But Heloki would find out, perhaps with the help of this annoying tabloid-connected woman.
Heloki wasn’t exactly into the tabloids, be they magazines or TV shows. Oh no, he had much more prestigious, demanding things to do with his time at KPCS than wasting it on arrogant celebrities or public figures.
This was why he had picked Jager’s brain. The day after he had met Wulfrum at Kiona’s, Heloki had requested that Jager find a photographer as a wedding gift to Kiona and Mitch. It was planned as a hush-hush, intimate ceremony with a limited list of friends and family invited. The media, as far as Heloki and Jager knew, had not been tipped off.
Until now.
He slid the low-five-figures check across the desk. “You’ll get the balance when the job is done.”
Anjelee’s green cat-eyes widened as she chomped on a pink wad of gum. She snatched up the check, purple nails clicking on the desktop, and whistled. “Wow. Now that, I must say, is the biggest freaking check I’ve ever had the pleasure of accepting.”
“That’s only half, Ms. Montrose.”
“Half. Right.” She blinked, dragged her gaze up from the check and focused on Heloki. “Well. Fine by me.” She tucked it into the knapsack he imagined held all her camera equipment and miscellaneous spy gadgets.
Heloki hauled his bulk up out of the chair, his silent signal he was done with her and her incessant babbling. “Be sure to do all the shots one would expect of a wedding photographer. Then I want anything and everything else you can get—any way you can get it, you understand? Of all three of them.”
“Oh, yeah. I get it.” Grinning, she got to her feet and slung the strap of the bag over her shoulder. Dimples emerged on her cheeks as she chomped, her bubble gum popping, grating on Heloki’s nerves. He averted his eyes from the silver barbell disgustingly adorning her eyebrow, and the winking little diamond pierced into the side of one nostril. What the hell was wrong with young people today? No telling where else she’d pierced herself.
The sick little bitch.
With the flick of a hand, she shoved her long, blonde hair behind her tank-top-clad, thin shoulder. As if that didn’t do the trick, she tucked her hair behind one ear. The move revealed a row of earrings lining the cartilaged rim of the seashell-shaped ear. He sighed, forcing his gaze to instead take in the random streaks in her hair. They were a shade of bright neon pink that reminded him of the color of sticky, wet cotton candy. To add to the peculiar eyesore, she wore camouflage, knee-length pants that hugged her subtle curves, yet the garment was loaded with masculine cargo pockets.
’Û! What a freak. If it hadn’t been for Jager’s recommendation, Heloki would have thrown the leanly built eccentric out of his office long ago. No, he would never have allowed her in in the first place.
What had this society come to? Didn’t females want to be feminine anymore? he mused in disgust.
“The ceremony begins at six tomorrow evening. I expect you to arrive an hour before to get familiar with the place in the event you should need to take a few…discreet shots. The florist will have Jager’s rear deck decorated and set up with a large canopy to keep out any prying media who might get lucky enough to hear of the nuptials and try a fly-over or spy by boat. For now, I expect you to do what you can to prevent any leaks, and to shield the bride and groom if it should still become a media circus. If you demonstrate your worth, any photos I approve after the wedding will be yours to disclose to the press as you see fit. I’ve already informed Jager and Kiona of my…photography gift, so everyone should be amenable to you circulating around the house. Are there any questions?”
She nodded as she crossed to the door. “The gay rumors? If I should see anything along those lines, should I…?”
Heloki waddled around and propped a generous hip onto the corner of his desk. “Gay rumors?”
“Yes.” She’d been about to pull the door open, but instead crossed back to the center of the room. “You know, the speculation that Mitch Wulfrum is gay?” She chewed and popped. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard it before?”
If he hadn’t been sitting down, he might have fainted. His pulse thrummed somewhere deep inside his ample chest. Heloki squelched the urge to dig a finger in his ear. Instead, he croaked, “No, I must say I haven’t heard that one.”
