To anyone else, my response would’ve been, “So you’ll be up all night, then?” But, somehow, saying that to my father would’ve given me the willies.
* * *
STILL shell-shocked by my mother’s blithe announcement—a traumatizing tidbit to this very visual offspring—I bounded up the stairs two at a time. A minute later, with purse over my shoulder, the office locked behind me, the phones forwarded to Security, I was headed back down. Bursting through the doors at a dead run, I collided with a solid body.
“So sorry.” Steadying myself, I kept going.
A familiar, dreaded voice stopped me. “I was hoping I would run into you, cherie!”
I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath before I turned around. I so did not need this right now. Opening my eyes, one glance confirmed my worst fears—our new chef stood in front of me in all of his Gallic glory, wearing insouciance like a comfortable old coat. Clearly unruffled, Jean-Charles still looked scrumptious, but the memory of the bad taste he’d left in my mouth lingered. “Not now. I’m in a hurry and I have no time for skirmishing.”
Putting a hand to his chest, he adopted a wounded look. “I am French. We do not fight.”
“As evidenced by the last world war.” Reshouldering my Birkin, I turned to go. “However, right now, I don’t even have time to accept a white flag.”
He walked with me. “Could you accept an invitation instead?”
“To what?” I only half-listened as I pushed through the throng of paparazzi and casual onlookers. I’d rather join the Foreign Legion than put up with Chef Bouclet’s cict any more than I absolutely had to. Stepping to the curb, I waved at Paolo, who waited off to the side with the limo.
“I am having a tasting party tomorrow night. I’d like your approval of the new menu.”
“What time?” As the limo eased to a stop in front of me, I opened the passenger door.
“Seven o’clock. At the restaurant.”
I couldn’t tell whether the Frenchman was offering me an olive branch or luring me into his lair for the next battle, but the Big Boss had made him my responsibility... and, if the menu wasn’t up to snuff Td never hear the end of it. “I’ll be there, but I can’t guarantee how much time I’ll have.”
Shutting the door, I cut off his reply. “Paolo, how fast can you make it to the Executive Terminal?”
“My record is a touch under five minutes.”
“Let’s see if we can break it—preferably without killing anyone. If we start mowing down the tourists, you and I will be out of work.”
“Yes ma’am.” Paolo pulled his cap down low, then hunched over the wheel as he maneuvered the big car away from the curb. Heading for the rear entrance, he glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Are you watching the news back there?”
“I’m not sure I can handle any more ‘news’ today.” I leaned my head back and shut my eyes. God I was tired. All I wanted to do was climb into bed, wrap Teddie around me, and stay there for the next week. A pipe dream if ever there was one—still, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?
As if they had conspired to give me a miserable evening, my stomach and head bookended me with pain. On top of that I felt a little woozy, definitely not on top of my game.
As Paolo turned the car south on Koval, he hit the gas; the acceleration pressed me back into the seat. “Our luck is holding—green lights all the way. I’ll patch the television feed through—you need to see this.”
That wasn’t what I needed at all, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.
Keeping my eyes closed, I thought I recognized the voice of the talking head, Anderson Cooper. “All hell has broken loose in Pahrump, Nevada—a small town sixty miles outside of Las Vegas that many have dubbed ground zero in the attack on American morality. I’m standing in front of Mona’s Place, the self-described ‘Best Whorehouse in Nevada,’ where day after tomorrow, a young woman will auction her virginity to the highest bidder.”
My eyes snapped open and riveted on the screen as Mr. Cooper continued his explanation of Mother’s upcoming event. Behind him, people carried signs denouncing prostitution, perversion, and seemingly sex in general, as they marched in front of the unmistakable purple and pink of Mona’s establishment. A man in black, wielding a Bible, urged them on.
I pressed the intercom button. “Is CNN the only station covering this story?”
“Geraldo Rivera is on site for FOX.” Paolo turned left on Tropicana, then swung right into the Executive Terminal. “I’m sure the local stations will all have something on the late-night news, but that won’t be on for a half hour or so.”
