by Maryann Reid
“It isn’t.” He hopped out of the limo, got down on one knee, and said, “Blake Bertrand, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Marry me.”
“Oh, hell no. Get back in this car, Brett. We’re leaving.”
“I’ve made a reservation. Everything is ready. It will only take a few minutes.”
“I don’t give a freshly dropped shit. We are not getting married.”
“But, Blake, I love you!”
Wedding chapel staff were drifting outside, no doubt wondering why the happy couple were lingering at the limo instead of racing inside to say their vows. A plump, balding man in minister’s clothing glanced away from the limo to look meaningfully at his wristwatch, then continued staring at them again.
“This is unpleasant to say, and worse to hear, but it’s the truth—I don’t love you, Brett. We still barely know each other.”
“And whose fault is that? Every time I try to get closer to you, you just push me away.”
“Brett, get in the goddamn car or I’m going to leave you here.”
“You can’t. I hired the limo. The driver takes orders from me, not you.”
Blake pulled her wallet out of her purse, slid out a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and waved it so that the driver could see it in his rearview mirror. “I don’t know how much he’s paying you, but I can pay you more. I’m worth half a billion.”
“Where do you want me to take you, ma’am?”
Brett scrambled onto his feet and climbed back inside the limo, slamming the door shut. He said not a word, and wouldn’t look at Blake. That suited Blake fine.
“Back to the Red Rock. I’ll get something from room service.” She leveled a cool stare at Brett. “After I rent a separate room for the rest of the weekend, that is.”
For the first time since they boarded the plane from New York to Las Vegas, Suki spoke for a purpose other than ordering a meal. “You could share my room and save yourself some money, Boss.”
If looks could kill, Brett would have annihilated several miles of Las Vegas on the way back to the hotel.
Chapter Sixteen
April 12
New York, New York
Their taxi from the airport dropped off Blake, Brett, and Suki at Blake’s apartment just a few minutes before 10 P.M. In silence they lugged their bags inside, though Blake nodded to the doorman when he welcomed them home. As soon as Matt opened the apartment door in response to Blake’s knocking, Blake turned to Brett and said, “I want you to go now.”
He still wouldn’t look at her, and that didn’t bother her. “Where the hell am I supposed to go at this time of night?”
“You said you’ve got family and friends in Harlem, right?” put in Matt.
“They’ll all be in bed by now.”
“Oh, someone must love you enough to wake up and let you in their house,” Suki said, practically purring. “Now, just put those bags down, and go get the rest of your luggage from my boss’s room, and I’ll walk you back out to the taxi.”
“I can do that,” Matt offered to Suki, though they both kept watch on Brett. “You must be tired.”
“Not too tired for this,” Suki promised him. “But our friend here hasn’t moved, so maybe he needs a little help.”
“With pleasure.” Matt clapped a firm hand on Brett’s shoulder and hauled him inside the apartment.
Blake wanted to take a hot tub bath and go to bed, but she thought it might be best if she stayed out of her bedroom until Matt and Brett finished collecting Brett’s luggage. She dropped her suitcase by the sofa, went into the kitchen, and heated water for some herbal tea.
As she stirred some honey into a steaming mug of chamomile tea, she heard Suki say, sounding positively gleeful, “There, we’re all ready. Come on, I’ll give you some advice about women while we’re in the elevator.”
I wonder if Suki’s advice about women leaves bruises. Blake sipped her tea and wondered if she cared. She was about to fetch her suitcase from the living room, but Matt was already carrying it into her bedroom for her.
Matt hesitated before leaving Blake’s bedroom. “I know you’re probably hurting, Ms. Bertrand, but that guy was no good for you. Now he’s gone, maybe you’ll meet a real man.”
She managed a smile. “If I meet a real man while I’ve got you, Suki, and Antonio guarding me, I’ll know that’s what he is, because you three will tell me.”
“You better believe it.” Matt grinned. “Good night, Ms. Bertrand. Pleasant dreams.” He shut her bedroom door for her on his way out.
