“For heaven’s freakin’ sake! Don’t they know me by now? I’m only summoned here at least once a month to pull a whacked starlet back together, or cover up last night’s indiscretion—”
Behind him, two women and a young, slender man entered the suite. One of the women carried a book two foot square and about ten inches thick. She carried it by a handle mounted on the spine of the book and it looked very heavy. The other two carried clothes bags and swept into the room and over to the sofa, to busy themselves with undoing the bags.
Jacqui stood up as the man, Sven, spread his arms.
“Jacqueline, sweetheart, you look better than ever!”
“Sven, I do so appreciate you taking the time to come and see us.”
“I’d cross freakin’ coals for you, Jacqueline and you’re too polite to remind me.” He was quite a bit shorter than Jacqui. He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it and the gentle way he kissed her and looked her in the eyes told Sahara that the grandiose kiss was not a meaningless gesture.
“This woman is one of the few genuine freakin’ ladies left in the world—” he began, turning his head to address Sahara. He stopped short and tilted his head to look at her properly and she felt skewered by his scrutiny. His eyes were green and very direct. “This is the one?” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft.
Sahara shifted awkwardly in her chair.
Jacqui stepped toward Sahara, putting herself between them. “This is Sahara. Sahara, Sven. Sven is one of the city’s top style coordinators and will be looking over your wardrobe and designing combinations for you.”
Sahara looked the little man over, trying to hold in her astonishment. He seemed so completely devoid of any personal style it was hard to imagine he could possibly advise anyone else on the matter.
He lifted a brow. “I only coordinate the freakin’ things. I don’t wear them.”
Sahara couldn’t help it. She giggled and quickly covered her mouth to try to hold it in.
“My god, she’s so lovely and fresh,” Sven told Jacqui. “Why do you want my freakin’ brand on her?”
The door to the suite opened and a waiter pushed a cloth-covered trolley into the room, bearing a big silver coffee pot and china and a plate of pastries and cake slices.
Sven pumped his fist into the air. “Yes! I timed it perfectly. Now we can have coffee and I can watch you eat cake.”
Jacqui turned a light pink. “Can you spare the time?” she asked, her voice quite even. “We don’t want to impose.”
“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Sven shooed the waiter away, took over the trolley and shoved it closer to the table. “Let’s eat!”
He quickly arranged cups and plates, his short fingers moving with surprising grace. He beckoned Sahara over with his hand and placed a cup of coffee in front of her. “No cake for you,” he told her with a wink. “You’ll have all the dress designers crying into their freakin’ soup if you look too fat in the tabloids.”
He handed another cup to Jacqui, then carefully slid a plate with a slice of coffee cake and a small silver fork in front of her, sat at the table, crossed his arms and watched her.
Jacqui’s cheeks turned a darker shade of pink. She sipped her coffee and pulled her laptop closer. “Did your assistant give you the details of what we need?” she asked.
Sven rattled off what his assignment was—to put together wardrobe choices for Sahara, so that she would look as much like Micky as possible. He spoke in a monotone, watching Jacqui like as hawk as he spoke.
Fascinated, Sahara found herself watching Jacqui too, as the conversation between the pair fell to discussions of compensation, hours, rates and gratuities. Sven negotiated smoothly, right down to the last dollar. Sahara realized that he was trying to distract Jacqui and make her less self-conscious about what she was doing.
As Jacqui spoke, she picked up the tiny silver fork and rather than slice through the corner of the piece of cake, she turned the plate and pushed the fork through the back of the slice and put it in her mouth. Then she put the fork next to the cake and pushed the plate away.
Sven fell silent, with a satisfied smile. “Isn’t that the most ladylike thing you’ve ever seen?” he asked Sahara.
She couldn’t help smiling, especially as Jacquie coloured deeply.
Sven got to his feet and held his hand out to Sahara. “Come, show me your wardrobe. Let’s get to work.”
