by Maryann Reid
What? Blake is going to host a reality show?
He sat up, almost dumping Gabby onto the floor. Entrepreneurs… Goddammit, it would make Blake crazy if I got on her show as a contestant, but that fucking restraining order kills that idea…
“You could warn a girl before you knock them off the sofa.” Gabby wrinkled her nose, a look that was not at all cute on her. She sat cross-legged on the opposite end of the sofa, staring sulkily at the baggie that was full of coke earlier in the day but now lay empty on the coffee table.
That restraining order couldn’t keep Gabby from being on Blake’s show, though…
“Hey, Gabby?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever thought about being an entrepreneur?”
She turned her glazed eyes on him and asked, “I don’t know, what’s a under…usher…umber-bum-pure?”
I’ll make this work somehow, damn it.
Chapter Eighteen
May 1
New York, New York
With Antonio at her side, Blake stood on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building. They were waiting for the taxi she’d phoned to take her to the airport. On impulse, she’d booked a flight to Miami for the weekend.
She hadn’t seen her mother since February. Jacinta Bertrand seemed in good spirits whenever they talked on the phone, but Blake wanted to see for herself how her mother’s recovery from her injuries was progressing.
Moreover, she wanted to visit her chauffeur, Henry. He’d been released from the hospital a week and a half ago, but he too was still recovering from his injuries. From a beating he got for being my chauffeur, Blake reminded herself, and shivered. Who but Lang would do something like that? But I can’t prove it, and neither can Miami’s police, so the son of a bitch is going to get away with it…
In addition to all of that, she yearned for a quiet weekend on Fisher Island. New York’s frantic pace had enthralled her when she was eighteen, but she’d been discovering in the past few weeks that in her mid-thirties, she enjoyed a more mellow way of life. I love the cooler climate up north, but if I ever move I’ll need to find a more relaxed city to live in.
“Blake? Blake Bertrand? Girl, is that you?”
That voice was familiar, but she didn’t immediately remember who it belonged to. She looked around and saw a petite, achingly pretty, short-haired blonde crossing the street toward her. The woman looked very much like Audrey Hepburn, but with an almost-bald hairstyle reminiscent of Sinead O’Connor.
It was the resemblance to Audrey Hepburn that clued Blake to the woman’s identity. Robin Love had been a new model herself when Blake returned to the business as an eighteen-year-old after her two years of absence. Back then, Robin had worn her hair much longer, halfway down her back. She’d been Blake’s best friend until Blake fled to Switzerland to give birth in secret. When Blake returned to the United States, Robin was no longer working in the modeling business and Blake had no idea how to contact her.
“Robin Love. I haven’t heard from you since before I got married.” Blake hugged Robin and then faced Antonio, who was keeping alert watch on Blake’s old friend. “Antonio, Robin and I were models together, a long time ago. Robin, this is Antonio, one of my bodyguards.”
“Bodyguards! Girl, does real estate bring out as many weirdos as modeling did?”
They laughed together, and it was as if the lost years fell away. Robin had always been fun to be around, and Blake’s common sense had probably kept her overly adventurous friend out of trouble a few times. Possibly even the morgue, Blake suspected, looking back on all their wild old times.
A taxi rolled to a stop, exactly in line with the apartment building’s door. Antonio sidled over to the cab and chatted with the driver, trying to buy Blake a little more time with Robin.
“Listen, I’m on my way to the airport, Robin, but I don’t want to wait a decade and more to talk to you again. Can I give you my cell phone number? You could give me a call anytime after Sunday night, and I’ll treat you to lunch and we’ll get caught up with each other. Say it’s a plan!”
“It’s a plan.” Robin grinned, and readied her smartphone to add Blake’s number to the contacts list.
#
May 2
Miami, Florida
Just as Blake was finishing breakfast with her mother, her BlackBerry rang out the Dire Straits song “Money for Nothing.” That meant Thomas Mills was calling. Blake excused herself from the table and shut herself alone inside her mother’s parlor. She suspected this was going to be an unpleasant conversation.
“Hi, Thomas,” Blake said, sitting by the window and watching peacocks strut around her mother’s lawn and the empty street.
“Blake, I’ve been talking with the other two investors I found to help you buy the Wishman Spears,” boomed Thomas, “and we’re all three mighty pissed about how you dropped the ball with this property.”
I’d be pissed too, if someone wasted a year of my time and millions of my dollars because they were thinking with their hormones instead of with their brain. Blake pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and wondered what she could possibly do to remedy this problem.
“Thomas, I can’t blame you and the others for being angry. I admit it, I made a mistake. But I give you my word, I’m going to repay your investment in the time promised.”
“We don’t see how that’s possible, Blake. You were supposed to make the Wishman Spears profitable in two years. That’s possible, but now it’s going to be a year before you can touch the place. Can you make it profitable in only one year?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“I’ve known you a long time, Blake. Only other mistake I’ve seen you make is when you married Lang. You’re a damn clever businesswoman, and if anyone can make the Wishman pay with only a year to renovate and market, you’re the person who can do it. But the other investors don’t know you like I do. They want to see firm, detailed plans showing how you’re going to salvage this deal.”
