by Zoey Dean
"Yeah, you too," Parker said, his eyes darting this way and that. The lounge was empty, save for an elderly woman in a green floral dress, sitting alone with a cup of tea and the Los Angeles Times. Yep. That had to be her. The PI with the camera. Nice disguise. "Wait here and order a cocktail. I'll check us in and be right back. But I need one more kiss first. A good one."
Poppy obliged, this time biting his lower lip in a way
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that felt more predatory than sexy. As she did, he heard the soft click he'd been waiting for. And then another, and another, and another. His work was done. So he winced.
"What's wrong?"
Now he grabbed his stomach and grimaced. "Dunno. Something I ate, I guess. Gotta find a bathroom. Right now."
"He's a little temperamental," Anna observed, as she and Cammie stood a hundred feet away from where Phillip Champion, the renowned fashion photographer, was working with two assistants and Champagne. Phillip looked like a giant teddy bear, with long, shaggy chestnut hair, and a stomach straining under a wrinkled navy T-shirt. At the moment, he was yelling at his assistant because he didn't like the way she'd buttoned the gauzy white shirt Champagne wore; he was as fastidious about the appearance of his models as he was not about his own.
Already Champagne had modeled a diaphanous royal purple Versace gown while she lay on some rocks, and a magenta fur coat that apparently had nothing under it. After those outfits, the white gauze shirt and black linen trouser combination almost seemed tame.
"More than a little," Cammie agreed. "But the best always are. And don't give him any attitude, because he gives enough already. He had to cancel a magazine shoot for Allure, but he did it as a favor to me, so deal with it."
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"This is me, dealing," Anna assured her, holding her hands up in a gesture of acceptance.
It was the same evening. Before they'd even left Raymond's salon, Phillip had returned Cammie's call to say he was free that evening, and that he wouldn't be available again until September. Could they meet him at Palisades Park, in Pacific Palisades, at six-thirty? The light would be perfect. Cammie had quickly filled Champagne in; Anna had decided to come along just out of curiosity.
"Wait, I'm going to do an actual modeling shoot?" Champagne had asked, completely confused.
"I just said that," Cammie repeated. And then she launched into a Champagne-centric pep talk, so good that Anna was impressed in spite of herself.
That was how they had ended up in this beautiful, small park perched on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway, the beach, and the ocean beyond. Anna had been a bit little concerned that Champagne wouldn't have the right clothes, but Cammie told her not to worry. Phillip had it covered.
Anna's cell rang. "Hello?"
"Anna, it's Lizbette's assistant, Lindsay," said a young female voice with a crisp British accent. "Lizbette says to tell you it's a go. Upload the images to her--she'll get back to you in a jiff. You have the e-mail address?"
"I do. I'll send them as soon as I've got them."
"We'll look forward to seeing the photos then."
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Lindsay clicked off.
"You'll send what?" Cammie demanded.
"Well, my mother is a good friend of Princess Lizbette Demitrius. Her company is--"
"Hold it right there. Lizbette Demetrius of Demetrius International?" Cammie grabbed her arm. "Holy shit, Anna. They're one of the biggest upscale cosmetics companies in the world."
Anna nodded. "Exactly. Well, I know her rather well--I've known her since I was little, actually. She and my mother have been friends forever. So I called her about Champagne."
Anna thought Cammie almost looked stunned. That was really very satisfying.
"She told me they're launching a new cosmetics line called Principessa, which is being marketed to younger women. I thought Champagne might be right for it. Height's not an issue because it's all print, and--"
"You're a genius!" Cammie threw her arms around Anna and hugged her wildly.
She laughed. "We aren't really going to become new best friends, are we?"
"God no," Cammie assured her. "But I love that you did this. So Lizbette wants us to send her some photos?"
"Exactly. This shoot would be perfect."
"She'll have them tomorrow if I have to spend the night in Phillip's studio myself."
"Hey guys!"
It was Phillip, walking up a dirt path toward them.
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He shook his hair out of his eyes. Three different cameras hung around his neck, and there was a light meter clipped to his faded leather belt.