Sven spent the next forty minutes with his assistants, combining items in her new wardrobe and adding garments and accessories that he had bought with him. One assistant’s sole duty appeared to be running costs up on the massive calculator she held. The large book she had carried in was a catalogue of items that Sven had in his studio, along with color swatches that he often referred to.
He tugged at the belt hanging from the loops of one of the new dresses that had arrived during the day. “A three-thousand dollar dress and they put a freakin’ fabric belt on it. It’s an outrage!” He held out his hand and the male assistant handed him a supple black leather belt that he held against the dress and nodded.
Sahara edged closer to Jacqui, who was keeping a careful eye on the assistant’s calculator. “That dress really cost three thousand dollars?”
Jacqui frowned a little and spoke quietly. “No, that outfit was one of the cheaper ones, which is why Sven is so offended, I think. He likes irony.”
Sahara felt a tightness in her chest and a wavering in her stomach. “The rest cost more than three thousand dollars each?” Even her voice was weak. There were at least ten new ensembles hanging in the big wardrobe.
Jacqui glanced at her. “Is something wrong?”
“Thirty thousand dollars….” Sahara sat on the bench at the foot of the bed. “That’s more than the cost of the mortgage on my shop. People actually…they actually pay this sort of money for clothes?”
Jacqui considered her for a moment. “You own your own business?” she asked gently.
Sahara gave a weak laugh. “My bank owns most of it and my accountant tells me they’ll have the rest if I don’t stop allowing credit but sure, it’s mine on paper.”
Jacqui looked wistful. “I always thought I might like to start my own retail business, one day. It would be nice to be my own boss.”
Sahara took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “Steal some of my dresses then. Start-up money and no interest.”
Jacqui’s eyes twinkled with unexpected amusement. “I’ll have Sven negotiate the lease.”
* * * * *
Logan rubbed at his eye sockets with the heel of his hand. The lack of decent sleep was beginning to catch up with him. “Does it have to be Thessaly’s? The place is a security nightmare. There are hundreds of people hanging around the front at all times of the day.”
“Malik wants paparazzi pics of you and Micky in the papers,” Nelson reminded him. “That’s where all the stars hang out these days, so that’s where all the paparazzi gather, too. It’s going to be hard enough getting them to snap Micky as she arrives, let alone run it in the papers. We have to play the numbers.”
“Of course they’ll take her photo. Micky Wilde suddenly turns up in L.A. after five years, looking like a million dollars? They’ll trip over themselves to get a picture.”
“They’d better,” Elias growled from his corner. “Security inside the joint is airtight, though. Once you’re inside, you’re surrounded by Thessaly’s staff and there’s two ex-Marines among ’em. We’ll have our own people planted too. You just have to get her from the limo to the door.”
“Right.” Logan got wearily to his feet and picked up his jacket. “This time, I really am leaving. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m going to pass out. Nelson, wake me at four, so I can get ready?”
“Sure, man.”
Logan headed for the bed he’d been assigned and tried not to think of Zaram, or the fact that he was cooperating fully in the effort to put Sahara right out in front of the bastard. He’d never get to sleep if he let i
t eat at him. He had to be alert from now on. It felt more and more like he was the only one watching out for her. The lack of unity in the ops room had felt disturbingly like the time Micky had been killed, all over again.
* * * * *
Jacqui came into the bedroom just after five p.m., with a filled cocktail glass in her hand. “An aperitif,” she announced. “Your favorite, of course.”
Sahara took the glass. “What’s my favourite?”
“Brandy Alexander.”
She sipped. It was a creamy concoction that made her grimace. “What’s my second favourite?” she asked.
Jacqui frowned. “Dry martini?” she suggested. “We can try that next.” She looked over Sahara’s shoulder at her image in the full-length mirror and caught her breath. “Oh yes…that’s better,” she said with warm approval. “That’s the woman Logan fell in love with.”
