Читать книгу Lethally Blonde - Nancy Bartholomew - Страница 11

Emma Bosworth is a manipulative, lying bitch and therefore, my absolute best friend in all the universe, even if she has turned her evil powers against me and Marlena. I can fend for myself, but Marlena’s too little to put up much of a fight. I wouldn’t be in this complete and total crisis if Emma hadn’t convinced me to let Marlena have her nails done all by herself, while Emma and I have just the teensiest Cosmopolitan at Bemelmans.

“Now, honey,” Emma says, “Marlena will be fine. It’s best if her momma doesn’t watch and besides, you know how long silk wraps take!” Emma shakes her head slowly, making her long auburn hair shimmer in the shop’s light, and smoothes her immaculate Chanel suit impatiently. Emma is not big on public displays of emotion.

I look at my poor, dear sweetie and shudder. Her first silk wraps.

“Are you sure Lisa’s good?” I ask.

Emma’s already huge green eyes widen and she gives me this look like, “Oh my God, sometimes you are just so blonde!”

“Bug,” she says. “La Chien is the only salon Vera Wang uses for her babies!”

Emma has called me Bug from the first day we met. She said she couldn’t stand the name Porsche, even if it is really pronounced like Portia. “It’s so nouveau riche,” she’d said. “At least be original. Be a red VW convertible with a black leather interior. It’s so you—all dark on the inside and flashy on the outside. That’s what I’m going to call you, Lady Bug.” Only it got shortened to Bug and soon all the girls we hung out with were calling me Bug.

Emma brings me back to reality by taking my arm and pulling me out the salon door. I look back at Marlena and see she is already licking Lisa’s fingers; my little ferret, alone for the first time in the big wide world without her mommy!

I am so beside myself that I let Emma drag me away. I drink the first two Cosmos without even realizing what I’m doing and that’s saying something because Bemelmans’ Cosmos are just so completely memorable. The third round arrives and I realize an absolutely sweet man at the bar is smiling at me.

“Oh, dear God,” Emma breathes. “I can’t believe it. Why now? Damn!” Then, as if she hadn’t said any of that, she says, “Bug, don’t you know who that is?”

I’m telling you, all I can see is his black Jack Spade man-bag. I can spot one of those even without my glasses, so if the details of his overall appearance are a little fuzzy, well excuse me. He looks tall, dark and rich. What more do I need to know?

“I have no idea who he is,” I tell Emma. “But he fits the profile for ‘You Can Smile At Me Anytime.’”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s Aldo Huffman,” she says, sounding not a little bit impatient.

I squint in his direction and wish I’d put in my contacts, but really, Emma was in such a hurry that I just ran to the limo without putting them in.

“Aldo Huffman? He like, grew up into that? He looks so…European. Oh. My. God! He was, like, such a little swine when we debuted! You know he was the kid voted most likely to grow up and face a federal grand jury for embezzling from his own company!” I narrow my eyes into slits and try to make out the details, but it really doesn’t matter because he is on his way over to our table.

Five minutes after Aldo joins us, I send a car to pick up my ferret and take her home. Mother love is one thing, but lust is essential to a woman’s survival, you know? We have a lovely dinner at La Petit Ennui and decide to hit the Canal Room where Aldo says he’s meeting a friend. He smiles at Emma and winks, so I figure it’s a fix-up.

When Aldo’s friend joins us, I have to pinch myself because the man is exquisite. Dark black hair, ultra-Latino, dressed in Armani, with bedroom eyes that make me forget handsome Aldo entirely. Tomorrow the New York Reporter will have our faces plastered all over it with “Who’s Porsche’s New Boy Toy?” captions running below them. Am I lucky or what?

Emma and I hit the ladies’ room to freshen up, and I tell her that I think I’m falling in love.

“Don’t,” she says and the trouble starts.

Something in her voice sends a chill straight through my alcohol-numbed body, sobering me instantly. I mean, don’t get me wrong; Emma and I are not fools. We both know I’m not the least bit serious about falling in love. Falling in love, when you’re saddled with more money than God, only happens after a thorough investigation of assets, skeletons and criminal backgrounds. So, for Emma to take The Tone with me, well, there has to be something seriously wrong.

“Oh, I see, you want him.”

“Don’t be silly, Bug! It’s not that. Besides, you’re more his type. He likes leggy blondes with big blue eyes, not short, little redheads.”

I’m confused. “What then, is he married?”

Emma smiles. “I doubt it.” Her face gets that look again though, and she turns away to inspect her lipstick in the mirror. “I know him, not well, but our paths cross now and then and well, I just don’t think he’s trustworthy, that’s all.”

I shrug and join her at the mirror. “Oh, well, if that’s all…”

Emma won’t let it go. “No, Bug, I don’t think that’s all. God, you and your weakness for the bad boys! I’m serious, Buggie, I don’t like him.”

I tuck my lipstick back into my beaded Gucci evening bag and turn to stare gravely at my friend.

“Do you want to leave?”

Emma is really getting wiggy on me now. “No, no, not at all! Let’s stay. Let’s dance. But let’s not play favorites, all right? We’ll just keep it a group thing, shall we?”

Well, she is my best friend but she is also a very skillful manipulator—this I remember from boarding school. She’s not the only one with tricks up her sleeve. I decide right then and there that Emma’s not giving me the entire story, so it’s up to me to figure it all out on my own.

We walk back out into the club and find Aldo and his friend already have the best table in the house, right by the dance floor. An ice bucket has materialized by our table. A bottle of Cristal champagne is being opened by a waitress and four champagne flutes sit in the center of the tiny wooden circle.

At least I know the drinks aren’t drugged. I slip into the vacant seat next to Aldo’s friend and smile as a photographer snaps my picture from the edge of the dance floor. The bouncers rush up to remove him but I wave them away. I’m enjoying this evening too much to waste negative energy on the press.

