by Hope Tarr
Greg sent Francesca St. James another sidelong stare. The confident, in-control game face she’d kept up until now had slipped, revealing a look of raw vulnerability. More than vulnerability, Greg would bet his controlling interest in his company that the emotion playing out on her stunning face was…yearning. But no, that couldn’t be. With looks like hers, she must go through lovers like facial tissue.
The executive producer, Jerry, pushed forward to the mic. “Folks, thank you all for turning out today to support the show. Before we break up the party, I have a very special announcement to make.”
Relieved to have the focus shifted from him, Greg wondered what Jerry had in store for them.
“As you’ll see below, there are six slipper chairs down there and only five fairy god-mentors on stage.”
Greg had noticed that earlier.
“Allow me to announce my sixth and final coach, a Georgia peach as sweet and style-savvy as they come, fashion photographer Deidre Dupree.”
A gasp sounded, not only throughout the room but from beside him. Swiveling in its direction, Greg found himself staring into Francesca St. James’s burning eyes—and the agape circle of her wide-open mouth.
…
“The devil does indeed wear Prada,” Francesca mused aloud a few minutes later, staring down Deidre in the holding area that served as a green room. A beverage cart had replaced the buffet tables, and Deidre was making full use of it, already on her second glass of chardonnay.
The older woman nodded, clearly savoring her role in ruining Francesca’s day. “It’s good to see you, too, Fran. Freddie sends his best.”
A cross between Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly and Disney’s Cruella de Vil, Deidre favored short white-blond hair, Chanel-red lips, and young male arm candy—of which Freddie had been the latest.
Francesca took a sip of her Pellegrino, willing her racing heart to slow. Saddled with Gregory Knickerbocker and Deidre Dupree for a solid eight weeks, her forty thousand dollars an episode scarcely seemed sufficient. Likely she’d need every penny of it for therapy to recover from the stress.
“Does he now?” It was bad enough that she’d sacrificed her relationship with Samantha for the sot, but having him rebound to Deidre of all people was an especially bitter pill to swallow.
Dee nodded. “We four should all get together for dinner once we’re back in New York—oh sorry, I meant to say three. You’re all alone now since Sam moved in with her daddy, isn’t that right?”
Francesca’s hand fisted about her cup. She’d always known Dee for a bitch, ever since she’d seen her slap an assistant behind the scenes, but throwing Sam in her face set a new record for viciousness.
“I suppose I should be flattered that you follow my life so closely,” Francesca remarked, taking another sip of the sparkling water.
Casting Francesca a considering look, Dee drank more wine. “Well, I just hope and pray we can set aside any…unpleasantness and work together, because I’m pleased as punch to be a coach on Project Cinderella.”
Francesca could feel her gaze narrowing to pinpoints. “Exactly what is it you’ll be contributing to the program?” she asked in as measured a voice as she could muster.
Deidre’s heavily made-up eyes widened. “Why, sugar plum, didn’t you hear? We’re going to colead the shopping and photo shoots segments.”
Colead? As soon as Deidre departed, she meant to seek out Jerry and give him a bloody piece of her mind.
As if bored already, Deidre took a look about the bare-bones room where the other coaches and contestants had assembled. “Remind me again who the nerd is?”
Deidre jerked her double chin to where Greg hung out talking to Franc and Cindy, his track pants bagging about the knees. He had an open bag of potato chips in one hand and a can of Coke in the other. She turned back to Deidre. “I believe you mean Gregory Knickerbocker.”
The name seemed to pique Deidre’s interest. “The billionaire tech CEO? Isn’t he the one whose photograph you never could get?”
Francesca gritted her teeth. Fashion photography could be a small world. Certainly it had never seemed more so than now. “Yes, what of it?”
“He’s cuter than I’d expected, though kinda on the spindly side. That beefcake shot might be tough going.”
“As they say, one can never be too rich or too thin,” Francesca shot back, looking pointedly down to Dee’s thickening middle.
