Читать книгу Colton's Mistaken Identity - Geri Krotow - Страница 13

“Skye, how do you plan to make up for the minimal attendance at this year’s film festival due to the Avalanche Killer?” One of Roaring Springs’ most intrepid reporters spoke over the national news outlet that had asked a much easier question about the opening gala’s menu.

Phoebe fought for breath in the tight-fitting, couture suit that Skye had laid out for this year’s festival. Tried to remind herself that any hope of keeping the serial killer out of the national news cycle had always been futile. And she especially ignored the sting of tears behind her eyes at the reminder of her cousin Sabrina’s awful death. She thanked the makeup gods for waterproof mascara.

“We’re going to have a moment of silence for the victims, of course. I’m sure you’ve noted that our flags are at half-mast. The Chateau and Roaring Springs Film Festival share the grief of the families and friends affected. And we have every confidence that the sheriff’s department will find and apprehend the murderer imminently. We’ve upped our security profile, and I can personally assure each and every guest and festival attendee that their safety is our utmost priority.” She paused for effect, just as she’d witnessed Skye do countless times. When the reporters appeared as though they were ready to ask another question, she nodded. “And as much as we’re all hurting right now, the festival will go on, because it’s more important than ever that we celebrate life and all of its joys. I know you all agree that the best revenge is a life well lived.”

Murmurs and several nods gave her the first bit of relief from her nerves over posing as Skye since she’d first looked into the mirror after Amber had finished her makeup. The bronze foundation and colorful eye shadow, along with blush and lipstick, didn’t faze her. But the false eyelashes really took getting used to. They’d made looking at Prescott Reynolds without continually blinking a bit of a challenge.

“Call me Prescott.” She, Phoebe Colton, had been asked out by Hollywood hunk Prescott Reynolds and was going on a walk with him in the morning.

As Skye. He thinks you’re Skye.

The reporters fired more questions at her, and she had no time to revel in the soft glow that Prescott’s presence in the Chateau and subsequent request to spend time with her had ignited earlier today. Which was a shame, because it truly was a lovely way to move through the day. As she answered the more rudimentary festival questions, a separate part of her mind realized her sister must have this kind of feeling all the time. That a man she was attracted to was truly interested in her and wanted to get to know her better. Phoebe could certainly get used to it.

Once she wrapped up the press conference, she took a few minutes to stop in Skye’s room to find costume jewelry, accessories and maybe some clothes that were definitely more Skye than Phoebe. She had half an hour before the red carpet event.

The red carpet scene would be tougher for her than the press conference. Answering questions for which she usually prepped the answers for Skye had been doable, even if she was nervous about behaving like her twin. However, facing international celebrities and engaging them with small talk was Phoebe’s idea of a fiery hell.

Stop.

It was downright childish and self-serving to be so dramatic over all of this. The Chateau needed her; the Colton empire needed all hands on deck. Skye had pulled an ugly stunt by not returning in time for the gala, but at least Phoebe and their mother knew she was okay. Skye wouldn’t lie in a text to her twin, would she?

A prickle of warning skittered over her nape as she stood at Skye’s vanity and chose one of her sister’s more glittery sets. Not full-on twin warning radar, but the feeling she was being watched. She looked over her shoulder toward the open cathedral window that was her favorite part about their in-resort apartments. Both she and Skye had matching apartment suites, but they’d decorated them quite differently. Skye had gone for a very upscale, gilded, Louis XIV look, while Phoebe’s apartment was more relaxed with modern touches. “Colorado chic” was what she liked to call it. Skye referred to it as “something our grandmother would love.” Phoebe missed Skye’s constant teasing. It was how they often showed their deep affection for one another. She could use some sisterly love to help her get through the next several hours, possibly the next week.

Of course, if Skye were here, Phoebe would be happily engrossed with the production and guest services end of the festival. It wouldn’t matter what shade of lip gloss or eye shadow she wore.

The view of the mountains was unsurpassed even by the extensive terraces that surrounded the majestic Chateau. A summer breeze puffed the sheers that hung from the rods with French provincial finials, bringing the scent of Skye’s potted jasmine into the room. The French doors onto her small but well-used terrace were closed. Walking to the door to open it, Phoebe chided herself for being so edgy. It had to be a combination of playing her role as Skye and the scary murders that had tragically touched her family with Sabrina’s death.

But when she reached to unhitch the hook at the top of the door, it was already unfastened. Phoebe pushed open the door and stepped in bare feet onto the stone-paved terrace, checking to see if Skye’s chaise, small side table and several potted plants were as she’d last seen them this afternoon, when she’d been here to pick out some clothes and jewelry.

When she saw Skye’s potted jasmine was crushed on one side, and a smear of dirt drawn on the mortar railing, a cold rush of fear ran over her scalp and down to her toes.