As the bathtub filled with hot water, Blake stripped naked, and decided she wanted some jazz while she soaked. She went to the turntable and put the late, great Amy Winehouse’s album Back to Black on to play.
A little while later, as Blake drank her tea in a luxuriously hot bubble bath, the ghost of Amy Winehouse sang mournfully that “Love Is a Losing Game.”
“Girl, you were so right about that,” Blake agreed, with the restless spirit crooning from the turntable. “But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m done with all that.”
#
April 13
New York, New York
At 9 A.M., Blake found herself, Antonio, and Vickie at Caffe Reggio. Sitting across the table from them were Vanessa Reeves and Jerome Harper, a team of television producers still new to the business but widely regarded as one of the most promising players in the TV producer game since Rob Reiner.
Vanessa was an imposing long-haired redhead, tall and slender but obviously athletic. She reminded Blake of the legends of the Amazons. By coincidence, she arrived wearing a Chanel suit identical to the one Blake wore. “Great minds thinking alike. That’s a good omen,” Vanessa joked, holding out a hand to shake Blake’s.
“I’m really sorry, but I don’t shake hands, because I get sick easily.” My life would be so much easier if we got rid of that custom, Blake considered, not for the first time.
“Oh yes, and you just got over the flu. It’s better if Jerome and I don’t risk catching that, anyway.” Vanessa smiled, which immediately put Blake at ease.
Jerome was African American and almost the same height as Vanessa, but he reminded Blake of the nerdy kid Steve Urkel from the ’90s sitcom Family Matters. He was spindly, wore granny glasses, and dressed like he must be colorblind, and Blake reckoned he must ping gaydars for hundreds of miles around. This guy must be the brains of the team. He certainly didn’t win contracts for the team based on his sense of style. She liked him immediately.
They ordered breakfast, commented on the signs that spring was coming to New York, and made casual inquiries about each other’s work: Blake’s plans for the Wishman Spears and her new charity, and Reeves and Harper’s two current hit shows on NBC. Work discussions transitioned smoothly into the reason for their meeting after their food and beverages were delivered.
“Now, speaking of your shows on NBC, Vickie tells me you’re planning a reality show you’d like me to host?” Blake paused between bites of pancake to pose the question.
“Blake, you’d be perfect!” gushed Vanessa, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “You’re glamorous, and you’re a true rags-to-riches American success story, and you’re one of the smartest businesswomen on the planet. People love you. If you’ll host this show, it will guarantee top ratings!”
“That’s all very flattering.” Blake turned a quizzical gaze to Jerome. “But what is the show about?”
“We’re calling it The Takeover,” Jerome explained, gesturing his fork with fluid wrist movements. “Contestants will be aspiring entrepreneurs. As the season progresses, they’ll have to complete projects such as formulating a mission statement for a business, researching the competition’s products and marketing strategies, developing a new goods or service and planning for its promotion, recruiting investment partners, various problems that real entrepreneurs must solve to be successful. You, as host, will evaluate how well each contestant completed the latest project, and whoever performed worst
is eliminated.”
I could really make a useful contribution by doing this, Blake considered. So many people dream of owning their own business but don’t have the courage, and people who are already successful don’t help them because they don’t have the time. This show could give them the courage and platform they need.
“I’m definitely interested,” Blake told them.
“Excellent!” Vanessa sat back, relaxing in her triumph. “We’ll fax you and Vickie a copy of our standard contract, and—”
“Hold on. I have some terms and conditions for you.” Blake finished off her coffee while the inevitable protests erupted.
“For God’s sake, Blake, their standard contract is one of the most generous in the industry,” Vickie scolded, under her breath. “Don’t be a diva.”
Meanwhile, as Vickie criticized Blake, Vanessa turned on the charm. “Of course we’ll be glad to consider any requests you’ve got for us, Ms.—”
“These aren’t requests. They’re requirements.” Although Blake didn’t raise her voice in the slightest, a hush fell over the whole restaurant.