“Ray, this is Porsche,” Aldo says over the noise of the music.

Ray takes my hand, looks deep into my eyes and I feel every nerve ending in my body wanting him. Emma kicks me and I yelp, drop his hand like a hot rock and glower at her. When Aldo introduces Ray to Emma, she smiles knowingly, rises and pulls him up out of his seat and out onto the dance floor.

The scheming bitch! This was her plan all along. She throws me off balance and then runs off with the prize. I remember the way her face changed as she warned me about him. Emma has never been able to lie to me. She doesn’t like Ray and yet, there she is, dancing with him.

Aldo slides over, taking Emma’s seat, and begins talking about his recent trip to Greece. I listen to him, but the attraction I felt for him is gone. I am distracted, watching Emma and Ray, wondering what in the hell is going on?

When they come back to the table, Aldo stays in Emma’s seat and so she takes his and begins laughing and flirting with Ray. I try to kick her and miss. She is too far away. I glare at her when the men are not looking. She ignores me. Many people come up and talk to us, more for Aldo than anyone, but still, I know people here, too, so for a while I bide my time and pretend to be fascinated by the acquaintances who drop by to chat.

At last, I see an opportunity. I pretend to reach for a napkin in the center of the table, let my arm “accidentally” knock against Ray’s almost-full champagne glass and then gasp as it tips over, falling to spill icy liquid into his lap. He jumps up, I lean forward as if to help, and with one smooth movement, slip his billfold out of his suit coat pocket and slide it down my thigh and into the inside pocket of my faux chinchilla shrug.

I am so-o-o apologetic! The waitresses come running. Emma shoots me the evil eye and Aldo misses most of the moment because he is temporarily distracted by the arrival of a new bevy of women at the door.

Ray is the only member of our party who is not flustered. He is polite, and affects a very unconcerned manner, but for one brief slice of a second his eyes meet mine and look straight through to my soul. It is a bone-chilling search of my intent—at least, this is how it feels—and for a moment I am worried that he somehow knows what I’m up to, but then, how could he? I force myself to sit still for a minute before I excuse myself and wander off toward the ladies’ room again. I am surprised when Emma doesn’t join me.

I dart into a stall, bolt the door and sit down on the toilet. I reach for Ray’s wallet, feel the smooth soft, leather and smile as I pull it from my pocket.

“Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.

I have one or two very vague memories of my real father. In one, he is a large man, but then, I was but a small child, and he is laughing as he pulls a quarter from my ear and a flower from my sleeve. My mother and Victor are watching and they are not happy, but Papa is very, very happy. Now I think, perhaps he was drunk, but then, he just seemed happy.

“Leave us alone,” I hear my mother say, and she is crying. One day, my father leaves and never returns. When I am older, I buy a magic kit with my own money. I get very, very good at it, but Papa never returns. But when I have magic, he is never very far away.

I open the thin, flat billfold and begin to examine it. There are the usual credit cards. Ray’s full name is Octavio Reymundo Estanza and while he lives in Manhattan, I do not recognize the address. His business card is printed on heavy, ivory stock and reads simply “Octagon Enterprises, Inc.,” with addresses and phone numbers in New York, Los Angeles and Madrid. I probe further, pulling out a picture of a beautiful dark-haired woman when the door to the ladies’ room bursts open. A female voice is speaking in harsh, rapid-fire Spanish.

“Watch the door. If someone wants in, tell them it’s broken and they must use the other restrooms.”

A second voice, also female, agrees as the door closes behind her. What I hear next turns my stomach and I pull my feet up onto the seat so I won’t be seen. It is Emma.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “What is going on?”

The other woman switches from Spanish to flawless English. “Whore! You know why we are here.”

I peek through the crack in the door and see a flash of silver. I think maybe it is a gun. I look at the floor and see three sets of high heels. Shit!

“Listen, if that’s your husband,” Emma begins again. She is cut off by the sound of a slap that echoes through the tiled bathroom.

“Shut up, bitch!” the other woman cries. “There is no more time for lies. Tell me who you work for or I’ll kill you.”

Emma says nothing. She cries out as the woman hits her again, only this time I don’t think she has used her hand. What am I going to do? I don’t have a weapon. If I try and call for help, they’ll shoot us both.

“Who are you working for?” the woman demands. “Who is she? Tell me now and you die quickly—delay and your death will be very painful.”

Shit! Victor and Mother were always insisting I hire bodyguards and I was always giving them the slip. Why didn’t I listen to them? I draw in a deep, silent breath and think, well, at least it will be an honorable death. I place my feet down onto the floor, flush the commode and slowly open the door.

I can’t tell who is more shocked, the two women holding Emma, Emma herself, or me. I step out, just as if nothing whatsoever is happening and smile brightly at them all.

“Hello!” I say. I let my eyes come to rest on the gun and then look at the woman holding the gun. She is the same woman as the one whose picture is in Ray’s wallet. Great, the irate spouse.

“Oh, dear me!” I say. “I know you! I just saw your picture! Here, look!”

I shove the small wallet-size picture at her. For a moment she is distracted, and this is all the time it takes. Emma darts around me and does the most amazing kick-thing with her right leg. The gun goes flying in one direction and Emma’s attacker is suddenly on the floor staring up at a very irate Emma.

Emma doesn’t see the other woman coming for her, but I do. I don’t really have any time to think. I just reach out, grab her long, black hair in one hand and yank her backward, hard, into the frame of the metal bathroom stall. Emma springs forward, retrieves the gun from its resting place under a sink and stands up, covering both women with the weapon.

Emma Bosworth has never held a gun in her life, at least as far as I know. Her family is Quaker. They don’t believe in it. Yet here’s my Emma holding the little silver gun and looking positively violent!

She reaches her free hand into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cell phone, hands it to me and says, “Hit one on the speed dial.”