"How'd she do?"
Anna heard the anxiety in Cammie's voice, and realized again how much she had invested in this.
Phillip grinned, then glanced behind him before he answered. Champagne was still at the other end of the park with the assistants. "I'm glad you called me. I hope this isn't the last time I get to work with her. She's one of the most natural models I've ever seen. Great bones. The camera absolutely loves her."
"I knew it, I knew it!" Cammie pumped a fist in the air.
Phillip looked confused. "Hey, I've known you a long time. Since when are you so interested in another beautiful girl?"
"We're . . . volunteering together," Cammie replied with a straight face, which made Anna laugh.
"Okay, whatever, keep your secret," Phillip said. "Anyway, it was a pleasure. The chick is a natural. Big future ahead of her. If she were four inches taller, she'd be making five grand a day. Every day, for the next fourteen years. What do you have in mind for her?"
Cammie shrugged and shot Anna a look that seemed to say Anna shouldn't open her mouth, so she didn't. "Not sure yet. Can you print tonight?"
"No need, it's all digital." Phillip popped the media cards out of each of his cameras and handed them to her.
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"Here. Enjoy. Use Photoshop or Camedia or whatever you want. Tell your dad to call me soon. I'd love to do lunch."
"Will do. And thanks, Phillip. I owe you one."
"Good to know." He turned to regard Anna. "Great look, by the way. Love the hair." Then he gave them a two-finger salute and headed to his Jeep.
Cammie stretched her arms above her head, then drifted over to a bench, "So, here's the plan. Go tell Champagne to get her ass in gear so we can drive her back to the valley. I don't want to be up all night. And I want five shots on your friend's desk when she gets to work tomorrow."
Anna folded her arms and regarded Cammie coolly. "Excuse me, I wasn't aware that I was your employee."
"Sorry, I was channeling my father," Cammie admitted. "I'm trying to remember why I dislike you intensely. Other than the Ben thing and the ice princess thing."
"Well, one out of two isn't a problem at the moment."
Cammie's eyes narrowed. "I'm assuming you mean Ben. And you can tell me whatever bullshit you want about Tattoo Guy. There was someone on the staircase behind you this afternoon at Raymond's. Me. I saw him kiss you. You kissed him back, so don't deny it. It meant something."
Anna hadn't realized Cammie had been spying on her. But she kept her cool.
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"I don't know what it meant," Anna admitted. "Besides, you're in love with Adam."
"True." Cammie leaned back against the bench. "If I wasn't, my life would be so much easier. Anyway, thank you for what you're doing for Champagne. I owe you one." She regarded Anna coolly. "Just keep this in mind. You screw around with a guy like Ben for too long, you're the one who could end up getting screwed."
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The Price Is Right
"What do you mean, we don't get paid?" shrieked Tinkerbell, the tallest and most angular of the models. Her silvery hair was cut into something between a Mohawk and a shag. "Is this some kind of a joke?"
It was the next evening, and Sam, Cammie, Anna, and Champagne were all with Mrs. Vanderleer at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Mrs. Vanderleer and her committee had decided that the fas
hion show would take place in a gallery that would be reconfigured to hold a dozen or more large works by the sixties pop artist Roy Lichtenstein.
Of course, Sam didn't have to be there. But she was the one who had arranged for the models for the fashion show, and she was still feeling just a little guilty that Cammie and Anna had been busted without her. So she'd offered to meet them for this rehearsal, in case there were any problems with the models from PacCoast.
The rehearsal had gone beautifully. That is, until now, when the models decided to demand pay for a gig that was supposed to be volunteer.
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"What part of the word charity in 'charity fashion show' eludes you?" Sam asked Anastasia.
"The part where I agreed to work for free," the skinny brunette sniffed petulantly, curling out what looked to be a lower lip made puffy with some serious Restylane injections. "I haven't worked for free since I was in sixth grade."
"For real." Malcolm, a male model with a ripped body made for underwear ads, agreed. "Charity begins at home, you know what I'm saying?"