Vanessa took to ripping her napkin in tiny shreds while looking out the window at the distant park as though nothing really important were happening inside the restaurant. Jerome squirmed like a small boy who needs to go to the bathroom but for some reason is unwilling. Vickie slanted miffed glances at Blake.
As for Blake herself, she calmly beckoned Alyssa, their waitress, to come and refill the coffee cups at their table. Alyssa, pale and shy, poured coffee, squeaked an inquiry as to whether they needed anything else, and scurried away to the kitchen.
“This isn’t a showdown in a Western saloon,” Blake said into the silence, just before sipping her coffee.
Embarrassed, the other diners found something—anything—to talk about among themselves. Blake waited, watching a street dancer perform on the corner. She had what these people wanted. All she had to do was wait for them to realize they wanted her enough to make a few concessions that weren’t standard procedure for them.
“Well.” Vanessa brushed the napkin shreds aside and leveled her gaze at Blake. “Let’s hear these requirements of yours.”
“It’s simple, really. I’m starting an organization called Mentors & Protégés that gives the average person a chance to hang out with and learn from a millionaire for a day. I’m talking to a few celebrity spokespersons like Jennifer Gutiérrez, Victoria Leck, Manley Yates, and Mark Summers.” Blake paused, letting Vanessa and Jerome absorb Blake’s impressive public relations coup. “My first requirement is that your show air, free of charge, advertising for the charity.”
“That’s going to take some negotiating with the network.” Jerome’s squirming got worse.
“You do that all the time already. This is just one more item of business for you to discuss with them.” Blake kept her eyes on Vanessa’s, recognizing the woman as the fierce guardian of the gate that Blake needed to get through. Jerome clearly supplied brilliant ideas and left the tough work of turning dreams into realities to others, primarily Vanessa.
“All right, I’ll see to it. What else?”
“This part will be painless, I promise. I have plenty of money, and I’m always earning more. Whatever salary we agree to, it’s to be automatically donated to Mentors & Protégés. Put it in my contract.”
Vanessa let out a sigh of relief. “Consider it done.”
“One last requirement.”
“And what is that?”
“NBC will donate a small part of its profits to my Mentors & Protégés organization.
“You’re out of your mind, Blake Bertrand!” Vanessa was so agitated that spittle flew from her mouth. Blake handed her a fresh napkin and mimed dabbing at her lips. After a few seconds of outrage mingled with puzzlement, Vanessa took the hint and wiped saliva off her face.
“I’m no such thing,” Blake said, once again into a total silence. “I’ve done my research, you see, and NBC can easily afford to expand its charitable contributions with no noticeable decrease in overall profitability. Half a percent would make a real difference, and it’s so small an amount to NBC that it won’t even deprive any executives or stockholders of their yearly new car.”
Antonio, wearing his Ray-Bans, was an enigma to the producers and publicist. Blake, however, noticed the slight curl of his lips that meant he was amused at seeing Blake make the rules, even in an industry completely new to her.
Vanessa looked at Jerome. Jerome looked at his plate and squirmed. Vickie looked like she’d bitten into something sour.
“Will there be anything else?” Vanessa finally whispered.
Blake pretended to consider the question before answering, “No. That’s all.”
“It’s a deal.”
Chapter Seventeen
April 13
New York, New York
After lunch, Blake sat down at her desk to start putting together her presentation for the public hearing about the Wishman Spears zoning changes she was requesting. She faced a tight schedule in the next two weeks. The public hearing was scheduled for Friday, and most of the following week she was scheduled to film the first commercials for The Takeover.
Fierce knocking on her apartment door made her literally jump in her chair. “Something, or someone, better be on fire,” she muttered to herself as she deleted the gibberish she’d accidentally typed into her Docs2Go file.
Suki leaned her head inside Blake’s open door. “Not yet, Boss, but you might be in the mood to light someone up in a few minutes. Your Wishman Spears project director is here to see you, and says he’s got bad news for you. The man is nearly breathing fire himself.”