So of course I do. A woman answers and says, “Emma?” in a voice I don’t recognize.

I look at Emma who says, “Tell her that I need a pickup in the ladies’ room.”

Now I know the world has turned upside down because Emma Bosworth would never be doing these sorts of things. But I do as I’m told and the woman on the other end says, “Right.” But she never asks where we are or what’s going on. She just hangs up.

“What about the one guarding the door?” I ask Emma.

Emma looks a little uncertain and appears to be mulling over her options. While I, on the other hand, am completely undone and wish like hell for another Bemelmans Cosmo to settle my nerves. Of course the bathroom door just has to open then, and as I’m standing right by it, I am the one who must deal with the problem.

I grab her arm and pull her forward into the room before she can say or do anything. Emma lifts the gun just slightly so the newcomer can see that someone will surely die if she doesn’t behave and says, “Search her.”

“Emma,” I say, starting to do just as I’m told. “Are you a cop?”

Before she can answer me the door to the ladies’ room opens again and the room fills with three very burly men in black camou outfits. The music outside stops and a voice says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain exactly where you are. The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people are only here to perform a routine check for underage patrons. I’m sure no one has a thing to worry about.”

Mass panic ensues as nine out of ten patrons begin emptying their pockets of illegal substances and I realize that this is far more than the ATF riding to the rescue. Emma is handing over her prisoners and quietly issuing orders. When she turns to me again, she smiles and takes my arm.

“There’s a car waiting for us in the alley,” she says.

She reaches for my elbow, but I step back out of her reach. “Emma, who are you and what exactly is going on?”

Emma’s lips compress into a flat obstinate line, no longer smiling. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

“No,” I say and shake my head. “Tell me now.”

Emma shakes her head. “I can’t explain it here, Bug. Come on.”

I take another step backward. “I don’t think I know you, Emma. Guns? Men in black? ATF? What is all this?”

Emma’s features soften. “Bug, honey, I’m still me. I’m just helping with something very important and I’m not allowed to say, at least not here. Trust me, Bug. I’m not a bad guy. I’ll take you to meet my boss. You’ll see. You’ll love her.”

It is the pleading look in her eyes that makes me relent and follow her out the back exit of the Canal Room and into the waiting limo, but I promise myself that I’ll never again agree to let my poor baby, Marlena, have a silk wrap without mommy.

“You’ll love Renee,” Emma says as the car pulls out of the alley and accelerates. “But do me a favor, Bug, don’t ask any questions. When Renee’s ready, she’ll tell you about us, but until she is, it’s just better if you let it go.”

Let it go? Forget women holding guns on Emma and people in black camou outfits swarming the Canal Room like ninjas? Let it go? But Emma has that look in her eyes again, and so I figure I’ll let it go, for now.

“Oh,” I say, digging into the pocket of my shrug again, “here.” I hand Emma Ray’s wallet. “I don’t know if this’ll help or not, but I can’t keep it.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “How did you…”

I grin. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” I say, and lean back into the soft cushions of the limousine.

Emma chuckles. “All right, Bug, have it your way!”

We are silent for the rest of the ride, silent as the limo pulls into an underground garage and silent as Emma leads me into an elevator to meet her friend, Renee.

“You’re just going to love Renee,” Emma gushes again. “We all do.”

When I first meet Renee I think she must’ve watched one too many action-adventure movies. I mean, I know she commands troops of people in black who swoop down to rescue her friends from terrible trouble just in the knick of time, but does she really have to be so incredibly rigid? Don’t get me wrong. When I get old like her I want to be powerful enough to have two of my friends saved with just one tiny phone call, but I will not lose sight of my femininity.

Renee doesn’t look like a man or anything but she’s just so formal. I meet her at 3:00 a.m. and she’s wearing a Chanel suit and three-inch Ferragamo pumps. Not one auburn hair is out of place. Her makeup is understated and flawless. To make matters worse, she greets me like I’m in a receiving line at the British embassy or something. She’s cold, stern and impossibly remote. You’d think she was the Queen of England greeting a commoner.

I look around the room and I realize she’s got money, but still, she’s not in my financial tier. I try to take some comfort in this. At least I know I’ll always be richer than she is, but then, I’ll always be richer than almost anyone on the planet. After a point, money is just money. But command, now that’s an aphrodisiac. Renee acts as if she is accustomed to the mantle of power; that is what’s making me so uncomfortable.

Renee lives in a brownstone and while it is nice, it’s no penthouse. And, studying her closely, I’m almost certain there’s been work done. I mean, what woman in her forties hasn’t had something altered? I just can’t put my finger on who did her. It looks so natural. Her hair is strikingly auburn. Her complexion fair and unblemished. She’s thin, but not anorexic. It’s so unfair!

I sit in a wingback chair in Renee’s parlor, listening as Renee and Emma talk and wonder why Emma adores Renee. She is about as easy to be around as a porcupine. Still, I haven’t been here two hours and Renee has somehow managed to get me to tell her things almost no one knows. I don’t mean just the stuff you read in magazines or tabloids, I mean everything. She does it so skillfully that I barely realize she’s interrogating me while managing not to give away one piece of her own personal information. I’ve been studying clinical psychology for four years and I still can’t do that!

When Renee goes in for the big finish with me she is so good I don’t even see it coming.

“So,” she says in her clipped, polished voice, “your wealthy stepfather married your mother when you were a toddler. You have never wanted for anything, never worked, never needed and certainly never bothered to exert yourself in any fashion. I suppose you must be wondering who on this planet would miss you if you suddenly disappeared. I mean, if things had somehow gone tragically awry this evening.”

We are drinking this amazing white Bordeaux and I admit I’m feeling it. So at first I think she is still speaking to Emma, only she has turned her head in my direction and is still talking.

