Girl of My Dreams

by Morgan Mandel

  Brandishing a knife, she advanced toward Jillian and stopped in front of her. “You set it up. No one else had a chance. I won’t let you get away with it,” she said.

  Mouth open, Jillian gazed at the panting Nadia, who looked like a madwoman with her flushed face and fiery eyes.

  Nadia arced the weapon toward Jillian’s eyes. “No one will want you when I get through with you.”

  Blake reached to grab the knife and deflect it from Jillian’s face. It sliced his palm, slashed his wrist and fell to the floor.

  Nadia scrambled for it. “That’s mine.”

  Jillian watched in horror as Blake tried to grab the knife, while Nadia sidestepped him and picked it up again.

  Blood dripped from Blake’s wrist to the floor.

  Troy, who until then had stood by without a word, swung around and faced Nadia. “Are you crazy?” he asked.

  “Crazy for you,” Nadia said. She leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips.

  Stunned, Troy stood for a moment like a telephone pole. The security guards clambered onto the stage. Nadia eluded them and loped away.

  “Stop that woman,” a guard said.

  No one moved. Who could blame them for not wanting to get knifed?

  The guards followed in hot pursuit. Nadia reached the exit, stopped for a moment, turned and shouted, “Troy Langley, I’d do anything for you. You should’ve picked me. That whore doesn’t deserve you.”

  Then she disappeared, almost as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving pandemonium in her wake. Jillian shouted, trying to get her voice heard above the commotion. “This man needs medical attention. Is there a doctor in the house?”

  “I’m a nurse. I can help,” a familiar voice answered, as its dark-haired owner darted up the aisle.

  Jillian gazed in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just got in tonight. I wanted to surprise you,” Denise said, as she stepped onto the stage. “Can I have your shirt, Mr. Langley?” Denise said in her competent nurse’s voice.

  Without hesitation, the billionaire shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, removed his Halston shirt and passed it over to Denise.

  Regardless of its value, she tore off huge chunks of white cloth to press onto Blake’s wrist. “Lay down, Mr. Caldwell, and don’t move. Someone call an ambulance, please,” she said, as she guided him to the floor.

  A stage hand rushed to do her bidding.

  Blake’s face paled. His lids closed. Would he be all right?

  This should not be happening, especially today of all days. Unmindful of the peril to the priceless wedding gown she was wearing, Jillian knelt down on the other side of Blake, right in the pool of blood.

  The buzz from the audience grew louder. Jillian ignored it as she bent closer to Blake. “I’m so sorry for everything. You saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”

  “Promise you won’t go on any more television shows behind my back, okay?” he said, in a wan voice.

  Jillian smiled ruefully and nodded.

  Thaddeus Larimore, at a loss for words, glanced around the stage for help. There was none to be had, so he withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his brow, then said, “Time’s up, folks. Hope you enjoyed the exciting conclusion.”

  The curtains closed. Reporters rushed the stage.

  Where was the ambulance?

  Troy bent down beside Jillian. “Veronica, you don’t have to do that. Leave it to the medical experts, like this fine nurse over here.” He pointed to Denise.

  “I do have to,” Jillian answered, in a tone not broaching argument. No one could tear her away from Blake. She’d fight to stay where she was.

  He sighed and stood up.

  “Mr. Langley, Mr. Langley, what do you have to say about today’s happenings?” a reporter asked.

  Troy turned to the questioner. “Nadia Romanoff is a menace. You can bet she’s out there somewhere already planning her next move. The law better catch up with her and fast. We’re not safe until she’s behind bars.”

  He could be right, but Jillian didn’t want to think about that. The important thing was for Blake to make it through this crisis. It was all her fault. If it weren’t for her foolhardy stunt of joining the show in the first place, Blake wouldn’t be stretched out on the stage, bleeding. He’d been right all along. She hadn’t needed to become a contestant to save the show.