“Turn it off, will you? I’ve seen enough.” Again, I closed my eyes and rested my head on the soft cushion behind me. Anderson Cooper had hit the nail on the head—all hell had broken loose in Pahrump—and Mother was out on a date. Briefly, I wondered if she knew about all the attention she had garnered, then laughed at my stupidity. If she knew, she’d be there, front and center.
Well, it looked like she was going to get her fifteen minutes of fame, and I couldn’t wait to watch the show.
* * *
OUR timing perfect, we arrived just as Jordan Marsh’s plane taxied onto the tarmac. Paolo and I waited in the limo until the sleek silver jet came to a stop in a remote corner, far from prying eyes, and the pilots had opened the door and unfolded the stairs. Then Paolo eased the big car onto the loading area, positioning it next to the aircraft. He jumped, and grabbed a bag from one of the pilots, and stowed it in the trunk while I stepped out to greet our guest.
With a finely honed sense of timing, Jordan Marsh waited until the expectation of those of us in attendance—the two pilots, Paolo, the line boys chocking the wheels, and me—had reached a crescendo, before ducking through the doorway and stepping to the top of the stairs. Buttoning his jacket, he paused for a moment—he never could resist playing to an audience, no matter how small.
One of the line boys nudged the other, then whispered something.
Pretending he had just caught sight of me, Jordan flashed his famous smile—the one that could make a thousand women faint, or so the story went—then bounded down the steps... all three of them.
Sweeping me into an embrace, he kissed me dramatically. His lips still only inches from mine, he said, “Thanks for coming to get me.”
I eased myself out of his grasp. “My pleasure. Next time, if you’d give me a bit of warning, I could make good money auctioning the opportunity to receive that greeting from the Great Jordan Marsh.”
We both knew I was joking, but with his matinee idol looks—jet-black hair graying at the temples, hazel eyes that changed colors with his moods, high cheekbones, a Kirk Douglas divot in his chin, chiseled physique—and his reputation as a bit of a bad boy, most women would pay a king’s ransom for the opportunity I’d just had.
But they didn’t know what I knew: Jordan Marsh was gay.
He was also the reigning Hollywood romantic lead. If it became public knowledge, the truth about his sexual orientation would break female hearts the world over... and it would terminate his career.
In true Hollywood style, Jordan Marsh was an act—a carefully created, zealously guarded fantasy. And, in an ironic twist we both appreciated, he came to my little fantasyland to live his truth.
Jordan’s soul mate, Rudy Gillespi, was an entertainment lawyer in town. When I set them up three years ago, I had no idea theirs would be a love story like none other, nor that I had signed a contract to run interference for them until the end of time. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.
Jordan and I slid into the back of the limo through the door Paolo held open for us. As the door shut, the light dimmed, and prying eyes could no longer see us behind the heavily tinted glass, we were momentarily alone and invisible. Jordan’s smile vanished. A very serious expression replaced it.
A chill washed over me. “Don’t tell me you and Rudy broke up?” “Don’t be silly.” Jordan half turned so he faced me. Grabb
ing my hand, he squeezed hard. “Rudy and I want to get married, and we want you to help us.”
* * *
THE next thing that registered on my consciousness was the face of Forrest, the security guard for the condo-tower I called home, inches from my own, but upside-down. How did he get here? Or how did I get to where he was? And why was I lying down in the back of the limo?
“Should we call the paramedics?” he asked, his brows crinkled in concern.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jordan said, in his best doctor impersonation. “She’s just had a shock. She’ll get over it.”
“I will not,” I mumbled, more than a little peeved at him. How did he know the pounding of my heart and the cold sweat popping out all over, chilling me to the bone, weren’t harbingers of a major health event?
His face swam into view—his was right-side up.
Nose to nose, I looked up into his hazel eyes that now appeared more blue than anything—and not the least bit concerned. Of course, he was probably used to women swooning in his presence. “Jordan, you could do me a favor, though.”