“No one would miss the ‘It’ girl,” she says. “They would be replaced by the next hot rich thing.”

A cold chill sobers me as her words echo in my head. I mean, who would miss me? Paparazzi? My ferret? Emma? Who would remember me for anything but my money? What would my obituary say in True Style magazine? Big, fat tears well up in my eyes and I look around for help from Emma, only she has mysteriously vanished. When did she leave the room?

“Emma will miss me,” I say, but I sound uncertain, even to myself.

Renee smiles. “Of course she will…for a while. Emma is such a dear girl. I’m sure she’d compose a piece about you—she’s such a fabulous pianist. Her life will roll along and eventually, she’ll hardly remember to think of you. She won’t mean anything by it, but that’s just how she is.”

Renee sips her wine and stares at the flames dancing in the fireplace while I just sit there like a lump. I am twenty-four, beautiful, smart, incredibly wealthy and, for all intents and purposes, useless. What am I going to do, endow a building? I swallow, hard, and feel tears threaten to turn into sobs of regret.

“I’m young,” I struggle to say at last. “I have lots of time to create a legacy.”

Renee turns away from the fire and raises one imperious eyebrow. “Do you? One never knows. Your jet could crash tomorrow. You could wake up with a brain tumor. Does one ever really know how much time one has?”

I chug the last half glass of wine and realize that I am completely sober.

“I’m taking courses in clinical psychology at the New School,” I say, and give away the one secret I have left. Against my parents’ wishes and without their knowledge, I am going to graduate school. Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to justify my worth to this woman? “I am a semester away from getting my master’s, and,” I add, “I’ve almost completed analysis.”

“So, you want to be a psychologist, do you?”

“Yes, an analyst.”

“And have a private practice or work in a clinic?”

I don’t see Renee closing in for the kill until it’s too late.

“Oh, private practice, that way I can set my own hours.”

Renee nods and smiles her Cheshire cat smile. “So, you’ll give up your travels, I suppose. After all, most analysands do require thrice weekly therapy.”

I swallow hard. Well, I most certainly am not going to do any such thing, but how can I tell her that? And no way was I going to work in a clinic! But if I say any of this, Renee will see me as I’m beginning to see myself, only Renee and I are both wrong about me. I am a good person, aren’t I, even if I don’t have much to show for it?

When I don’t answer, Renee says, “You’re young. You have energy. You know, I run a foundation with women just like yourself.”

Oh, a foundation—now that was easy. Why didn’t Emma tell me Renee ran a foundation? Did she do this in addition to whatever it was she did that involved those commando types? Was she in law enforcement or something?

Maybe Renee will tell all if I express an interest in her charity. All you need to have to join a foundation is money. I can so do that.

“I would adore joining your foundation,” I gush. But inside, I am secretly disappointed. I suddenly want to join whatever it is that gives you strong, virile men in black SWAT costumes for backup. I want to shoot a gun and flip people over my hip, like Emma did with the Italian woman. It might be fun. I need a thrill in my life. When is Renee going to realize that I am trustworthy and let me in on the real deal?

Renee leans back in her wingchair and seems to study me for a moment before she smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “The Gotham Roses are a very prestigious group of women. I would guess Emma hasn’t spoken much about her work with them, has she?”

I shake my head, genuinely puzzled. She hasn’t, and I thought we shared everything!

Renee moves forward in her seat and regards me with a very serious expression. “Porsche, Emma vouched for you. She says you can keep a secret and are not as bubbleheaded as your press exploits might lead one to believe.”

I start to protest, but something in her eyes stops me.

“Porsche, I would like to tell you about the Gotham Roses, but before I do, I must know that you understand that what I am about to tell you is highly confidential. Lives hang in the balance based on my ability to pick and choose whom I confide in. Would I be making a mistake to tell you about the Roses?”

I have no idea what the woman is talking about but I do know one thing—Porsche Rothschild can carry a secret to the grave. I know things about my friends and their families that would ruin them if I told. Nothing, no amount of liquor or persuasion, has ever gotten one detail past my sealed lips!

“I assure you, I can keep a confidence,” I say.

Renee’s expression doesn’t relax.

“Porsche, if you decide to proceed with this conversation, I will need to tell you something.”

I nod, as if she’s making sense to me and long for another sip of wine. Somehow I know that this would be the wrong thing to do.

“Porsche, believe me, if I were to learn that one word of what we discuss tonight becomes public knowledge, I could bring forces to bear that would ruin your family and end all possibility of you ever becoming a psychologist. Do you understand me?”

I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Ruin my family? Who the hell is this woman? I know better, but still a frisson of fear ignites deep inside my chest. Do I really want to hear what she has to say?

I swallow, hard. “You have my word,” I promise.

Renee nods, reaches into a small wooden box that sits on the end table beside her and withdraws a small, handheld tape recorder.

“I’ll need to make a record of this,” she says, and clicks on the tiny machine. “Discussion with Porsche Dewitt Rothschild.”

“You know my middle name?”

Renee stops and smiles. “It’s not exactly a state secret, Porsche. But, yes, before speaking with you, I had a thorough background investigation completed. As I said, Emma placed your name before me for consideration some months ago. We just didn’t have need of your talents until recently.”

Talents, what talents?

“The foundation, the Gotham Roses, operates on two levels,” Renee begins. “On the lower level, we are a group of talented and wealthy women who do good works in the New York area, promoting worthwhile causes for women. But on another highly exclusive and top secret level, we work to help certain government agencies fight crimes perpetrated against, and sometimes by, the very wealthy.”

Renee watches me, to see if I am following her, and so I nod even if I don’t fully get it yet.

“Because of our family backgrounds and names, we are sometimes able to gain access to a level of society that regular law enforcement rarely permeates. Because your name is so instantly recognized, Porsche, and because of your reputation as a party girl…” Renee holds up her hand as I begin to protest. “Deserved or not,” she adds, “we have a need for your help.”

