“I wish, but Craig was acting really secretive the other day, shoving something in the back pocket of his jeans when I came into the room. So I checked later when he was asleep and it was a brochure for birthday party packages at a paintball park out in Castaic. Paintball! I’m not athletic and I hate guns.”
Craig is clearly the kind of guy who thinks if an activity excites him, his girlfriend is sure to love it too. I need to set him straight before he tanks this relationship.
“I’d be happy to steer him in a less, uh, combative direction.”
“I know Craig hates fancy stuff like this . . .” She gestures around at our opulent surroundings. “. . . because he’s been complaining ever since we got here. But there has to be some middle ground between champagne and roses and me ending up with bruises and welts all over my body. I just want my thirtieth to be romantic and special.” With a squeak, she ducks her head down so that my body is blocking hers. “Craig’s looking this way. Here.” She presses a business card into my hand. “Call me tomorrow and we can discuss how to get him to hire you.” She sneaks off in a crouched position, using different groups of people as cover.
“Huh.” She never even told me her name.
I glance down at the card my new client gave me and see that she’s Melinda Yang, Exhibitions Registrar at LACMA, arguably the best museum in Los Angeles. She has to be very intelligent and cultured to hold down that job, which makes me wonder what she’s doing with a man whose idea of a great time is getting pelted by exploding capsules of paint. Opposites attract, I suppose.
Ian takes my chin and turns my face toward him so that he can swipe my nose with a napkin. Showing me the blob of white that comes off, he says, “You had this dollop of crème fraîche on the tip of your nose the whole time you were talking to the woman with the horrible boyfriend.”
“Lovely.” I rub my nose to confirm that it’s now dairy-free. “At least Ms. Yang didn’t seem to notice.”
“You seem to be on a hot streak with getting new business tonight. You want to do some more networking?” He waves a hand around the room.
“Sure, but let me run to the restroom first. My bladder is about to burst and I should probably freshen up so that I can put my best foot forward. Will you keep an eye on my award?”
“I’ll protect it with my life,” he assures me with a wink.
I exit the ballroom into the foyer, then follow the restroom signs, which tell me to hang a right, go a few hundred feet down a carpeted corridor, then hang another right. Naturally, the ladies’ is at the far end of the second corridor after the men’s because they’re the ones who are more likely to be wearing uncomfortable shoes. No, wait, that’s us! I really am tempted to take off these torturous sandals and go barefoot the rest of the night, but that wouldn’t be very classy.
I take care of business in the luxe ladies’ room, wash my hands, and rub in some wonderful-smelling lotion offered to me by the uniformed attendant. Moving out to the lounge, I stand in front of the mirrors so that I can fluff up my hair, reapply my lipstick, and powder my shiny face. On the way out, I’m stopped by a group of women who offer congratulations on my win. I could get used to all this adulation!
I’m heading back up the corridor when I see a man off in the distance, hustling a platinum-haired woman along the foyer in the opposite direction of the ballroom. I stop, wondering if I’ve had too much champagne and am having a bubbly-induced hallucination, or if the pair who just passed in front of me were really who I thought they were. Deciding I have to investigate, I speed-walk to the foyer and look around, but there are no couples in sight, just venue employees and lone partygoers searching for the facilities. I pivot to my right, trying to ascertain where the duo who caught my eye (if they do in fact exist) might have disappeared. There’s only one option as that side of the entrance hall ends at a pair of glass doors leading out to The Gardens, which is another one of the Taglyan’s event spaces.
Pulling out my phone so that I can text Ian, I frown when I see the low battery warning telling me I’ve got less than ten percent left. Dammit! If I hadn’t been so rushed when I got home this afternoon, I would have remembered to recharge this thing.
‘Will be gone a bit longer. Checking something out in the gardens,’ is the message I send before pushing open one of the doors that allows me access outside.