“Anything.”
“Check me into one of those nice sanatoriums where they park the sane people. Three meals a day, eight hours of restful sleep, room service... and no crazy people wanting my help.” I glared at him as I pushed myself to my elbow—stars swirled around me, then faded. Not willing to admit I needed time to pull myself together, I made a show of exasperated patience as Jordan crawled off of me.
Thank God there wasn’t anyone with a camera around—photos of Jordan Marsh on top of anyone in the back of a limo would create a feeding frenzy. I didn’t want that person to be me. A resume line item entitled “caught in a compromising position with Jordan Marsh” would not enhance my resulting job search.
“A sane persons sanatorium? Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Jordan looked quizzical for a moment, then a light-bulb went off. “Oh! You mean like the Ritz-Carlton?” Not looking the least bit worried, he grinned as he backed out of the car, and extended his hand to me.
“A nice long stay at the Ritz on the Place Vendôme in Paris sounds about right.” I let him help me out of the car. “In a suite.”
He raised his eyebrows at that part, but he didn’t refuse. He knew I was grandstanding.
I brushed down my pants and tried to locate my dignity... and my bearings—I was still seeing stars. I had fainted. How humiliating! The last time I’d done something like that had been ages ago when Mother had sliced open her thumb while attempting to cut frozen meat. “Forrest, I think I’m fine now. Thank you.”
The big man looked at me over the top of the car. “Man, you both sound like fruit loops. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” As he headed back to his post he muttered, “Sanatoriums for sane people. Who ever heard of such a thing?”
Steadying myself with a hand on the car, I took stock of my surroundings. Jordan watched me, a trace of concern leaking into his bemused expression. Peeking out from behind him, Paolo wrung his hands as he looked at me with eyes as big as saucers.
“Woman, you’re pale as a ghost.” Jordan leaned in for a closer look. “When did you last eat?”
“Eat?” That gave me pause. I tried to reconstruct the day—I’d picked at my breakfast with Romeo and talked to Teddie through lunch with Miss P. I’d only been able to swallow two gulps of my shake at the Peppermill. “Dinner. Last night.” And to think, I’d always thought I’d keel over if I missed a meal—now I knew it took three missed meals for that to happen.
“Well, no wonder you feel faint.”
“My lack of sustenance may have weakened me, but you provided the knockout punch, and I’m not done with you. You’re not going to get off that easily.” No longer seeing stars, I was now starting to see red. Not only did my good friend want to throw himself in front of the train, he wanted to pull me along with him—or leave me to take the fall. I didn’t know which would be worse. “However, first things first. Do you have another mission for Paolo?”
“I’ve already given him the address.”
“Good.” I turned to my diminutive chauffeur. “On your way back with Mr. Gillespi, will you swing through In-N-Out? Buy enough animal-style burgers and fries to give us all coronaries.”
He slapped his hat on his head and turned to go.
“Oh, and some Diet Coke.”
He waved as he climbed into the car, then fired up the engine and roared away.
“Hamburgers and French fries, manna from Heaven,” Jordan said, with the slightest hint of disdain.
“Don’t give me that sanctimonious, your-body-is-a-temple BS. My body has had enough of a shock already, and I have no intention of denying it the usual dose of saturated fat. I need my strength.”
“For what?” Jordan asked, looking like a man with a clean conscience.
“For wringing your neck, that’s what.” I whirled on him. “Are you batshit insane?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU, sit,” Jordan ordered, once the elevator deposited us in the middle of my apartment. “First a drink, then you can take a bite out of my ass.”
Still feeling a bit sub-par, I didn’t put up a fight—alcohol on an empty stomach, why not? It’s not as if the day could get any worse. I wedged myself into the corner of a couch. Kicking off my shoes, I crossed my legs under me. Then, feeling the need for a shield, I pulled a pillow over my lap.
