Mel froze as if I'd asked him to cut off his own arm and eat it. "But the ratings…Mr. Bombay…"
"Paris." I steeled myself.
"Paris," He pulled himself up to a full five feet, four inches in height—the best he could do. "This whole show appeals to young men and middle-aged women. The guys want to see hot, young girls, and the women want to feel superior to them."
I shook my head. "No deal." I even folded my arms over my chest to look intimidating. And that's when I realized Roberto was stripping me and measuring my inseam. You may not realize it, but it's very hard to look intimidating with your pants down.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away."
~ Raymond Chandler
I spent the rest of the day being groped and measured by Roberto and Omar, while Mel gave me the rundown on that evening's events. Staff ran around the house, moving furniture around and getting the women's rooms ready.
Since the show was going to be shot in two weeks, they only had twelve women who would be vying for my attention. It occurred to me that with Plimpton dead, they were trying to wrap the program before the network knew about his untimely demise at the hands of yours truly.
But this was ridiculous. How long could they keep a murder quiet? I tried to ask (subtly, of course) when I'd get to meet the producer, but was brushed off every time. I was beginning to think I'd imagined killing him and his bodyguards.
Maybe if I ferreted the truth out, the program would come to a screeching halt, and I could go home. Hmmm…this idea had merit. I just needed to get the word out that the producer was dead.
"Um," I stammered, "I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass, Roberto, but do I need to be naked to try on neckties?"
"You know, Paris," Roberto said as he ignored my question, "I'm getting the distinct impression that you don't really want to be here."
"Why do you say that?" I hoped I sounded sincere. I'm sure I didn't.
"You don't seem very excited to meet a group of gorgeous women." He looked at me and cocked his head to the left. "Are you gay?"
I cocked my head to the right. "Wouldn't you know that?"
"Yes. My gaydar's pretty fabulous. But maybe I'm wrong, just this once?" He arched his eyebrow suggestively.
I pulled on my boxers. "No, you aren't wrong. I'm straight. I'm just not into the kind of women who would go out for a reality show."
Roberto snapped his tape measure shut. "Why are you here then? Don't get me wrong…I like you much better than the jackasses we usually have on this idiotic program. But what possessed you to audition?"
Because I needed to kill the executive producer. "I'm wondering that same thing."
Roberto didn't say anything for a moment. Then he nodded and handed me my suit for the evening.
"Paris Bombay—you may have just what this show needs," he said as he made his way to the door.
"What's that?"
"A little class." He smiled and left the room.
Mel stood in front of me on the front porch. The first limo would arrive any minute, and the cameras were lining the sidewalk.
"We'll focus on the limo first," he said, holding his hands up in front of him as if they were a camera lens. "Then we will follow each girl…" he caught himself, "woman, as she walks up to you. You hand her the rose and introduce yourself." Mel indicated the tray of roses on a small table beside me. "Then she'll go inside, and the next one comes."
I'd had a small victory earlier when I'd insisted they exchange the red roses for yellow roses. This was an introduction, after all. A yellow rose symbolized friendship. Red roses seemed too insincere for a first meeting.
I felt stupid arguing for the roses, because I still didn't know why I was here. Chuck Plimpton was dead. They had no show! And how does a dead man pick me from the lineup? And how did they get three, bloody bodies out of that room without anyone noticing? Well, it is Hollywood. Maybe people thought they were carrying fake bodies out.
It didn't really matter because the bodies were most likely disposed of, and I was under contract to do the show. Whether I liked it or not, I had to pick a woman out of a group of shallow actresses and propose to her. On TV. While my family laughed at me.
We stood in the dry, warm air as the sun set behind the house. I had to give Roberto and Omar credit. This was one luxe suit. I wore nice clothes as a rule, but this felt like butter and had a nice sheen to it. The silk socks and Prada oxfords gave me a little lift. I won't go into the 600 thread count Egyptian boxers and T-shirt.
A white, stretch hummer pulled up to the end of the sidewalk. How tacky. Oh well, I only had to go through this weird meet-and-greet twelve times. Hopefully, the mansion had a well-stocked liquor cabinet.
The chauffer opened the door, and a petite blonde with elfin features and a lot of makeup stepped out. She was wearing stilettos and a dress that barely sufficed as a slip. She leered at me and sashayed over. My stomach turned.
"I'm Paris Bombay," I said, following the script. "Welcome." I handed her the yellow rose ,and she leaped into my arms, kissing me on the lips. Her tongue was halfway down my throat before I could push her off.
"I'm Leila, and the pleasure is all mine," she said in a husky voice as she pulled away and slinked into the house.
"Cut!" Mel shouted as the door closed behind her. He raced over and wiped a red smear of lipstick off my mouth.
"What the hell was that?" I hissed under my breath. Leila assaulted me. I've killed men for doing less. Leila—if that was her real name—was trying too hard and as far as I was concerned, would go home tonight if possible.
"No! That was great!" Mel said. "I just wanted the lipstick off before the next gir…woman gets here. I hope they all do that!"
Bile rose in my throat. It was bad enough I felt like a side of beef. But women like that were only out to win. She didn't know me. Kissing me like that…hell, even dressing like that, meant she was doing it all for the cameras. No wonder none of these shows ended in real marriages.