I am thrilled. I am so excited suddenly to be a member of the team that I almost jump out of my seat and kiss the woman, and yet, a little voice inside my head says, Be careful what you ask for!

“A situation may be arising,” Renee continues, “in which we could use someone with your skills in the psychological arena. I mean, I know you’re by no means a trained psychologist, but you do have a certain understanding of these sorts of issues. And the situation I have in mind requires a certain delicacy and, shall we say, name recognition. We need a very high-profile socialite for this case, an ‘It’ girl, someone everyone knows and watches and yet, doesn’t take seriously.”

Doesn’t take seriously? Now wait a minute!

Renee ignores the frown on my face and keeps right on going. “We have a little bit of training that you’ll need to undertake, as a precaution. You probably won’t need it, but it’s always nice to have a few tricks up your sleeve just in case. It will certainly be nowhere near as risky as the situation Emma was involved with, but still, it’s nice to be able to take care of yourself in a pinch.”

Of course, I had no idea then what Renee was talking about. And here it is, almost two weeks later and I still feel like Renee hasn’t told me everything. However, I’m realizing Emma Bosworth and Renee Dalton-Sinclair had this all mapped out long before I flew in from Paris with Marlena and decided it might be lovely to have my ferret’s nails manicured. Renee’s investigators have done their homework, too. How else could she know so much about me? That I have an almost photographic memory? Or that I grew up thinking Victor Rothschild was my real father, right up until I found my mother’s old marriage certificate saying she’d been married to some man named Lambert Hughes when I was born? How else would she seem to know every secret I’ve ever told that devious Emma if they hadn’t been plotting to get me into Renee’s elite little club?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Emma the next afternoon. I am hoping she will think I know more than I actually do and tell me the rest of the story, the real guns-and-ammo part of the story.

She has the nerve to play dumb. “What?”

“The Gotham Roses? How could you be involved in something so secret, so dangerous, so…”

“We try and help others,” Emma began, but I cut her off.

“Bullshit! Renee says you work with the FBI, the CIA and God knows who else. And this training, my God—self-defense, secret communication devices, and yet you two just keep saying it’s really not dangerous? Renee says it’s more of a psychological assessment than a real mission. What are you guys, superspies?”

Emma looks at me like I just don’t get it, sighs and shakes her head. “Bug, this is not a game and it’s not all glamour. We are not Charlie’s Angels. Renee works for a woman she calls the Governess on cases that involve the top layer of society that others just don’t have access to because they don’t have the right contacts. We do the training because Renee feels it’s better to be prepared for anything, even if the danger doesn’t materialize.”

“Oh, Emma, please!” I say. “Next thing you’ll be saying ‘It’s dirty work but somebody’s gotta do it!’”

Emma nods. “Well, it is. It’s unfortunate that there’s so much crime among the rich and privileged, but that’s the way the world is now. The Governess is not without her enemies, either. There is someone she and Renee call ‘The Duke,’ who is just as determined to bring down the Governess and the Roses as we are to stop his nefarious influence in the top echelon of society. The Gotham Roses are not dilettantes trying on crime-fighting for a hobby.”

I don’t believe a word of it, but two weeks later, after personal trainers and coaches have done their best to work me over and prepare me for anything, I’m actually relieved to be leaving town. So what if my assignment isn’t exactly dangerous? No matter how it turns out, it’ll still be better than riding the endless party circuit and listening to dull stories told by dull people. I’ll actually have a life, even if I can’t tell anyone about it!

The night before I am due to leave Renee calls me into her study and tells me all about my assignment.

“Jeremy Reins, the actor, says someone’s trying to kill him,” Renee says. “But the evidence indicates it’s just another one of his publicity stunts.”

She tells me this right after I come in from a grueling sparring match with her self-defense expert, Jimmy “The Heartbreaker” Valentine. I’ve broken four nails, had half my extensions pulled out and have the beginnings of a nasty bruise forming under my right eye. And here is Renee, telling me she doesn’t think it’s even a true assignment?

“So, why not blow the idiot off?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s really anybody. Besides, he’s been getting himself into a lot of trouble lately. The talk is that he has an attraction for kinky sex with very young men.” I shrug. “He’s just an actor.”

“Just an actor?” she says raising that eyebrow of hers.

“Okay, okay, so he’s golden at the box office, but who cares? I mean, if he’s faking it, why not just let him hire extra bodyguards?”

Renee shrugs. “The Governess feels he’s a national treasure and Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein, is married to a woman who has done us many favors in the past. Andrea Lowenstein is saying she feels a stalker or even a terrorist could be behind these attacks. Reins has done several commando, patriotic, action-adventure films in the past and could be the object of a terrorist vendetta. The Governess feels Andrea Lowenstein’s concern is credible. Anyway, it’s just not good to ignore such a visible and beloved member of the public. If something really did happen, it would make the rest of the country uneasy. We don’t need to take that chance.”

She smiles at me, like I’m going to fall for it, and says, “We have you. With your training in clinical psychology, you’ll be perfectly capable of discerning the threat level and letting us know if we need to send a team of more seasoned agents out to eliminate the issue.”

Seasoned agents, right! I’m sure the entire thing is just a publicity stunt. But I have to admit the idea is somewhat enticing, especially with the rumors I’ve heard on the circuit that Jeremy is gay. I like knowing the real scoop and this will certainly be the way to find out. Renee doesn’t wait for me to accept. She assumes I will do her bidding and continues talking.

