Glitter Baby (26 page)

“That’s impossible. We mailed them ages ago.”

“That’s what I thought.” His expression grew graver. “I just spoke with Riata. She had them sitting in an open box on her desk. The day she planned to mail them, she came back from lunch and they were gone. She assumed I’d mailed them. Unfortunately she didn’t bother to check.”

Fleur sank into her new desk chair and tried to think.

“Do you want me to call everyone?” he asked. “Explain what happened and issue the invitation over the phone? Or should we change the date? We only have four days.”

Fleur made up her mind. “No phone calls and no explanations. Have new invitations hand-delivered this afternoon with flowers from Ronaldo Maia.” It would cost a fortune, but trying to explain would only make her look incompetent. “Put my mind at ease and double-check the rest of the arrangements. Let’s make sure there haven’t been any other slip-ups.”

He was back ten minutes later, and even before he spoke, she could see he had bad news. “Someone canceled the caterer last week. They’ve booked another party for our date.”

“Great,” Fleur muttered. “This is just great.” She rubbed
her eyes and spent the rest of the afternoon shopping for a new caterer.

For the next four days she worked until she was exhausted and waited for another disaster. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, but she couldn’t make herself relax, and by the afternoon of the open house, she felt as if her nerves had been scraped raw. She ran out for a quick meeting with a new casting agent. When she came back, a soot-streaked Will met her at the entrance.

“We’ve had a fire.”

Her stomach pitched. “Is anybody hurt? How bad was it?”

“It could have been worse. David and I were in the hallway, and we smelled smoke coming from the basement. We grabbed a fire extinguisher and put the flames out before they could do much damage.”

“Are you all right? Where’s David?”

“We’re both fine. He’s cleaning up.”

“Thank God. How did it start? What happened?”

He wiped the back of his hand over his smudged cheek. “You’d better see for yourself.”

As she followed him to the basement, she shuddered to think what would have happened if the fire had broken out tonight when the house was full of people. He pointed toward the broken window directly above some charred lumber the contractor hadn’t gotten around to clearing out. Fleur walked closer and pushed at the glass shards on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. “It was broken from the outside.”

“I was down here this morning,” Will said, “and there was nothing combustible over here. No paint cans, turpentine, nothing like that. A couple of punks out for kicks must have broken the window and tossed something inside.”

Except it was five in the afternoon, not the time most punks were on the prowl. “Air things out,” she said. “I’ll take care of the upstairs.”

Within an hour, they’d removed the charred lumber and
sprayed the office with Opium to camouflage what was left of the acrid smell. As Will left to get dressed for the party, she stopped him. “I appreciate what you and David did. I’m only glad no one was hurt.”

“All in a day’s work.” He fastened the last button and turned to leave. “Oh, I forgot…Flowers arrived while you were out. Riata put them in water. She said there was no card.”

Fleur went into her office. The flowers sat in a tall chrome vase on her desk.

One dozen white roses.

Fleur came to
a stop halfway up the circular staircase and smiled down at her guests. Assorted executives from the entertainment and publishing industries had shown up, along with enough famous faces to keep the reporters and photographers Will had invited happy. Michel had outdone himself with the long-sleeved ecru silk sheath he’d designed for her. The bodice shimmered with poppies picked out in tiny brown and tan beads. On Michel’s orders, she’d secured her hair in a low chignon at the back of her neck and speared it with a jeweled chopstick. The Glitter Baby was living up to her name.

The jazz quartet playing on the balcony came to the end of their number. The crowd gradually quieted and gazed up at her. She drew on her old acting lessons and pretended she did this sort of thing all the time.

“Welcome, everyone, to the official opening of Fleur Savagar and Associates, Celebrity Management.” Her guests applauded politely, but she spotted skepticism on more than a few faces. She introduced Will and David, then spoke enthusiastically of Simon’s band and Olivia Creighton’s new part on
Dragon’s Bay.
Finally she gestured for Michel to join her on the staircase.

“I’m very sad to announce that my talented brother, Michel Savagar, will be sharing his incredible designs with the world in November when he shows his first collection.” She’d caught the attention of the women in the crowd, and this time the applause was more vigorous. She pretended to frown at him. “Unfortunately that means I’ll no longer be his most important client.”

“You will always be most important to me,” he said, his accent heavier than normal, which would have made her laugh if she weren’t the one who’d suggested he emphasize his French roots.

The reporters furiously scribbled away in their notebooks as she announced the details of the showing. She thanked her guests for attending, the jazz quartet began playing again, and well-wishers surrounded Michel. She reached for a champagne flute as Kissy approached. “Good job, Fleurinda. You introduced all your clients except me.”

“I have other plans for you, my pet. As you very well know.”

Kissy pulled her gaze from a hunky music producer. “All Olivia Creighton wants to talk about is her new part on
Dragon’s Bay.
It’s only six episodes, and it’s not even a lead.”

“I’ll bet it will be when Olivia’s done with it.” Fleur took a sip of champagne. “The nighttime soaps are hot, and she’s perfect for television. I think she could be as big as Joan Collins.”

