Blissfully Yours (Mills & Boon Kimani)

by Velvet Carter

  “I’ll never get used to dressing like a slut and acting like a wild banshee.”

  “I could always release you from your contract if you’re tired of playing the role. I have a list of divorced wives of millionaires waiting in the wings to take your place. Give me the word, and I’ll tear up your contract and you can walk away, free and clear, before the season starts. No hard feelings. But once we start production, you’ll have to honor your contract and stay for the duration of this season.”

  Ayana plopped down on the sofa, tossing the outfit to the side, and exhaled. She wasn’t in a position to quit. She hadn’t amassed enough money to secure her financial future, nor had she made inroads into the licensing business so that she could brand herself. As much as Ayana hated the charade, she hated being poor more. She wasn’t going to leave the show until all of her ducks were lined up. She was determined to make the most out of being on the show, even if that meant portraying herself as a loudmouthed troublemaker. “No, Ed, I don’t want to be released from my contract, but can we come to a compromise?”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Let me choose my clothes. The stylist isn’t quite getting my look right.”

  “I guess you can do that. Just don’t come on set in anything conservative.”

  “Thanks. I won’t,” she said with a broad smile spreading across her face.

  “Don’t get too happy. I came in here to tell you about the new director.”

  “What about him?”

  “We didn’t tell him that Saturday Knight is a fake persona. He doesn’t know your real name is Ayana Lewis, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “Why is that?”

  “We want to maintain a sense of reality, and the less he knows about your real personality, the better he can direct you as a wildcat.”

  “So you’re telling me that he doesn’t realize my role on the show is an act?”

  “No, he doesn’t. As you know, the rest of the cast doesn’t know either. Remember the confidentiality clause in your contract binding you to keep quiet about your true identity.”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “So you’ll keep up the act?”

  “Yes, but I refuse to be tacky.”

  “Deal. On another note, I’ve been introducing the new director to the cast individually before we start shooting. He’s meeting with Trista now and will be in to meet you shortly.”

  “No problem.”

  As they were talking, in walked the new director. Ayana looked at the handsome man and nearly gasped. He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders and an athlete’s build. His head was shaven, giving off a slight glisten. His eyes were warm, the color of chestnuts, and his skin looked as if it had been dipped in milk chocolate. The white cotton shirt he wore seemed to glow against his dark skin. He was handsome in a rugged urban-cowboy-type way. In fact, he was exactly her type. If they were in another setting, she could envision the two of them sitting down and having a friendly chat over a cup of coffee. However, she had a job to do and wasn’t going to let his good looks distract her.

  “Brandon, perfect timing,” Ed said, turning toward the door. “Let me introduce you to Saturday Knight, the show’s hot-blooded diva.”

  Ayana took a step backward and went into character. She sucked her lips, put her hand on her hip and rolled her eyes in his direction.

  “Hello.” Brandon extended his hand.

  Ayana looked down at his hand. “Whatever.”

  “Ed, I’ll be on set,” Brandon said, turning his back to Ayana, ignoring her rude behavior and directing his comment to the creator of the show.

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  Brandon walked out without giving her a second look. Once he was gone, Ed closed the door. “Nice work. You did a damn good job of showing him how nasty you can be.”

  “That was nothing. Wait until I get in front of the camera. Then I’m going to really cut up.”

  “Perfect. That’s what I want to hear. Divorced Divas is leading in the ratings and I want to keep it that way.”

  “Don’t worry, Ed. You can count on me to do my part.”

  “See you on set, Ayana.”

  When Ed left the room, Ayana closed the door and walked back to the clothing rack. As she was looking for another outfit, she thought about how rude she had been to the new director and began feeling guilty. He didn’t deserve to be disregarded, but as long as she was under contract, she wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize her future.

  Ayana changed into a pair of white skinny jeans and a sheer black blouse with a deep V-neck that showcased her ample cleavage. She completed the casual outfit with a pair of four-inch cork platforms. The shoes added to her height, making her a towering figure of six feet.