“You’ll be Jeremy’s date for the Oscars and he’ll be yours for CeCe Goldberg’s post-Oscar charity party. That’s your cover, a budding romance and your charity work,” she says. “All the Roses have special charities they support. Yours is the Miller Children’s Home. CeCe Goldberg, as I’m sure you know, is not only a world renowned investigative reporter, she is also director Spiro Goldberg’s wife and quite active with children’s charities. You’ll be the celebrity co-host of the post-Oscar event for a new children’s home attached to Miller Children’s Hospital. Andrea Lowenstein will be the only one who knows your true reason for staying at Paradise Ranch. Jeremy will be only too happy to have you as his guest because he doesn’t want the rumors about his sexuality spreading and destroying his box office appeal. You have both the name and the, er, reputation to dispel any and all doubts the public may have. I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to stick to you like glue and show you all around Paradise Ranch, as well as the rest of L.A.”

I ignore the comment about my reputation and instead roll my eyes at the mention of Jeremy’s estate—Paradise Ranch, how nouveau riche.

“Has he hired extra security?” I ask.

Renee smiles. “You’re catching on, I see. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t. He says he doesn’t want his attacker to think he’s scared.”

Great. A wild-goose chase. But then, who else would get a shot at analyzing Hollywood’s bad boy? Oh, Renee Dalton-Sinclair is good, all right. She doles out just enough information to pique my curiosity and ensure that I am willing to undergo all kinds of crash courses in self-defense and investigation, then turns me loose and says it’s probably nothing at all.

“You know,” she says, “with your almost photographic memory and your graduate level course work in clinical psychology, you could be most useful to the Gotham Roses, should things go well with this assignment.”

Good old Renee, dangling that golden carrot in front of me. I can only become a permanent fixture in her elite undercover organization if I prove to be successful in my mission in Los Angeles. If I wind up blowing it, I’ll be useless to the Roses. Of course, I am not about to blow it; sneaking around spying into the secret lives of my fellow rich and famous sure beats attending boring theory courses in psychology at the New School. This is where the real fun is.

“What about the press?” I ask. “I mean, will they accept that Jeremy and I are an item? We’ve never been seen together in public before now.”

Renee smiles. “Oh, but you have. Andrea and I have taken care of that on both coasts. Just read In The Know. Rubi Cho’s mentioned the two of you at least three times in her gossip column for the New York Reporter this week. And Andrea’s had Jeremy’s publicist vehemently denying any blossoming romance between the two of you. That should be enough right there to spark a paparazzi feeding frenzy.”

When I wake up in the morning, I pack and prepare for the long trip to L.A. and my new action-packed life. As I walk out to Renee’s waiting limo, her fifteen-year-old daughter, Haley, comes running up behind me.

“Hey!” she calls. Then, when I keep walking, she says it again. “Hey!”

I stop and turn to look back over my shoulder, surprised because the little twit’s made a point of ignoring me for the entire time I’ve been a guest in her home. She’s standing there in her school uniform, looking like a runaway Playmate with her long, straight blond hair, her huge, gray eyes and that innocent, pouty mouth older women pay big bucks for at the plastic surgeon’s office.

I think she’s talking to the driver until she zeroes in on me and says, “Mind if I ride along to the airport?”

I figure it’s Marlena who’s garnered her interest so I say, “She bites.”

“What?”

That’s when I realize Haley hasn’t even noticed Marlena wrapped around my neck like a fur scarf.

“You need a ride to school?”

Haley shakes her head and starts walking toward the car like she owns it, which I suppose, technically, she does. She breezes past me, clambers into the back seat of the limo and before I can even sit down says, “Are you really Jeremy Reins’s girlfriend? So, what’s he like in bed?”

“What?”

I look at Renee’s princess daughter and know my mouth is hanging open. I reach forward, hit the button to slide the privacy glass up between us and the driver and then turn to give the little twit a piece of my mind.

“Listen, where I come from we don’t kiss and tell—and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell a kid like you about something like that! What is wrong with you?”

Haley leans back against the seat and looks at me and I realize she’s completely unfazed by my attempt to chastise her.

“You’re a prude, aren’t you?” she says, like it’s a matter-of-fact thing and not a slur on my good name.

“No,” I say, wishing Marlena would wake up and bite the little shit. “I am just wise enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh, come on!” Haley says, pouting.

“Does your mother know where you are?” I say, and immediately want to shoot myself for sounding like my own mother.

“Can I bum a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” I say, and realize, too late, that Haley is right in the middle of Mahler’s separation-individuation process and doesn’t really mean what she’s saying. So I remember my training and attempt to be therapeutic; after all, this is the first day of my new life.

“Haley, in order to break away from your mother and become your own person, it is perfectly normal for you to rebel and do things that your mother would disapprove of,” I say. “But smoking will kill you.”

“Oh, blow me!” Haley says. Then she sits up and starts rummaging through the drawers of the wet bar until at last she retrieves a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

“Don’t even think about lighting one of those things!” I command. “Marlena is allergic to smoke.”

Haley gives Marlena a look, like she’s trying to size her up, and finally tosses the pack of unfiltered cigarettes back into the drawer.

“What is he like?” she asks, reverting to Jeremy.

“Spoiled,” I answer.

“Does he love you?”

I give up and decide to enjoy my new role as Jeremy Reins’s fictitious girlfriend. I smile slyly and raise my eyebrows, and then lean in close, like I’m actually going to share a secret with this hellion.

“He’s mad for me,” I say, and giggle. “He fills my tub every night with champagne heated to a perfect ninety-eight degrees, and then he floats rose petals on the water, and not the red ones, either. He knows I abhor red roses, so he has pale yellow and orange ones flown in from his farm in Florida.”

Haley’s eyes are practically popping out of her head and I continue, completely into the lie now.

“He once took a slim silver dagger and sliced a thin line down the center of his chest. When it bled he looked at me, with tears in his eyes….”

“Because it hurt?” she says, interrupting.

I shake my head. “No, it was the depth of his emotional attachment to me that made him cry. He said ‘I would cut my heart out for you, for our love.’”

Haley sucks in her breath. “But like, wouldn’t he be dead then?”

