“I might. We’ll look.”
I follow her up the most amazing winding staircase, the banister made of intricate wrought iron, the steps made of marble.
Down a long hall, Beryl’s bedroom is on the left, facing the rear of the house. As we enter I have this sense of blurred reality. She wasn’t kidding when she said everyone was waiting for me. In her large and luxurious bedroom, a whole team of experts awaits me.
“Let me introduce everyone,” Beryl says and points out each person. “There’s Miguel, our hair guru, Sue is makeup, Rhea will insert your colored contact lenses, and Teddy is going to pad your body so your figure has different proportions than usual.”
Everyone smiles at me and nods hello.
Skeptically, I check out Teddy, a tall and gangly man who looks not a day over nineteen. He also looks like a punk with straight shoulder-length hair parted on the side, skintight jeans, and a T-shirt that says Make America Skate Again. But if Teddy’s here, I’m betting he’s damn good at what he does.
“Will my dress still fit?”
Teddy nods, giving me a lopsided grin. Instantly, he puts me at ease.
Beryl claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, Marley. No modesty. Strip down to your undies, and we’ll get to work.”
Teddy starts first and applies pads to my boobs and behind and thinner ones on my hips and shoulders to give my body a broader, more voluptuous figure. When he’s done, they sit me down. Rhea helps put in the contacts, changing my blue eyes to brown, and Sue takes out this huge palette of makeup. It takes her a half hour, and when she’s done I look in the mirror, and I truly do not recognize myself. I look like a completely different woman. It is astounding what a good makeup artist can do.
“I’m up next,” Miguel says and brushes my hair, then pulls it into a very tight bun, wrapping it around my head. Then he places a chestnut-colored wig over my blond hair, taking ten minutes to style it so it falls in soft waves down my back. He turns to look at Rhea. “Dress?”
Rhea comes over and they help me slip into my dress, stockings, and heels. Teddy was right—it still fits, albeit a little snug in certain places.
“Wow!” Beryl says and hoots in delight. “I don’t think anyone would ever recognize you now.”
I stare at myself in the mirror. “Not even me.”
43
Fletcher Creed
For the tenth time, I adjust the cuffs of my sleeves. “They have no clue? Are you certain about that?”
Hugo nods, an ear-to-ear grin on his face. “She thinks she got away clean.”
I impatiently tap my foot on the floor of the limo. He may think it’s funny, but I find Marley’s foolishness fucking exasperating. Does she not realize that we have tracking on her? That we’re capable of monitoring not only her movements but at times her conversations as well? I might as well be with her every waking moment because in a very real way I am—or our security who informs me in real time is.
Tristan was alerted instantly that she’d left the premises and followed her. But we were expecting it. One of the trackers has an audio feature, and one day a week and a half ago when she was meeting people he never saw before, he called in for permission to turn it on—our protocol so as not to invade Marley’s privacy completely. I gave him the okay, and thus we learned of their revenge plot.
It’s not a terrible one, though it’s not without problems. For one thing, it may not work at all. The people at the table might just dismiss her as a psycho. Or even if they don’t, it might go no further than that table because some people—especially those who themselves don’t lead a pure, irreproachable existence—may not be inclined to slander or libel another member of their social class.
The worst outcome could come if their plan is wildly successful and this Rico character decides to exact his own revenge. He’d have to, of course, get past me first.
I happen to be waiting for him.
What I’m extraordinarily interested in knowing is which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did he target me because of Marley or Marley because of me? He’s been after both of us longer than we’ve known each other. How and why? Was our getting together just a giant coincidence for him? It seems hard to believe, but the evidence is pointing that way.
After all, he told Marley he found her through an online wedding photo of ours, but we’ve subsequently learned he’d had his man grooming her for a kidnap or something like that for a long while, weeks before I met her.
He also started buying up stock in my company many months before I met Marley—that was the reason I met her in the first place.
When Tristan came back and reported her plan to Cru and me, I shook my head. “What am I going to do with her?” I’d muttered.
“Spank her?” Tristan had said with a smirk, his tone hopeful.
“I should. I definitely should.”
“Can I watch?”
I glanced up to see his grinning-like-a-loon face. “That would be a good punishment for her. Spanking her while you guys watch. She wouldn’t forget that anytime soon.”
“Plus, it would be another employment benefit for us, boss. You should definitely consider it. Who needs a raise when there are perks like that? I’m sure if he were here, Hugo would totally agree.”
Cru had just rolled his eyes with a laugh. Nonetheless, I’m certain he’d enjoy it too. Marley’s a gorgeous woman with a ridiculously sexy ass.
We didn’t have much time to make plans, and now that the evening is here, I have to admit I’m brimming with anticipation. The reason is fairly stupid, but we have to take the little joys and guilty pleasures that come with life. The reason I’m excited is also pretty simple.
I’m anxious to see what Marley and company come up with for her disguise.
Back before I met her, when she was a sharp thorn in my side showing up at all my events and meetings looking different and calling herself something new each time, I was too pissed off to enjoy any of her creations. I admired her innovative approach, but I was focused on either getting even with her or somehow using her fakery to my advantage.