Dee pursed her collagen-plump lips. “You think he’s got any shot at winning?”
Francesca lifted her chin. “He does—provided I’m the one to photograph him.”
Dee drew back as if taking her measure. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
Dee’s approach to photography was old-school. She relied heavily on artificial lighting and staged backdrops and props. Francesca preferred shooting outdoors. Even when she shot in the studio, she used natural light whenever possible. Dee’s fashion photos were all about erasing her subject’s individuality until they appeared scarcely more than mannequins, while Francesca strove to accentuate who her subjects were as people. Be they runway models or A-list celebrities, she always focused on the eyes—and bringing out what might be going on behind them. Thinking of Gregory Knickerbocker’s eyes, of how she’d as good as drowned in their cerulean-blue depths the first unfortunate time they’d met, it struck her that shooting him might be intrinsically satisfying. After all, their photo session was more than a year overdue.
Deidre’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Careful, sugar, someone just might call you on that bragging.”
Francesca was entering dangerous waters, but suddenly she was too caught up to care. “Meaning you?”
Dee cocked one perfectly waxed brow, no small feat given how much Botox she’d had. “Care to make a friendly wager between colleagues?”
Dangerous waters indeed. “What sort of wager?’
“If Knickerbocker tanks, you give up your front-row seat at winter Fashion Week to me—permanently.”
The Fashion Week seat was a hefty whit to wager. Francesca had paid her dues to earn the prestigious placement. The proximity to the catwalk was essential to maintaining the high-caliber event coverage her clients expected.
Despite her boast, Greg’s winning was in no way assured. With his sleek shoulder-length ebony hair, flashing dark eyes, and athleticism born of an active outdoor lifestyle, Jonas White Eagle was serious competition. Beneath all the flannel and Gore-Tex lay the looks of a romance cover model. Any halfway decent photographer could capture him at his best—even Dee.
She hesitated. “I’ll need to give it a think.”
To have a serious shot at winning, Gregory Knickerbocker would require extra help off the set—and lots of it. Her expertise as a top photographer wasn’t going to suffice. Unfortunately like the fairy godmother in Cinderella, her “magic” had a curfew as well as a jurisdiction. According to the contract she’d signed, a coach’s interaction with any contestant must end the moment the day’s filming wrapped. There was to be no coach-contestant fraternization off set—none. Being caught breaking the rule was punishable by immediate termination and forfeiture of all fees. It was a great deal to risk, especially given her reason for joining the show in the first place—Sam.
Dee finished her wine and set the glass aside. “You do that, sugar. Me, I’m out of here and off to a Zumba class. With all the white truffles and foie gras I’m devouring these days, I have to work out twice as hard.”
That did it!
Francesca might not be the world’s best mother, she might not be able to locate let alone hold on to a decent man, but by God, she was the better photographer—the bloody best. Staring into her enemy’s eyes, suddenly she really, really needed to win.
“Hold on, not so fast. If Mr. Knickerbocker wins—or shall I say when he wins—what are you prepared to part with?” she asked.
Dee obviously hadn’t given much thought to losing. She paused to consider. “What would you want?”
Dee glared.
Francesca thought for a moment. She didn’t really see the point in going for Fashion Week seats—she had the same excellent ones for all Fashion Weeks in Paris, Milan, and New York. No, if she were going to put her job and Greg’s contestant status on the line, the prize must be something supremely good.
We four should all get together for dinner once we’re back in New York. Dee’s taunt came back to her and with it an idea for revenge that promised to be savory and sweet—very sweet. “Dinner. I want dinner.”
Deidre sent her a startled look. “Freddie didn’t exaggerate, then. You really don’t do more than boil water, do you?”
That her former lover was sufficiently déclassé to talk about her to his new inamorata felt like the final straw—not for Freddie himself, the ruddy lout, but for what he represented: her bungled relationship with Sam.