It’s like stepping into another world as I leave the party’s noise and crowd behind to find myself in a lovely, brick-paved courtyard bordered by boxwood hedges. In its center is an ornate, stone fountain with three large fish spewing water into the basin below. The courtyard is bathed in the soft glow of charmingly old-fashioned lamp posts positioned along the path and globe lights hanging in the trees that encircle the area.
I walk toward the fountain and notice several couples taking advantage of the romantic setting, strolling hand-in-hand or with their arms wrapped around each other, exchanging murmured words while the evening breeze, which is redolent with a wonderful, lemony scent, ushers them along. Unfortunately, none of these twosomes are the man and woman I thought I saw earlier. I’m not deterred, though. This space was billed as “The Gardens,” so it stands to reason that there’s more than one.
Backtracking to where the brick path started at the doors, I notice that veering off to the left is also an option, albeit a less popular one since everyone, including me, was automatically drawn to the splendor of the fountain. I move stealthily down this flower and shrub-lined walkway, keeping my eyes and ears open, doing my best to stick to the shadows. I don’t get far before I hear the sound of voices raised in anger. I tiptoe closer, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to alert the arguers to my presence. I still can’t see the pair and their words aren’t really distinguishable, but—
“You lying wanker!” screeches a female with a pronounced British accent and not the posh one she puts on when acting either. This one sounds more like Eliza Doolittle before Henry Higgins got a hold of her.
I freeze in place, both shocked and delighted to learn that I was right! Georgina Knight is here, and she’s with Jaz’s manager/confidant, Nick Delucca. Why the two of them are together is yet to be determined, but I have to get eyes on them to figure out what’s going on. There’s a row of spire-like cypress trees ahead, which frustrate me at first because they’re blocking my view, but I quickly realize the trees are perfect for a tall, slim person like me to hide behind. So I take off my heels and scurry over to the closest one.
Hugging the upward, sweeping branches that have a strong, pine-y smell, I slowly peek my head around the side of the cypress and see a large, circular garden, once again bordered by boxwood hedges, but instead of a fountain in its center, there’s statuary, and standing just a foot away from those figures carved in stone are the flesh and blood people I’m interested in.
I hop over to the next tree so that I’ll have a better angle to shoot what I’m seeing on my phone and my foot lands on something small and squishy that bursts and oozes its insides onto my bare sole. For one horrible moment, I think I might be a snail murderer, but then I remember that a snail’s shell would be crunchy, not squishy. I lift my foot and find the remains of a black olive on its underside, which makes sense since there are trees bearing this fruit here in The Gardens. I brush off the smushed olive while activating my phone and pray the device holds out long enough for me to get some incriminating footage, then lean around the tree and hold my arm out so that I can capture what’s happening and also watch on the display screen where I’ve zoomed in on them.
Georgina and Delucca have lowered their voices again, so I can’t hear anything, but their body language speaks volumes. She’s pacing, and scowling, and gesticulating so wildly that Delucca keeps having to move back to avoid being smacked in the face by one of her flying hands. He seems to be trying to placate her, but she’s not allowing him to say much, and it’s clear from my vantage point that he’s losing patience with her histrionics because he huffs out a breath of annoyance and look
s skyward as if he’s pleading with a higher power to give him strength whenever his companion turns away from him.
It should be noted that Georgina is not dressed as if she came to the Taglyan to attend the LA Woman Magazine Awards. Quite the opposite in fact. I think what I’m bearing witness to is the real Georgina, not the sanitized version who appeared on Late Night. Jax said she has a fondness for showing skin, and he was not exaggerating because more of her milky white flesh is on display right now than what’s covered up. The yellow crop top she’s wearing is basically a bikini bra made out of sheer, yellow fabric with flouncy sleeves attached. Her shoulders, cleavage, and most of her midriff are exposed and her distressed, low-rise jeans are so tight I’d have to drop the last two letters off skinny to describe them. Since she’s not glammed up for a formal event, I can scratch “accidentally bumped into each other” off my list of reasons why Jax’s co-star and Jaz’s manager are now having this spat.