The glass jerked all by itself and the pale cream liquid splashed up onto her breast and dripped down the length of the dress to puddle on the carpet at her feet.
Sahara leapt backward, knocked into Jacqui and sent the woman staggering.
“Oh god! Oh god!”
Jacqui took the glass from her hands. “Quickly now, don’t panic. Take off the dress. Kick off your shoes. Don’t let the stain set.”
The outer door to the suite opened and closed.
“Sahara?” It was Logan’s voice, muffled by the closed bedroom door.
Jacqui looked over her shoulder at the door, then back at Sahara. “There’s a dress hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Go put it on. Strip off your stockings, they’re ruined. I’ll get a new pair for you and shoes too. You’re supposed to be going out to dinner tonight.” As she spoke, Jacqui was peeling off her dress. Managing. Coping.
“Dinner? Since when?” Sahara squeaked. “You didn’t mention it on your sheet thing this morning.”
“It was a request from Logan’s employers. They want you out and about. Seen. Logan is to take you to dinner. Hurry now.”
She was given no time to think. Sahara dashed into the bathroom and threw on the emerald green shimmering dress that was on the hanger where Jacqui had said it would be. She saw her bra strap was showing in the mirror and rather than fighting with it, simply removed it altogether. She pulled the sequined dress into place over her hips and dashed out into the bedroom again, to thrust her legs into the stockings Jacqui held out for her, clip them into place, then slid her feet into the green strappy things that Jacqui had dared to call shoes. They wrapped around her ankles and must have brought her height close to six feet. But they were incredibly soft and comfortable for such high shoes.
Jacqui had moved away while she was adjusting her shoes and now she returned with a satin evening bag, with tucks and pleats and a gold and diamond clip. “There’s a wallet in there with cards and ID in your name—in Micky’s name. You have to remember to answer to Micky. This is a good opportunity for you to get used to your identity before you leave for Europe.”
“We’re going to Europe?” Sahara squeaked again, closing the purse.
“London was in Europe the last time I checked.”
“Yes, I know. I mean…of course it is. But I didn’t realize…. I’m going to Europe?”
Jacqui frowned. “Is that a problem?”
Sahara shook her head, smiling. “The last time I went to England, it was with my dad. I can remember it like it was yesterday.”
Jacqui smiled too and her smile was soft, nothing like her professional day job version. “I’m glad you can see the upside to this. Remember that later on, Sahara.”
Before she could question Jacqui, the woman had shepherded her out into the main room and shut the door discreetly behind her, staying in the bedroom.
Logan was standing at the table, reading one of the many information sheets she had been handed this long day, with his other hand in his pocket. He’d changed his shirt and now was wearing a crisp white one under another dark suit. This suit spelled cutting edge fashion. It was shaped and hung just so. He’d also trimmed off most of his stubble but left just enough to be interesting.
He looked up as Sahara stepped out of the bedroom and his hand fell away from the table. He kept on staring.
Sahara tugged self-consciously at the dress, only now realizing that it plunged down the front, showing flesh almost to the waist and dropped down to the top of her hips at the back. It felt like there were a couple of thin straps crossing over her back and she vaguely remembered tugging them into place in her rush to change. From the waist to her knees the dress clung. There was no room for modesty, every curve she had was framed in clinging stretch satin. Conversely, the hem of the dress touched the floor despite her towering shoes and she was completely decent from the knees down.
“Jesus Christ,” Logan whispered.
Sahara wet her lips. “Is it too formal?” she asked.
He pulled his other hand out of his pocket and turned to face her squarely. “Micky,” he breathed.
Micky. She heard Jacqui’s voice again. That’s the woman Logan fell in love with.
Sahara pushed aside the protest rising inside her. She had agreed to this, she reminded herself. “Then I’ll do?” she asked crisply. “I’ll pass close inspection from people who knew her?”
Logan blinked and turned away. “I guarantee it,” he said, his voice rough. He pushed the sleeve of his jacket up his arm and checked his watch. “The car is waiting. Are you ready?”