Taking the few steps forward, she saw the imprint of feet on the soft lawn not more than six feet below. Someone had been in Skye’s room and exited via the terrace, but why? And who? And had they been in her apartment, too?

It could be Skye.

Skye was pulling a doozy on Phoebe and Mara, but if she was back in Roaring Springs she’d help with the festival, wouldn’t she?

Phoebe checked the terrace more thoroughly before she returned inside and shut the door. She’d have to ask about getting a dead bolt—on both of their patio doors. In all the years her family had lived in The Chateau, she’d never felt the least bit afraid for her safety. Mara had been vigilant, though, and always kept Phoebe and Skye away from the public and guest eyes as needed.

She walked into her sister’s closet, a luxurious feature they both relished, and stepped out of Skye’s dressy business suit that she’d borrowed earlier and dressed in the T-shirt and drawstring shorts she’d left behind on a small dressing bench. Wearing Skye’s business clothing helped her play the part to a T in front of the press, but she wasn’t going to trade out her own evening wear, which was cut to fit her shape and more comfortable. Even though she was an avid runner, Phoebe’s curves were slightly fuller than her twin’s, and she’d always worn dresses that flattered her bust and hips. Skye’s clothes tended to flatten out her curvier features, plus the waists were a tad tight.

Phoebe reached up to take a sparkly wrap from the hangar on the back of the closet door and stopped when she saw a large sheet of cardboard, one of The Chateau’s desk blotters that was in each and every guest room, hanging by a thread over the gossamer shawl. In matte, bloodred lettering, a shade creepily similar to Skye’s lipstick, Stay Away from Him! was lettered in slanted print. The sign definitely hadn’t been here earlier when Phoebe had raided the closet for the suit.

“Stay away from whom?” She wanted to believe the scary message was some kind of prank that her sister had done, but Skye wasn’t here and had no idea that Prescott had asked her out. And while Skye was the definite extrovert and prankster between the two of them, she’d never done anything this frightening.

Besides, Skye would never waste a good lipstick on something so childish.

Someone else clearly had seen Phoebe with Prescott and wasn’t happy about it. But who could it be?

She gingerly unhooked the warning, and when she lowered the cardboard to the floor, she noticed a lipstick case, open, the stick of makeup ground into the carpet. Sure enough, it was one of Skye’s designer shades. Phoebe wasn’t a cop, but she knew she needed to call the head of hotel security. If it needed to be reported to the police or sheriff, they could pass it on.

Grabbing all that she needed from Skye’s room, Phoebe check to make sure no one was in the corridor that linked the residential apartments before she scurried to her room, careful to keep the cardboard message facing away from her so it wouldn’t smear. Once in her room, she placed the warning sign on her dining table and went through to her bedroom and into her closet to change.

Call Security now.

But if she called the security officer, he’d tell her parents, then Mara would find out and have a freak-out, the last thing they needed as the festival launched. She’d have to speak directly with security, They’d handle it discreetly and have dead bolts placed on their terrace French doors.

Melancholy gripped her as she fumbled to zip her halter-style sparkly pink gown. In such a short time, her happy, secure life The Chateau in Roaring Springs had taken a serious nosedive. All because of a cold-blooded murderer who’d snuffed out Sabrina’s life so horrifically.

Her first instinct was to find Skye and talk out her feelings. While Phoebe always had a sense of being in Skye’s public shadow, she could trust her twin with her life and heart. Sadness slammed the thought back as she remembered Skye wasn’t here.

“You’d better get back here, Skye.” She spoke to the empty room as she added more powder to her face and made certain the false eyelashes weren’t going to fall off in the middle of her red carpet interviews.

Prescott Reynolds was going to be there, in a tuxedo and smiling his killer trademark grin. And instead of being behind the backdrop with an earpiece and clipboard, making sure it all flowed perfectly, she’d be the one interviewing him.

Playing her twin sister had its perks.

* * *

It was as if a dozen separate orbs of sunlight edged the red carpet that ran across The Chateau’s circular drive, up the stone stairs to the expansive landing and circled to the front entrance doors. The bright lights that were brought in by an event production tech group from Denver each year were the definition of blinding.

Phoebe longed for the familiarity of the smart tablet she usually carried, and her running shoes, which allowed her to work the entire red carpet behind the scenes. She’d done it for three years and was proud of how she’d streamlined the process, which had been pretty messy when Mara ran it. Her mother was more about keeping guests comfortable and well fed, while Phoebe was far more interested in the operational part of a business. The rest of the year she did the books, but during film fest week she liked to think of herself as a producer.

Not tonight.

Her legs quavered like a brook’s water trickling over craggy rocks as she approached the spot where she’d stand on the landing, microphone in hand, to greet each actor, film VIP and celebrity. Skye had worked out a deal with a major network last year, and the producers had spoken to Phoebe after the press conference. They’d gone over each part of the red carpet, including the opening ceremony, which would include the moment of silence she’d already briefed the press about.