I close my eyes and shake my head slowly back and forth. “No, idiot, he meant it as a gesture and as a way of saying that our love would transcend our current earthly incarnations and last for all eternity.”

“Oh, man!” Haley sighs. “I want to be loved like that!”

Don’t we all, I thought, and am relieved to see the airport come into view. How had Haley learned about my mission anyway? Was her mother careless? What if this had been a really dangerous assignment? But when I ask Haley about it, she shrugs and smiles coyly.

“I’m not the only sneaky person in the family,” she says. “I have my ways.”

I make a mental note to take this up with Renee upon my return. Perhaps the bond between mother and daughter could be repaired with stricter generational boundaries; at least, that’s the family systems theory. I personally think a good smack is in order.

“Please, please, please get his autograph for me,” Haley begs as I get out of the limo and start for the private concourse. Then, apparently thinking this uncool, she shakes her head vigorously. “No, don’t do that! Bring me a pair of his underwear instead. Used.”

I don’t think this even warrants a response. I leave her there, staring after me and walk away as fast as I can. I breeze past the security checkpoint and to where a private plane waits for me. For once in my life, I’m glad to be leaving New York. L.A. and Jeremy Reins seem like a vacation compared to the rigorous two weeks I’ve had training to be a Gotham Rose.

I toy with the idea of calling my mother, but just as quickly decide not to. She and Victor have been in England for three weeks now and I try to forget the argument we had before they left. Parents just have a hard time letting their adult children lead their own lives. Mama was just mad because I bought a penthouse in the West Village instead of living with them.

The flight is so long! It seems to be taking forever to reach L.A. and maybe that’s just fine with me because I can’t decide if I’m nervous about the next week or just sick of flying.

“Miss Rothschild, we are making our approach to LAX,” Tim, the pilot says over the intercom finally. The stewardess emerges from the cockpit, somewhat disheveled from her attempt at keeping her balance while we pitched and rolled, takes her seat and buckles herself in for the landing.

I look out the window and then over at Marlena in the seat beside me. She’s curled up, sleeping, looking like a tiny snowdrift of white fur except for the itty-bitty black satin eyeshades I had made for her. She likes them. The moment I put them on, she settles down and goes to sleep. Before the eyeshades, I had to sedate her when we traveled. I figured, what a ferret can’t see, a ferret won’t worry about, and I was right.

The runway comes up to smack the plane tires and we land with a little bump that shakes Marlena awake. I reach over and take off her blindfold.

“We’re here, sleepyhead,” I say. Marlena yawns, showing a mouthful of pearly, sharp teeth, and I lean down to kiss her nose. “We’re going to Paradise.”

I gather up Marlena and my purse, and begin making my way to the front of the plane and stop when I see Tim, the pilot, standing by the doorway. This isn’t unusual—in fact, it’s expected—but something about Tim is different, and before I can even consciously figure out what is wrong with the picture, I find myself feeling irritated.

He stifles a yawn, tries to cover it with by smiling, and says, “Hope you had a good flight, Miss Rothschild.”

I feel a tiny frown wrinkle its way across my forehead and try to smile back, but I’m thinking Since when have I been Miss Rothschild to you and not Porsche? And a visual memory cue plays its way across the movie screen inside my head and I see Tim and I clinging to each other and laughing one sweltering hot night on a beach just south of Rio de Janeiro and realize that even months after that mistake of an encounter, I was still Porsche, so what’s changed? And then I notice that the zipper on Tim’s pants is not quite fully zipped and I see the tiniest smear of pink on Tim’s collar. It is the same shade of pink lipstick the new stewardess, Dorothy, is wearing. I feel my face start to color.

I nod to Tim, but it’s frosty. I continue on past him, down the steps toward Dorothy, and I am so intent on my mission that I almost fail to notice three people walking across the tarmac toward the plane, two men and a brunette.

Then I see something else, a brief flash of silver glinting in the sunlight of a bright L.A. afternoon. When I glance in that direction, I see two men driving a baggage cart toward the plane, which would be fine if my Hawker jet were a commercial carrier, but completely out of place now, especially as the cart has the words “Amazon Airlines” emblazoned on the front grill.

I start to turn my head back toward Dorothy, and stop as something distracts me. I squint, narrowing my eyes and trying to force my 20/60 vision to do more with the far-off object I see held in the man’s free hand. A gun? Certainly not. But the cart picks up speed and seems not to notice the three people in its path mere yards away.

I’m on the bottom step when something—instinct—takes over and I shove Marlena into Dorothy’s surprised arms and take off running.

“Look out!” I yell, not sure if I’m warning the three people in harm’s way, or the unaware driver.

I am running faster than I have in years and I have the advantage because I’m closer to my greeting party than the cart is, but it has a motor and I’m wearing Manolo Blahniks with a three-inch heel.

“Look out!” I scream.

The brunette is the only one who hears me. She looks up, sees me running and does a double-take as she sees the baggage cart heading right for her. I am close enough to see the fright in her eyes, to hear the whine of the engine as the maniacal driver stomps on the accelerator and bears down on his waiting victims.

The brunette swings left, stiff arms the man on her right and I see them both fly backward. I launch myself toward the other man and feel my body soar into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

I hit Jeremy Reins midchest, hear the whoosh of breath leaving his body as we fall. I smell hot exhaust fumes and hear the cart’s engine rush past us, missing us by inches, it seems. The cart squeals to a stop, backs up and then the guy turns the cart around. He is actually heading back in our direction. At first I assume he is coming to check on us, but with a shock I realize this is not the case.

“He’s got a camera!” the brunette cries.

A camera? Not a gun, but a camera?

Two other guys come running out from the concourse building onto the gray tarmac—big, burly men wearing suits and carrying guns. They waste no time. They fire and the driver takes off, circles wide and veers away from us, but his passenger just keeps snapping away, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s being shot at! Beneath me, Jeremy Reins is recovering his composure.

