The Prada Paradox

by Julie Kenner

  PRAISE FOR JULIE KENNER’S BREAK-OUT CODE-BUSTING SERIES

  The Givenchy Code

  “A fabulously fun heroine with a math-geek’s mind and a passion for fashion outwits and outplays a ruthless killer in this latest ingenious literary creation from Kenner, whose sharp sense of wit is the perfect accessory for this chic blend of chick lit and thriller.”

  —Booklist

  “A fantastic, sexy, fast read, full of intrigue, humor, and murder.”

  —Reader to Reader Reviews

  “Did you enjoy The Da Vinci Code? Then you simply MUST read this! Do you love thriller novels that keep you glued to the pages? Then you simply MUST read this!”

  —Huntress Book Reviews

  The Manolo Matrix

  “Julie Kenner has me hooked on this series! With her ability to build the thrills and chills to a climactic crescendo, Ms. Kenner keeps the action hot, tense, and very unnerving…. Not to be missed.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “The plot is inventive, complex and kept this reader engaged from start to finish…. The puzzles are outstanding.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  The Prada Paradox IS ALSO AVAILABLE AS AN EBOOK

  Also by Julie Kenner:

  The Givenchy Code

  The Manolo Matrix

  The Spy Who Loves Me

  Nobody but You

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  DOWNTOWN PRESS, published by Pocket Books

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Julie Kenner

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4165-3840-0

  ISBN 10: 1-4165-3840-2

  DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Dedicated to my friends in Los Angeles.

  Thanks for the good times!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Steve, research assistant extraordinaire.

  THE Prada PARADOX

  Chapter 1

  Someone put a bullet in my boyfriend’s brain!

  As I race down the street, propelled by terror, I can still see the image in my mind, and the thought of it makes my stomach turn. The blood and gore on his pillow. The gaping hole above his ear.

  My heart stutters, and a stitch burns in my side. Move, Mel, I think. Just move! I’m barefooted, and tiny stones poke into the soles of my feet. I ignore the pain and press on toward safety. Toward home.

  I’m almost there, and I keep my focus on that simple green door. Reach the door, open the door, through the door. After that doesn’t matter. Not yet. Which is good, because right now my brain can’t process any more than those three simple commands. It’s too filled with terror and rage and confusion to digest rational thought.

  Around me, bright light from fixtures hung precariously on steel poles casts dark shadows, giving this Manhattan street an eerie quality. I barely notice. Just as I barely notice the people standing nearby in clusters, walkie-talkies and cell phones silent in their hands. I glance over them, searching the crowd for the killer. I know deep down that he’s not there, but I shove that knowledge away and search. I have to be thorough. I have to be certain.

  No one suspicious jumps out at me, and I allow myself one tiny glimpse of hope. My door is right there. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten.

  And then I’m there. My hand closes around the doorknob, the metal cool against my hands. I twist the knob violently, then shove the door open. One step and I’m over the threshold and—

  “Cut!” Tobias Harmon, the director, yells from across the street. “Beautiful, sweetheart! I think we got it this time! That was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

  I nod acknowledgment, but don’t look at him. I’m too busy shaking off the fear that I’ve been wallowing in for the last five takes.

  My name is Devi Taylor. I’m an actress. And for me, this part is the role of a lifetime.

  Chapter 2

  “This bit here,” I say to my assistant, Susie. “Does the dialogue sound cheesy to you?”

  She takes the script and reads it, her mouth moving as her eyes skim over the words. After a second, one shoulder lifts daintily. “I dunno.”

  “O-kay,” I say, patiently. “But what’s your gut impression? Did it feel natural? Do you think that’s really the way the conversation between Mel and Stryker went?” The scene we’re talking about is on schedule for tomorrow, our second day of principal photography. It’s the scene where they first meet, and Melanie Prescott (aka moi) is absolutely certain that Matthew Stryker (the hero) is trying to kill her.

  “Um, I guess so?”

  I silently count to three, then tilt my head back so that I have a full view of her face. Wide eyes, lanky legs, overly bleached hair, completely vapid expression. Honestly, the next time my manager asks me to do him a favor and hire his wife’s cousin’s daughter’s college roommate as an assistant, I’m going to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. Except, of course, he posed that question while we were at the Ivy on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, and the opposite direction would have had me body-surfing without a board.

  In other words, I chickened out when I had the opportunity, and now I’m stuck with Indecisive Barbie.

  “There’s not a right answer,” I say, hoping I sound encouraging. “The dialogue just sounds a little off to me. So I want to get your opinion, too.”

  “Right. I get it. Thanks.”

  “And?” With great restraint I manage not to make twirling “come on already” motions with my hand.

  “I…well…um…Have you asked Blake?”

  “No,” I say, unable to dodge the invisible steel bar that immediately straightens my spine. “I haven’t talked with him today.” A fact that I was particularly proud of since he’d dragged his sorry ass down to the backlot today, despite not being on the call sheet. I’d managed to avoid him since I arrived for my five a.m. makeup call, and really hoped that my winning streak would continue.