“Hey, Skye.” Remy Colton, Phoebe’s cousin and the Colton empire’s public relations director, stood in front of her. The tall man exuded confidence and calm amid the chaos of pre-event preparation. Next to him was his maternal half-brother, Seth Harris, who had similar hazel-green eyes and brown-blond hair but whose temperament Phoebe had never synced with. Still, they worked well enough together during festival week.

“Hi yourself, Remy. Seth.” She gave Seth a bare glance, opting to keep their interaction minimal, and silently cursed Skye, who was so much friendlier with their extended family.

“Seth’s helping out with the production tonight.” Remy must have seen the question in her eyes. He held her gaze a beat too long and panic swelled in her chest.

“Have you seen Phoebe? I haven’t been able to reach her.” Remy’s concern paralyzed Phoebe, and she wondered if this was Remy’s idea of calling her bluff. Did he know she wasn’t Skye? But after another moment, she decided his concern was genuine.

“Uh, I’m sure she’s around, and her phone battery has been acting up. We had a lot of last-minute reservations, so she’s probably helping my mother in reception.” Lying for her sister was one thing, but now she was defending her own reputation. A swirl of nausea swarmed inside her belly. Phoebe counted integrity as one of her most important values. Having to skirt it was the pits. Skye couldn’t get back soon enough.

Seth nodded knowingly. “Phoebe’s always hiding. She’s shy.” Phoebe fought back a defensive retort, but Remy handled it with aplomb.

Just as Phoebe thought she’d have to literally turn and walk away to avoid either man from figuring out that she wasn’t Skye, a young man with a headset touched her forearm.

“Ready to get wired up?” The tech assistant handed Phoebe a large gold microphone with a rhinestone-studded handle, and an earpiece. “Give me a test, gorgeous.”

She blinked, not used to being spoken to with such familiarity. Her sister was as much a feminist as she was, but Phoebe didn’t encourage the sexy banter that Skye did, and this put her at a disadvantage. A disadvantage she was going to have to conquer right here, right now, in front of her two cousins.

“Um, please call me Ms. Colton, okay? Just to keep it professional!” Grinning like Skye would and batting her eyes at the man, she tapped the top of the mic. “One, two, three.” Nothing.

“Good one, Skye. Now try turning it on and do it again.” Seth’s tone matched his smirk. Heat rushed into her cheeks. Way to toe the professional line when she didn’t even bother to see if the mic was on.

She found the switch on the bottom of the wireless mic and pressed. “Is this better?” She spoke into it, and the techie pressed his hand to his earpiece, listened, then nodded and gave her a thumbs-up before he jogged away.

“Looks like you’ve got this, Skye. Let me know if you need anything else.” Remy turned to walk away and Seth lingered a brief moment, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

“See you, Seth.” She kept it light and kind, as Skye would do.

“Yeah, you too, Skye. Break a leg!” As he walked away, she felt a pang of guilt. Seth wasn’t a bad guy, he’d just had it tough, as Remy’s half sibling, and he’d most likely had always felt like an outsider to the huge, extended Colton family.

Phoebe sucked in a deep breath and pasted a large, wide smile on her face. Tonight she had one job: to play the role of Skye.

Scores of people stood on either side of the red carpet, and the bleachers erected on the south side of the drive were full of fans. They’d all won a ticket lottery, so that they could be prescreened for security. It was a festival standing practice since tonight’s gala was on private property and meant to be a safe haven for the VIPs before the onslaught of premieres and press interviews that made up much of the week, culminating with the huge awards ceremony. But this year it felt more necessary than ever, after word of the Avalanche Killer got out.

And, on top of that, someone in their midst was threatening Phoebe, or Skye, for being around Prescott. At least that’s what both she and the security team had agreed was the motive for the harassing note in her closet. They had assured her he’d have the dead bolt in place before she returned to her room tonight, and that he’d inform the local police. Mara wouldn’t find out until Phoebe planned to tell her about it, tomorrow morning after her run.

Er, after her hike with Prescott.

She had to remember she was Skye, and Skye not only didn’t run, she detested working out unless it was in a yoga studio with the perfect temperature and high-end workout gear that left little to the imagination. Phoebe bit her lower lip, tasting the heavy lip gloss her sister wore. How did Skye deal with all the layers of makeup every day?

At least she only had to do it for tonight, hopefully. At most, a week. Then she could return to her regular ol’ life.

“Skye, the first set of limos are pulling up.” The voice of the television network’s producer filled her ear, and she looked down the steps and out toward the main road. Sure enough, the dozens, if not hundreds, of gala goers were arriving. Reminding herself that she was only interviewing the key actors and VIPs, she straightened her back, squared her shoulders and plastered a wide smile on her Skye-lipsticked mouth. When the first set of actors and actresses climbed up the stairs, and the producer’s voice rang out “Action!” over the wireless sound system, she planted her feet in the thick carpet. Action, indeed.

