hot, so she went to the bar for a bottle of water.

“Sorry, we’re out of bottles,” the bartender said. He grabbed a huge neon-orange plastic cup, filled and capped it with a lid and a straw. It looked like a jumbo soda from a convenience store, but Hannah took it and sipped, as she tried not to watch Jack, Robynne and Cody in the corner.

She turned away and caught her breath. The gorgeous bellhop from the lobby was standing a few feet from her. His face suddenly brightened, as he noticed her, too. “Hello again.”

“Hello to you,” she said, her pulse quickening as he came to stand by her side. Like the other servers, he wore a white dress shirt and black pants. “Thank you again for catching me. I would have made a huge fool of myself on camera.”

“It was my pleasure.” He extended his hand. “My name is Vladimir Shustov, but everyone calls me Vlad.”

“I’m Hannah Levinson.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Hannah Levinson.”

He held on to her hand just a moment longer than necessary and she gazed into his eyes, which were green, flecked with amber. The curious little flutter in her stomach she experienced earlier returned and for the moment, she was content to simply admire him. If he ever tired of hauling people’s luggage, he ought to consider modeling. She could picture him in pirate garb, gracing the cover of a romance novel. She smiled to herself. He must get employee of the month on a regular basis.

“Your accent is beautiful,” she said, wanting to know more about him. “Eastern Europe?”

“Born and raised in northern Russia. But I’ve been here about five years.”

Hannah nodded. Big resorts like this probably brought in help from all over the world. “I’m sure Puerto Rico is a pleasant change weather-wise, except for the hurricanes. Still, this must be a nice place to work.”

Vlad glanced around, and then shrugged. “I suppose it is.”

She paused, again noticing his clothes. His black pants were snug and he wore his white shirt buttoned much lower than the rest of the waitstaff. The cross necklace he’d had on earlier was gone, and his open shirt revealed a sleek, tan chest. Tightly rolled shirtsleeves displayed his muscular biceps. Hannah’s hands flew to her stomach as if she’d just been punched, and she stepped back. Vladimir Shustov was neither a bellhop nor a waiter.

“Oh my God, you’re one of
them
.”

He gave a single, brisk nod, and his smile faded into a grimace, as if the admission caused him pain. “Yes, Hannah, I am. Tammy from Team Red invited me.”

She stared at him, numb and unexpectedly bereft. After the rest of today’s disasters, this should have been par for the course, yet the hurt went deeper. He’d seemed like a kind, decent human being, and she’d wanted so badly to believe that he was. But in reality, he was nothing of the sort. It didn’t matter that he was here at someone’s invitation. He didn’t care about their relationship, or the pain he might cause. All that mattered to him were fame and money.

“I see,” she said quietly, not caring if he heard the contempt in her voice. A person like him deserved no better. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my fiancé.”

She didn’t have to look far. Jack was still at the bar with Cody, but now they were surrounded by a flock of women. One was Robynne. Another looked like Marilyn on steroids, with a teased puff of platinum hair and oversize lips and breasts, while another sported tattoos, multiple piercings and spiked purple hair.

Jack’s flings.

“Hannah Banana!” She turned at the sound of Eric’s greeting. He came to her side and brushed an air kiss onto her cheek. “Ready to meet your dream men?”

She wasn’t ready in the least, but the moment had come, like it or not. “Yeah. Sure.”

Eric furrowed his brow in a puzzled look. “Try to contain your excitement a little. Can I at least get a smile?”

She pushed her mouth into her best imitation.

He led her across the studio, a camera crew close behind, and spread his arm in a dramatic flourish. “Gentlemen. May I present the lovely Hannah Levinson?”

Terrance McFadden, aka Crusher, was as big and bald as Mr. Clean, and, as always, impeccably dressed. He greeted Hannah with a warm but crushing embrace, then stepped out of the camera’s view. The man next in line cast an admiring glance at the wrestler’s Italian-tailored ass. Thin, blond and pale with sculpted cheekbones and an imperfect nose that added attractive character to his face, he dropped a kiss on the back of Hannah’s hand. “Byron Lord, British pop sensation and your own decadent Lord Byron,” he said.

Byron Lord as Lord Byron. They’d done a good job with the name, though he seemed more interested in Crusher. She hoped for better luck with the remaining three, beginning with the beautiful specimen who stepped forward next. He was tall and dark, with an untamed mane of brown hair and the swarthy complexion of a gypsy, he paused in a subtle pose as the camera captured him in all his manly glory. Oh yes, Eric had done well with this one. Hannah resisted the urge to lick her lips as she moved into the bright glare of the camera’s spotlight. “Heathcliff, I presume?”

He shrugged. “Guess so. My name’s really Larry, but they said I looked like some dude from an old book.”

“From
Wuthering Heights.
”

He wore a blank look. “No, Cincinnati. Well, Los Angeles, now. I’m a stuntman and I do some modeling.”

So much for a meeting of the minds with Heathcliff, but at least he was nice to look at. The next fling also needed no introduction. His neatly trimmed dark hair, Regency-era sideburns and arrogant expression perfectly embodied Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Peering down his elegant nose, he said, “Stanford Owens-Smyth, star of the most recent BBC adaptation of
Pride and Prejudice
. You may address me as Mr. Darcy, if you wish.”

“How kind of you,” Hannah said, feeling as though she should curtsy. Strange how Darcy’s imperious manner, rather attractive in the book, was off-putting when attached to an actual person.

Darcy went to stand with the others as her final fling stepped forward. He was short and boyish, in a navy blazer, khaki pants and polished penny loafers. “Jeff Fitzgerald,” he said, grabbing Hannah’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Or I guess, to you, Jeff
Scott
Fitzgerald, president and CEO of Fitzgerald Family Mortuaries, where we’re committed to putting the fun in funeral!”

What in the world could she say to that? “Jeff Scott. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Not half as nice as it is to meet you.” He rummaged in the pocket of his blazer and placed a flat plastic lid in her palm. Sized to fit a can of dog food, the black letters across the top read, “Ready to seal your fate?” Jeff Scott grinned. “That’s because you, Hannah Levinson, are my perfect customer.”

She gulped. “Really?”

“Places!” In the center of the room, Eric assumed the role of director and the production assistants corralled the cast to cocktail tables, couches and other seats facing the stage.

“You sit here,” a PA told Hannah, guiding her onto a tall stool between Byron Lord and Jeff Scott. As the latter prattled on about exciting new options in urn design, Hannah scanned the room. Jack was seated on a large blue couch directly in front of the stage, flanked by Robynne and the busty blonde, whom she suspected was Cristal Glass. He didn’t even look in Hannah’s direction.

On the Team Red side of the room, a large woman with angel wing tattoos on her bare shoulders sat on a long red couch with five men, one of whom was Vladimir Shustov. Another PA approached with drinks. Hannah traded her plastic cup for a glass of champagne, and as she did, Vladimir glanced her direction. His gaze met hers, and he offered an apologetic smile. Still angry over what he’d turned out to be, she didn’t want to look at him, though she couldn’t help it. She acknowledged him with a brief nod and then turned away.

The music grew louder and Cody deWylde danced onto the stage, festive in a loud tropical shirt and pink blazer. As he turned his back to the crowd and shook his ass, crew members off camera held up cue cards reading, SMILES!, CHEERS! and APPLAUSE!

The cast and the small audience, which seemed to be made up of hotel employees and off duty production people—Hannah spotted the tattooed girl who’d brought Jack his beer earlier—obeyed. Cody howled into the microphone. “Boo-yah! Who’s ready to par-tay?”