  Another shrug from my wishy-washy assistant. “It’s just that, you know, since you play Mel and he plays Stryker, maybe it makes more sense for you to be asking him about the dialogue.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. And I mean “babes” in the total Hollywood sense of the word. Blond. Stacked. You get the picture.

  The irritating truth is that she’s right. I should be talking to Blake. Except, I don’t want to act opposite Blake, much less talk to him. Not anymore, anyway.

  “So, like, do you want me to go see if Mr. Harmon needs you anymore today?”

  “Sure,” I say, suddenly thrilled with the prospect of being left alone. “And could you do me a fav? I’m completely parched. Go track down an Evian and some lemon for me.” I happen to know that craft services ran out of lemon slices around eleven. She’ll be gone for hours.

  She gives me a mini-salute and then leaves. I sigh and close my eyes, my thumb idly rubbing the edge of the script as my mind begins to drift. The reason I’m so pumped up about making sure the dialogue is perfect is that I know this scene’s going to be a tough one. Not only because of the emotional intensity required to nail a scene like that, but because of the personal history between me and Blake Atwood.

  In the movie, Blake plays Stryker, an ex-mar
ine turned reluctant bodyguard to Mel. In real life, Blake is my ex, a little fact that you probably already know if you’ve gone grocery shopping recently. Because despite my best efforts to keep my private life private, our entire relationship—from courtship to our recent pyrotechnical breakup—was played out on the covers of magazines ranging from Entertainment Weekly to People to Us. My mother doesn’t even bother to call me anymore to find out what’s new in my love life. She just reads the Enquirer while standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.

  And the coverage wasn’t limited to the tabloids and the weeklies. No, even the “classier” mags got in on the buzz. When we were cast to star in the movie together (and still quite cozy with each other), Blake did an interview with Maxim. I let my publicity team talk me into doing an interview and photo spread with Vanity Fair. (That, of course, was a Very Big Deal, since everyone in Hollywood knows that I’ve been Miss Ultra-Private these days.)

  All in all, our romance blossomed within a circus of tabloids, Internet rumors, and obnoxious paparazzi. And then when we broke up a little over two weeks ago…well, that’s when the press really went crazy. There was speculation, gossip, innuendo, and the inevitable interviews with former costars and directors. The works.

  All in all, a major headache. Especially for someone like me who has a hate-hate relationship with the tabloids.

  I didn’t always feel that way. Once upon a time, I was the tabloids’ favorite It girl—the young hip celebrity who bebopped to all the clubs, had a good time with my friends, and was more than happy to let snippets of my life show up in the Enquirer or on E!

  That all changed five years ago when a deranged fan attacked me in my house. He stripped me, touched me, hurt me, and completely humiliated me. He whispered things and called me his “darling Devi.” Then he left without a trace, the police completely unable to find him.

  Survive something like that, and it alters the way you look at the world.

  Immediately after the attack, everyone expected me to be a basket case. Even me. But then time passed, and my friends and colleagues started suggesting that maybe I was obsessing a bit. That the move and the alarms and the moratorium on publicity were overkill. That I should simply “move on” and be the same happy-go-lucky party girl again.

  Like hell.

  Still, maybe they were right. I don’t know. But I couldn’t do it. All I knew was that I was scared. And I was a complete emotional wreck. I started popping antianxiety meds. I slept with the light on. And I absolutely, positively went ballistic if anything was published about me that didn’t originate from my own PR team.

  And since it’s near impossible to keep the paparazzi from snapping pics if you’re out in public, I pretty much stopped going out. I turned into a recluse, hiding out in my newly purchased Beverly Hills home (complete with state-of-the-art security measures and a realtor who swore on her mother’s grave that my address would never be revealed).

  Of course I still went out into the world, but I was careful. I shopped in the Valley instead of on the Westside. I wore baggy clothes, sunglasses, and baseball caps. I did everything I could not to stand out.

  The good news: it worked.

  The bad news: it worked.

  Not only did the paparazzi forget about me, but so did the industry. I didn’t work for three years while I sorted it all out. For a while, I even considered quitting the business. But I don’t know any other life. When you start out at age four as the fresh new face in a Spielberg movie, star in a few blockbusters after that, then bounce to a television show that lasts six years, you realize that fantasy is the only life you know.

  The thing is, I may have been in some major blockbusters as a kid, but once I emerged from my three-year cocoon, I was no longer the hot young thing. I’d moved from being an “actress” to being a “celebrity.” And not even an A-list celebrity.

  Honestly, the whole situation sucked, especially for a girl like me who just wanted to act again. I’d like to say that this business is all about your acting chops, but the truth is, it isn’t. Yes, I landed some parts in low-budget indie films after my seclusion, but they hardly broke box office records, if you know what I mean. Once you disappear in Hollywood, it can be hard to come back with a bang. That one, I learned the hard way.

