by Avery Flynn
The thick front door swung open, revealing the Orton’s butler, Fergus. From the bland expression to the steel gray of close-cropped hair, he looked every inch the English butler. Until he smiled. Then it wasn’t hard to imagine the Harbor City heartbreaker he must have been twenty years ago. Drea had almost fired temperamental Natasha as a client a million times, but the thought of not getting to joke around with Fergus kept her coming back armed with a ten-pound makeup case and skin thicker than the oldest elephant.
“Here, let me help.” Fergus took her makeup case, carried it inside to the small parlor off the hallway, and set it on a table. He popped open the snaps and lifted the lid, revealing brushes, lipsticks, foundations, powders, and all the other tools of the trade. He closed his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. “I just love that smell. I wonder why that is?” He held up a tube of Chanel’s Rouge Coco lipstick in Perle as if it contained the answers to life’s great mysteries.
Drea rolled her eyes and started to unpack her gear. She’d need her sensitive skin cleanser and Philosophy moisturizer right away. “Because whenever you smell it, you know she’s on her way out.”
He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, but he could never hold the pose for long. She counted.
One. Two. Three…
The mask cracked and a wide smile broke his offended look into pieces.
They could laugh when it was just the two of them, but the reality wasn’t nearly as funny. Natasha was an aging trophy wife with a mean streak four times as wide as her size zero Donna Karan wrap dress. Thank God that wasn’t the case with all of her clients, or Drea would be stabbing her eyes out with her tweezers.
“What’s the number today?”
“Out of ten?” Fergus asked.
Drea nodded her head and set out the Nars Skin Smoothing Prep primer, RCMA foundation, a Temptu Pro S/B Concealer wheel, bronzer, Nars blush in orgasm, highlighter, and oil control perfect for Natasha’s combination skin and tan complexion.
He tapped the lipstick against his chin and glanced up at the ivory inlayed ceiling. “A solid fifteen.”
Perfect. She rolled her head from side to side, mentally reaching for that little piece of Zen determined to stay just out of her grasp. She let out a low whistle and dropped a sealed bag of makeup application sponges on the table. “Goodie. She’s not still giving you a hard time about having to give up her pet ferret because of your allergy, is she?”
“Luckily for my ability to breathe, no. That thing is off living out its days on a farm somewhere.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “However, she met with a lawyer yesterday.”
“Really?” An emotional client was always a nightmare. Tears and mascara didn’t mix. “Mr. O stepping out again?”
The butler raised one thick bushy black brow. “There are photos.”
That had to hurt. Natasha might be a grade A bitch, but no one should have to see their significant other getting their cheat on. Drea grabbed her bottle of Urban Decay makeup setter and put it next to the loose powder. She was going to need both tonight to keep the chic but high-end slutty look Natasha preferred for events like tonight’s gala. “Hell hath no fury…”
Fergus held out the lipstick to her, the silver tube shining against the soft white glove Natasha insisted her servants wear. “As if she needed an excuse.”
She took the tube—Natasha’s favorite shade—and put it in front of the other lipsticks. The last thing Drea wanted to deal with today was a client pissed off because she had to fumble around in her case for something. All Drea wanted was to finish this last job, go home, and binge-watch Supernatural until she could guarantee she’d have vivid dreams of Dean Winchester and all the things she’d do to him in the backseat of that shiny black Impala. It was the only thing that would keep her thinking about another, non-fictional hottie who acted first and thought later.
She was going to miss the two orgasms a night he guaranteed whenever she and Cam ended up in bed, or against the wall, or that one time in the restaurant bathroom.
The unmistakable click clack of stilettos against marble filtered into the room. Fast paced, unhesitating, and on a mission, no doubt echoing the owner’s mood. Drea took a deep breath and clipped her own professional mask into place. By the time she exhaled, she’d locked down her personal loose ends. She was cool, confident, and utterly unflappable—exactly what she wanted people to see.
