“Good call. Joffrey was the worst.” Closing the front door behind me, I drop my purse and shoes in the entryway, then try to unzip my skirt, but it’s impossible to do one-handed. “And being identified with that character probably would have ruined your chances of ever being viewed in a romantic—” As I walk past the kitchen, I glance over at the digital clock on the microwave and yelp when I see that it’s now five after five.
“I am so late!” I screech before remembering I’m still on the phone with my client. “Meet me at the restaurant on the terrace at your hotel tomorrow,” I tell him. “Eight-thirty sharp.” We won’t have to worry about anyone taking snaps of us there as that’s strictly forbidden in the hotel’s celebrity-friendly eatery.
“Got it. See ya then, Red, and congrats on the award.”
“Fwank moo,” I mumble because I’m yanking my blouse over my head.
I hear Jax saying bye, so I toss my phone in the direction of the Lulu and Georgia couch in my living room, hoping the device will make a soft landing on its plush cushions. I extricate myself from the silky fabric I should have thought to unbutton first, shimmy out of my skirt, strip off my bra and panties, and streak naked through my apartment, feeling panicked at the thought of having less than an hour to make myself presentable for one of the most important events of my career.
CHAPTER 24
Punctual as always, Ian rings my doorbell at six o’clock on the dot.
Peeking my head out of the disaster area that used to be my bathroom, I yell, “Coming!” although I’m still barefoot and have yet to finish my makeup.
Grabbing the tube of NARS lipstick that’s sitting out on the countertop along with just about all the cosmetics I own, I do a quick swipe of its shimmery color across my mouth, then run into my bedroom where I left the box with my metallic gold sandals from Jimmy Choo on the floor of my closet. I slip my feet into the shoes, thanking my lucky stars that the pinky nude polish I got with my pedicure two weeks ago is still intact, fasten the buckles of the thin ankle straps and tear back into the bathroom where I stuff the lipstick, my powder compact, some mini breath mints, and a pack of tissues in my glittery evening bag.
I’m scurrying out to the living area when I hear an impatient knock on the door.
“Almost there!” I call out so that Ian doesn’t give up on me and leave. I retrieve my phone from the crack between the couch cushions where it’s wedged and add the device to the items in my clutch. A few seconds later, I throw open the door and welcome my escort for the evening with a breathless apology, “I’m so sorry! I got caught in a traffic jam on the way home from the office and was a stressed out, sweaty mess by the time I got here, then I barely had enough time to pull myself together and—”
“You look hot,” Ian assures me. His dark eyes roam appreciatively from the padded shoulders of the rose gold sequined dress I got from Monique Lhuillier’s boutique on Melrose, down the beautifully draped bodice that has a plunging neckline, to the floor-length hemline of its slinky skirt. “Your body’s bangin’ in that dress. Your skin’s glowing. And your hair—”
I wince. “It’s totally wild, I know. The steam in the shower made it kink up, and I didn’t have time to wash it and blow out the curls, so I played them up with some product and scrunching.”
“I’m into it. You look like a sexy Medusa.”
“Does that mean men will take one look at me and turn to stone?”
“Parts of them will anyway,” he jokes with a wiggle of his eyebrows that cracks me up.
“I’m not the only one who’s stylin’. You look very sharp in that tux.” I playfully tug on the cuff of the crisp white dress shirt Ian’s wearing underneath his midnight blue dinner jacket that has nice detailing with its black satin lapels. I love how he always puts a twist on classic men’s pieces with a surprising choice in color or texture. “Forget Idris Elba. You should be the Black James Bond.”
“Thank you.” He makes a show of brushing off his sleeves and adjusting his cuffs. “But I wouldn’t want to take a job away from Idris. Brothers have to stick together. Plus, I hate Bond’s signature drink—martinis are revolting whether they’re shaken or stirred, even when they’re dirty.” He crinkles his nose in distaste.
“And I thought your motto in life was: the dirtier, the better.”