The next possibility is that they’re romantically involved, but that doesn’t track since Jaz is hashtag goals for Nick Delucca and I can’t imagine him doing anything to jeopardize the possibility of them eventually getting together. And the same logic would apply to him signing Georgina as a client. That would be too much of a conflict of interest, and Delucca would quickly fall out of favor with Jaz if she discovered he was helping Georgina in any way, shape, or form, even professionally, which leaves me with only one other explanation for the coming together of this unlikely couple . . .
Nick Delucca has been colluding with Georgina Knight to further his own interests with Jaz! He probably gave her a jingle after the cheating scandal hit and he’s been secretly advising her on how to play this ever since. Her suddenly agreeing to do Late Night and the lie-filled performance she gave on that show were obviously masterminded by someone well-versed in how to game the Hollywood system, and Nick has the expertise and contacts here to do just that. Come to think of it, why did Georgina come to LA when the poop hit the fan about her night with Jax? Most celebrities would have gone into hiding until the whole thing blew over, but no, this woman hopped a plane that brought her right to the belly of the beast where the hookup she participated in was headlining every entertainment magazine, website, and news show and the married man she banged resides with his wife. It’s all very suspicious now that I’m looking at what’s transpired through the lens of knowing Delucca was invol—
“You’d better come through, or else!” Georgina is shrieking loud enough for me to hear her again. She’s also poking her finger at Nick’s chest to drive her point home.
Wrapping his hand around hers, Nick pulls the actress up against his chest and leans down so that their noses are almost touching. The expression on his face is quite menacing and even though he’s speaking in a hushed tone, he enunciates his words in such a slow and dramatic fashion that I can easily read his lips. “Do. Not. Threaten. Me,” he warns, and I shiver in response.
Georgina pushed him too far and you’d think she’d realize that and back down, but no one ever said this woman was bright. With a grunt of defiance, she pulls her hand free and vows petulantly, “You’ll regret this!” before turning on her Lucite block heel and storming out of the garden.
I barely have time to end my recording and turn sideways so that the tree will shield me when Georgina tromps past. I hold that position, waiting to see what Nick will do. He pulls out his phone, taps the display screen a few times, then brings it up to his ear. The person on the other end of the line must answer quickly because I hear him say, “We’ve got a problem” as he strides past the cypresses.
He’s reporting his fight with Georgina to a third party? So someone else is in the know about their alliance, which means that this isn’t just two opportunists scheming behind-the-scenes, it’s a full-on conspiracy!!!!!! Dun dun dun . . .
And yes, my mind just played that “shocking reveal” music we’ve all heard in movies and TV shows a million times. According to Viv, it’s called “a dramatic sting.” As I recall, she always ended up dead whenever those notes were played for her on-screen and here I am, all alone in a concealed, dimly lit area after just discovering information that could blow this whole Jaz/Jax/Delucca/Georgina thing wide open. Gulp.
I have to tell Alex now so that when I mysteriously disappear he’ll know why and where to look for the body. Also I should stop watching reruns of Castle before going to bed at night because the romance part of the show is fun, but all the murder stuff is turning me into a paranoid scaredy-cat!
Glancing down at my phone, I see that the battery is now barely registering at four percent. Crap! I’ll never be able to finish a conversation with that little juice. I have no choice but to text Alex, which I do while walking as fast as I possibly can back up the brick pathway to the main courtyard.
‘Emergency! Need to see you NOW! Meet me by fountain in gardens at Taglyan Complex. Hurry!!!!!!!!!’
CHAPTER 26
Since my phone went dead a few seconds after I sent my text to Alex and I have no clock to check, I’ve lost all concept of time. I’ve been circling this damn fountain for what feels like an eternity, but it’s probably been more like fifteen minutes, which is how long it would take Alex to get here from his office on Wilshire. That’s where I’m assuming he is because it’s a weeknight and he’s a workaholic, but I suppose he could be at home. Although I have no idea where that is, I can’t imagine him living anywhere else but downtown where all the celebrity action is. Or he could be on a date—the thought of which makes my stomach churn. Why? I have no right to be jealous. He’s single and can go out with whomever he pleases. I’m on a date with a handsome, attentive man who’s not Alex right now, aren’t I? I mean, it’s not a real date since Ian and aren’t going to end the night in bed, but it still counts.