  Ayana left the dressing room, and as she walked down the long hallway, she took a series of deep breaths. With each step, she dreaded the beginning of another season of lies. To make her job tolerable, Ayana tried to find something to focus on. Last season, she’d concentrated on the shelter in Jamaica. The thought of helping the women and children in her homeland had gotten her through the catfights, backstabbing and blind dates gone awry. This season, she hadn’t picked a focal point, until meeting the director. Although she had treated him like dirt on the bottom of her designer shoes, she found him extremely sexy and attractive. Even if she couldn’t have him personally, she could at least fantasize about his muscular body being pressed against hers. That thought alone would sustain her for at least a few episodes.

  Chapter 5

  I must admit, Jon was right. Saturday Knight is one pretty woman. Her body is made by Frederick’s of Hollywood, but her attitude is made by Freddy Krueger. Her ugly interior totally cancels out her gorgeous exterior, Brandon thought as he walked down the hallway toward the set. The first scene of the day was being shot in a sprawling Central Park West penthouse that the show leased for taping. Brandon was the first on set. He sat in his director’s chair and waited for the ladies—Trista, the Good Girl; Petra, the Russian; Brooke, the Flirt; and Saturday, the Bad Girl—to arrive.

  The beginning of the day’s show centered on Saturday’s blind-date follow-up. Last season had ended with her being set up with three seriously wealthy men. Now the audience would find out if she picked one of the three. If not, her search for love would continue.

  Trista was the first to enter the room. She had once been married to a strict CFO of a finance company. He detested tardiness and was always the first to arrive and the first to leave. His mantra was that time was money, so he waited on no one. His punctuality had rubbed off on Trista. They would still be married if he hadn’t gotten caught embezzling millions from the company. After he was sent to prison for ten years, Trista instituted his mantra and didn’t waste any time filing for divorce. She wasn’t going to waste ten whole years waiting around for him.

  Brandon looked at the petite redhead with a pixie haircut. She was soft-spoken and had a girlish quality. She looked more befitted for a family with two kids and a dog than a cutthroat reality show. But for contrast, Ed had Trista going on dates with rocker types who wore leather, torn jeans and tattoos—the opposite of her sweet personality.

  As Brandon was reading over the show notes one last time, he heard footsteps and commotion coming down the hall in the form of two loud voices.

  “I’ma do you a favor, and let you have first pickings over the men that I turn down.”

  “I no want you damn leftover!” a voice with a Russian accent bellowed.

  “If I didn’t give you my throwbacks, you wouldn’t have any dates at all.”

  Brandon turned toward the entry of the living room as the two women marched in. I should have known it was Saturday arguing with someone.

  “No true. I have entee man I want,” Petra responded.

  Petra Kazakova was a Russian immigrant and former model who’d married the head of a cosmetics conglomerate. The two had divorced when he was caught wearing lipstick in a compr
omising situation with his business partner. Petra’s dates for the show ran the gamut from European millionaires looking for trophy wives to taxi drivers. The broken English spoken by Petra and her dates often had to be accompanied by subtitles, which Ed loved because he thought it made his show unique.

  “You should want some English lessons. It’s not entee.... The word is any. And you also need to learn to pluralize your words,” Saturday spouted.

  “And you need lesson on how to be nice person.”

  “Nice ain’t never got me nowhere. I prefer to tell it straight with no chaser. I can’t help it if you can’t take the truth.”

  “I take truth. You bully. How is that for truth?”

  Saturday walked close to Petra and got in her face. “I got your bully.”

  Ed watched their exchange from the sideline, where he sat along with the executive producer, Steve. While Ed looked on in admiration at the way Saturday was performing, Steve watched in disgust.

  “That Saturday is some piece of work. She should give poor Petra a break,” Steve whispered to Ed.

