by Wendy Tyson
“Delvar says you fix people.” Elle sat back, smiling coyly. “He says you can reinvent me.”
Allison’s eyebrows shot up. “Those were his exact words?”
Elle bit her bottom lip. “Not exactly. He said you can help me reinvent myself.”
“That’s an important difference.”
“How so?”
Allison didn’t respond immediately. She knew Delvar well, and he in turn knew her services as well as anyone. There was no way he’d misrepresent First Impressions or Allison, which meant Elle was testing her. After fifteen hours of travel and two hours of waiting, Allison was in no mood for tests. She stood.
“I think you’re well aware of the difference.”
Allison was four steps from the back door before Elle shot up. “I get it, I get it. Don’t go.”
Allison paused. “You get what?”
“That I need to be a partner. That this isn’t a makeover session. That we’ll work together.”
Allison nodded slowly. “It will take work on your part.” She glanced down. “And appropriate attire. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you wore undergarments when you’re around my family.”
Elle bit her lip again, a look flashing in her eyes—but only for a moment. “Okay.” She shrugged, and Allison saw again how painfully thin she was. “Can we start tomorrow? I’ll give you this afternoon to rest. You can use the pool, nap, whatever you want. I’ll have Dominic bring you some lunch.” She placed her hand against the wall and stood straighter. “Dinner is at the castle at eight. It’s not formal.”
Allison nodded. “And we’ll meet tomorrow, in the morning? What time?”
Elle seemed to consider this. She started to speak, then stopped, searching for the right answer. Finally she blurted, “Eleven?”
Allison got the feeling that to her host, eleven was dead early.
Elle was true to her word. The older man who’d met them at the gate, Dominic, brought them a feast of cold meats, more cheeses, fruit, fresh bread, and a lush salad of romaine lettuce, olives, peppers, feta, and red onions. They stuffed themselves, napped, and spent an hour with Grace at the pool. By seven o’clock they felt rested and somewhat revived. Allison changed into a black maxi dress and strappy black Jimmy Choo sandals, and she put Grace into a pink floral sundress and white linen cardigan. Jason—who’d decided that he wasn’t shaving or dressing up until he arrived in Austria for his new job—looked casual in shorts and a Patagonia button-down shirt.
“Ready?” Allison asked.
“As I will ever be.”
They strolled up the long walk that led to the castle, hands entwined. Grace skipped ahead, stopping to wave to the sheep and pick wildflowers in the meadow. Allison reminded herself that this was all so new to Grace, who had spent the first five years of her life bouncing between motel rooms, cramped apartments, and shelters. She could only imagine how overwhelmed the child must feel. But if Grace was scared, she wasn’t showing it. In fact, she seemed more at ease in this strange environment than either she or Jason.
The front entrance of the main building was manned by a tall, willowy blonde wearing traditional Austrian dress. Her hair was wound in braids, encircling a perfectly-formed skull. Wide, chiseled cheekbones lent structure to a small, upturned nose and full mouth. One lip pouted, hiding a slight, beguiling overbite. She smiled. Cornflower eyes took in Allison, swept over Grace, and landed on Jason. Her smile widened.
“I’m Karina,” she said in German-accented English. “Elle is expecting you. Come with me.” She managed to make even that simple command sound seductive. While her words were meant for Allison, her gaze remained on Jason.
Allison glanced at her fiancé before following Karina through the double doors and into the castle. If he was fazed by the younger woman, he was hiding it well. He reached down and took Grace’s hand, his attention on the child.
“I’m Elle and Sam’s personal assistant. Elle has several dinner guests tonight, some of whom are staying at the castle.” Karina spoke matter-of-factly, a secretary efficiently ticking off the items in a to-do list. “Mazy Coyne, the author. Surely you have heard of her?”
Allison had not and she said so.
“An American.” Karina said the words primly, as though reprimanding Allison for not knowing a fellow countrywoman. “An expat. She lives in France and writes historical fiction. One of her novels is being made into a major motion picture.”
Allison wondered if Elle was posturing for a role. “Who else?”
They passed two open rooms with marble floors and ornately frescoed ceilings. The furniture—Baroque pieces in gold, red, and ecru—seemed dwarfed by the cavernous space. Allison wondered whether the frescoes were restored originals or new additions.
Karina glanced into the room, paused for a moment as though she had been expecting to see someone, and then continued toward the interior of the dining room.