“Don’t see how you could’ve missed it,” she remarked with incredulity. “It’s widely known hype that’s been all over the tabloids and entertainment shows for weeks, maybe months now.” She snorted and shrugged, her small breasts bouncing beneath her tight white tank shirt. “But I guess it’s likely the buzz is a crock of shit if he’s marrying your beautiful daughter—right?”
Gay? Kiona’s marrying a gay movie star? How the hell did I miss that shocking news? And more importantly, why would she do such a foolish thing?
Was Kiona more like her mother than he’d thought, obsessed with L.A. and getting out of Kabana? Had he missed that too?
Heloki reached across his desk and plucked up the package of antacids. With trembling hands, he managed to dig one out of the tight roll and toss it into his mouth. Sweat dribbled down his temples and spine. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. It seemed the life was being choked right out of him.
“If you’re asking me if I know whether the man’s gay or not, no, I don’t know. While I might watch movies, I don’t exactly follow all that absurd Hollywood gossip, much less care about everyone’s promiscuous sex lives. But if you witness any such behavior, I expect you to earn your pay and get it discreetly on film. Every bit of it.”
That one pierced eyebrow arched. “Every bit of it?”
Heloki sucked on the tablet, deploring the chalky taste, but gods of Hawaii help him, he felt as if he might hurl his lunch. So this wedding was a farce? Was she marrying him just to get her hands on her trust fund—or was she using Wulfrum as a flight out of here?
No. Kiona cannot leave her native land, or KPCS. Heloki needed her. KPCS needed her. Therefore, he would instruct Anjelee to get photos of anything at all that might help Heloki keep his daughter in Kabana, assisting him to run his company.
He got to his feet and slid his hands into his trouser pockets, trying his best not to imagine the famous Mitch Wulfrum in a nauseating lip-lock with another man.
And then returning home to share a bed with his daughter.
He suppressed a gag. I’ll kill the bastard if he marries her, and then I find out the sick rumor is true.
“I just paid you half of a very large sum for your services, Ms. Montrose. I expect you to earn it. So yes, that means everything—any way you can get it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Her heart-shaped, pink mouth curved up in a wicked grin full of blinding white teeth. “Totally. But if I get anything…extra, does that mean a bonus?”
The conniving little twit. “We’ll see.” Even from across the room he could smell the scent of her bubble gum. He ground his teeth together as he reached for another antacid tablet. “It depends on just how extra it is. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a company to run.”
“Sure, but one other thing before I go.”
He groaned and popped the tablet onto his tongue. “Make it fast. I’m losing my patience second by second.”
“Considering you mentioned earlier that they’re spending the night at Mr. Manning’s house before leaving on their honeymoon Sunday morning, um, well, getting that extra stuff might require a key.” She held out her hand, palm up, and wiggled her fingers in a gimme gesture. “You wouldn’t happen to have one I might…borrow, would you?”
Several hours later, Jager Manning knocked on the door of Anjelee Montrose’s Kabana hotel suite, compliments of Heloki ’Alohi. Jager’s flight from California had just arrived not an hour earlier, and with the wedding fast approaching, he needed to get this mess straightened out, one he’d inadvertently caused.
Shit, he prayed to fucking God Mitch didn’t find out.
Or Heloki.
He heard the jingle of the chain-lock
, then the click of the deadbolt disengaging. The door swung open, and the musky scent of her perfume wafted into the hallway to tease his nostrils. He’d smelled its kind plenty of times before.
It was the wicked type strippers often wore, the sort that brought to mind leather and lace, soft skin and gyrating curves.
Jesus Christ.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
He blinked. Can you ever. His pulse seemed to cease beating. It did a double-take in his chest, followed by a suspicious galloping rhythm, but it was apparent why.
Damn, but he hadn’t been expecting this. She’d had a sexy voice over the phone, all right. But at the sight of her hot little body, it didn’t quite do her justice. It proved somewhat tongue-tying. “Uh, are you Anjelee Montrose?”
“In the flesh.”
No kidding.