Ugh, my feet hurt. I put my heels back on when I returned from my spy mission and that was a big mistake. The straps are really cutting into my ankles and toes now and I think it’s because my feet swelled up when they were briefly free of their leather confines. My kingdom for a nice, comfortable bench! Why is there no place to sit in this garden? I guess they only haul out the chairs when the Taglyan is doing a wedding here. I’d happily perch on the ledge of the fountain, but there’s a barrier of flowers around it to prevent that.
I pause to stare at the fountain, marveling at how the lights make the falling water sparkle like diamonds, and wonder if coin-throwing is allowed. I don’t see any signs that caution against it, so I take a step closer and peer down into the water. Sure enough, there are a few glints of copper and silver at the bottom of the basin. Never having been able to resist an opportunity to make a wish, I open my purse to fish out a coin, then remember I didn’t bring my wallet. I jiggle my purse, hoping a coin might have fallen out the last time I used this bag, but I don’t hear any loose change. I must be looking very dejected because an older couple stops and the man digs a penny out of the pocket of his tuxedo trousers. “Here you are,” he offers me the coin with a hand covered in age spots.
“That’s very kind. Thank you so much.”
“Use that wish wisely, dear,” the elegant, silver-gowned woman advises. “It just may come true. Forty-eight years ago I threw a coin in the fountain at the Exposition Park Rose Garden and wished as hard as I could that this man would propose.” She gazes up adoringly at her companion.
“And I did just that right in the same spot a week later!” He takes her hand and lifts it to tenderly place a kiss on her ring finger where a gold band resides.
“We got married there among the roses and go back every year on our anniversary for a walk around the fountain,” she completes the story, which is pretty swoony. This is one couple who has absolutely no need of my services. They could write a book on romance and teach all of us whippersnappers a thing or two!
“What a lovely story. I appreciate you sharing it with me.” It lifts my spirits to see a couple whose relationship has weathered the test of time and are still deeply in love. We
should all be so lucky.
“I promise I’ll use this coin . . .” I hold up the penny. “. . . to wish for something really special.”
The three of us exchange smiles, and they move along, leaving me to ponder what I should wish for. After hearing the love story of those sweet sixtysomethings, I feel like I can’t make a wish for good health or professional success. My wish has to be something befitting this magical, romantic setting. I know! I’ll make a wish for Jax and Jaz. At this point, a little mystical assistance might be helpful to them in finding their way back to each other.
Turning away from the fountain, I close my eyes and murmur, “I wish for true love to prevail,” then toss the coin clutched in my right hand over my left shoulder. I hear the penny make a satisfying plop in the water and open my eyes to see Alex running up to me in full soccer gear. He’s breathing hard and his hair and green jersey are dampened with sweat, which is a very good look for him.
“Woah! Did you leave in the middle of a game?” I can’t think of any other reason why he’d be wearing his soccer shoes off the field as hard surfaces will ruin his top-of-the-line Adidas cleats. And dammit, I never should have lowered my gaze because now I’m fixated on all the rippling muscles in his thighs. Men who play soccer have the best quads!
“Had to,” he declares, forcing me to look up at him. “I checked my phone at halftime and saw your text. You didn’t respond to any of my messages asking what the big emergency was, so I got nervous. I thought you might be in some kind of trouble.”
“Nice to know you still care.”
“That was never in question,” he says with an earnestness so disarming I’m uncertain how to reply, which leads to an awkward stretch of silence. Finally, Alex heaves a sigh and asks, “Why am I here? Did you break a heel or something?” His eyes rake over me. “You look sexy as hell, by the way, like Nicole Kidman circa Days of Thunder.”
Straight from the Hart Page 24