“Hel-lo, darling!” he drawls. “Come to Daddy!”

I look down at him and see dark eyes, black, curly long hair, and realize this fool is smirking at me. I am lying directly on top of him and I realize something else at the same time; contrary to popular belief, Jeremy Reins is not only not gay, he is quite happy to meet me.

He brings his hands up, cups my bottom and gives me, Porsche Rothschild, a firm double-handed squeeze! I draw back and am about to slap him, when his eyes darken, his grip tightens, and he says through gritted teeth and a completely phony smile, “Watch it, lovey, the press has its eye on us!”

I plaster an equally fake smile on my face, dart a quick glance to the right through my dark Versace sunglasses and see the swell of photographers lining the upper windows of the concourse. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking, and I am resisting the ridiculous urge to cry—all signs, I’m sure, of my leftover adrenaline rush and the near miss with the baggage cart.

Jeremy pulls me down into a long, slipped-tongue kiss of welcome, which I resist for all I’m worth. “Lovey, now, play along!” he cajoles.

I ignore him and push away just as the two men with guns arrive, accompanied by the brunette and a man I assume must be Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein.

“Jesus Christ!” Lowenstein gasps, panting for breath and struggling to brush invisible dust off his black suit jacket. “Those assholes could’ve killed us!” He turns to look at the brunette by his side and his expression takes on an almost worshipful quality. “Thank God, Andrea’s got her brown belt. I will never say another word about you taking those classes, Andrea honey. They might’ve killed us!”

Andrea smiles at her husband indulgently. She is a tall, statuesque brunette in her midforties with long, brunette hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail. Her face is flawlessly made up, just enough to look polished and not enough to look as though she uses anything but the merest trace of mascara. She is wearing a tailored, Anne Klein suit, a cream silk T-shirt beneath it and a massive rock that has to go fifteen carats on the third finger of her left hand. Money without advertisement.

“Mark,” she purrs, “you wouldn’t say anything to me about my classes even if this hadn’t happened. And you were not almost killed—it was just stupid paparazzi trying to get a close-up.”

I look at Mark and realize the man is clearly besotted with his wife, even though he is trying to appear in control and unaffected.

“The true credit for your safety should lie with this woman,” she says, turning to meet my gaze. “She’s the one who warned us. Porsche Rothschild, I believe?” she asks, extending her hand toward me.

I feel like an absolute idiot. I have made a fool of myself over a couple of paparazzi in a baggage cart. There was absolutely no danger and now Andrea, a complete stranger, is trying to help me save face.

Her grip is firm, her blue-gray eyes clear, and her smile honest. My kind of woman. I find myself grinning back at her and making a mental note to keep her around, in case a real threat to our safety materializes and I need help.

In the meantime, Jeremy has dusted himself off and is now standing behind me. When I turn around, I see he still has the same stupid smirk stuck on his face but when I concentrate on his eyes, I think I see fear there. A little frisson of apprehension runs down my spine and hits my stomach. Had he mistaken the paparazzi for a threat, too?

“What the fuck were you two doing while Miss Rothschild here was attempting to save my ass from the overeager press?” he asks the security guards. His voice is dangerously low and ugly, deceptively so when you take into account that he is still smiling and attempting to fool the paparazzi on the upper level of the concourse.

“Sorry, Mr. Reins,” the shorter of the two says. He is bald, his body thick with steroid-improved musculature, his eyes small and deeply set into his puffy, reddened face.

“I’m afraid we were unavoidably detained,” the taller one says, his voice deep and gruff, like an ex-military officer. He smiles, his blue eyes twinkle and I realize he is attempting to be charming, but when I take in the flattop haircut and the military bearing, I don’t buy the act. His eyes are flat and cold. He is angry at being taken off guard and resentful of me because I’m the “girl” who just did his job for him—at least, that’s how I figure he is thinking.

“What is it that you people say, Scott?” Jeremy says. His tone is mocking. “Excuses satisfy only those who make them?” He doesn’t wait for the man to answer. “Perhaps you and Dave stopped to bugger each other in the men’s room. It really makes no difference to me. What matters is that I was nearly killed and I pay you to prevent that!”

Jeremy’s voice had taken on a hysterical quality and I began to wonder if Jeremy’s complete personality was just one long acting class. Rage, then hysteria with the bodyguards, and cheeky nonchalance with me; what does he really feel about what just happened?

Mark’s cell phone rings and he turns away briefly to take the call. Behind us, a door from the concourse building flies open and two uniformed security guards come barreling out onto the concrete, heading at a run toward our little cluster.

“Handle them,” Jeremy says to his security guards. He turns his back on the others, blocking my view of them with his body. The smirk has returned as he cocks his head and reaches out with one finger to chuck my chin. “Shall we go to the car?”

“Give me a moment,” I say. “I need to collect Marlena.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve brought a playmate along? How delightful! The more the merrier, I always say. Will she be sleeping with us?”

I feel a tiny switch flip somewhere inside myself and I temporarily forget all about Renee Dalton-Sinclair, the Gotham Roses and the salivating paparazzi above us.

I reach out, snatch Jeremy’s shirt collar and, before his little pea brain can register what’s happening, pull him toward me, so close I can smell the scent of cigarettes and cologne on his small, wiry body.

I smile as I look into his insolent eyes, but the smile is all show. I am well aware that he can read the full intent of my warning in my eyes.

“Listen to me, you little punk,” I say. “I am here to cover your ass, not grab a piece of it. You will keep your hands to yourself and your mind out of the gutter where I’m concerned. If you don’t, I promise you this, I will cut your balls off while you sleep and stuff them inside your still-beating heart. Are we clear on that point, lovey?”

I smile and wait for his answer.

“Why, Lovey,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you cared!”