He took in the lean frame, the tight white tank-top emphasizing the just-enough small breasts—mother of all gods, was she braless beneath that thin fabric?—and the flare of hips shaping the green camouflage-print capri pants. His perusal skimmed downward, quickly registering bare feet and purple-painted toenails. He jerked his eyes back up to her interesting face. It was heart-shaped with a small nose sporting a faintly discernible knot on the bridge, one nostril pierced with a teensy white diamond. Dimples emerged in her slightly plump cheeks when her wide, fleshy mouth curved into a pink-tinted grin. One perfectly plucked dark-blonde eyebrow was adorned with a silver barbell, making him wonder what other…body parts she’d decorated with stainless steel. He watched as she flicked her long, streaked blonde hair over trim shoulders.
Wow. Make that pink-streaked blonde hair.
On second thought, the woman wasn’t his type in the least. She was the epitome of the word eccentric. A vision suddenly filled his head, one of a tight, pretty little pussy, the hood pierced right at the top of her shaven, moist little lips and clit.
Jesus, help us all.
“Hey, I know you.” She wagged a finger at him. “You’re Jager Manning. I recognize you from the KPCS website. Nice pic, looking all fancy-schmancy, like a real executive-type kind of guy.” Her almond-shaped, emerald eyes openly raked him from head to loafers as she chomped a big wad of gum. The orbs reminded him of cat’s eyes, cunning and glowing with feline pride. “Who, it looks like, has just gone from the office to the golf course. Headed out to play a few holes?”
He tried to keep his mind focused on the topic of his attire rather than the few holes comment she’d quickly switched to. His stupid, taken-off-guard brain started blinking pictures in his head of two tight little orifices just waiting for him to—
“No.” He interrupted his own thoughts before they went too far south and off the company radar screen. “No golf today. Maybe tomorrow…after we get this misunderstanding straightened out with your assignment.”
“Thanks, but I don’t golf.” She angled her head, peering at him through narrowed eyes. “Hmm, I bet you’re referring to the Mitch Wulfrum assignment.”
He could almost hear her purr of satisfaction at landing the celebrity-related mission.
We’ll see about that.
“Yeah.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis to prevent the automatic thrust for a handshake. It was what he’d normally have done had it been anyone else but Punk-rock Polly he’d unknowingly initiated business with. His perusal took in a quick glance of the long, purple nails—make that claws—adorning the tips of the hand currently curled around the edge of the door. “Uh, mind if I come in? We really need to discuss a few crucial things.”
“Do we?” Her voice was raspy, like some cigarette-smoking, whiskey-drinking madam in a bordello. He ignored it even as it seemed to reach out and caress his ears. And grab him by the cock and stroke up, down, around.
Gulp.
“We do.” He nodded. “There’s an issue or two I wasn’t aware of. This is important. And obviously, time is of the essence here.”
“Mmm, obviously.” She pursed her lips and concurred, stepping back to wave him inside. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she knew exactly what he referred to. “Sure. Come on in, Mr. Manning.”
“Jager’ll be fine,” he murmured, taking a few long strides into the luxurious room complete with separate bedroom, sitting room, and stocked wet bar. He knew every detail about her accommodations. He’d blindly booked them at Heloki’s insistence.
Before doing his homework on the woman, goddamn it. Not his customary way of operating, by far, but he’d been unusually wrapped up in another client’s Hollywood drama and had stupidly taken his contact’s raving recommendation of Ms. Montrose as gospel. One of these days, after this all blows over, I’m gonna deck the bastard for lying and risking my career.
He shuddered to think what Heloki would do if Jager didn’t rectify this problem now. Jager couldn’t risk losing KPCS as a client, and Heloki paid him well, very well. He’d been the first to take a chance on Jager ten years ago, an eager, twenty-four-year-old just out of college, and nothing to show for it but a master’s degree with a focus on marketing and public relations. Jager had built his publicity management company on that first lucrative account with Heloki. The man’s business and the ’Alohi family didn’t deserve the potential headaches this woman could bring to the table. Jager had been unaware of her recent connection to the gossipy Hollywood tabloid Superstars when he’d first contacted her. The mere possibility she could out Mitch’s bisexuality—something Jager was almost certain Heloki didn’t know about—would bring some bad publicity to KPCS that Heloki hadn’t bargained for.