“You’re late.” Natasha swept into the room, her Stepford-level assistant the perfect two steps behind her Christian Louboutin stilettos.
And poof! The spark of sympathy Drea had felt for her client fizzled out. She picked up an eyebrow pencil to give herself something to wrap her fingers around besides her client’s neck. “My calendar says four p.m., and it’s ten till.”
“Well, your calendar is wrong. Or do you question that as well?” Natasha glared down at her much shorter assistant, who managed to cringe and sidle closer to her boss at the same time. “I swear the incompetence is astounding, but it’s too late to hire someone who can keep their shit together, so you’ll have to do for tonight.”
The eyebrow pencil cracked in Drea’s hand.
Fergus stepped forward, drawing his employer’s attention. “Would you care for champagne, Mrs. Orton?”
“Lots of it,” she responded.
“Right away, ma’am.” He nodded his head in the perfect act of deference and strode out the door.
Natasha settled down into the chair and shook her head so her long blonde hair fell in a perfect wheat-colored waterfall behind her shoulders. “Julia, show her the dress.”
The assistant flipped her tablet around, revealing a floor-length black Alexander McQueen gown. The simple crepe material and straight strapless neckline increased the drama of the flared, ornate, gold-beaded peplum and the floor-sweeping hem. This wasn’t a dress for a twenty-something ingénue. This was a $7,000 badass dress for a grown woman who was about to cut her cheating husband off at the knees in public.
Natasha Orton was a giant pain in the butt, however, the challenge of making Natasha’s face go with the dress wasn’t one Drea could walk away from. The transformation from California blonde to Harbor City ice queen would be too much fun.
Drea looked from the tablet to Natasha. What could be the most dramatic options for a society event? Too much and Natasha would look attention hungry, a true no-no among the elite. Too little and she’d fade into the background, which would be a total disservice to the killer dress. The best options came down to a smoky eye or a femme fatale lip.
“Do you want to highlight your eyes or your mouth?”
“Which one says, ‘You’re a cheating asshole who should have insisted on a pre-nup?’”
Despite knowing better, Drea couldn’t help but like Natasha just a little bit more at that moment. “Definitely the eyes.”
Twenty-five minutes and two smoky eyes later, Drea was in the zone. She stroked the precision lip brush across the tip of Natasha’s preferred pale pink lipstick. The innocence of the color would balance out Natasha’s cut-a-bitch eye makeup.
She brushed the color across her client’s parted lips before handing her a tissue. “Blot, please.”
Natasha stared at the painted lips on the tissue. “My lips feel weird.”
“The lipstick’s infused with a lip plumper and sometimes has a tingling effect.” Drea applied the second coat and took several steps back to take in the effect of the finished makeup. The combination of dusky black with traces of gold smudges drew attention to Natasha’s hardened gaze. She’d taken her client from trophy wife to badass. Damn, she was good. “Perfect.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Natasha picked up the small mirror and held it in front of her. The heavy metal mirror shook in her tender grasp. Staring at her reflection, Natasha blinked slowly before the left side of her face slumped like deflated soufflé. The mirror slid from her hand and clanged against the teak floor. “I don’t feel well.”
She held her head between her palms and
rocked back and forth, emitting a sound that was too high pitched for a moan and too quiet to be keening. Her long blonde hair fell around her face like a curtain as tremors shook her long-limbed frame.
Heart hammering in her ears, Drea dropped her tools and rushed to Natasha’s side. Her fingers barely brushed the other woman’s chiffon blouse before Natasha slid out of the chair, landing in a heap on the floor.
“Call 911!” Drea knelt and brushed the long strands of blonde hair out of Natasha’s face.
Natasha’s hands jerked and twitched, her rings tapping out a desperate and involuntary SOS on the floorboards. The woman’s china blue eyes bulged out, black mascara streamed down her ghostly pale cheeks, and her mouth gaped open. Drool seeped from one corner as the convulsions took over her limbs, turning her into an unseen puppet master’s toy.
