Superstar

by Danielle Bourdon

  “Oh my God. Ten thousand?”

  “Yes. Integrity is about to go big time! By the way, I managed to track down a few photos of Raquel entering the Roma Palace Hotel three days ago. It’s all but confirmed that’s where she’s holed up. That should be where Maximo is staying, if my boinking theory is correct. So you’re going to be right in the middle of everything.” Lark beamed proudly.

  “Do I even want to know how much the rooms cost at the Roma Palace Hotel?” Cam hastily folded two nicer shirts and a pair of black slacks. Not everything could be shoved haphazardly into the suitcase. The last thing she wanted to do was waste time ironing in Rome.

  “Not really. You also should be aware that the only seat available on your flight was in first class,” Lark said.

  Cam paused, hands flat on the clothes she’d been smoothing. First class seating. Inwardly, she cringed.

  “Breathe, Cam. It’s a business expense, right? Plus you earn miles or points or something,” Lark said. “I’m totally jealous I don’t get to go with you.”

  Galvanized into action, Cam returned to her closet to find appropriate shoes. She definitely couldn’t miss the flight now. Not after she’d already paid an arm and a leg for first class. “Trust me. This isn’t exactly the way I wanted to see Rome. I won’t even be able to enjoy it. I mean, I’m excited, but it’s far from an idyllic vacation.”

  “Still. You’ll be there. Don’t forget your passport,” Lark said.

  Cam liberated her passport from the bottom of a jewelry box. “How many days am I staying?”

  “Four. I figured that would give you time to settle in, find him, and get the interview before coming home. You’re not technically arriving until tomorrow anyway.”

  Four days. That was cutting the timeline awfully close.

  She could do this.

  “Okay. I think I have everything,” Cam said, tugging the zipper of the suitcase closed.

  “Deodorant? You don’t want to be stinky. What about perfume? Eyeliner? Cash? Don’t forget to change currency when you get there.”

  Cam ran into the bathroom and stuffed a small bag with a few more essentials.

  “I knew you forgot deodorant,” Lark called from the bedroom.

  A bump and scrape let Cam know that Lark was moving the suitcase toward the front door.

  Makeup bag in hand, Cam diverted into her bedroom once more and plucked her laptop off her nightstand. She needed it to edit the interview with Max. At the last second, she remembered to grab the charger, as well as the one for her phone. Then she trotted through the apartment, aware time was slipping away.

  “Now I have everything.” Cam pushed the smaller travel bag into the suitcase. The laptop and chargers went into the front zipper pocket. She put the passport in her purse.

  “Why is there a gigantic rip in the back of your skirt?” Lark asked.

  Straightening, Cam groaned and ran back to her bedroom. She couldn’t board a flight with ripped clothing. “Some idiot parked right up against the driver’s side of the Fiat, so I had to crawl over the console from the passenger’s seat. Pencil skirts aren’t made for calisthenics.”

  “I might have paid money to see that,” Lark said from the living room, and laughed.

  Cam yanked on her most comfortable pair of jeans. She jammed her feet into flats and pulled a soft shirt of kelly green over her head. Since her hair had come all the way down from its updo, she grabbed an elastic band from her nightstand and scraped the strands into a high messy bun. She didn’t have time to make it pretty. Running back into the living room, she snatched up her purse, keys and boarding pass.

  “Bye. Thanks.” Cam smacked a fast, sisterly kiss on Lark’s cheek. Hauling her suitcase by the handle, she dashed out the door.

  With any luck she would return four days hence, Maximo interview complete.

  Two

  Max stared at the ruins of Rome from the backseat of a private sedan. Sunlight bathed the city, gilding the imposing buildings and piazzas in a way that made the scene look like a painting. He never got tired of seeing the arches of the Colosseum or the remains of Palatine Hill, all easily visible without ever leaving the car. It amazed him how the ancient structures sat smack in the middle of all this chaos, as if impervious to the march of time and crush of modern society.