“Shirin and Douglas Alden.” She raised thin, perfectly arched eyebrows. “Have you heard of them?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Karina waved her hand. “Not surprised. He’s a businessman from London. She designs handbags.” Karina said the last words with such disdain that Allison wondered if she disliked her designs—or the woman.
“Is Shirin from London as well?”
“She says she’s a woman from nowhere and everywhere.” Karina lowered her chin and her voice. “Her family is originally from Delhi. Moved to the UK some time ago.” She shrugged, and her unnaturally round breasts heaved up over her bodice. “You’ll meet her soon enough.”
“So that’s it? Shirin, Douglas, and Mazy Coyne?”
“Some—how do you say in English?—hangers-ons. As always. And Lara Dunovski.”
“The supermodel?”
“Yes. She is also wife to Jeremy Kahn, the movie director and producer.”
“Jeremy is here?”
Karina nodded.
Interesting. Allison was very familiar with Lara and her husband. Lara, because she’d graced the cover of almost every major fashion magazine at one point or another and had been in a prior year’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition—wearing something that wouldn’t pass as a swimsuit at a nudist resort. A little past her prime, her exotically-beautiful face still showed up periodically on the cover of Vogue and other fashion magazines. And of course she knew Lara’s husband because of his string of blockbuster hits—and his well-publicized penchant for younger women. Women even younger than his supermodel wife had been when he’d married her.
Suddenly this peaceful trip to the Italian Dolomites was looking like a visit to Gomorrah. Allison glanced down at her dress, one that had seemed sexy just an hour ago. She felt downright matronly.
“This way.” Karina gestured toward a room at the end of the long hallway. Allison could make out a group of figures standing across the threshold, backs to her. She saw taught, tanned flesh and twinkling lights and heard the loud shrill of feminine laughter.
“One more thing,” Karina said. She leaned in toward Allison, her mouth against Allison’s ear. Her breath was warm and scented with wintergreen. “Don’t mention Damien to this crowd.”
“Elle’s husband? Why?” Allison asked, surprised.
But Karina didn’t have a chance to reply before Elle stepped into the hallway. Elle turned, smiled broadly at them, and then glanced at the tall, chiseled brunette clinging to her arm. Allison recognized him from the cottage earlier.
“Karina, please see to the bar.”
A look passed between Karina and her employer, one that Allison couldn’t quite read. Like that, Karina disappeared into the parlor at the end of the hall.
“Allison, come in. Meet my friends, have a drink.” Elle disengaged herself from the brunette’s arm. She squatted down in front of Grace—no easy feat in her skin-tight sapphire cocktail dress—and smiled. Grace t
urned her head, a shy smile blossoming. Elle stood abruptly, losing her balance. She reached out to her male companion to keep from falling, but he merely watched the interaction, his face impassive. Jason reached out an arm and caught Elle.
Elle laughed, pushing away Jason’s hand. “I love kids.” She clapped her hands, leaning against the brunette. Her companion frowned but didn’t move away. She grabbed his hand, pulling him back into the parlor. “This is my brother, Michael,” Elle called over her shoulder.
“Half-brother,” the man snarled. But he didn’t let go of her hand.
During dinner, Allison was seated between the author Mazy Coyne and Shirin Alden, the handbag designer. Jason had been placed diagonally from Allison, sandwiched between Lara the supermodel and Shirin’s husband, Douglas. Grace was being looked after by a rather frail-looking redheaded woman described as the family nurse. Hilda Pachul was her name, and her warm eyes paired oddly with a pointed chin, gaunt cheekbones, and a disturbingly high-pitched voice. Hilda, who looked to be in her mid-thirties, seemed to prefer the child to the adult guests, and Grace warmed right up to her. The two sat at a smaller table next to the fireplace. They played a board game while picking at chicken breast and pasta. Allison glanced at her niece. She looked dwarfed by the armchair in which she sat—but content.
“How do you know Elle?” Mazy Coyne asked. She was leaning on the table, one elbow next to her plate and a hand on her chin. Her tone said Allison’s answer really wouldn’t interest her in the least.
Allison provided the explanation she and Elle had worked out: Allison was a life coach, here to help Elle reinvent her Hollywood career.
“A life coach, huh? Are you here alone?”
“My fiancé is here.” She waved at Jason, who was deep in conversation with Lara. Allison swallowed a sharp stab of jealousy.
“Huh.” Mazy’s eyebrows shot up. “Too bad Elle put him next to her.”