“Hang on.” Ignoring the panic chipping away at her calm exterior, Drea refused to look away from the other woman’s desperate confusion and fear. “Help is on the way.” She took Natasha’s hand in hers and held it close, despite the violent tremors. “I promise.”
Before the last word was out of Drea’s mouth, the quaking stopped, and Natasha’s breathing stabilized. Risking a quick glance up, she saw Julia the assistant on the phone, presumably with the emergency operator. Fergus hovered by the door, a first aid kit in his hand.
Her hands shook, but this time from her own relief as opposed to Natasha’s seizure. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.” She looked down, and the oxygen evaporated from her lungs.
The other woman’s once pale pink lips had turned blue. Her chest had stilled, and her eyes had turned glassy. Drea sat back in shock, and Natasha’s hand fell to the floor, as lifeless as she was.
“My God,” Fergus exclaimed from the doorway. “What have you done?”
Chapter Three
“Fashion is all about happiness.” - Donatella Versace
Hours later, the grill sat abandoned in the Waterburg yard, Tony’s WILL COOK FOR BEER apron hung over the deck railing, and only the briefest hint of hamburger scent lingered among the heavier smells of bug spray and sunscreen.
And Drea was nowhere in sight. Cam had been hoping she’d come back after seeing to her client, but that didn’t look like it was going to happen.
The backyard was far from empty, but Cam realized he was the last of the Maltese Security personnel left at the BBQ. His mom hadn’t bothered teaching him about party etiquette, but even he knew it was time to head out.
But not quite yet. He had a little recon to do. It was one thing for a girl not to want to see him again—rare as that was—but he needed to know why. Another unusual event. When it came to Drea, it seemed like he was always acting out of character.
He squeezed his way through a thick throng of people packed on the deck and slipped through the back door into the kitchen, where he found his target loading the dishwasher. He closed the door behind him and lowered the volume on the local evening news playing on the television.
Sylvie looked up from the sink, a dirty serving tray in one hand and a scrubber in the other. She was Drea’s best friend. If anyone knew why Drea had acted like he was the kryptonite to her Superman whenever they had clothes on, it was Sylvie. Now he just had to get it out of her.
“Here, let me help.” He took a tray from her hands and stuck it under the faucet.
She leaned one hip against the counter and gave him an assessing look. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What?” He got the last bit of ketchup off the tray and slid it into the dishwasher. “Can’t a guy help out?”
“We are talking about you, right?”
He slapped his palm over his chest. “Right through the heart.”
Did everyone think he was a lazy son of a bitch? He worked hard. He played hard. He did what was asked but didn’t volunteer for more. Some people weren’t cut out to be team players. Depending on others wasn’t his M.O.—never had been, never would be. What was so wrong with that?
She chuckled and grabbed a handful of silverware to load. “You’ll live, big boy.”
They worked in companionable silence while the weatherman discussed the five day forecast. Gathering information was all about timing, and he was patient. Sylvie, he knew from working her stalker case last year, was not. The signs were there. The quick sideways glances. The way she chewed her bottom lip. And her biggest tell—the silence. Sylvie was a lot of things. Quiet and un-opinionated weren’t two of them.
“Okay, spill it.” Sylvie shut the dishwasher door and grabbed a dishtowel to dry her hands. “What happened out there with Drea?”
He glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes. She’d lasted longer than he’d expected. “What do you mean?”
“Come on, Cam. You’re pretty, but that doesn’t mean you’re dumb.”
Was it kick-Cam-while-he’s-down day and he’d missed it? “You sure know how to chat a guy up.”
“Talk.” She tossed the towel at him.
He caught it and shrugged. “We’ve had a little something on the down low, at her request, and I saw an opportunity…”
They’d been sitting there, doing the usual banter when his gaze locked with Drea’s and the earth’s rotation stopped. He hadn’t planned it. Didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Just saw those soft, full lips, cherry red against Drea’s brown skin. Every other person at the BBQ dropped off the face of the earth. He’d lowered his mouth to hers, she’d melted against him, and it had taken every last bit of control not to toss her over his shoulder and carry her away from everyone else…
Sylvie gestured for him to continue. “You saw an opportunity?”