  He had roots here, ancestral family ties that went back generations. Perhaps that was why he felt at home despite the horde of Vespas zipping through traffic and the endless array of tourists. Every time his plane touched down on Italian soil, Maximo’s tension level dropped ten points. He was able to relax in ways he could not in Hollywood.

  As the sedan cruised along a back street and approached the Roma Palace Hotel, he dragged his single travel bag across the seat and prepared to disembark. Situated among a row of buildings facing the back of Palatine Hill, the hotel blended into its surroundings. The main entrance was rather understated. There was no grand entry, no steps or awning. Just the cobbled street that led to smoked glass double doors.

  “Could be one photographer up here,” the driver said.

  “Thanks.” Maximo appreciated the driver’s warning. One reporter he could handle by himself. Forty or fifty paparazzi, not so much. Even the thought of cameras being shoved in his face and the chants of his name threatened to give Max a headache.

  He loathed this part of his job. Hated with a passion the crush of bodies and lenses and questions. The meteoric rise of his fame over the last four years had brought with it an intense spotlight he wanted no part of. Max had discovered the hard way that once the media had you in their sights, it was almost impossible to escape.

  The more he attempted to keep his private life private, the more insane and demanding the media became.

  Exiting the sedan as hotel security moved into place, Maximo ducked his head and walked briskly toward the hotel entrance. A five hundred dollar pair of sunglasses hid his eyes from the world, an effective shield that prevented him from making eye contact with anyone. He knew the exact moment the photographer waiting outside realized who he was.

  “Maximo! Max! Over here! Look this way! Are you here to see Raquel?” the man shouted.

  Grateful that he escaped inside before too many pictures could be taken, and that the hotel’s security was top notch, Maximo crossed the stone and marble foyer to the check-in desk. It took ten minutes to secure a key to his suite and sign the papers. If he noticed the breathless but professional way the female clerk handled his business, Max said nothing about it. He was polite, cordial, though not overly animated.

  The interior of the hotel had once been part of a much older structure—a monastery, he thought—which still sported exposed beams and medieval archways. There was a cozy but roomy dining area to the right, a seating area surrounded by stone walls, and a bar that served cocktails until midnight. Security would be heavier thanks to his arrival, which meant less worry about running into stalkers in hallways.

  Once in his suite, Max tossed down his bag and dragged his hands back through the styled length of his dark hair. He went straight to the window and gazed out over what he could see of Palatine Hill. His room had an exceptional view, although it was mostly hills and stone. Removing his sunglasses, he tossed them onto a table and pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

  Chime after chime after chime sounded once he took the device off airplane mode. He had messages. Many messages.

  The only one he bothered to read was Raquel’s.

  Let me know when you get in. Out and about.

  Landed safe. At the hotel. Meet me when you can, he texted in return.

  Although he knew he should read and reply to Lenni’s, he pushed his phone away and headed to the collection of liquor the hotel had kindly provided.

  There wasn’t any news that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

  It was the longest flight of her life. Camryn felt as if she’d been suspended over the earth for years, circling the globe like an astronaut. Even two plane changes hadn
’t altered her perception of an endless journey. And yet excitement gripped her the entire time, making it difficult to work, to sleep. Every hour in the air brought her closer to Europe.

  The final flight descended toward Rome in the late afternoon, giving her a bird’s eye view of the city. She snapped pictures during the descent and landing, pleased to see the sun out. Information gleaned on the plane’s interactive touch screen let her know that the late May temperature was a pleasant seventy-six degrees.

  Lark had arranged transportation from the airport to the hotel, for which Camryn was forever grateful. She made the transfer in the back of a taxi, though it soon became apparent that she might have been safer facing down a herd of charging elephants. The muttering driver swerved in and out of heavy traffic, gesturing impatiently with his hands. He applied the brakes hard enough at one point that Camryn’s forehead bonked against the back of his seat. Then he was off, stomping on the gas, racing three Vespas to turn the corner first. Pedestrians simply stepped out in front of vehicles with no warning, crossing the hectic streets without paying any attention to traffic signals.