  But like I said, this is the only world I know…and the truth is, I like it. And, yes, I’m competitive.

  I want the blockbusters. I want my old career back.

  And that’s why I jumped when Tobias came knocking. This movie, The Givenchy Code, is set up to be the studio’s tentpole blockbuster. It’s a flick that can put me back on the map. And I leaped at the chance to star in it.

  I didn’t hesitate even when Tobias made it absolutely clear that I had to shed my disdain for the whole publicity machine. He didn’t go so far as to say that I had to put on a happy face and smile, smile, smile for the paparazzi, but he really didn’t need to. I knew what he wanted from me. Buzz. And boy did he get it, in spades.

  And the truth? I didn’t really mind. When he signed me on, it had been over four years since the attack, and I knew that I needed to lighten up. So when Tobias announced that he wanted Blake to play Stryker, I loosened up even more. After all, I’d been dating Blake for months by that time. And how cool that I was set to costar against my boyfriend?

  Besides, Givenchy is Blake’s first movie. He’s been behind the scenes for years, choreographing fight scenes and doing the technical consultant gig for martial arts sequences. But he’s never been on camera until now. And what good is your big Hollywood break without tons of publicity? (Not that my opinion mattered too much in the long run. Elliot Kelly, Blake’s manager, was absolutely adamant that his boy make the cover of every gossip rag in the country. Elliot, in my opinion, is a total ass. But he knows how to handle a career.)

  So there we were, basking in the warm and loving glow of the camera flashbulbs and the entertainment reporters’ congratulations on our hot-and-heavy romance. Gossip was swirling, pictures were posted, and I wasn’t even freaking out. I had a great part, a great career, and a great boyfriend. I was back on my feet and back squarely in the public eye.

  Finally, I’d put the assault behind me.

  Or so I thought.

  Things changed when Blake and I broke up. Suddenly the tabloids that had seemed warm and friendly were harsh and invasive. Bits of my life were sneaking into the press that had no business being there. Personal things that I longed to keep private were being discussed in break rooms all across America. Bloggers speculated about my career and my love life. And whenever I was out in public, cameras snapped as the paparazzi tried to get a candid shot of my broken-hearted face.

  I desperately wanted to call for a second take, but life doesn’t work that way. Life happens once, and then it’s in the can. So I was stuck. Stuck playing against an ex-lover. Stuck with my life plastered over newsstands across America.

  Most of all, I was stuck with the fear that by letting my relationship back into the tabloids, I’d opened a door. I’d attracted attention.

  And I’m afraid it’s going to start up all over again.

  Chapter 3

  Devi Taylor.

  She surrounded him, filled him. Her energy meshed with his, and they were one.

  He didn’t understand how she could not know that. How she could move through the world without him. Or even why she’d want to.

  Five years ago, he’d given her the chance. But had she come into his arms as she should have? Had she opened herself? Welcomed him?

  She hadn’t. And even now the pain of her rejection cut him like a knife.

  She’d been blinded somehow. Damaged. And the knowledge that she didn’t understand their connection had come close to destroying him.

  How she could be so distant? So unaware of the truth? Especially since he’d known for years that they had a connection. Known from the first time he’d seen her. A tiny bit of a girl, her dark hair in a pixie cut. Her cheeks rosy. Her wide mou
th beckoning to him. She’d been barely five, but he could see deep into those liquid brown eyes.

  She’d known.

  She’d known what she was doing, and she’d set out to seduce him. She’d tempted him like a minx, like a whore. And he’d fallen for her completely.

  He’d been barely fourteen then, and he’d seen her first movie over and over, spending his entire allowance on a ticket to the first showing, then hiding in the bathroom and sneaking into every showing that followed.

  He’d gone to the theater armed with a box of Kleenex and wearing loose shorts. He’d sat in the back, keeping his low groans to himself, his mind absorbing the girl on the screen. She was there for him, and only for him.

  Each time he went into the theater excited and desperate, and each time he left ashamed. She did that to him. His sweet little whore who tempted and teased and knew that she was driving him crazy.

  If he’d been caught, there would have been trouble. They wouldn’t understand. His parents. The theater staff. Even his friends. He’d been going steady with Amy Myers, an empty shell of a girl from his homeroom, and she’d wanted to go see the movie together. He’d tried to explain why they couldn’t go. That the movie was his alone. She’d stood in his bedroom and seen the magazines and photos and articles about Devi.

  And then she’d called him a freak.

  Two years later they’d found themselves in the same homeroom. Amy had teased him again. Asked if Devi Taylor had grown up and fallen in love with him. She’d told her friends about his bulletin board. About how he’d made a collage of Devi’s face. About how he got off by looking at pictures of a little girl.

  Her words had shocked him. He’d let her see the pictures because he’d wanted her to understand why he couldn’t be with her. He was already committed to Devi. He’d let her down easy. He’d been nice.