  The real reason she’d done it was to get Blake to notice her. Well, he had and it might cost him his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE INTERCOM BUZZED. “Mr. Tweedsberry’s on line one,” Blake’s new temp, Camille, said in a reverent voice. It was her first day on the job and already she’d answered a call from the man whose word was law at Mecca. Of course she was impressed.

  Blake took a deep breath. Hell, he wasn’t exactly calm himself. He hadn’t been in the office an hour since his hospital stay and already had received the summons.

  Blake’s palms dampened as picked up the receiver. Was Mr. Mecca angry about the surprise ending of Girl of My Dreams? Was he worried about a flake like Nadia running loose? Did he consider keeping Blake onboard a risk?

  “Mr. Tweedsberry, what can I do for you?”

  “For starters, how about stopping in my office?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Blake grabbed his jacket off the door hanger. At least he’d worn his navy blue power suit today. He didn’t always dress up, but for some reason, he’d felt the need to assert himself. Lying around like a weak kitten in a hospital bed for a few days could have that effect on a person.

  He stopped by Camille’s desk on the way out. “I’ve got a meeting with the big man. Wish me luck,” he said, with a tight smile.

  Her eyes widened. “All the best, Mr. Caldwell,” she whispered, looking as worried as if he were walking to the electric chair.

  He coughed back a laugh. His tiny assistant with the huge doe eyes was taking it even harder than he.

  On the top floor of the eleven-story building, Blake stepped into his boss’ office. Tweedsberry, dressed in a grey pinstriped suit matching his salt-and-pepper hair, stood up and came around from behind his desk to shake hands.

  “Congratulations, you did it,” he said, with a huge grin.

  “What?”

  “We’re in the clear. Thanks to you, not only was the show a success, but the sponsors are beating down the door. How does it feel to save the studio?”

  “It’s a relief,” Blake said, as a warm fuzzy feeling swirled in his stomach. Damn, he loved the studio more than he’d realized.

  He’d hoped Girl of My Dreams would help, but had never anticipated such a fantastic turnaround.

  “Have a seat. Let’s go over a few things.”

  Blake listened in amazement as Tweedsberry summarized the successful series.

  “Would you like to try again? You can have free rein again, pick the script, the theme, the cast, the setting, everything.”

  The only catch was it had to be ready for the spring season six months away. That didn’t leave much time.

  “Think you can handle it?” Tweedsberry said.

  The new assignment meant climbing back onto the hamster wheel, getting up early, meeting deadlines and doing whatever else it took to pull a show together.

  Blake squared his shoulders. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “Good, now get to work.”

  ALMOST AS SOON as Blake stepped back into his office, it began.

  “A delivery man is here, Mr. Caldwell,” Camille said.

  Blake smiled as the man carted in a pile of scripts. Tweedsberry was a wily, old goat. He’d anticipated Blake’s answer before asking the question.

  That was just the start. The deluge continued all week. On Friday, the voice of doom, belonging to Camille, again emanated from Blake’s intercom. “Another delivery, Mr. Caldwell.”

  He sighed, glancing up from a script he
was trying to make sense of. “Have him come in.”

  Where would this batch go? He’d stayed here late each night, had brought piles home with him, yet his office was fast becoming a storage facility. Piles of unread scripts lined his credenza and the top of his file cabinets. He was beginning to wonder what color the carpet had been. Well, safety in numbers. There had to be something here he could work with, if he could only find it.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t think up a plausible idea for the new show. His usually agile mind had turned as sluggish as a stale bottle of pop.

  The messenger wheeled in the current stack on a dolly. “Where to, mister?”

  Blake pointed to a pile in the corner. “Next to there. Haven’t I seen you before, say, yesterday and the day before?”

  “That’s right. I’ve been here every day this week,” the man said, as he eased the boxes and Tyvek envelopes onto the floor in a neat stack, then turned to leave.

  Blake reached into his pocket. “Hold on a second.”

  He withdrew a twenty and placed it in the man’s palm.