Now that we’re married and I’m about to accomplish my goal—I am, as of last Thursday, the proud owner of an additional twenty-six percent of MediaTech stock and already in the process of taking the firm private—I have a lot more time and energy to enjoy Marley’s latest creation.
I stick a finger under the collar of my white shirt, trying to loosen it a bit. The stiff sterling stays are practically strangling me, and I want to just rip the tie off and undo the top two buttons. I glance at my watch—Marley bought it for me on her last shopping trip. She said that while it was all right for me to wear my Apple to work, I needed an elegant watch for more formal occasions. I didn’t disagree and also didn’t have the heart to tell her I had many of that kind—I have a Chopard at home in my safe that’s worth millions, an extravagant gift from my grandmother. Honestly, I think it’s wasteful. After she presented it to me one Christmas, I felt impelled to donate a large amount of money to a homeless organization. I almost gave them the watch itself, but Grandma would have been massively pissed. And hurt.
Marley wouldn’t dare spend like that. She hates using any of my money, so I was surprised when she gifted it to me. She probably justified it because it was for me. Or, knowing her, she used her own money. The timepiece is simple, clean, and elegant. The girl has good taste.
We have another twenty minutes until the event begins, and then we have to get serious about monitoring the situation closely. It could turn dangerous fast, and if what we suspect about Holland is true, it very well might. Holland isn’t even the man’s real name and Nathan, my chief cyber security guy, thinks he could be connected to Russian organized crime. Those people are very bad, and you don’t cross them without having a foolproof plan in place.
I press the button in the back of the limo. “Rick, drive around the block a few times. I feel the need to move.”
“Yes, sir,” comes the reply.
They nod.
“I’m at the rear exit, lobby floor. Hugo is stationed near the ladies’ room just outside the ballroom. We have two guys on the front door and another two at the fire exit. I just put one by the kitchen—it’s not an actual exit… what I mean is it doesn’t lead to the street, but it feeds out into an alley. Thing is, there’s another door in the alley that leads to a staircase going down to the laundry. There are exits from that floor too.”
“Good thinking. So we have every exit covered? We’re sure?”
Hugo nods resolutely. “And of course, the people watching from the surveillance van.” He gestures with his chin in the direction of the unobtrusive white van parked across the street.
I brush a piece of lint off the arm of my jacket. “I don’t think it will come to that, frankly, but I like to be prepared for any possible outcome.
The car stops at a red light, and I peer out the window. The sun is just beginning to set, and the lights of Chicago are beginning to come on. I love this time of day when things start dying down from the workday, but the evening begins to come alive. It’s seductive.
Rick drives around the block three times. When he once again pulls up to the hotel entrance, I look at Hugo.
“She’s here—she arrived about ten minutes ago.”
“What about Holland?”
“He and Blackwell are on the steps.” He juts out his chin toward the door, and my eyes follow.
I see the son of a bitch. “He’s shorter than I thought. I guess I only saw him in photos—apart from those few minutes at the party when he was menacing Marley.”
Tristan’s holding his phone aloft, reading something. “According to his stats, he’s almost six feet.” He looks up at the man on the stairs. “Does he look short to you? Maybe that’s not him.”
I look again, study him as he enters through the doors and out of sight. “It’s him. Maybe his shortness is wishful thinking on my part.” I chuckle. “I hate the bastard with every molecule in my body.”
Tristan nods but says nothing. His attention is still on his phone.
“Any problems, Tris?”
He looks up, and his face is impassive. “None whatsoever, boss. I think we’re good.”
I raise my chin to straighten my tie. Hugo, watching, can’t disguise his huge fucking grin.
“All right. Let’s hope all of our efforts pay off tonight. Here’s to Operation Saving Marley from Herself.
44
Marley Jacobs
The décor is amazing—the entire ballroom is done up like a forest in winter. Living pine trees line the perimeter of the room while everywhere else there are bare branches both suspended in air and rising from large hammered silver pots on the floor. Everything is dusted with white, and woven among all the leaves and branches are tiny pinpoints of blue and white crystal lights. On the dark ceiling is a projection of thousands, maybe millions of tiny twinkling stars, and the music playing as people enter is from Ravel’s “Bolero.” I’ve danced to it many times.
If I weren’t so wretched with nervousness, I’d be enjoying myself. As it is, I spend a few moments scoping out the room, the exits, the restrooms, and the table arrangement.
Approximately thirty tables, each one holding twelve seats, are arranged artfully around the room. That means there will be a decent number of witnesses to Rico’s shame. Or I hope anyway. My heart is doing a ninety-yard dash, and despite the cold weather outside, I’m perspiring. I need to get my act together because I can’t look like a wreck when I get to that table. I spot a waiter bearing a tray of flutes filled with champagne and flag him down with a wave and a smile.
Swallowing half the glass in one gulp helps calm my nerves almost instantly. Before I approach my table, I look to see who is already seated.
