Oops! I'm the Paparazzi

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Oops! I'm the Paparazzi Page 10

by De-Ann Black


  Vaughn wrapped me in his strong embrace. ‘I have to go to Hollywood tomorrow night. I thought perhaps you’d like to come with me this time.’

  ‘To Hollywood?’

  ‘Yes, you can catch some sun, relax by the pool and eat cake.’

  ‘I haven’t dived in two or three years,’ I said.

  ‘Dived?’

  ‘High dived off the board into a swimming pool,’ I explained. ‘I used to love diving into the Irish Sea.’

  ‘Well, I hope Hollywood is ready for you.’

  I looked out at the snow, and I guess he read my thoughts.

  ‘We’ll be gone for a few days,’ he said. ‘The snow will still be here when you get back.’

  And it was.

  Hollywood was an experience. Fascinating how all the networking goes on. Vaughn secured deals for his clients while we were there.

  I got some writing done. I was working on two new scripts. One was the sequel to Bradley’s movie. They wanted another adventure for his spy character, so I was working on that. And a romantic comedy. I was giving that a go.

  However, a lot of the time I was in the swimming pool. I often had it all to myself. Not that it was quiet. People sat around the edges on loungers. The women had their hairs done and make up on, very glam. I could see why they wouldn’t be interested in doing back flips off the high board. I tried not to splash.

  After a few days of diving, I felt better than ever, and fit as a butcher’s dog.

  Vaughn liked me in my little silver and gold bikinis, and seemed happy to ogle me rather than the other gorgeous women.

  So now we were back in New York.

  I’d headed into Manhattan which was a dazzling winter landscape again. I was having lunch with Royce, and I’d worn the paparazzi camera brooch.

  As I was early, I decided to go skating on one of the outdoor rinks.

  I was warmly dressed, with a woolly hat, and a scarf that I’d pinned with the brooch Royce gave me. It sparkled in the light.

  I put my skates on, and skated on to the ice. The snow felt wonderful, the air cold and fresh. I loved the sound of the blades on the ice.

  Attempting too many spins, my lace came loose, and I went to the edge of the rink to tie it.

  The skate hire lady smiled. ‘Ooh, cute brooch. Does it represent something?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I used to be one of the paparazzi.’

  End

  More books by De-ann Black. http://www.de-annblack.com

  The Bitch-Proof Suit (sample chapters included below)

  The Bitch-Proof Suit is a fresh and exciting story with plenty of humor and romance - with all the charm of Dublin and glamor of New York.

  Story:

  When Blue (Bluebell) Byrne is up against the odds in the world of New York fashion marketing, she needs the ultimate in accessories - a bitch-proof suit. Her marketing experience has helped her create the perfect suit. She had it made by bespoke tailors, cut with twice the precision at half the price. No labels, no trends, just sheer cutting edge class.

  The story starts in Manhattan. Blue is about to put her suit to the ultimate test when she vies against a boardroom full of conniving business rivals to win the top job assignment - to work in the company’s office in Dublin, Ireland, and settle a few scores at the same time.

  The suit, her negotiating skills and gutsy determination helps Blue win the job. Within hours she sets off for Dublin. It’s the one place she swore she’d never go back to. Six years ago she’d left that city behind, along with Morgan Daire, the man who broke her heart, sure she’d never return. It had almost destroyed her once, but hell...she loves a challenge!

  She’ll be working with the unspeakably glamorous and influential Verde Valmont, and Verde’s Irish assistant Emer. Blue will also be facing up to the formidable Dubliner, Morgan Daire, the man whose past is inexorably linked with hers. Then there’s her friend, Dublin designer, Murphy, an incorrigible rogue whose flirting causes jealousy and all sorts of trouble. She also encounters the sexy and handsome Sears Pearson, a New York coolhunter, who takes an interest in her. With Morgan and Sears vying for her attention, and Murphy causing misunderstandings, her love life is anything but smooth.

  This is a sparkling new novel, brimming with romance, humor, friendship, rivalry, Irish cocktails and scandalous behavior.