  “She’s perfect just the way she is. Everyone on the show can’t be Mary Poppins, or the show would be a bore,” Ed said, coming to Saturday’s defense.

  “Well, I guess you’re right. But at least she could wait until the director says ‘action’ before giving Petra hell.”

  “I’m sure this is her way of warming up before we start taping,” Ed said.

  Saturday continued to go at Petra, insulting her broken English and pointing her finger in Petra’s face.

  “Hey, you two, save the bickering for the camera,” Brandon said, breaking up the spat. He had seen enough.

  Petra stomped over to the huge picture window, folded her arms and muttered under her breath.

  “What is all this chatter going on? I could hear you two all the way in my room, and the door was shut. This is not a barroom brawl. We’re in an elegant penthouse and should act accordingly,” Brooke said in a chastising voice as she entered the room.

  Brooke Windsor had once had it all. Born with a platinum spoon in her pretty mouth and raised on the Upper East Side, her great-grandparents were blue bloods who’d made their fortune in the railroad industry. Rumors had it that she and her ex-husband were first cousins, which wasn’t unusual for people of their stature. What was unusual was for a family with old money to lose their fortune within a generation. And that was exactly what Brooke’s husband did when he invested all of their money with a shifty investment adviser who swindled them in a Ponzi scheme. Distraught over losing his family’s fortune, her husband fled to Europe, leaving his wife to fend for herself. With no marketable skills, Brooke jumped at the chance to star on Divorced Divas. The only problem was that Brooke had an air of superiority and thought she was better than the other divas. Also, in her quest to find her next meal ticket, Brooke flirted with just about any man with earning potential. Brooke, who had grown up with the best of everything, had now lost everything. She still had her family’s name, but that didn’t keep her in designer clothes or pay for lavish vacations. Ed thrust Brooke in the world of athletes when choosing her dates, setting her up with basketball players, football players, hockey players and the like. Most of the guys had no problem being seen on camera with the beautiful Brooke. And she had no problem dating these men earning seven-figure salaries.

  “Don’t worry about how loud we are. Worry about finding another cousin to marry,” Saturday shot back.

  Brooke rolled her eyes, swung her long blond hair and whipped her slim body around, giving Saturday her back.

  “Girls, girls, save all the backbiting for the camera,” Brandon repeated.

  Saturday started in again. “First of all, we’re not girls. Second...”

  “Second, I’m the director and this is now my show, so when I say save it, I mean save it,” Brandon interrupted her. “I assume everyone has read the show notes for the day, so let’s get started. Saturday, I want you sitting on the sofa next to Trista. You two are discussing Saturday’s latest blind date. When the bell rings, Saturday, I want you to answer the door.”

  “Wait a minute—isn’t the maid supposed to answer the door?” Brooke interrupted.

  Brandon shot her a look. He turned back to Saturday and continued. “Like I said, when the bell rings, answer the door. Got it? Good.”

  Saturday went over and sat beside Trista. Brooke and Petra were seated in the background at a table set for high tea.

  Once everyone was in position, Brandon yelled, “Action!”

  The set lights came on, and the cameras began rolling. Saturday and Trista starting chatting as if they were best friends. Saturday recalled her past dates, a mix of businessmen, athletes, rockers and Europeans. Ed wanted her dating base to span the range so Saturday could swoop in at any given time and steal a cast member’s date, bringing high drama to the show.

  “That guy Anthony you went to dinner with seems nice. Are you excited to see him again?” Trista asked.

  “He’s the one who should be excited.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Hello, have we met? Look at me.” Saturday stood up and twirled around. “Who wouldn’t want to see me again?”

  Damn, that chick has no shame, Brandon thought, sitting in his director’s chair and staring at Saturday.

  As they were talking, the bell rang. Saturday strutted over to the door, paused and opened it. Standing before her was a portly Italian man who looked as if he had eaten too many meatballs. He was dressed in a navy business suit, wore rectangle glasses and carried a black briefcase. He looked like a public defender heading to court instead of someone standing on the set of a reality show.