An icy panic gnawed Blake’s gut. “How soon do they want to see these firm, detailed plans for profitability?”
“You’ve got sixty days.”
Two months. If I can’t come up with something in that time, nobody can. “What do they want to do if, by chance, I can’t meet the deadline?”
“We’ll call in our loans.”
Oh…shit. I can’t pay out hundreds of millions of dollars, not with everything I own backing the Wishman purchase. “Like I said. I’ll find a way.”
“Good luck.” Thomas clicked the call off.
“I am so completely fucked,” Blake muttered to the peacocks outside.
Chapter Nineteen
May 7
Chicago, Illinois
Thunderous applause rewarded Blake when she finished delivering her speech and stepped down from the podium. No sooner had she filed for divorce than NeoBuild, the world’s largest real estate trade show, invited her to be their keynote speaker for their latest convention. She’d been looking forward to the event ever since accepting the invitation. It would emphasize her independence from Lang, and moreover it would be an excellent opportunity to hear industry gossip.
Matt stood, having sat behind her while she was speaking, and moved to her side. He looked around as he asked, “What’s next on your schedule, Ms. Bertrand?”
“I’ve got a luncheon lined up with several of New York’s leading real estate developers,” she answered, consulting her BlackBerry. “There’s a panel discussion I’ve got to participate in this afternoon, and tonight I thought I’d research some possibilities for making the Wishman profitable in only a year.”
“How do you plan to do the research?”
She winced. “Nothing is new under the sun, they say. There’s got to be a similar problem that somebody has solved. I just haven’t thought of the research terms that will find it yet.”
Matt fell into step behind Blake as she followed the map included with her convention program brochu
re. They found the conference room where in two hours the panel discussion would be held. A few people had already claimed seats in the audience, to Blake’s astonishment.
The luncheon was catered by world-famous Chicago restaurant Charlie Trotter’s. Blake and Matt slowly stuffed themselves while the conversation ranged over a number of New York real estate topics. Finally, with a half hour to go before the panel discussion was scheduled to begin, Blake thanked the Realtors who cohosted the meal, and she and Matt made their way back to the conference room.
Already the room was nearly packed to capacity. Blake looked for the panel seat with her name on the place setting, but was interrupted when a voice well known to her called, “Blake! Ms. Bertrand, I really need to talk to you.”
She turned around, her shoulders stiffening as she faced Sherry Greene, her ex-publicist. “We really don’t have anything to discuss, Sherry.”
“Please.” Sherry folded her hands together as if she was about to pray. “Blake—”
“Ms. Bertrand, to you,” Blake said.
“Sure. I’m sorry.” Sherry’s face turned pink with embarrassment. Everyone in the room was silent, listening to the confrontation. “Ms. Bertrand, please let me come back to work for you.”
“No.” Blake turned back to the conference table.
“Ms. Bertrand, you’re the best employer I’ve ever worked for, and I know I made a mistake, but I’ve learned my lesson, and—”
Blake whirled around, nearly colliding with Matt. “I can’t believe my ears, Sherry. Me, the best employer you’ve ever had? The way I heard it, I was a monster to you. Expecting celebrities to follow me around, fighting you about reimbursing your expenses, not willing to give you any pay raises. And that’s all on a good day. Wasn’t that what you said about me to other publicists?”
“I know I shouldn’t have done that. I was just angry you didn’t give me a second chance, but now I understand that’s my own fault—”
“Yes, it was.”
“Please, Ms. Bertrand. I’ll do anything to work for you again.” Incredibly, Sherry got down on her knees.
Blake stared at the woman, wondering if what Sherry meant by “anything” was what it sounded like.
“Anything,” Sherry repeated. Looking into Blake’s eyes, seen only by Blake and Matt, Sherry positioned her praying hands to give her breasts a boost.
Same ole Sherry. “I said no, and I meant it.” Blake returned to her search for her seat, found it, and moved around the table to sit down.
Sherry bowed her head to the floor for a few seconds, her shoulders shaking. Then she scrambled onto her feet and fled from the room, shedding copious tears.
“I never would’ve guessed real estate could be so entertaining,” Matt muttered as he pulled a chair behind Blake and sat down.
#
Lang had followed the confrontation between Blake and her ex-publicist with rapt attention, imagining a variety of exciting possibilities. When Sherry ran out of the conference room, Lang seized Gabby’s hand and dragged her with him as he jogged after the weeping woman.
Sherry raced into the nearest women’s bathroom, and Lang turned to issue orders to Gabby. “Go in there and tell that woman Lang Bertrand wants to talk to her.”
“I don’t know if I oughtta do that, babe. She looked really upset.”
“That’s why I want you to bring her out here to talk to me.”
“But I don’t want to talk to anybody when I’m upset, so why would she?”
He gripped her arm so hard that she yelped. “Don’t fucking argue with me! There’s not much time before the panel discussion starts. Go in there and bring her out.”
Gabby scurried into the women’s bathroom. A couple of minutes later, she returned with Sherry Greene at her heels.
Lang put out a hand and shook Sherry’s. “You remember me, I hope, Sherry?”