  The Cure for Love.

  The Cure For Love is a romantic comedy (novella) set in Cornwall and London.

  Story:

  The story starts in London. Daisy is broken–hearted when her boyfriend, Sebastian, announces his engagement to Celeste. Sebastian works for a publishing company in London. Celeste’s father, Franklin, owns the company. Daisy is a freelance botanical illustrator who often works for Franklin, illustrating books.

  Angry and betrayed, Daisy leaves London and heads for a break in Cornwall. Franklin has given her the keys to his holiday cottage in a small Cornish town. The seclusion she seeks is soon disturbed when she meets Jake Wolfe. Jake is a successful businessman who owns and runs a health food shop in the town. He is also the author of herbal books. His latest book is his finest project, to find a cure for lovesickness. He believes he has found the cure for love. All he requires is someone broken–hearted to test out the latest version of his remedy.

  Daisy and Jake are immediately at odds. Daisy doesn’t want to be anyone’s guinea pig. Finally, Daisy agrees to test Jake’s cure for love. Will it cure her of being in love with Sebastian? Or has she fallen for Jake? Perhaps castle owner Roman Penhaligan has stolen her heart? Will she take it? Or will everyone stop her drinking the remedy before it’s too late?

  Crazy and comical, this book is filled with entertaining characters like the local gossip, Mrs Lemon, whimsical uncle Woolley, incorrigible Sharky the baker, and others.

  The Cure for Love is a light–hearted romance.

  Heart of Ice

  Heart of Ice is a traditional romance novella, filled with romance and rivalry, set in New York and New Hampshire.

  Story:

  When mountaineer, Reef Bretton, hired freelance photographer, Alex Russo, for an assignment, the last thing he expected – or wanted – was an attractive, young woman.

  Add to this the feud between Reef and his long-time rival, Zack, and trouble with his model ex-girlfriend, Julia.

  Set in New York and the beautiful White Mountains of New Hampshire, this modern and adventurous story asks – can love melt a heart of ice?

  The Brunette Bombshell

  The Brunette Bombshell is a modern, light–hearted romance novella.

  Story:

  Twenty–six year old Sadie works as a newspaper journalist in the stressed out, deadline crushing, editorial department of a London tabloid.

  It’s Sadie’s job to write features for the paper — and to stay sane at the same time. When the top columnist quits to work in New York, Sadie is thrown in at the deep end and becomes the Talkabout columnist for the paper. Talkabout is a newsy, fashion, beauty, nightlife, gossipy column that balances the hard news features in the tabloid.

  As the new columnist, Sadie is sent by her editor, Jamieson, who she secretly has a crush on, to cover a feature about an upmarket hairdressing salon in the heart of the city. But like most things in Sadie’s life, nothing ever runs according to plan.

  For a start, it’s raining, so she’s soaked by the time she arrives at the salon, which is owned by the gorgeous but overly demanding Cosmo (a renowned hairdressing entrepreneur who can make any woman look great). Cosmo has created a new range of hair colours to transform the average brunette into a sultry bombshell.

  Unfortunately, his campaign model leaves him just as he’s about to launch his new colour range. Luckily, Sadie arrives on the scene. Cosmo sees something in her that he believes has potential — an exciting, contemporary, everywoman quality, and sets about persuading her to be the brunette bombshell for his advertising campaign.

  So begins Sadie’s double life. By day, she’s the newspaper journali
st, and by night she’s the woman behind the lustrous look thousands of women want.

  I’m Holding Out For A Vampire Boyfriend

  Romance novella set in London. Romance, adventure and mystery.

  Story:

  When seventeen year old Emme writes in her diary – I’m holding out for a vampire boyfriend, she thinks that her chances of finding one are slim to nothing.

  But events at school, involving four handsome boys — Guin, D’ary, Cole and Von, and her best friend, Sophie, soon make her think again…

  Set in London, this modern, atmospheric and romantic teen novella gives a whole new meaning to — be careful what you wish for.

  Why Are All The Good Guys Total Monsters?

  Why Are All The Good Guys Total Monsters? Is a romance novella.