  It was the craziest thing Camryn had ever seen. People were everywhere. So were the ruins, which caused more than her share of gasps and coos. She nearly got whiplash as they passed stone statues and an intricate arch, just sitting there at the side of the road for anyone to view and appreciate. For some reason she’d expected to find the ruins behind barriers, blocked off from the population by ropes or gates or fences. That was not the case, and to see people strolling casually past centuries-old carvings and basilicas was mesmerizing.

  Taken aback by the beauty and distracted by the sights and sounds, Camryn didn’t realize they were approaching the hotel until the taxi pulled to a stop and the driver disembarked the car. Nothing about the facade of the buildings reminded Camryn remotely of a hotel, but rather a row of multicolored structures that could very well have been residential housing. The giveaway was the sign beside a pair of smoked glass doors that read: Roma Palace Hotel.

  Camryn exited the taxi, tipped the driver, and accepted her suitcase which he pulled from the trunk.

  “Grazie,” she said. During the flight, she’d brushed up on a few basic Italian words.

  The driver smiled, saluted, then jogged back to the driver’s seat. Moments later, the taxi swerved away from the doors and zoomed down the cobbled street.

  It was only then that Camryn realized someone was taking her picture. A man with a camera stood on the other side of two security members near the doors, snapping photo after photo. Why was he taking her picture? She wasn’t anyone important.

  Hurrying to the entrance, Cam passed inside after the doors whooshed open. Cool air rushed against her skin and the scent of flowers tickled her senses. Enamored of the medieval yet somehow modern atmosphere, Cam crossed the lobby to the check-in desk. She spent a few minutes chatting with the clerk, inwardly cringing when she caught sight of the nightly rate on her paperwork.

  Egad. It was worse than she’d thought. And this was in euros. The conversion to dollars would be even higher.

  It’s worth it. Think of all the ad revenue the magazine will generate once the interview goes live, she thought to herself. And since she and Lark were putting all the expenses on the business account, she had thirty days to pay it off.

  With her suitcase in tow, Camryn departed the check-in desk and followed directions toward the elevators. Her room was on the fourth floor.

  She entered the rather cramped space of the elevator and punched the correct button. Just as the doors started to slide shut, a masculine hand shot out and stalled the closure. He squeezed inside with a vague apology on his lips.

  “Pardon.”

  “No problem,” she said.

  The man, tall and broad shouldered, overwhelmed the limited space. Camryn’s first impression was Italian model. He wore sunglasses, had swarthy skin and short black hair with a forelock that swung rakishly down over his brow. It wasn’t until she turned her full attention on him that she realized the man was none other than Maximo Payne.

  Holy schnikes!

  In such tight confines, she became excruciatingly aware of just how handsome Max was. He had a refined jaw, an athlete’s physique, and an overall appeal that was impossible to ignore. None of this had registered, of course, during the mad paparazzi crush outside the Blue hotel back in Hollywood.

  Her boob remembered his elbow; that was about it.

  “What floor?” she asked, attempting to sound casual.

  “Fourth. Thank you,” he said. His voice was deep, resonant. Sexy. Despite his obvious Italian heritage, he spoke in the quick, concise way consistent with Southern Californians.

  “No problem.” Cam punched the button again and the doors finished closing. She faced a terrible dilemma: did she admit who she was and mention the interview, or pretend like she had no idea he was a megastar? It seemed disingenuous not to acknowledge that she knew who he was, and that she had a meeting with him the day after tomorrow. On the other hand, it might put his back up and make him uncomfortable.

  The lift started to rise.

  “American?” he asked.

  Cam snapped a look away from the lighted numbers over the door and smiled at Max. “Yes. Born in California, actually. You?”

  “The Brea area.” He glanced toward the doors and went silent.

  “We’re practically neighbors. I’m from Buena Park,” Cam said. He smiled but said no more, as if he’d done his duty for the day being social.

  The lighted numbers dinged as they reached floor three.