Jordan handed me a tumbler of Wild Turkey, keeping another for himself, then sat in the other corner of my couch so he faced me. In this light I could see the strain on his face. He’d told me once that living a lie took a lot of energy. Each erg expended through the years had engraved his face, leaving a visible accounting of the toll it had taken. At this moment, he looked every inch the fifty-year-old man he was.
“I don’t want to take a chunk out of your ass.” I reached over and squeezed his hand, but he looked so sad, I felt I should be wrapping him in a bear hug instead. “I only want to know one thing.”
“One? This is my lucky day.” He gave me a weak smile. “Fire away.”
“Is Rudy pushing you to do this?”
“He would never.” Jordan’s anger flashed. “That’s not the kind of choice you put a person to, especially when you love him.”
“I didn’t think so, but I needed to hear it from you.” Against my better judgment, I took a sip of the witch’s brew in my hand. My folly rewarded me with a trail of fire down my throat that burned a raw hole in my hollow stomach. However, the pain was worth the reward—a relaxing warmth to mask the cold dread. “Then why now? Look at you... well, not right now... but normally you’re a hunk and a half with at least a decade of good roles in front of you.”
“Thank you, I think.” He gave me a dirty look, then took a long pull on his drink as he visibly transported himself back in time. “I’ve known I was gay since I was fourteen. It’s not a lifestyle anyone chooses, you know?”
“I wouldn’t think.” No one in his right mind would pick a homosexual lifestyle in a heterosexual world. I mean, why climb the sheer face of the mountain when there’s an easy trail to the top?
“That’s a long damned time to hide such a vital part of me, I can tell you that. It was like trying to run with only one leg—something integral was missing.” He stared over my shoulder, the hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “And then, thanks to you, I met Rudy, and I was whole. Happy... no, ecstatic, for the first time in my life.”
The pain, raw and visceral, that filled his eyes as he once again looked at me, stole my breath. Like stars overwhelmed by the intensity of the sun, words paled. There truly was nothing to say.
Knowing Jordan, he had thought his decision through from every angle, analyzed every sacrifice against its gain, so I wouldn’t insult him by asking if he had. Trapped not only by the choices we made, but the hand we were dealt, the cards in the game of life sometimes ran cold. The only way out was to fold the hand.
With nothing to add, I sat with him as he
talked, hoping the comfort of friendship was enough.
“The last movie I starred in has been out on DVD for almost a year, so when my sex appeal tanks, I won’t be taking any investors with me. My production company is going strong. We have a film up for consideration by the Academy this year, two more in the can, and options on a couple of novels, neither of which are vehicles for me.” He jumped as the elevator whirred to life—someone had called the car we had ridden up in. “I enjoy being a producer and would like to concentrate on that. Since we can now afford him, Rudy is going to be the company’s general counsel.”
“You’ve worked this all out.” His was a good plan, and it didn’t sound like justification at all. It sounded like the truth.
“It’s not like news of my sexual orientation is really going to come out of left field, anyway.” Jordan swirled the amber liquid in his glass as he talked. He seemed at peace. “The tabloids have been speculating for years. I’m fifty, never married, never sired any children—either I’m gay or I’m the shallowest, most superficial man on the planet.”
“When you put it that way, being gay doesn’t sound so bad.”
He gave me a shocked look. “I never said it was. However, the choice that little complication put me to... that was living Hell.” He glanced over the rim of his glass at me as he took another sip of fortification. “Will you help us?”
“Was there ever any doubt?”
* * *
EVEN though it was almost two in the morning, juiced on fat, starch, caffeine, and true love, I knew trying to sleep now would be futile. Filled with enough hamburgers and French fries to fortify even the weakest soul, and after hours of chatter, funny stories, and wedding plans, Rudy and Jordan had repaired to the largest of my guestrooms, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I checked to make sure the service had fed the bird—they had—and cloaked his cage for the night, then made a mental note to move the bird to Teddie’s for the duration of Jordan’s stay.
Lucky Stiff (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 2) Page 14