  “You don’t have to do that, sir.”

  “I insist. You deserve it. I almost feel like you’re part of our payroll,” Blake said.

  The man flashed him a huge grin. “Thank you.”

  It felt good to make someone happy. He had plenty to go around and no one to share it with.

  As the man’s footsteps retreated, Blake picked up the same script. It had possibilities, but needed tweaking. He just had to concentrate. Easier said than done.

  Every time he looked down at his wrist, it all played back. Like a rerun that wouldn’t stop, his mind flashed to thoughts of Jillian. Thank goodness he’d deflected Nadia’s aim. The newspapers had called him a hero, but it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. Jillian getting hurt was not an option.

  He’d done some heavy thinking in that hospital bed and had come up with a startling conclusion. Saving Jillian had not been a random reflex. He cared about her and probably had for a while. Blind fool that he was, he’d thought her only worth to him was that of an assistant. He’d lost valuable time which he could have used cementing their relationship.

  When she’d visited him in the hospital, her distress had seemed genuine. Then, again, guilt may have been the reason why she’d bitten her lip and stared at him so intently. It was natural she felt responsible for his condition. She’d apologized up and down for appearing on the show in the first place, saying nothing would have happened to him if she hadn’t made that first move.

  He’d said to forget it and meant what he said. He’d been mad before because of her crazy impulse, but that was history. Now his major concern was losing her. He would not let her go without a fight.

  There was no room in the equation for Troy Langley. Was it too late to stop the wedding? He had to find out.

  Blake pushed aside the script. Time to take a ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JILLIAN SMOOTHED THE black jersey dress over her hips. She reached into her jewelry box and slipped on the jade ring, instead of the diamond from Troy. As she fastened the Marquisette drop earrings on her ears, the doorbell rang. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the buzzer to let him into the building.

  Tonight, the crazy adventure would end. She’d tell Troy she didn’t love him. It seemed almost wrong to go out to dinner with him and have him spend money on her, but she wanted to be polite. He didn’t deserve a quick letdown. Over good food, the ordeal would be easier on both of them.

  Troy stepped inside, cast an appreciative glance at Jillian, and said, “You look beautiful.”

  He leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  “Thanks.”

  She grabbed her purse and turned toward the door to avoid further advances.

  “Still playing hard to get,” he said, following her out.

  One thing about Troy. He was not dense.

  A black, chauffeur-driven limousine was parked outside her apartment. Feeling like Cinderella, Jillian stepped inside. Troy scooted in beside her and immediately draped his arm around her shoulders.

  “Before we go any further, I have a confession to make,” he said.

  That was her line. Maybe he’d save her the trouble and say he didn’t want to marry her.

  “Who you saw on Girl of My Dreams wasn’t me. I’m nothing like that guy.”

  Where was this leading? “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It was all an act. The producer said to ham it up, so I did. I know I went too far at times, but I really got into it, sort of like an out-of-body experience. I was somebody else on camera, being outrageous, playing for reactions. It kind of carried over off the set as well. The truth is I’m an abysmal failure with women. I never can say the right thing. I’ve concentrated so much on making money that I lack big time in the personal etiquette department.”

  This was not what she’d expected. Troy grew more human and vulnerable by the minute. It made her feel guilty about her upcoming confession. What should she say?

  “Don’t put yourself down. From what I hear, you’ve accomplished a lot. Being a self-made man must make you proud,” Jillian said.

  “Yes and no. Whenever I meet a goal, I think up a new and harder one. Ambition is a curse.”

  “Also a blessing. Your parents must be proud of you.”

  Troy gave a short laugh. “Who knows? I don’t see much of them, never have. They’ve been divorced as long as I can remember. I was nothing but an inconvenience. When I was young, all they did was fight over who was stuck with me and when.”

  His voice sounded haunted. Poor Troy. With such uncaring parents, no wonder he had a hard time relating.

  Jillian smiled sympathetically. “Deep down they must love you. What’s not to like?”