"Don't punch them," Roberto whispered behind me. "At least, not in the face." How did he get there?
"How did you know that's what I was thinking?" I whispered back.
He laughed and stepped back into the shadows of the porch. Of course he was there. What if something happened to my wardrobe? What if the next woman ripped off my clothes and tried to screw me right there on the porch? Okay, so that wasn't such a horrible idea—on the surface. But I'd be full of moral outrage, right?
Limo number two arrived. I stiffened, waiting for the worst. The door opened, and a redhead stepped out. She was almost as tall as me and dressed more demurely in a little black dress that covered up her shoulders and thighs. She actually walked normally toward me in short heels. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders at an unnaturally long length. But that was the only bad thing about her.
"I'm Gloria," she held out her right hand for me to shake. Now this was more like it. A real woman.
Taking her hand in mine, I introduced myself. This might not be so terrible after all.
Gloria stepped a bit closer and whispered in my ear, "I like threesomes. You will too." She said, before smiling and making her way into the house. I sighed. Did they recruit these women from porn sets?
More limos came and went as woman after woman introduced herself, made some crude remark (including a few suggestions I wasn't sure were even physically possible) and went inside. Other than the fact they were different heights and hair color, they seemed all the same to me. Each woman seemed kinkier than the rest. It was sad and a little creepy.
The last limo pulled up and stopped at the curb. This torment was almost over. I just had to smile through one more introduction…if I could without killing Abernathy that is. The director was beaming as if he'd gotten footage of all the women naked. I wouldn't have been surprised if some of them tried to get away with that.
The d
oor opened and a foot with a closed-toe, black pump stepped out, followed by a knee-length hemline. I tried not to get my hopes up. I'd been so very wrong before.
Cindee stepped out of the limo and onto the sidewalk. She looked a bit startled to see me, and I found that adorable. I wondered if I could make her look like that every day. That would be worth something. Cindee quickly recovered with a smile as she made her way toward me. For the first time that evening, I was grinning.
She walked up to me, and I took her in. Same gorgeous figure, silky black bob, and big brown eyes. I felt my hostility softening. She really was beautiful.
"Hello," she said with a faint smirk. "I'm Cindee."
"Paris Bombay," I replied, handing her the last yellow rose.
She pulled in closer. "I didn't expect to see you again," she whispered. She smelled like vanilla. I loved vanilla.
I tried to control myself. It wouldn't look good to finally be happy to see one of the girls. "I didn't expect to be here. But it is nice to see you again."
She searched my face. "Really? I guess that surprises me."
My heart sank. I'd hoped she'd forgotten what a jackass I was on the plane. "I deserve that. And I'll make it up to you."
"We'll see," Cindee nodded and went into the house.
"Oooh," Roberto whispered behind me somewhere. "I like her!"
So do I, I thought to myself. So do I.
CHAPTER NINE
"Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die."
~Mel Brooks
I regained my senses and entered the house. Kevin the Kid stood in the foyer, ready to escort me to the den, where I'd meet the women as a group. This would be the end of the taping for the night. I had my own suite of rooms, but the ladies had the run of the house. We were not supposed to run into each other except for dates and the part where I decided who was leaving the show. And I was perfectly okay with that, until I saw Cindee.
"We have F-Troop playing on the TV in the den, but I muted the sound. I hope that's all right," Kid said.
It took me a moment to realize that I'd requested that the '50s show be on in the background in my contract. Apparently, they didn't think all my unreasonable demands were, well, unreasonable. "Oh, I suppose I can live with that."
"It'll be on in all rooms of your suite at all times," he added. "I managed to get the whole series. The sound dude's a fan."
I wasn't originally nervous about the group meeting—that is—until Cindee showed up. For some reason, I wanted to impress her. But I couldn't remember what exactly I was supposed to say next. My mind scrambled to remember what Mel had told me, but I was drawing a blank. Preparation had always been important to me. I didn't kill a third world dictator without floor plans, firsthand knowledge of his habits, and an introduction to his mistress and tennis coach. And yet here I was, unprepared.
"This is it." Kevin opened the door for me.
Eleven women stood in an arc around the room, smiling in various degrees of insincerity. Cindee stood out. And not just because she was watching me warily. She couldn't help standing out like a flower among weeds. She just did.
I felt like I was on trial and this was my jury. And my jury was already flirting with me. Across the room, there were multiple pairs of lips being licked and eyebrows wiggling, and one of the women was doing something with her two index fingers that looked, if it was what I thought it was, obscene. This shocked me into remembering my lines.
"Welcome, ladies, to The Bachelor: Bachelor No More—Ever. I'm Paris Bombay," I shouted over the F-Troop theme song.
The women giggled and one blew me a kiss. Obscene Finger Girl started stroking her elbow while leering. I steeled myself and continued.
"Over the next two weeks, I will get to know each and every one of you." To my credit, I didn't wince at how suggestive that sounded. "At the end of each night, I will invite all but two of you to stay another day. I wish you the best of luck. Good night."