“Only when it comes to sex, films, and literature, never cocktails,” he retorts. “If you’re ready to go, your carriage awaits, and by carriage, I mean, my Rolls.”
“Ooooo la la, I rate the Rolls?”
“It’s a special night for my special lady, so nothing but my most luxurious car would do.” With a charming smile, Ian offers me his arm.
“Hold that thought,” I tell him, then bend down to collect the purse I dropped earlier. I fish out my keys and driver’s license and transfer them to my clutch, which I snap shut. Once I’ve straightened back up, I place my hand on Ian’s elbow and say, “Let’s get this party started.”
* * *
“Wow!” I exclaim when we first walk into the Grand Ballroom at the Taglyan Complex.
I am both stunned and delighted by how beautiful the massive venue looks. Its unique stained glass ceiling is illuminated by LED lighting that’s showering the room with a warm, golden glow while the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling provide their own sparkle. The party’s color scheme is elegant and sophisticated with tables covered in black cloths, centerpieces of small black birdcages nestled in arrangements of white and cream flowers, crystal champagne glasses and gold-patterned china plates at each place setting, and cushioned gold chairs for attendees to sit in. The tables are all facing a large stage at the front of the room where there’s a podium and presumably the awards will be handed out.
I feel excited and a little bit terrified at the thought of getting up in front of all the people in this ballroom—from a quick glance around to see how many tables there are, I guesstimate that the magazine is expecting at least three hundred to be here. Thank goodness I don’t have to give an acceptance speech! As there are ten honorees in different categories, I was told that we’d all be called on stage, where we’d stand off to the side of the host, then we’d each step forward to accept our award and return to our seats.
I give my name to one of the greeters inside the ballroom and she points us to our table, but says it’s okay to mingle until the ceremony starts. Ever the social butterfly, Ian leads me right into the thick of the crowd and starts introducing us, making sure everyone knows I’m one of the evening’s award winners and how proud he is of me. I curse myself for forgetting to stick some business cards in my evening bag because most of the people I meet are very intrigued by my job and express interest in using my services. I end up pulling out my phone and texting several of them my company’s name and number.
For the next half-hour, Ian expertly maneuvers us around the room, and I’m grateful for his savoir faire in these situations. He always knows the right questions to ask to stimulate an entertaining conversation and can provide a clever anecdote that will make others laugh. He also goes out of his way to give everyone, including me, their moment in the spotlight. Best of all, he is adept at politely extricating us from each group so that we can move on to another and don’t get stuck with the same people for a tiresome length of time.
“Since it’s for charity, how can I say no?” Ian queries amiably.
“You’re going to love the course at Riv. I’ll have my assistant call yours with all the details,” the silver-haired producer promises.
Riv is short for Riviera Country Club, a swanky place out in Pacific Palisades with an elite membership who consider golf to be a religion, or at least that’s the impression I’ve gotten from this man who’s spent the last few minutes waxing rhapsodic about this year’s Genesis Invitational, some big tournament that was played there.
“I look forward to it.” Ian offers him his hand and they exchange a manly shake, then he wraps an arm around my waist and steers me away.
“You play golf?” I murmur the question.
“Not really, but I’d like to further my acquaintance with Paul Prescott. He has a big, old house full of antiques collected by previous generations of his family, and you never know when he might want to unload some of—”
“Crap!” I squeak in surprise, stopping dead in my tracks and swiveling around to face Ian with a panicked expression.
“What’s wrong?” he wonders, his smooth forehead crinkling with concern.
“He’s here,” I say.
“He who?” Ian’s looking over my curls to try and ascertain which partygoer I’m referring to.
“Nick Delucca,” I reply in an exaggerated whisper. “You know, Jaz’s manager.”
“The one who thinks you’re a French actress named Dominique Le Coeur?”
“Véronique,” I correct him, and a spark of amusement ignites in Ian’s eyes.
Grinning, he says, “Well, well, well, this night just got more interesting. Let’s walk past him and see if he does a double take.”