  Moments ago there had been scads on her list. He didn’t need to know that, the poor dear.

  “What I like about you, Veronica, is you always say the right thing. Enough about me. What about you? What kind of family are you from?”

  “I’m an only child also. I had the most wonderful parents, who passed away far too soon. Still, it’s a comfort to know they shared a marvelous love. That has to mean something,” Jillian said, her eyes filling with tears as they always did when she thought of her loss. She’d never stop missing Mom and Dad. They were too much a part of her.

  Troy nodded. “I see what you mean. It’s a goal not everyone achieves, but I’d like a stab at it. With an honest, intelligent, beautiful woman like you, I can’t fail.”

  This was awkward. Jillian’s face warmed. How could she stage a letdown after that? The situation required diplomacy. “Troy, I’m not as wonderful as you think.”

  “There you go again, being modest. It’s another thing I like about you.”

  Oh, dear, now what to say.

  Just then the limo pulled up to Sonata’s, one of L.A.’s top Italian restaurants. Jillian breathed a sigh of relief.

  Inside the restaurant, though the lighting was dim, she caught a glimpse of bronze sconces adorning gold leaf wallpaper. A tantalizing aroma of garlic, basil and tomato sauce made her stomach growl. She coughed to hide the telltale sound and followed the maitre d’ past a sea of crimson clothed tables with Waterford candle holders and twinkling candles. The scene reminded her of Christmas, which was only a few months away.

  They stopped at a booth in the far corner. “Signorina, senor, your waiter, Giuseppe, will be with you shortly. May you enjoy your meal,” the man said.

  Hopefully, the waiter would arrive soon. Jillian’s appetite raged, which was surprising under the circumstances.

  Life was strange and getting stranger by the minute. Not long ago she’d been an unsuspecting working class girl struggling to pay her debts. Now a handsome, rich man who was becoming more endearing by the minute was serious about making her his wife. The offer was tempting. Could she grow to love him? Should she forget Blake? She didn’t stand a chance with him anyway.

  A loud squeal
interrupted her thoughts. “I told you I saw them. It’s Veronica and Troy,” a girl shouted.

  Jillian looked up. To her horror, a swarm of chattering fans rushed from the front of the restaurant straight in her direction. Somewhere in the midst of the melee the maitre d’ shouted, “You can’t go back there.”

  He may as well have been invisible, the attention he got. The fans continued on their merry quest, jostling each other in the process.

  They braked in front of the booth and crowded close, ogling Jillian and Troy.

  Finally a young African-American girl with tiny barrettes dotting her corn-row curls ventured forward. “Can I have your autograph?” she asked, holding out a napkin to Jillian.

  “Hey, I was here first.” Another girl shoved the first fan aside.

  Jillian looked around helplessly. There was no use trying to escape. Her exit was blocked by the mob. She may as well make the most of the situation, surreal as it was. She wasn’t anyone special. Still, these people thought she was, so she may as well play along.

  The noise rose, making Jillian wonder if she and Troy were safe. Would the mob, by its sheer magnitude, trample them? What should they do?

  Troy stood up and held his hands out, as if pushing everyone back. “Stay put and keep still, please, while we work something out.”

  Jillian joined him, standing. He put his arm around her. Her mind registered the fact he was playing the gentleman and trying to protect her. That was nice. How sad his touch didn’t mean more than that.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll be glad to sign autographs if all of you would please get into an orderly line. This is a restaurant. The clientele would like to eat their meals without being disturbed. Also, can you make way for the maitre d’, so he can help with the arrangements?”

  The mob parted. The maitre d’, bald head wet with perspiration, darted forward. “This has never happened before in our establishment. Forgive me, please, but I could not contain them.”

  “No need to apologize,” Troy said.

  “What should we do with them? These people are disrupting our business,” the man said.

  Jillian glanced again at the widening mob. The other diners were blocked from view, but she guessed they had to be fuming in their seats. They were as trapped as she and Troy.