“Per Se, Eleven Madison Park, Gramercy Tavern?” Deidre rattled off the list of top Manhattan restaurants. “Hell, I’ll even spring for the French Laundry if you want to stop off at Napa before you head back.”
The mention of the five-star restaurant would have a lesser foodie than Francesca salivating, and yet she wasn’t remotely tempted. “That’s very…generous of you, Deidre, but I have a much more…intimate venue in mind.”
Deidre arched a pencil-darkened brow. “How intimate?”
“A private chef’s dinner for four served in my apartment with Frederick in my kitchen—and you waiting my table.” Starr and Matt, Francesca, and hopefully Samantha would make a merry dinner party indeed. Starr’s flair for sarcasm and biting one-liners would come in especially handily.
Deidre’s mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. So what’s it to be? Do we or do we not have an understanding?” Francesca held out her hand.
Deidre hesitated and then took it, her talon-like fingernails biting into Francesca’s flesh. “Deal.”
“Splendid,” Francesca said. Breaking hands, she could scarcely wait to zip into the loo and wash hers.
Deidre turned to go. “Better feed your boy some Wheaties, Fran. He’s going to need them—and a whole heap of luck.”
Watching her walk off, Francesca bit her lip. What the bloody hell did I just do?
Guffaws drew her eye back to Mr. Knickerbocker. Unaware of her devil’s deal, he kept up his animated conversation with Franc and her assistant. Whatever joke he’d just made must be droll indeed. Cindy and Franc leaned upon each other to keep from falling down laughing. Mr. Knickerbocker joined them, his square-jawed profile softening, his keen eyes alight. Seeing him so utterly at ease, she found it hard to fathom that he was the same heartless trickster who’d tossed her from his office a year ago. For a wistful few seconds, she regretted not joining them earlier. Instead she’d dallied with Dee—and been baited into accepting a dodgy wager. But there was no going back now. Withdrawing was simply out of the question. Sipping her water, she hardened her heart—and firmed her resolve. Gregory Knickerbocker had better cooperate with her this time.
More than cooperate, he had bloody well better win.
Chapter Five
It was the ass-crack of dawn, six fucking thirty. Francesca felt as though she���d barely laid her head upon the goose-down hotel pillow when a ringing alarm had her rising again for the first day of filming. Today’s was a location shoot in Westwood at the twin Craftsman-style bungalows where the contestants were housed, the males in one, the females in the other, with a backyard patio and pool bridging the two adjacent properties. It being Saturday, apart from the occasional jogger, most residents of the upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood were still abed, hopefully oblivious to their trucks rolling in.
Standing on the sidewalk, she sipped her Styrofoam cup of tea and took a last look at the call sheet. The single page covered everything to do with that day’s filming: scene description—there would be four filmed that day; cast—the six contestants and five judges with wardrobe, makeup, and hair needs and set call delineated for each; as well as special instructions on props, wardrobe, set dressing, and equipment requirements. Massive movie trailers blocked off the street. Makeup artists hovered behind “video village,” where jumbo monitors were set up so that the director, assistant director or AD, second AD, and story producers could watch the feeds.
Every time she took a step beyond her station, she seemed to find herself in the way or the subject of yet another touch-up. Heretofore, as a top fashion photographer, she’d run the show. Models, assistants, and sundry minions all had reported to her. Now she was relegated to the mazy collective known as the Talent.
Whatever her role, she would be doing it for the next eight weeks. Furious, she’d followed Jerry out to his car the previous evening, demanding answers. And she’d gotten them, though not necessarily those she’d wanted to hear.
“Look, Fran, I’ll lay it out for you,” Jerry had said. “The network execs decided they wanted an even number of fairy god-mentors and contestants. That Deidre’s an all-American Southern girl and you’re a British lady-of-the-manor type sort of mixes things up.”
Francesca had suddenly understood all too well. The producers fancied a catfight. If only they knew how very little staging would be required.