The cameras went off, and I tried to turn toward the door. I say "tried" because I was suddenly surrounded by women. They were all trying to mark me, like male cats at a feline orgy. I'd like to think that simply meant they were trying to impress me or get me to notice them. But unfortunately, it meant I was groped and fondled…and it pissed me off.
I couldn't help but notice that Cindee remained standing near the wall. She wasn't part of the mob, and I liked her even more for it. Even if, a little voice inside my head wondered why isn't she trying to impress me?
Roberto managed to slip into the middle of the fray and extricate me from what had become a mosh pit. He pushed me out the door and shut it behind me. The ladies must've calmed down, because I could hear Kevin-the-Kid giving them their instructions.
We made our way to my suite, and after checking to make sure the door would lock behind us, I sank down on my bed. Roberto stood in the doorway.
"Are you alright?" he asked, barely concealing a grin.
"Yeah, I'm fine." I undid the button on my jacket. "That was bizarre."
"It happens every time. Word gets out that you have to work fast. Two weeks isn't a lot of time."
I rose to hang up my jacket and loosen my tie. "Why is that? Don't most of these shows last a month or so?"
"This time it's shorter," Roberto said. "The ratings suck, and there are rumors the funding has gone south."
I perked up. Maybe Plimpton's death had finally been announced? "So the show could be cancelled?" That wouldn't be awful.
"Perhaps. They don't tell me anything." He stood in the doorway with a grin. "You might want to wedge a chair up under this doorknob after I leave." He promised to lock the door to the suite behind him and left.
I pulled out my laptop and ran a search on the deceased executive producer. Nothing. How was this possible? What did they do with the body? This was only Hollywood—not some third world country with and an inconveniently dead despot. I've hidden bodies hundreds of times, but they were always found in a few days. And I was a professional.
This town was a joke. So was the show. And these women! At least Cindee was different. She didn't seem to have the same pack mentality as the others.
I got undressed and went to turn off the TV. That's weird. It wouldn't turn off. I couldn't even turn the volume down. Ken Barry was going on and on about some silly bullshit, and I couldn't turn him off. A note on top of the television explained it:
Mr. Bombay—per your request, we have F-Troop programmed to all the TVs in the house. It will be the only program on and will run on a loop 24/7. The set will remain on at all times—in accordance with your instructions. Sound will be controlled by the crew—and only while taping. Have a nice day!
I yanked the plug, but it wouldn't budge. Upon closer examination, I found it was cemented to the outlet. They took my contract a little too seriously. I covered the TV with the bedspread and slept with a pillow over my head. And I didn't hold out much hope that tomorrow would be any better.
"Mr. Bombay! Mr. Bombay!" Some sadistic bastard was beating on my door. Daylight flickered in through cracks in the blinds. I struggled to my feet and put on a pair of boxers before opening the door.
Kevin stood there, poised to knock again. He pushed past me into the room, followed by a housekeeper pushing a covered cart.
"Here's your breakfast," Kevin squeaked as the housekeeper left.
I pulled the cover off the tray and grimaced. "What is it?" It looked like some kind of gray, boiled meat and a glass of yellow and red fluid.
Kevin pointed at the meat. "Mongolian goat meat. And the glass is full of pureed tulips." He looked at me as if I had an arm growing out of my head. "Why would you want that stuff? It smells awful."
I had to admit, it did. And I was worried. They actually got me what I'd asked for. Now, I'd have to eat it or starve to death. I wondered if Roberto could smuggle me in some eggs and bacon.
"That's right, I did." I had to distract him. What if he expected me to eat in front o
f him?
"What's on the agenda today?"
Kevin looked down at his clipboard. "Well, you are having lunch with the girls by the pool. You'll meet with them in groups of three."
Lunch poolside. That sounded good. I doubted they'd make the contestants eat this swill. Now I just had to survive until then.
"And tonight you'll take one group out to dinner to get to know them better," Kevin continued. "The group you give the lowest score to will go home."
I turned to him. "What? So soon? I thought I let one or two go each night."
He shook his head while his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He looked like an optical illusion. "We might be cutting down to a week and a half."
"Really?" That sounded good. "What's going on?"
Kevin snorted. "Like they'd tell me."
I sighed. "Fine. Come get me when it's time for lunch." At least by then I'd find a good way to dispose of the goat meat. I was pretty sure I could flush the pureed tulips down the toilet. Maybe there were bushes under my bedroom window? I'd be making some coyote very happy.
"No, it's time for your yoga session." He tapped his clipboard.
"My what?"
"You're lucky this is Hollywood," Kevin said. "There are two hundred fifty-five yoga instructors who speak only Hindi. It was the easiest thing on your list."
Oh. Right. The yoga.
Twenty minutes later, I was wearing what appeared to be a large diaper, in a room where the temperature had to be 104 degrees, trying to understand a man who spoke a language I didn't know. And I speak five languages. Hindi, however, isn't one of them.
It was important to note that I'd never taken a yoga class in my life. My sister, Liv has taken yoga for years—in fact that's how I knew to ask for it. But I didn't really think I'd have to go through with it.
Paradise By The Rifle Sights (Greatest Hits romantic mysteries book #5) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) Page 5