“No!” I grab Ian’s arm to stop him from going anywhere. “If he figures out that Vanessa Hart, romance concierge, and Véronique Le Coeur are one and the same, he’ll know it was no coincidence that Alex and I were at The Rooftop when Jax made that romantic gesture to Jaz and I’m being paid to help Jax reunite with his client. I have to avoid Delucca at all costs tonight. What’s he doing here anyway?” I expected him to be at Jaz’s place, playing daddy to the new dog he got her.
Acting as my eyes, Ian scans the room. “Is Delucca the guy wearing the gray sharkskin suit instead of a tux? That’s bad form when the invite said, ‘Black Tie.’ He probably thinks he’s being some kind of fashion rebel.” Ian shakes his head with disapproval.
“I didn’t notice his suit, just that he had a red tie.”
“Burgundy, but close enough. He appears to be here with that little dark-haired actress from the vampire show that was so popular a few years ago.”
I know exactly who he’s talking about. “Plum Bailey.”
Ian frowns. “I hope Plum’s a stage name because her parents have a lot to answer for if they named their child after a fruit although now that she’s turned her back, I can see that her booty is pretty juicy-looking . . .”
“Stop drooling and give me that awards program you stuffed into your jacket earlier.”
As instructed, he pulls the glossy booklet from his pocket and hands it to me.
I quickly page through the bios of tonight’s honorees until I reach Plum’s. “She’s one of tonight’s award recipients because she started a charity that provides service dogs for autistic children, which was inspired by her younger brother who’s on the spectrum.”
“Impressive,” Ian murmurs. “So do we think Delucca is here as her date?”
“You tell me. Are they acting cozy?”
“Mmmmm . . .” Ian strokes his chin thoughtfully as he watches the other couple. “Not really. They’re not touching, making prolonged eye contact, sharing secret smiles, or showing any other signs of intimacy.”
“Then she must be one of his clients. I wonder if he has any who aren’t young, beautiful, and female.”
“We could go ask him,” Ian suggests with a quirk of his lips.
“No way. I look different enough that Delucca might not recognize me as Véronique, but if he hears my voice, the jig is up,” I predict just as the chandeliers above us start blinking. “That’s our cue. We should head to our table.”
We’ve been assigned to table seventeen, which is in the second row off to the right of the stage. I smile and say hello to the people already ensconced there as Ian pulls out a chair for me. Shortly thereafter, two more of the evening’s honorees take a seat at the table, leading me to believe that the magazine is grouping us all in one area of the room. I break out in a flop sweat, worrying that Plum and Delucca might be the next to join us.
Sit somewhere else. Sit somewhere else. Sit somewhere else. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, hoping I can repel the couple with the power of my mind.
When the last chairs at our table are filled and none of them are occupied by Jaz and Plum’s manager, I exhale a sigh of the greatest relief and reach for the glass of champagne that was just poured for me. I’ve earned some bubbly and I could use it to calm my nerves.
I’m sipping on my Moët, listening to Ian whisper a juicy tidbit about one of his mother’s friends whom he just spotted in the ballroom (she’s having an affair with her husband’s female secretary), when I feel the creepy sensation of being watched. I glance up to see Nick Delucca staring at me with unabashed interest from the opposite side of the table one over from us. SonofaB!
Knowing that averting my eyes would make me look like I have something to hide, I elect to brazen it out and meet his gaze with my own. His lips curve up on one side in a raffish half-smile and he lifts his glass of champagne in a toast to me that could be interpreted in more than one way. It could mean, “Congrats on the award you’re about to receive.” Or “I’m onto you, sweetheart.”
Not having any other choice, I raise my glass in the air, acknowledging his gesture, then take another swig of my drink and turn to the side so that I can murmur in Ian’s ear, “I am directly in Delucca’s sightline, and he’s eyeballing me.”
“Why wouldn’t he? You’re the hottest woman in the room, and it’s already been established he’s a lothario.”
“So you think when he raised his glass to me, he was just flirting?”
“Most likely. Want me to stake my claim so that Delucca will know he’s got no chance with you?”