Disgusted, she’d folded her arms over her chest. “I will not be played off against Deidre Dupree.”
Jerry had spread his arms, hands held palms up. “So where’s the competition? The fashion and photo segments are the meat and potatoes of the show. There’s plenty of episode to go around. You each dress and photograph three contestants. Bada boom, problem solved. You’ve halved your workload for the same money. From where I sit, that’s smart business.” His smile flattened. “Do I have to remind you that you signed an all-talent deal?”
According to her contract, so long as Jerry and the network upheld their financial side of the agreement, she was theirs for the full eight weeks. If she walked off before filming finished, she’d forfeit the money she’d earned for the first few episodes—and the mother-daughter holiday that might well bring her and Samantha back on track.
He had her—and they both knew it.
Ahead of her, the front door of the first bungalow opened and Gregory Knickerbocker stepped out onto the columned porch. The door swung closed behind him, and he descended the front steps and headed down the stone path to the sidewalk—and her.
One hand wrapped around a coffee mug, he walked up to her. “Morning.”
“Good morning,” she replied. Thinking of her wager with Dee, and how she would require his cooperation to pull it off, she resolved to try and be pleasant.
“About the other day—” he started.
“Please, Mr. Knickerbocker, there’s no need to belabor the incident with further apologies.”
Her remark seemed to startle him. His dark eyebrows flew upward. “I wasn’t planning on apologizing. I was going to say, before you interrupted me, that I really appreciated your help at yesterday’s press conference.”
“Oh, that.”
In point, a repeat apology wouldn’t have been in any way inappropriate. As matters stood, the churl hadn’t so much as offered to take care of her dry cleaning.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. I know we got off on the wrong foot last year…”
Wager or not, Francesca wasn’t about to stand for such a casual dismissal. “Wrong foot! Because of you, I was obliged to return my advance, not to mention the two days I forfeited to travel.” The black mark on her professional reputation had had serious repercussions for her bank account as well. But then with his billions he likely hadn’t paused to ponder the means by which the “little people” lived.
“Yeah, really sorry about all that,” he said, not looking sorry at all. “The next time someone barges into my office with a camera and an attitude, I’m planning to be a lot cooler.”
“We had an appointment!�
��
He shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s write it off as a misunderstanding and move on. Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other for the next eight weeks. We might as well make the best of them.”
Thinking again of her deal with Dee, she ran her gaze over him. Today’s ensemble was a bright blue T-shirt proclaiming “Byte me” and baggy jeans. Scarlet Skechers substituted for the bowling shoes of the day before.
“Quite.” She blew out a breath. “We each have…work to do.”
Deidre wouldn’t hesitate to play dirty. To win, Greg would require behind-the-scenes help—loads of it.
His frown lightened. “Yeah, I’m counting on it—and I’m also counting on working really hard and hopefully winning with your and the other coaches’ support,” he added, gesticulating with the mug.
The opening for which she’d waited! “Yes, well, regarding that support—”
The cup careened, splashing coffee onto his forearm. His gaze flew to her face. “I didn’t get you, did I?”
“No, you’ve only scalded yourself,” she added, taking in the reddening welt on his wrist, oddly touched that his first thought was for her. “Let me have a look.”
His dark head snapped up, his blue eyes decidedly skeptical. “Do you have paramedic training? Do you at least watch Grey’s Anatomy?” His lopsided smile confirmed the question was a joke.
“No and no, but I am the mum to a teenage daughter.”
“Really,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Really,” she affirmed, keeping her gaze on his open hand. “Having triaged skinned knees and loosened teeth, I’m quite capable of coping with a coffee blister, I assure you.”
“In that case, doctor, what do you recommend?”
“Beyond taking up residence in a bubble, you mean?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, other than that?”
“Butter.”
“Butter? Uh…why?”
Francesca thought for a moment, and then admitted, “I’m not really certain. It just…helps.”