  Story:

  Seventeen year old Vesper lives in London. She’s been looking forward to enjoying a summer break at Orlaith’s house in Edinburgh. Orlaith is a family friend who lives in the city with her cat, Midnight. Orlaith’s house has a wonderful moon garden that is lit at night with lanterns, fairy lights and flowers that suit the evening light.

  But when Vesper’s mother has to work on an assignment in New York and Orlaith goes to Glasgow to display her artwork, Vesper is left alone in Edinburgh where mysterious, magical and romantic things start to happen when she meets two beautifully handsome young men, Daire Grey and Sabastien L’Fae.

  Vesper’s summer is one she’ll never forget…

  The Bitch-Proof Suit (sample)

  Contents

  Introduction

  1 - If Looks Could Kill

  2 - She Who Daire’s Wins

  3 - Secrets and Spite

  4 - Head for the Malls

  5 - Bar Brawling and Atrocious Lies

  6 - Dining with the Enemy

  7 - Self Promoting Glory Hogs

  8 - The Ultimate in Temptation

  9 - Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

  10 - Irish Martinis and Bad Behavior

  11 - The Beautiful and the Spellbound

  12 - Scents and Sensibility

  13 - Magnets for Trouble

  14 - Fortune Telling in the Rain

  15 - Dinner or a Date

  16 - Enviable Green Hair

  17 - Mayhem at the Extravaganza

  18 - The Edge of Viciousness

  19 - The Masquerade Ball

  20 - A Storm Was Brewing

  Epilogue

  Introduction – The Bitch-Proof Suit

  Manhattan, New York

  Bitching can destroy you. It’s a process of erosion. Once the rust sets in you can kiss your ass goodbye. I knew the business bitches were waiting for me but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  It had been raining during the night in Manhattan and the hot, early morning sunlight glinted off the streets, bathing the city in a brand new glow. The air was fresh with the scent of potential. That’s what I was hoping for too — a fresh start, a chance to work on the other side of the world for a few months, and I was going after it, no holds barred. This was my big chance to work in Dublin, and I had a few reasons for wanting to go back to the Irish city, including one who was tall, dark and heartbreakingly luscious.

  I hurried along the busy street at eight in the morning. I was running a fraction late, but I was armed to the teeth with everything I needed to succeed including one thing in particular — my bitch–proof suit. In the world of fashion marketing, I was about to put my suit to the ultimate test when I vied against a boardroom full of killer heeled, conniving business bitches to win the top job assignment — to head the coolhunting department in the company’s new office in Dublin, and settle a few scores at the same time.

  I’ve worked in fashion marketing for years. I’m known as a coolhunter or futurehunter — someone who susses out what’s going to be the next big thing. Call it a faze, call it a fad, I call it being able to see the potential in something new that people will like. In my case it’s fashion. But back to the suit . . .

  My marketing experience helped me create the perfect suit. A lot of work had gone into honing the precise look, the design, the exact tone of charcoal gray for the jacket and skirt, teamed with an arctic white blouse that made the most of my blonde hair, which was styled to a mid nape length and gave just the right balance of fierce gorgeousness. It was a suit by no specific designer. I preferred to use bespoke tailors and have my clothes made with twice the precision at half the price. No labels, no trends, just sheer cutting edge class. I was never model material (unless prettyish, medium height, slender but shapely blondes ever became fashionable on the designer runways), but the suit upgraded what I had to work with.

  You could cut through glass with the sharpness of the jacket. It was a classic, two button, single breasted design that could be dressed up or down for day or evening. The stitching and finish, from the length of the sleeves to the specific shoulder styling, was perfection personified. The suit skimmed the figure fluidly, rather than hugged it tight, and created a shield that deflected and defended the wearer from incoming insults. What was there to snipe about? Surely not the longer line jacket that flattered every ass from all angles, or the smooth lapels that emphasized the female form without brazenly shoving it in your face. The hem of the perfectly cut, A–line skirt sliced just below the knee with no trace of hemming, and of course, on the derriere there was no hint of visible panty line. We shouldn’t even be thinking about VPL at this level. It just doesn’t happen.