There’s a woman, sixty or so, with short blondish-gray hair. Next to her is a man of similar age in a dark gray suit. I’m guessing her husband. Sitting across from them is a heavyset balding man whose face is turned away. To his right two chairs over is a very thin woman in an emerald dress. She has dark hair piled high on her head, and her drop earrings are sparkling every time they catch the light. I don’t see any sign of Rico Holland or his mogul mentor. Opening my clutch, I slip out Blackwell’s photo to refresh my memory and then look back over.
Nope.
The photo does him well. Blackwell is lean and tanned with bright blue eyes and a full head of white hair. I’d bet good money that he was a real looker when he was younger because he’s still attractive at his older age.
I take a stroll around the room, pretending to be admiring the artistic efforts, and by the time I return to my section of the room I can see the table has filled up.
I give the champagne a few minutes more to work its magic as my eyes skirt the room. Each table is decorated with plain wood branches that have been adorned with strings of golden lights. It has a mesmerizing effect on me, and I have to snap my attention back to the job at hand. I’m about to head over to the table when from somewhere behind me I hear a loud, distinctive laugh, and my blood runs cold.
It’s him.
I’d know that laugh anywhere.
As casually as possible, I glance toward the sound, and there he is, impeccably dressed in a stylish suit, his friend Blackwell beside him looking elegant. The two are accompanied by very attractive women, I’d guess both in their early thirties.
I decide to wait until everyone is seated before I make my arrival, so as a young waiter passes, I tap his shoulder.
“Ladies’ room?”
“Down the main hall and to your right. It’s the first door on the right.”
“Thank you.”
The restroom is crowded and abuzz with excitement. So many beautiful dresses, so many different perfumes and scents commingling that it’s almost overwhelming. I wait in line for an empty stall. After washing my hands, I head out to the common area to check on my hair and makeup. When I look in the mirror, I startle myself because I see a stranger staring back at me.
“Wow,” I murmur softly and then my eyes dart around to make sure no one was paying attention to me. What would they think? That I was admiring myself?
I can’t linger in the restroom too long because it’s crowded, and I need to make way for others to use the facilities. I exit and take my time walking to my assigned table. As I get into the main room, my phone pings with a text.
Rhea: All OK?
Me: So far so good. I’m just heading to the table now. They’re here.
Rhea: I know you’ve got this. Good luck.
Me: Thanks. How and when should I leave?
Rhea: I think you should leave whenever you want to after you do the deed. He wouldn’t dare come after you with all those people there.
Me: IDK. He did try last time at a crowded party.
Rhea: I’m right out here in my car nearby, and when you text me, I’ll come get you.
Me: Thanks. I feel better knowing that. OK, here goes.
I want to get this over with and go home. It will be such a relief to have this whole production behind me. I scour around for another glass of champagne, but there is no waitperson nearby. Should I visit the bar?
No, just do it, Marley. Get it over with. The table is about twenty feet from where I’m standing right now. I see Rico laughing and chatting with the others, and my heartbeat begins a steady gallop. Luckily for me, there’s an empty seat across and to the side from him. It would be awfully awkward if I had to sit right next to him, something I didn’t think of earlier.
As I get to the table, the five men already seated rise to their feet, and I smile and nod. I purposely avoid looking at Rico, scared he’ll recognize me right away. There are place cards instructing everyone where to sit. Luckily, I’m not too close to Rico. Once I’m seated, the man sitting next to me extends his hand.
“Rick Hanso
n.”
Oh my God. I didn’t come up with a name. The name on my place card is Rhea’s friend’s name. It says “Sophia Warner’s guest.” I smile at him as my mind goes blank. I mean entirely blank. A piece of white paper. An empty textbox. The face of my friends when I tell a joke. Blank.
He’s looking at me, his smile frozen on his lips. “Audrey,” I say, once again my favorite actress rescuing me. “Audrey Heston.”
I watch as his expression breaks into relief when I finally answer him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Audrey. Are you a patron of this organization, or are you here with someone who is?”
I smile sweetly. Fortunately, I did my homework on the event, a fundraiser to benefit the Chicago Children’s Museum. “I am a supporter It’s a lovely event for an important cause.”
“Yes, it is.”
Up until now, I’ve studiously avoided looking his way, but my gaze is being lured toward Rico as if by magnet. Finally, I give in and chance a peek. Those icy blue eyes are staring directly at me, causing my heart to flutter in panic. Is the game up? I guess it really doesn’t matter even if he recognizes me—I can still do what I came here to do. As I bring my fingers to my mouth to wipe away the gloss in the corners of my lips—a nervous habit my mother used to nag me about—Mr. Blackwell chooses this moment to introduce himself and his date to me.
“Hello,” I say, smiling and nodding to his date. “I’m Audrey Heston.”
“That’s an interesting name. Any relation to Charlton?”
Lucky I’m an old-movie buff or I’d have no clue who he is referencing. Chuckling—and it sounds forced even to my own ears—I say, “No. No relation.”
“I suppose you get asked that a lot,” Blackwell says apologetically.
“I seriously doubt that,” his girlfriend adds. He flashes her a dirty look. “Well, no one even knows who he is. Some dead actor, right?”
Faker: A Fake Relationship Romance Page 29