Whatever it takes to get him to stop looking over here. The lighting in this ballroom may not be bright enough to see a lot of details from a distance, but it’s just a matter of time before Delucca susses out that it’s Véronique Le Coeur’s face beneath all of this tousled, copper hair.
“Go ahead,” I give Ian leave to play the adoring, supportive boyfriend to the hilt.
Raising his voice so that everyone at our table can hear, Ian says, “But I insist, Gingersnap!” before extracting his phone from his jacket pocket. “I’m going to record you receiving your award so that our future children can watch your big moment and see how amazing their mother is.” He tenderly cups my face in his hand and leans forward to press an ardent, but still suitable for public, kiss on my mouth.
“Awwwwww,” several women at the table coo their appreciation of Ian’s sweetness, probably wishing they were in my shoes. I wish one of them was in my shoes too because the strap on my right sandal is rubbing a painful blister on my baby toe.
The editor of LA Woman Magazine takes the stage, walking purposefully toward the podium, and the audience greets her with applause. This is it!
CHAPTER 25
An hour later, I’m in possession of a glossy black marble obelisk engraved with gold letters spelling out the name of the magazine, the year, the category I won, and the all-important words: Presented to Vanessa Hart. My heart swells with pride every time I look at the award, and I’ve been fantasizing about where in my office I’d like to put it while washing down flank steak crostini and caprese skewers with more champagne.
“In the lobby on a pedestal with a spotlight shining down on it would probably be too much, right?” I ask Ian who’s been letting me steal appetizers off his plate since I already finished mine and didn’t want to look like a pig by requesting another. I heard one of the waiters say something about dessert apps in passing and I’m really hoping that pans out. I could happily lay waste to a stack of mini-cheesecakes right now. What? I barely ate all day because of nerves about this event. Now that the stressful part of it is over, I’m ready to strap on the feedbag!
My date shrugs. “It’s your office. If you want to play ‘Circle of Life’ every day at the same time and walk through the corridors of Straight from the Hart with the award lifted above your head, that’s your prerogative.”
“Don’t give me ideas,” I retort with a smirk
, then snatch his last blini, which is topped with smoked salmon and crème fraîche.
It’s so delicious I do a little happy dance in my seat while chewing it.
Smiling indulgently, Ian says, “You’ve got a little—”
He’s cut off by a petite woman in a red dress with a crossover halterneck who plops down in the empty seat next to me and asserts in a furtive whisper, “I need your help.”
Turning toward her, I mumble, “Mwine?” because my mouth’s still crammed full of blini.
Her eyes dart nervously around the room before she leans in and asks, “You’re the romance expert, aren’t you?”
“Mmmm hmmm.” I shake my head as I swallow the appetizer. Ian passes me a cocktail napkin, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I smeared my lipstick while eating. I blot my mouth with it to be on the safe side.
“Thank God.” She tucks the curtain of silky, black hair falling over her right shoulder behind her ear. “Because my boyfriend doesn’t have a clue and he’s insisting on orchestrating a birthday ‘surprise’ for my thirtieth next month. He already ruined Valentine’s; I refuse to let him screw up my birthday too.”
“What happened on Valentine’s?”
“He took me to an escape room geared toward couples.”
“Sounds . . . fun?” If you’re into solving puzzles while being trapped in a small room with your S.O.
“More like a nightmare!” she exclaims loudly, then claps her hand over her mouth and peeks over my shoulder to make sure no one else heard her. In a hushed voice, she continues, “Every time someone in the room got a clue wrong or touched something they shouldn’t, a love-hating serial killer would pop up out of nowhere, pretend to brutally murder one half of a couple, and drag the body off somewhere. When the killer came after me, I was so terrified I peed my pants and threw up.”
I grimace because that’s pretty much the biggest Valentine’s fail I’ve ever heard. “Maybe your boyfriend learned his lesson and will stick to doing something more traditionally romantic for your birthday.”
Straight from the Hart Page 23