It had taken Fleur almost a month to convince the
Dragon’s Bay
producers to let Olivia audition, and then it took another few days to convince Olivia that being forced to audition was less demeaning than doing more condominium commercials. But as soon as the producers heard her read, they offered her the job. The money was unimpressive, but Fleur would fix that the next time around. Olivia’s mature, sexy beauty and confident bearing held a strong appeal to middle-aged women, and Fleur was betting all that would translate into higher ratings for the show.

The hunky music executive disappeared, and Kissy finally gave Fleur her full attention. “You look incredible tonight. A little intimidating.”

“Really? How?”

“Sort of like the ‘other woman’ in the movies. The sophisticated blond bitch-goddess who tries to steal the hero from the rosy-cheeked heroine.”

“Excellent.” A blond bitch-goddess didn’t have to worry about the little things in life. Or the big things—like Alexi Savagar trying to destroy her.

She’d told Kissy and Michel about the fire, but hadn’t yet mentioned Alexi’s involvement. From the moment Belinda had walked into the Orlani Gallery, Alexi had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. The missing invitations were bad enough, but this afternoon he’d gotten serious.

Kissy nudged her. “Have you been watching Michel and Simon?”

“Disappointing.” With his massive size and shaved head, Simon was the most noticeable man in the crowd to everyone but Michel.

“They both have such bad taste in men,” Kissy said. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t paid any attention to each other.”

“That little twit Damon won’t leave Michel’s side.”

Kissy frowned. “Michel and Simon are terrific people. The temptation to do some matchmaking is almost irresistible.”

Fleur watched Michel laugh at something Damon said. “It’s none of our business.”

“I know you’re right.”

“Michel doesn’t butt into my personal life, and I owe him the same courtesy.”

“You’re a good sister.”

“So how about a small dinner party in a few weeks?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

With that piece of business out of the way, Kissy surveyed the crowd. “Didn’t you tell me you invited Charlie
Kincannon?” The inquiry seemed casual, but Fleur wasn’t fooled.

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you get the impression that he was coming?”

“I’m not sure. Haven’t you talked to him?”

“Not for a couple of weeks.”

“Problems?”

Kissy shrugged. “I guess he’s gay or something.”

“Just because a fabulous man ignores you doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

“He’s hardly fabulous.”

“Christie Brinkley seems to think so. I heard they were dating.” Lying to her best friend was a rotten thing to do, but Kissy refused to take Charlie seriously, and Fleur decided the end justified the means.

“Christie Brinkley! She has to be a foot taller than he is.”

“Charlie’s very self-confident behind his geeky and fabulously rich facade. I don’t think he worries too much about externals.”

“I really don’t care.” Kissy sniffed. “Besides, I’ve never found Christie all that attractive.”

“Yeah. What’s so great about perfect features and a magnificent body?”

“You think I deserve this, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“I haven’t fallen for him, so get that smug look off your face. Charlie’s not interested in me that way. We’re friends.”

Will drew Fleur away to talk to a reporter before she could suggest that Kissy cut the crap. As she finished posing for photographers, she bumped into Shawn Howell, who definitely hadn’t been on her guest list. Shawn’s teen idol face wasn’t nearly as cute at thirty as it had been at twenty-two when Fleur had to endure the dates Belinda had arranged. Since then, his career had tanked, and he reportedly owed the IRS a quarter of a million dollars.

“Hello, gorgeous.” He bypassed her cheek for a direct
shot at her mouth. His tongue flicked her bottom lip. “You don’t mind a couple of gate crashers at your party, do you?”

A strobe flashed next to them. “Apparently not.”

“Hey, it’s business, right?” He grinned and rubbed his hand down her spine like a high school boy checking for a bra. “I hear you’re in the market for clients, and I’m looking for a new agent, so maybe I’ll give you a try.”

“I don’t think we’re a good fit.” She started to slip past him, then stopped as a sense of dread swept through her. “What did you mean by ‘a couple of gate crashers’?”

“Belinda’s waiting in your office. She asked me to tell you.”

For a moment Fleur was tempted to leave her own party, but she didn’t run anymore, and this was something she couldn’t put off.

Belinda stood with her back to the door looking at a Louise Nevelson lithograph Fleur had bought with the profits from a delivery of palladium. As Fleur stared at the small, straight line of her mother’s spine, she felt a stab of yearning. She remembered how she used to throw herself into Belinda’s arms when her mother appeared at the front door of the
couvent
, how she’d bury her face in the crook of her neck. Belinda had been her only champion. She’d defended her against the nuns and told her she was the most wonderful girl in all the world.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Belinda said, still staring at the Nevelson. “I know you don’t want me here.”

Fleur went over to sit behind her desk, using its authority to protect herself from the flood of painful emotion that made her want to rush across the room and hold tight to the person she used to care about more than anyone. “Why did you come?”

Belinda turned. She wore a frilly ice-blue dress and satin French heels with pale blue ribbons that tied around her
ankles. The outfit was too youthful for a forty-five-year-old woman, but it looked perfect on her. “I tried to stay away. Ever since I saw the white roses that night at the Orlani…But I couldn’t manage it any longer.”