  The anonymity of the suit and accessories was paramount. No specific designer was crucial. And I chose my shoes carefully. My shoes have great heels. I could run the length of Brooklyn Bridge in them and back at a pace that would make grown men crumble. Imagine court shoes of the third millennium. Futuristic, functional and fabulous. Beat that you bitches.

  Several of us were vying for the prime opportunity to work in Dublin’s design metropolis. Mega bucks, prestige and the power to influence the core of the fashion industry were at stake. So, as you can imagine, no one was going to take the challenge lightly.

  The unspeakably glamorous and influential Verde Valmont (pronounced Verdi), had already set the wheels in motion. As one of the New York directors, she’d flown over to Dublin with her assistant, Emer, to secure the ideal offices and start scouting for potential trendsetting designers. Verde was known to her friends as Vee–Vee, so you didn’t hear that name very often.

  If I got the job, I’d be working with Verde, the epitome of a prize bitch, who gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, fiercely ambitious — seriously. When she’d been refused the backing of the company’s board of directors for one of her projects, she threatened to jump out of the window of the boardroom unless they relented and gave her exactly what she asked for. They’d still refused. Big mistake — on their part . . .

  I was there at the meeting that day, and had I not witnessed it for myself, I’d never have believed it. Verde, seething with rage, called their bluff. Taking everyone by surprise, she jumped from the fourth storey office window, but with it being spring, all the ad banners and canopies were out, and when she jumped, to spite them I may add, the canopies broke her fall and she landed with an undignified thud on the sidewalk below, and then got up and came back in with nothing more than a broken wrist. Whether she knew the banners would break her fall, we’ll never know, but the boardroom backed down and she got what she wanted. That was over a year ago, and by all accounts her wrist still cracked whenever she wrote a check. She wore expensive bracelets and bangles to disguise the slightly wonky wrist bone. They rattled whenever she moved and always reminded me of the ticking croc in Peter Pan.

  Taking a few deep breaths of fresh air, I headed into the building. In the elevator I guessed who would be there. Company bigwig, Randolph, would be chairing the meeting, as always. Anyone who abbreviated his name to Randy immediately highlighted themselves as an outsider. He had about as much sex appeal as a concrete lamppost, and was just as gray, inflexible and tow
eringly tall as one. The only surprising thing about Randolph was his age. He was sixty, but he’d been a silver fox for over thirty years. Those who worked for his company were accustomed to his distinguished persona. He was rather like a statue that stands in pride of place for decades and never changes. Everyone thought he’d still be chairing meetings ad infinitum.

  One of the main contenders for the job, and my official Manhattan based nemesis, Marina DeMar, would be throwing down the gauntlet for sure. Marina recently swore she had Irish blood in her veins from her great, great, great grandmother’s side of the family and therefore she should go to Dublin. Go figure. It was a blatant lie of course. Last season she’d been of French Canadian descent. I seriously doubted Marina had any blood in her. She was frighteningly pale, wafer thin, and when the air conditioning was at its coldest, her blue veins looked like a road map. Okay, so she was an ex–model, but she still looked like death warmed up.

  Then there was Azuree. Like the other harpies drenched in cookie cutter fashions, Azuree had a degree in superficiality, her only qualification for the job. The last time we’d gone after the same assignment, she’d won, and had stuck a diamond spangled finger up at me as she left the meeting and headed for Milan. I swear if you looked beneath the designer clothes that draped her fabulous figure, you’d find a ninety percent silicone label on her somewhere.

  Not that I’m against giving nature a helping hand, but it’s just not for me. And in a room with polished wood floors and nothing but original artwork and first edition books, it seemed I was the only one to get the irony of the plastic asses seated on the antique chairs.

  Around fifteen faces that looked like they wanted to rip my throat out, verbally or otherwise, were waiting in the executive floor office. The sun threatened to burn a hole through the large expanse of glass, but it probably knew better. The temperature was warm, but the atmosphere was cold as steel.

 

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