“Oh, great.” Blake took a deep breath to brace herself. “Show him in.”
Connor Stafford loomed behind Suki and stalked into Blake’s bedroom the moment the bodyguard moved aside for him. “You promised me this wouldn’t happen again, Blake! That little no-good assistant of yours has fucked everything up for a year, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it!”
“Edith?” Blake asked, astonished.
“No, that Brett person,” Connor fired at her.
“He’s not my assistant, and he’s completely out of my life now,” Blake updated her project director.
“Well, I suppose that’s good, but it’s too little too late. I’m telling you, he’s screwed us all for twelve solid fucking months.” Connor looked like he was searching for something he could break, flexing his fingers as he paced Blake’s room.
“Exactly what did he do?”
“Look, I know you couldn’t help getting sick. But those applications for zoning amendments were due by 4 P.M. on Wednesday, April 8. That little shit said he’s a licensed Realtor and knew exactly how to fill in the forms and append supporting documentation. He amended Charles’s changes, and said he would take care of it. Well…he didn’t.”
This can’t really be happening. After finally wising up and leaving Lang, how could I have made such a bad mistake with a man again? Blake massaged the scar on her forehead, realized what she was doing, and kept doing it anyway. “Are you telling me he never filed the applications at all? Or that he filed them, but with mistakes?”
“He filed them with a mistake, but not one we can correct by filing more paperwork. None of the required supporting documents were appended, Blake. Those have got to be submitted with the applications, or the applications are automatically denied. By city ordinance, we can’t reapply for twelve months.”
I’m going to have to tell Thomas Mills and the other investors. They’re expecting me to make the Wishman Spears profitable within two years, and Brett just cost me a year. Oh, God, how do I tell them something like that?
“You’re sure?” Blake felt as if she might become nauseated.
“Certain.” Connor ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I didn’t tell you this sooner because I’ve already talked to the lawyers we’re working with. Not a damn thing we can do now, except wait a yea
r and reapply. And get it done right next time.”
She nodded slowly. “I guess I’ve got bad news to deliver to some people now. When should I plan on getting back to work on this project with you?”
He hesitated, then said, “Check with me in ten months. It will be at least that long before there’s anything useful I can be doing with this now.”
“Okay. I’m very sorry about this, Connor.”
“Yeah.” He stalked out of her bedroom and out of her apartment, and Blake understood that Brett Skeet had damaged her professional reputation as even Lang never had.
#
April 24
Miami, Florida
Lang and Gabby were exhausted from hours of drugs and sex, and now they lay intertwined on the sofa in the den, watching the eleven o’clock news. Gabby is no Blake, Lang found himself thinking, but she’s better than nothing.
What he craved, though, was either possession of Blake or destruction of her. Restless, he kept brooding on how to achieve one or the other.
He’d expected a reaction from her when he kept outbidding her for Miami properties she’d long wanted to buy and revitalize. But there hadn’t been a peep from the bitch when he sabotaged her Miami real estate development plans.
Blake’s secret trip to that hokey school band concert had been a gift to Lang. He’d laughed and cheered, watching news reports on television about the mysterious attack on the great Blake Bertrand’s chauffeur. At long last, having a couple of Mafia henchmen at his command had really been useful for him.
The chauffeur had recently been released from the hospital, though, and Lang was hungry to make Blake suffer again. But he had no idea how to make that happen. It was like his early days, and late days too, as an actor with a cocaine habit and not enough acting jobs to indulge as much as he’d like. He needed a fix, but how to pay for it?
“Say, babe, isn’t that your ex-wife?” Gabby fluttered a hand at the television.
Lang turned his head and paid real attention. A commercial was showing, and sure enough, Blake was in it. So was J-Lo. They were talking about some new charity Blake was going to open in a few weeks. NBC had already agreed to be a contributor, and Blake’s salary for the reality show she’d just been hired to host would also be directly donated to the cause.