“What did the roses mean to you?”

Belinda fumbled with the jeweled clasp on her evening bag and reached inside for a cigarette. “You should never have destroyed the Royale.” She pulled out a gold lighter and flicked it with unsteady fingers. “Alexi hates you.”

“I don’t care.” Fleur hated the catch in her voice. “Alexi means nothing to me.”

“1 wanted to tell you,” Belinda said softly. “You’ll never know how many times I wanted to tell you about your real father.” With a faraway look in her eyes, she gazed across the office. “We lived together for three months at the Garden of Allah. Errol Flynn was a great star, Fleur. An immortal. You look so much like him.”

Fleur brought her hand down on the desk. “How could you lie to me? All those years! Why couldn’t you have told me the truth instead of letting me wonder why my father sent me away?”

“Because I didn’t want to hurt you, baby.”

“Your lies hurt more than the truth ever could. All that time I thought it was my fault that Alexi banished me from the family.”

“But, baby, if I’d told you the truth, you would have hated me.”

Her mother looked fragile and helpless, and Fleur couldn’t stand to hear any more. She fought for control. “Why did Alexi send you to me? I know he did.”

Belinda gave a soft, nervous laugh. “Because he thinks I’m no good for you. Isn’t that silly, baby? When I saw the roses that night at the gallery, I understood he wanted me to go to you. That’s why I’ve been staying away.”

“Until tonight.”

“I couldn’t manage it any longer. I had to see if we could start over. I miss you so much, baby.”

Fleur held herself stiffly and stared at Belinda. Gradually her mother wilted. “I’ll go now. Watch out for Alexi.” She walked to the door. “And remember. I never meant to cause you hurt. I love you too much.”

Even after all this time, Belinda still didn’t understand that what she’d done was wrong. Fleur gripped the edge of her desk. “You pimped me.”

Belinda looked confused. “The man was Jake Koranda, baby. I would never have given you to anyone else.” She hesitated for a moment and then slipped out the door.

Fleur was exhausted by the time the last of her guests left, but the open house had been a huge success, worth every tired muscle. She slipped into the front hallway and passed through the door that led to her private living quarters in the back of the house. She smelled the eucalyptus she’d piled in wicker baskets, the only decorating touch her bank account permitted for now. Walking into the living room, she flicked on the lights, then collapsed on her secondhand couch. A fringed paisley shawl only marginally disguised its shabbiness, but the peaceful room began to soothe the jagged edges of her tension.

The two-story expanse of metal-paned windows in front of her had come from an old New England textile mill. Through them she saw her small, sunken garden with its lacework of tree branches. Pyracantha bearing bright orange berries climbed the high brick walls. Someday this nearly empty room would be a true haven. She imagined a warm combination of rich walnut furniture, cozy rugs, and antique tables topped with flowers.

The second-floor living room was an open loft fronted by a railing. Fleur wandered over to the railing in her stocking feet. She gazed down the expanse of industrial windows to the kitchen and dining area below. The weathered brick floor held the antique cherry harvest table Michel had
given her as a housewarming gift. Now it was surrounded with mismatched chairs, but someday she’d own beautiful old ladder-backs and nubby hand-woven rugs.

She flicked off the living room lights and made her way to her bedroom. On the way, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. Wearing her bra and a pair of tap pants, she walked across her bare bedroom floor to her closet. The most beautiful couture wardrobe in New York was stashed away in a bedroom with only a secondhand chest of drawers, a creaky chair, and a double bed missing a headboard. She switched on the closet light and hung up her dress. While she gazed at the array of beautiful clothes Michel had made for her, she took the pins from her hair. As she shook it out, something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. She gasped and spun around.

Jake lay asleep on her bed.

He lifted his arm and covered his eyes. “Do you have to make so much noise?”

The jeweled hair ornaments fell from her fingers. She stalked over to the bed, her hair flying. “What are you doing here? Get out! How did you get in? I swear—”

“Your secretary let me in.” He yawned. “She thinks I’m a better actor than Bobby De Niro.”

“You’re not. All you know how to do is snarl and squint.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “And you had no right to turn your cheap charm loose on my secretary.” First the basement fire, then Belinda, and now this. She kicked the mattress. “Out of here! This is my house.”

He flipped on the bedside light, and her body—the same body that refused to wake up for any of the men she dated—stirred to life. Although he’d shaved his mustache and cut his hair since the beach party, Jake didn’t look any more civilized. He looked rough and male and infinitely desirable.

He rested his weight on his elbow and performed his own inspection, which reminded her she was standing
before him in a vanilla demi-bra and matching satin tap pants. He rubbed the corner of his mouth. “Does all your underwear look like that?”

“Except for my Strawberry Shortcake panties. Now haul your ass out of my bed.”

“Could you maybe put on a robe? Something flannel that smells like bacon grease.”

“No.”

He sat up and dropped his rangy legs over the side of the bed. “I understand you’re pissed I didn’t make your party, but parties aren’t my scene. Still, it was nice of you to invite me.”