* * *

Prescott felt the tightening in his stomach that anticipation triggered as the limo approached The Chateau’s red carpet. He thought it was silly to have to arrive in a fancy car when he was staying here, but the cocktail reception his film production company threw had been in downtown Roaring Springs, so he needed a ride back, anyhow.

Focus on the film.

He let a long breath out, remembering how much he’d enjoyed shooting the action drama, and how eager he was for the audience to see the story of a single dad who worked as an FBI agent play out. Prescott had bonded with the five-year-old who’d played his son, and thought the film did a great job of showing how torn his character was between his duty as a parent and his career.

The young actor who’d played his son had tonsillitis and was missing the premier. That left Prescott as the main attraction for the media and fans.

“You ready for the onslaught of babes, Prescott?” Brian Gordon, the film’s director, sat directly across from him in the spacious automobile.

“Not interested.”

“You’re not still letting Ariella bother you, are you? She’s treated every other guy on set the same, trust me. I’ve watched her bad behavior through three of my films.” Brian spoke, but his eyes were on his phone. “Hey, look what my kid just did.” He held up the screen to show a picture of toddler completely covered in something purple.

“What is that stuff all over him?”

Brian grinned with pride. “Shower soap, grape scented for kids. My wife says he grabbed the bottle out of her hand and poured it all over himself.”

“I hope it’s the kind that won’t make his eyes hurt.” Prescott kept Brian talking. He knew the director was anxious to be back home with his family, as his wife was due with their third child at any moment.

Brian laughed and wiped his eyes. “You know I used to dream about this level of success for so many years. But other than being able to bring stories to life and work with great actors like yourself, what makes my life worth it each morning is my family. My wife, these incredible kids. How I got to be so damned lucky I’ll never know.”

“It’s nice to hear that.” Prescott meant it. Too many people in his industry were all about the material and didn’t stop long enough not only to enjoy what mattered, but to share it with others.

Brian’s gaze rested on him. They couldn’t be more than five or six years apart, but the director often filled the role of mentor for Prescott since he’d cast him in his very first film twelve years ago. “You deserve the same, buddy. I know that Iowa calls to you, and I think it’s great that you want to build yourself a place back there. But nothing will protect you and keep you sane from the Hollywood crazies as much as the love of a family.”

“I hear you. Unfortunately the love gods don’t agree.” His mind went back to the ballroom, and Skye Colton. He’d not been enchanted by a woman in so long—even Ariella had been straight, no-holds-barred sexual attraction from the get-go. And while he was incredibly attracted to Skye, there was something more about her. As if she had a special secret she’d only share with him.

“You don’t believe that, man.” The limo halted, and Brian leaned over and affectionately slapped Prescott on the shoulder. “Just look at all the women who are here to meet the award-winning actor.”

Prescott opened his mouth to tell Brian that he wasn’t interested in any of the adulation that fans so generously gave, but the driver had opened their door and the roar of the small crowd drowned out any opportunity to reply.

He stepped onto the red carpet and nodded at his security guards, who waited just feet away. They’d shadow him most of the evening unless he asked them to leave him alone. He noticed a lot more RSPD officers than he had last year. Security was definitely a top priority of The Chateau.

He admired the red carpet’s setting. The Chateau earned its name as it stood in the middle of the valley with all the mountains around it, and tonight with the red carpet, twinkling fairy lights and bright camera illumination, it looked otherworldly. He appreciated the immense amount of work that went into such a show and made a mental note to personally thank the hotel staff.

But the only staff member he was truly interested in stood at the top of the grand outdoor staircase landing. He spotted her immediately. Skye Colton was a blaze of pink glamour as she held out the mic to his costar. The cameras made it hard to keep his gaze on her for long, but only encouraged him to get to his spot so that she could interview him sooner than later. At least that way he’d be next to her again.

Five thirty tomorrow morning seemed too far off. With a desire that was surprising even to him, he wanted to be alone with Skye tonight, to find out what ticked behind those enchanting whiskey eyes.

Prescott wasn’t a stranger to industry events and did his part to grip and grin, making eye contact and sincere small talk with each person who approached him. What kept him going tonight with a bounce in his step and positive attitude was the beacon of Skye at the top of the landing.

Finally it was his turn to be interviewed by the experienced hostess. He’d heard from several other colleagues that Skye had a knack for bringing out the best in each actor, and she never tried to dig out personal information that other entertainment reporters prided themselves on. Of course, the Colton heiress’s realm of reporting was pretty much on social media, but he saw the familiar network logo on the camera and microphone she held. Their interchange would be very public, on a global scale.