“Of course, Mr. Bertrand.” Sherry slanted a puzzled glance at Gabby, but the clueless blonde was no help.
“Call me Lang. I’m not a bitch like my ex-wife.” He smiled at her, his soot-colored eyes glinting. “Speaking of Blake, though, I’m planning some unpleasant surprises for her. I thought you might be interested in helping, especially if I put you on my payroll.”
Sherry flicked a worried look in the direction of the conference room, as if afraid Blake could hear their hushed conversation from a distance. “How much will you pay me?”
“Well, how much did you earn as Blake’s publicist?”
“A hundred fifty thousand per year.”
“I’ll double that.”
Sherry’s wide mouth curled up in a grin. “I’ll do anything.”
#
It was standing room only in the conference room as the panel discussion got started. Blake was in the middle of answering the first question directed to her, about the criteria she used to decide if a particular property should be bought up during a struggling economy, when a latecomer intently studying his program brochure edged his way into the room.
She paused, ice forming in her gut. That height, that build, that posture… It can’t be him.
“Ms. Bertrand? Are you okay?” asked the moderator.
Blake nodded, taking a quick deep breath. “Sorry, folks, I thought I saw somebody I used to know.”
Someone in the audience sang out, “But you didn’t have to cut me off!” reminding them all of the Gotye song Blake had quoted unintentionally. They all enjoyed a good laugh before Blake continued answering the question. For the rest of the panel discussion, however, Blake noticed Matt watching the people in the back of the room.
When the time allotted for the panel discussion ended, the audience applauded the panel members and people began making their way out of the conference room. Matt tapped Blake’s shoulder and asked, “Is there a way out of here other than the door we all came in through?”
“Not that I know of,” Blake whispered. “Is something wrong?”
“I think someone is in violation of a restraining order,” said Matt. “Stay behind me.” He led the way toward the door, Blake following him close.
Lang stood up, having taken a seat when people began exiting the room. He motioned to a blonde to stand up with him, and said, “Gabby, I don’t believe you’ve ever met my ex-wife, have you? Blake, Gabby here is my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but speaking of your ex-wife, a judge ordered you to stay a minimum of three hundred yards away from her,” said Matt, “and right now you’re not even 30 inches away from her. I suggest you get yourself gone, and fast.”
“Relax, Mr. Bodyguard.” Lang sneered at Matt as he took a folded business envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it over for inspection. “If you care to take a look, you’ll see I registered for this convention back in August. Before it was announced that my charming former missus would be keynote speaker.”
Matt handed the envelope back to Lang without bothering to look at whatever was inside. “Why not cancel your registration and get a refund?”
“Because I have a right to stay in the business I’ve worked in for the past ten years, even if I don’t work with Blake anymore. I think the judge would agree getting a divorce shouldn’t force a man out of business.”
“I’m going to have to notify convention security and the local police. They can talk to the judge. But no matter what they say, I’m warning you to stay out of any room Ms. Bertrand is in, and don’t try to talk to her.” Matt put a protective arm around Blake and started to guide her out of the room.
“What a shame. I just bought the Jenny Tower that Blake has wanted for quite a few years. Bought some properties in Little Haiti she’s had an eye on, too. Sure you don’t want to work together again, Blake?” Lang leaned casually in the conference room door, his face wearing a smug grin.
“No, you paid three times more than those properties are worth. Deal with your mistakes yourself,” said Blake.
“Just ignore him, Ms. Bertrand,” Matt advised, and he kept himself between Blake a
nd Lang as Blake left the room.
“You can’t avoid me forever,” Lang called after them.
“I can damn sure try,” Blake muttered, moving at a trot to keep up with Matt’s long strides.
Chapter Twenty
June 3
New York, New York
Blake arrived a few minutes early at 30 Rockefeller Plaza with Antonio, her stomach fluttery with nervousness. Until she’d filmed the promotional ads for The Takeover, her only experience with filming was more than a decade ago, when she’d done the perfume commercials. This reality show was a much more complex job. Instead of a few hours of rehearsal and filming to produce sixty seconds of advertising, this job meant several full-time days each week to produce each one-hour episode.
“I hope I’m ready for this,” she thought aloud.
“You’ll be great,” Antonio reassured her. “The producers hired you for good reasons. You’re a rare combination of business savvy and star quality. All you’ve got to do is be yourself.”
She smiled thanks at him as a flustered-looking young woman trotted toward them. “Ms. Bertrand? I’m Olivia, I’ve been assigned to do your makeup. We’d better get started. Filming starts in an hour.”
Olivia led Blake and Antonio into a dressing room, where she kept dabbing foundation, blush, eye shadow, and so forth on Blake’s face and then shining a stage light on her to judge the results. Antonio entertained himself by reading a detective novel. Blake wished she could read the news on her BlackBerry, but Olivia needed Blake to keep her head up.
A few minutes before 10 A.M.,, Olivia set Blake free to join the cast and crew. What had been a bare stage when Blake arrived was now furnished like the den of a British mansion. The lights, microphones, and cameras were set up and preproduction tests were in progress.