"But there must be some misunderstanding. Everyone is volunteering their time," Mrs. Vanderleer explained. She wore another of her pastel ladies-who-lunch outfits. "So are you."
"Oh, I don't think so," a different male model sneered, fluttering what Sam was sure were eyelash extensions. His name was Ambrosia, and Sam hadn't realized he was quite so fey until this very minute, though his unisex look had made him famous on the party circuit.
"I really do not see what the big deal is. What's your day quote?" she asked Anastasia, who had the best tear sheets, meaning she was the most experienced and probably had the highest rate.
"Five thousand a day," Anastasia said coolly.
"And the rest of you?"
"We don't share our quotes," Tinkerbell snipped.
Malcolm nodded. "Call our agency."
Sam would have liked to call his face a bull's-eye and
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put her fist through it, but she took a deep breath and held on to her cool. She forced herself to casually smooth her hands over her cropped wool FCUK jacket while taking a deep, calming breath. So what if it cost her a few thousand bucks to hire the models. She'd do it through her father's production company and make it a tax write-off.
"I will pick up the tab for the models," she told Mrs. Vanderleer. "Consider it a donation and my pleasure."
"And I'll help," Cammie added.
"I can help, too," Anna volunteered.
Mrs. Vanderleer rubbed her forehead. "Could I speak with you a moment, Sam?"
"Sure."
"Privately."
They left Anna, Cammie, and Champagne, and walked through the Lichtenstein gallery and into the next one filled with Andy Warhols; a giant soup can painting was being mounted on the far wall. Mrs. Vanderleer shut the door behind her so they wouldn't be overheard.
"As I said earlier, I very much appreciate your help with this project," the older woman began in her usual patrician tones.
"Look, Mrs. Vanderleer, this is my responsibility. I promised you the models from PacCoast, so I'll deliver the models from PacCoast," Sam said, cutting to the chase. "I'll just consider whatever they charge a charitable donation. And I'll make sure that PacCoast gets a
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call from my dad. Personally. I can't believe Melange is screwing us like this. Don't blame the models. Blame the person in charge."
Mrs. Vanderleer nodded. "I will. And you've already gone above and beyond. However, I can't let you pay for these models, much as I appreciate your generosity."
Sam folded her arms. "Because?"
"Because money is not the issue. The publicity has already gone out about this event to every media outlet in town. It specifically says that everyone is donating his or her time. If the models are paid by you or anyone else--any one of the women on my committee could write the check--it will look as if I misrepresented the event. And that won't do, not for me or for the organization. Donated time means donated time."
"So what's your plan B?"
"I wish I knew. Let's go back in. Maybe I can convince them."
"Good luck," Sam said dubiously.
When they came back into the gallery, Mrs. Vanderleer marched over to the gathering of models and put on her most persuasive voice.
"I'm sorry this didn't work out the way you expected. We appreciate your time. But this is a charity event. For everyone. And especially for the at-risk girls in our program. Through New Visions, we are providing opportunities for young women age twelve to twenty-one to better their lives. We give assistance with school and academics. If there are at-risk behaviors, we try to eliminate them.
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We insure that they get adequate health care and emergency psychological help. In situations where these girls are burdened with adult responsibilities, New Visions will assist with everything from training to respite care. Please. That's just the beginning of what we do. Look into your beautiful hearts. Help me out now, and I'll be able to help you out later. You have my word."
"No fee? No modeling." Tinkerbell grabbed her Tylie Malibu python purse, then slipped on a pair of silver Gucci aviator shades and strode out of the room without a backward glance. Anastasia was right behind her. A few of the others hesitated, but within a minute all of the models had followed her.
"Well, that went well," Mrs. Vanderleer declared, once they were gone. She pressed her lips together so hard they turned white.
"I have an idea," Cammie began. "What if it's your girls?"
Mrs. Vanderleer arched a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that your foundation is supposed to help at-risk girls, right? What if you brought three or four of those girls--three, because I'm sure Champagne here will want to participate--and we use them as the models, instead of professionals?"
"What?" Champagne gasped.