She lifted her purse. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Jacqui laid this out for you.” He pointed toward a stole that looked like a netting of sparkling gold threads and Sahara realized that he wasn’t going to bring it to her. He wasn’t looking at her at all. He stood with his hand on the door handle, waiting for her.
She walked over to the chair and picked up the stole and wrapped it around her shoulders. It provided a bit more modest a covering but in this heat, more warmth wasn’t needed.
“We’ll be in public, Sahara. You’re Micky as soon as we step out of this door,” Logan reminded her.
“I get the impression I’m already Micky. For you, anyway.”
He looked up at her then and there was a sharp crease between his brows. Pain was etched on his forehead. “Yes,” he said, his voice husky.
Chapter Eleven
Dinner was at one of the most popular upscale nightclubs in Los Angeles. Sahara looked at the people milling about the entrance as their limousine approached. There was no way she wouldn’t be noticed here. The paparazzi were in full force around the doors. Their cameras were flashing every few minutes as another celebrity stepped out of their limousine and smiled at the lenses.
There was a line-up of limousines slowly dropping off their passengers. As their turn drew closer, Logan finally spoke. “Ignore the cameras. You’re not a movie star. They may take photos of you but you’re not expected to play up to them. Just walk past. Smile if they get right in your face but just keep walking.” It was the first time he’d spoken since they had left the hotel. “And take the stole off. They’ll want to see your dress.”
Sahara gripped his arm. “I don’t know if I can do this, Logan. I…. This isn’t what I expected.”
His smile was more of a grimace. “You have no choice. You’re in it now.”
The limousine came to a gentle halt. The club’s doorman opened the door and held out his gloved hand so that Sahara could step up onto the pavement. She grasped the hand and pulled herself upright.
Immediately, camera flashes went off around her. She blinked at the brightness and recalled Logan’s instructions to smile. She pushed her mouth into a smile, even though she could see no one to smile at.
Logan gripped her elbow. “Straight ahead,” he murmured. His hand dropped away and she swallowed her protest. He was escorting her up the carpet but it was only a technicality. Although he kept pace with her, there might as well have been a brick wall between them.
She realized that the wall had been there sinc
e they had left the hotel. Logan had spoken only when he needed to.
What had she done?
There were two more doormen at the swing doors. They were huge men and she guessed they were security personnel rather than meeters-and-greeters. But Logan held out his hand to shake the hand of the man on his left.
“Dwayne, you old dog,” Logan told him.
Dwayne grinned and nodded. “Mr. Logan, you’ve been away too long.”
Sahara watched him tuck away the folded bill that had appeared in his palm. Then he nodded and touched his hat to Logan and pushed open the door for them to enter. His glance fell on Sahara and his smile turned plastic and brittle. “Ms. Wilde,” he murmured, with another touch to the brim of his hat.
Inside, the music was very loud, although there weren’t as many people dancing as she would have thought for such a popular club.
They were escorted into another section of the club, cut off from the dance section by walls of glass. Instantly, the music dropped down to a level where it was just a subdued backbeat. This was the dining area. Small tables with dazzling white cloths were clustered across the area. Nearly all of them were full of people that Sahara thought she recognized. The light was very low and supplemented by candles on the tables, which hid most of the details of people’s faces. No wonder the glitterati liked coming here. Once you made it past the paparazzi and security outside, it was very private.
They were seated on the edge of the sea of white cloths and Logan nodded. “Good. We can see anyone approaching.”
She caught her breath as she sat down and glanced at him. “Enemies?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Anyone at all,” he said with a shrug. “You’ll see what I mean in a few minutes.”
They were still looking at their menus when Logan lifted a brow and lowered his card. “Already,” he said.
A man stepped up to their table. “Logan, Micky…hell, it’s great to see you guys! Someone said you’d died…dunno, figure they just haven’t seen you for a while?”
Dead Double Page 11