  Unsure how to break open more conversation without seeming awkward or intrusive, Cam also fell silent. Moments later the doors opened anyway, and she preceded him out of the elevator.

  “Have a good day,” Cam said.

  “You, too,” he replied.

  They turned in the same direction down the hall. He easily outpaced her with long strides, pulling ahead in short order. Cam couldn’t help but admire the way he filled out the designer jeans and the black button-down that stretched across his shoulders. While he continued on, she hung back and pretended to check her purse for something, surreptitiously eyeballing which door he went to. Once he disappeared into his room, she hurried along the hallway, checking numbers against her paperwork.

  To her shock, she discovered her room was right next to Max’s.

  Not just a room but a mini suite, she noted, after opening the door. No wonder the price had been so steep. Two stone archways segregated a sitting area from the sleeping area, and the bathroom was enormous. Cam set her suitcase next to the long, deep closet and admired the room from every angle.

  That was when she noticed the connecting door.

  A connecting door to Maximo’s room.

  She hurried over and put her ear to the crack, eyes wide. Even though she knew he had a door on his side, too, it did not diminish her surprise or excitement.

  Every journalist in the world would do backflips to be in her situation.

  Bolting away from the door, she dug her cell phone from her purse and rang Lark through the live face-chat feature.

  Lark’s face popped up on the screen moments later. “Did you make it in?”

  “I made it in all right. Look!” Camryn didn’t care how juvenile she probably sounded. She turned the phone slowly around so Lark could see the connecting door.

  “It’s a door. Am I missing something?” Lark said.

  Cam turned the camera back to her own smiling face. At least she had the presence of mind to whisper so Max couldn’t hear. “Not just any connecting door. The connecting door to Maximo Payne’s room! I’m right next to him. We took the elevator up together and he asked me if I was American.”

  Lark’s face comically contorted into disbelief, then glee. “You do realize what a prime opportunity this is, right? You may even be able to snap some pictures of him and Raquel going into the room together! Oh my God! You might even hear them having sex! Can you i
magine the scandal?”

  Camryn knew Lark was right. If they had still been working at Rocket, this would have been an excellent situation to catch Max and Raquel in a compromising tryst. Raquel Howard, an up-and-coming actress, was supposed to be in a relationship with another actor. An actor who was not named Maximo Payne. Thus far, the tabloids had not snapped photographic proof of Max and Raquel’s alleged affair, though Hollywood blogs and talk shows ran wild with speculation.

  “I can’t record them having sex!” Cam said. “We’re supposed to be taking the high road at Integrity, not skulking around like other paparazzi. I mean, yes, it would increase readership by a ton, but I want to get the story the right way.”

  “I know, I know. But, Cam! You might never get this chance again. If you pass up a golden shot of them kissing, or overheard promises of luuuv, you wouldn’t ever again have to worry about Integrity being a success. This could literally be the opportunity of a lifetime, and I don’t say that lightly.”

  “It’s not like I can camp outside in the hallway between our doors and wait for Raquel to show up! Talk about ruining my chances to complete the interview Lenni promised me. I’ll see if I can squeeze some information out of Max when we meet.” Cam paced through the room, mind racing a mile a minute.

  “Just remember what I said. This could be it. You don’t want to work fast food again, do you? If the magazine folds, that’s what we’re both facing. Flipping burgers, frying fries, rolling burritos—”

  “I get it, I get it,” Camryn said.

  “Once was bad enough.”

  Cam finally remembered to point the camera at her own face rather than the ground, the walls, the room at large. She was so distracted she nearly forgot that Lark wasn’t on speaker but a face-chat session. “That’s a terrible thing to imagine. I’ll get some good info from Max, I promise. I need to go unpack and prepare. Talk later?”

  “You bet. Later.” Lark ended the session.

  Cam lowered the phone and covered her heart with a hand. She needed to get ahold of herself. She wasn’t sixteen anymore. This was her business, serious business, and she needed to conduct herself like an adult. The reminders did not suppress the urge to flop onto the king-sized bed and squeal with delight.