  “Hey there, how are ya? You’re looking fine as ever,” he said nervously.

  “Hello, Anthony,” Saturday answered drily.

  “Cut!”

  “What? Why’d you yell cut?” Saturday asked. “We just got started.”

  “I want you to show some enthusiasm. Act like you’re happy to see him. Take two. Action.”

  Saturday leaned in and gave the man a hug with a friendly pat on the back. Obviously there was no chemistry between them. She towered over him and they looked mismatched, like complete opposites.

  “Cut!”

  “What now?” Saturday rolled her eyes and put her hand on her hip.

  “When I said show some enthusiasm I meant give him a hello kiss. Take three. Action.”

  Saturday leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

  “Cut! Cut!” Brandon was getting frustrated. He walked over and got in Saturday’s face. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you kiss him like he’s your brother?”

  “I didn’t kiss him like a brother.”

  “You sure didn’t kiss him with any passion.”

  “That’s because I don’t feel any passion toward him,” she said as if the man weren’t even standing there.

  “Look, the viewers want to see chemistry. Not some lukewarm peck on the lips. Now try it again.” Brandon went back to his director’s chair and yelled, “Take four! Action!” Saturday kissed Anthony again, and again Brandon cut the scene.

  “What the hell do you want?” she hissed, rolling her eyes.

  Brandon got up, went over to Saturday, took her firmly by the shoulders and gave her a long juicy kiss. He could feel himself responding to her; his crotch was getting heated with every passing second. “That’s what I want,” he said, releasing her before he had a full-blown erection.

  Saturday was speechless. “Got it,” she said once she recovered from the surprise kiss.

  When Brandon returned to the director’s chair and yelled “action” again, he didn’t have any more problems. She kissed Anthony as if he were her long-lost lover. As Brandon watched the scene play out, he could still feel the warmth of her lips against his. Her lips were soft and he could envision kissing and making love to her all night. His mind momentarily drifted into a fantasy where their naked bodies were intertwined in
a heated embrace and their tongues were doing a sensuous, synchronized dance. Brandon shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image. He was there to work, not fantasize. Besides, divas were not his type, and Saturday was beyond your typical diva. After being dumped by an actress, he wanted nothing more to do with the entertainment types. He wanted a down-to-earth woman with traditional family values, and Saturday Knight certainly didn’t fit that description.

  Chapter 6

  The first day of taping had been long and drawn out. By the time Ayana returned home, she was exhausted. After showering and putting on her favorite pink Hello Kitty pajamas, she climbed into bed. She then pulled the comforter up to her chin and shut her eyes. An hour later, she was still wide-awake, sleep eluding her. Ayana tossed and turned, switching from her left side to the right, in an effort to get comfortable, but it wasn’t working. Ayana sat up and attacked the pillows, punching them with her fist, trying to soften them. Satisfied that she had loosened the down feathers sufficiently, she laid her head back on the creased pillows. The moment she closed her eyes, visions of Brandon appeared. Ayana could see him walking toward her with a sexy strut. Her body’s memory could still feel his strong hands taking hold of her shoulders, pressing her against his body and giving her a sensuous kiss. His lips touching hers had been a welcome surprise. The last thing Ayana expected was to be lip-locking with the new director. She could tell from the way he introduced his lips to hers—purposeful, yet gentle—that he was an experienced lover. He had turned her on with only one brief kiss, and now her body craved more of his touch.

  Ayana bolted straight up. “Get that man out of your mind,” she said quietly, underneath her breath, in the darkened room. She inhaled several times, fast at first and then slowly in a Zen-like effort to calm herself. As Ayana was going through the breathing exercises, her cell phone rang. She froze, and her heart started beating fast. Her mind instantly flashed to Brandon. I wonder if that’s him calling? A phone list with all the cast and crew’s home and cell numbers had been passed out before rehearsals began, so it wasn’t unlikely that he could be calling.