“To make it public. And I took it.”
“You’re lucky you’re still alive,” she said. “Drea’s a freak about following the rules…well, at least following her rules. The biggest one being her private life always stays private.”
“That would explain the whole cut-off-your-nuts thing.” She’d made the threat in the same breath as she’d blinked the passion out of her ebony eyes.
Sylvie laughed. “God, I love her.”
He gave her the smile all his dates’ mothers had loved. Half total charmer, half boy scout, all pretender. “And you love me.”
She snorted. “Like the flu when I’m looking for an excuse to binge-watch a show on Netflix.”
“Nice try. I know better.”
“I know where this is going,” she said.
Of course she did. So did everyone. He’d been making a play for Drea since the first time he’d seen her in the hospital after Sylvie’s stalker had gone completely off the rails. He wasn’t ready to have seen the last of Drea, let alone never let anyone know that he’d finally sealed the deal—he wasn’t a total asshole, but he was still a dude.
“I do love you…” Sylvie paused, as if searching for a way to ease the knife into his back. “You’re a great guy. There’s a lot more to you than you let people see, but Drea isn’t the kind of girl who’s good being seen as your flavor of the week.”
After the way he’d grown up, he was so familiar with rejection and disapproval it barely made a dent in his outer shell. Usually. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep from tossing them up in the air in frustration. “Being with me didn’t seem to bother her if no one knew, so why is people knowing such a big deal?”
“She has her reasons.”
“Those being?” Damn it. He wanted some fucking answers. It wasn’t like he was a three-headed troll. He paced in front of the television.
Everything about Sylvie, from her posture to her voice, softened. “Why’s it so important to you? It’s not like you’re hard up for dates.”
He had no fucking clue. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn’t just some chick but that he’d actually gotten to know more than her first name before they hit the sheets. Maybe it was more. All he knew was he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head for the past year, and that was a first for him. He’d figured
having her in his bed would end the craving, but it hadn’t. He still wanted her.
Sylvie glanced over his shoulder at the TV. “What the hell?” She grabbed the remote and raised the TV’s volume.
A reporter stood in front of a large brownstone. “I’m coming to you live from the corner of Fifth and Wapol where police are investigating the sudden death of one of Harbor City’s richest women.”
Crap, and there was Drea, standing in the background with a uniformed cop by her side. She looked beyond pissed, and the cop wasn’t particularly happy either.
A breaking news banner took up the bottom third of the screen: POLICE INVESTIGATE SOCIALITE’S DEATH. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.
And Drea was being questioned. At least that’s how it looked on the screen.
Cam’s gut clenched. “Oh fuck.”
“You said it.” Sylvie grabbed her phone and shot off a quick text. “Can you tell Tony what happened? I have to get to Harbor City.”
“You stay here.” He was halfway to the door before he even realized where he was going. “I’ll get Drea.”
“No way.” Sylvie’s voice had a determined edge that meant nothing but trouble.
He stopped, one hand on the door handle, and turned to Sylvia. She was a great friend, both to him and Drea, but the police would never take a fashion blogger like her seriously at a crime scene.
Him on the other hand? He was six-feet, five-inches of solid paramilitary muscle. There weren’t a lot of people in the world who didn’t make way for him. And when it came to Drea, there wasn’t a single person he wouldn’t tear apart if that’s what it took to help her. He didn’t have time to analyze why, it just was.
He swiped his motorcycle helmet off the table and yanked the front door open. “I have connections on the force. People owe me favors. I’ll be able to get past the yellow tape. You won’t.”
He was out the door before the last word even left his mouth.
The trip across the Waterburg Bridge to the heart of Harbor City’s most expensive zip code should have taken forty-five minutes. Cam made it in half that, thanks to his Victory Jackpot motorcycle’s speed and agility.