"You can do it," Cammie assured her. "I'll show you everything you need to know."
Sam nodded her agreement. "Great idea. Wouldn't that be more interesting, anyway?"
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"I don't know." Mrs. Vanderleer frowned. "Some of my girls are size sixteen or eighteen. I don't think that would do at all."
Anna turned to Sam. "I wonder . . . could we contact the designers and see if we can get the clothes for the show in a variety of sizes?"
"They don't design clothes in those sizes," Cammie put in.
"Some of them do, actually," Mrs. Vanderleer mused, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against her lips.
Anna nodded. "Well, then, I think it's a great idea. Isn't the goal of your program to be affirming to these girls? So modeling says that they're beautiful just the way they are."
Mrs. Vanderleer frowned again. "And Cammie, you're confident you can teach them what they need to know?"
Cammie nodded.
The older woman seemed to make a decision. "Assuming we can work out the details, I give this a tentative yes. Though I'd feel more comfortable, Cammie and Anna, if you'd be backstage with my girls. And out on the runway too. As positive role models."
Sam saw Anna blanche. Mrs. Vanderleer apparently had no idea that a court order had brought Cammie and Anna there in the first place.
"Definitely," Cammie said. "I'm in. Anna's in too, and Champagne. Right?"
"I guess so," Champagne acknowledged. She looked very nervous.
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"If Champagne will do it, so will I," Anna told Mrs. Vanderleer.
"That's great. But we're not done. There's still the little problem of the male models," Sam pointed out. "I don't think we want to troll San Quentin for hot inmates doing ten to twenty-five for armed robbery."
"Don't need to. I know a whole bunch of hot guys," Champagne said casually.
"Who are these 'hot guys'?" Mrs. Vanderleer asked warily.
"Just. . . you know . . . friends."
"I don't know. ..." Mrs. Vanderleer was starting to sound like she was sorry she'd ever considered anyone other than the professio
nal models in the first place.
"Look, let me give it a try," Champagne wheedled. There was a twinkle in her eye that Sam had never seen before. "I'll bring their photographs, Mrs. Vanderleer. I'll go see them tonight at work. Cammie and Anna can come too."
"Just where do they work, Ms. Jones?" asked Mrs. Vanderleer.
"They're firemen," Champagne said. "That's why they're so hot."
Sam had just started up the Big Bird-yellow Hummer in the museum parking structure when her Treo sounded with a cell call. She didn't recognize the number.
"Sam Sharpe," she answered.
"Sam? It's Melanie Mayes. Your detective. I haven't
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heard from you since I did the job in Pasadena. Is everything okay?"
Melanie Mayes. Whom she'd hired a few weeks ago to track down her mother in North Carolina and whom she'd hired again to pose as an old woman reading a newspaper in the cocktail lounge at the hotel in Pasadena, and take photographs of Poppy and Parker. Melanie was one of the most outstanding private detectives in all of Los Angeles, scrupulously honest and frightfully expensive. She had left a "mission accomplished" message that very same night.
Sam hadn't called back to acknowledge it. When Sam first had the photo idea she'd been a hundred percent gung-ho. But now a teeny-tiny ten (okay, twenty) percent of her was having second thoughts. If she leaked those photographs to the Galaxy . . . what kind of a person would that make her? Besides a typical Hollywoodista, that is?
It was infuriating. Sam had that cheating Poppy Seed in her open palm, ready to be crushed, and she couldn't bring herself to do the deed.
"Hello, Melanie. I appreciate it. So what do I owe you for this job?"
"A buck fifty." Translation: fifteen hundred dollars. Not bad for an hour's work.
"You want me to e-mail the pictures to the Galaxy from a secure server, or do you want to do it yourself?"
"Neither," Sam instructed. "Kill them."
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"Yeah?" Melanie sounded surprised. "You want me to destroy the photographs?"
"Exactly." Sam sighed. "I can't do this, Melanie," she confessed. "I'd like to, but I can't."
"Are you sure?" the detective asked. "I'm the one who took the photos. Your name will never come up."