In addition, if it did come out worldwide, and Heloki ever discovered the part Jager had played in Mitch and Kiona’s marriage—not even factoring in the addendum he’d just drawn up two nights ago to include Kol in the marriage—he’d be looking at pure ruin.
Career right in the fucking shitter.
Sure, he now had a lot of celebrities on his client list, but Heloki had power all over the world, in far-reaching places and ways even Jager hadn’t been made privy to.
Therefore, Jager wasn’t leaving here without firing her.
She closed the door and crossed to the bar. His attention was drawn to the colorful edges of a tattoo peeking out from the strap of her shirt near her right shoulder blade. What was it a picture of? Did she have anymore? he suddenly wondered, his gaze exploring the salon-made tan glowing over smooth skin, toned arms, the small bare ankles and feet. She spun around to face him. And father of angels, he couldn’t help but notice the flat belly just now revealed below her shirt when she reached up and drew tumblers out of the overhead cabinet.
Fuck me. Another piercing caught his attention. And how could it not, all sparkling and dangly hanging from the top rim of her cute little navel? He rubbed his fingertips together, wondering what it might feel like to—
“Suit yourself. Jager it is,” she said in a sing-song tone, peeping at him beneath the cabinet as she clinked ice into glasses. She stilled her movements. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched. “Care for a drink…Jager?”
Not on your life. You’ve got to focus, you idiot.
“Uh, no.” He tried to fling the sexy sound of his name from his mind. It had tumbled a bit too sensually off her tongue. “Thanks, though.”
She busied herself pouring rum and cola. “Mind if I do?”
“No, be my guest.” He located a plush chair near the bar and sank into it. He sure could use one of those drinks, but he needed a clear head. “Look, about the wedding…”
“Yes?” None too ladylike, she spit her gum into a nearby trashcan. Stirring the drink with a finger, she then slid the digit into her mouth and sucked the wetness off with a slurp and pop. Her eyes never left his during the entire motion.
Mother fucker.
Jager shifted in his seat and propped one ankle over the other knee, subtly repositioning his rising hard-on. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his cock had traitorously stirred in his pants. All he needed was a damn boner to turn
this meeting into a farce.
Wasn’t gonna happen.
“Well, you see, it seems in my rush to secure a photographer for Mr. ’Alohi, I took another client’s recommendation as gold and neglected to study your credentials.”
“My credentials?” She set the glass aside, rounded the bar, and her small breasts jiggled when she hitched her little bottom up onto the opposite side of the counter. Her eyes, wide and mockingly innocent, never left his as she reached for the glass again, raising it and sipping slow and deliberate. “Are they in question?”
“Well, no, not really. But you see…” He leaned forward, clasping his fingers together, and propped his elbows on his knees to further conceal his crotch from her probing stare. “I, uh, wasn’t aware of your prior credits with Superstars.”
She threw her head back, tossing those long blonde and pink locks over her shoulders, and laughed so melodiously, he wondered if she had a talent for singing. In the process, he caught a glimpse of metal flashing on her tongue.
Goddamn it, what’s next, a strap-on dildo in her pants?
His body went rigid at that depraved thought. He couldn’t afford to think about that, or the images flashing in his head of that silver little ball sliding over and around his cock while he—
“And that’s a problem?” she asked innocently enough, her smile quickly fading. Or was she mocking him?
“Well…”
“Usually, given that particular tabloid’s fame, this would be the thing to get a journalist’s foot in the door, not prevent it. Is that really why you’ve come here, Jager, or—” she halted her words and trailed a finger from her plump lips, down her silky neck, to just short of burying it in her small but distracting cleavage. “Or did you have something else in mind?”
Kabana Heat Page 14