Mazy’s reaction didn’t do much to allay Allison’s feelings. She knew Jason was loyal, and despite Lara’s youth and beauty—and Lara was gorgeous, with long, cascading waves of glossy brown hair and thickly lashed eyes—and Jason’s obvious hunger to hear every word she was saying, Allison trusted him. Allison also knew that Jason was going through a tough time. New job, infertility, self-doubts…Nothing could boost a man’s ego like the attention of a beautiful woman. Jason was only human, after all. What really bothered her, though, was that he looked so animated. After weeks of enduring his barbed remarks and despondent attitude, it hurt to see him so engaged with someone else.
Allison tore her gaze away from her oblivious fiancé. “You’re an author. What brings you here?”
Mazy stabbed a piece of romaine lettuce with a silver fork, shoved it in her mouth, and chewed. Mouth still full, she said, “Jeremy is making my New York Times bestseller Baton Rouge into a movie.” She swallowed, pulled her lips into something resembling a smile. “Have you read it?” When Allison shook her head, Mazy continued. “Elle wants the part of Claire, the lead. Under my contract, I have a say in the cast. Not the final say, but a say.” She shrugged. “I might even cast myself in a role. I can do that, you know. It’s in my contract.”
Allison took a second look at Mazy, trying to imagine her on the big screen. Probably pushing fifty-five, she had short, curly hair—thick and black, with shoots of gray that started at her temples and snaked throughout her head. Her hair capped a masculine, angular face devoid of makeup. A pair of turquoise reading glasses sat atop a long, beaked nose. Unlike most of the women at this little soiree, Mazy’s clothes were conservative: a loose black blouse belted over an ankle-length black skirt. Dandruff powdered her shoulders.
No, Allison had a tough time envisioning her in a movie.
But the presence of the filmmaker and the author made sense, as did her own assignment here. Elle was hoping to revive her acting career with a role in an upcoming film. And all the players who could make that happen were under one roof.
Allison asked, “Does Elle have a shot?”
Mazy took another bite. “Not as Claire. No way. Jeremy wants someone younger.” Mazy glanced over at the filmmaker. “Maybe she could be Claire’s mother. Or a smaller role—the mistress’s maid or one of the bar patrons. Even a prostitute. If she gets her stuff together, that is.” Lowering her voice, Mazy said, “Elle’s a mess. Want my opinion? Any part she gets will be a favor to her father. Sam and Jeremy go way back. Damien too.”
“Jeremy was friends with Elle’s late husband?”
“Besties. Damien, Jeremy, and Sam—Elle’s father—were all pals. In fact, Sam introduced Elle to both of them.” She squinted, frowned. “Sam wasn’t too happy that she hooked up with Damien.”
“Because of his age?” Based on pictures Allison had seen before coming to Italy, Damien Duarte had been at least twenty years older than his wife. “Or because he lived here, in this castle?”
“Because he was stone broke.” She laughed, enjoying her own pun. “Seriously, Damien was a charming man, kind even, but he’d been a hell of a partier and a gambler in his time. Lost most of whatever fortune he’d had after he and Elle got married.”
And here Allison thought Damien had been the rich one. “The castle? The grounds?”
“Sam.”
“I thought they had been in Damien’s family. Restored wealth and all that.”
Mazy shook her head slowly back and forth, clearly enjoying Allison’s shock. “Once upon a time, sure. But Sam bought the works from Damien’s family long ago. Let them live here as part of his wedding present.”
“Where is he? Sam, that is.”
“Haven’t seen him since I arrived, and that was over a week ago.”
“Did you come to see Sam?”
“Jeremy.” Mazy twisted her mouth into a smile. “My agent said get over here, I got over here. Casting decisions, script, you name it…Jeremy’s a tough guy to pin down, and here he’s a captive audience.”
Mazy looked over at the director, who was in heated discussion with Elle’s assistant, Karina. Allison followed her gaze. Jeremy was not a large man, but he seemed to speak down at Karina, his eyes cold through steel-rimmed glasses.
“No, Elle’s not right for the part. I hope he’s not letting that woman talk him into anything.”
Allison digested that. “Does Karina have that sort of power?”
Mazy pointed at Elle. “Do you see Elle? She can barely get dressed much less run this castle. Karina runs Elle’s life. Men love her. Sam loves her.” Mazy sniffed. “Elle is in no shape for a role. Karina should know better.”
Allison had to admit, Elle looked lost—like a small child attending an adult function. Lost and stoned. The hair that had hung in a blonde mess earlier today had been pulled into two braids that dangled like ropes against her sunken cheekbones. She wore pink lipstick and pink rouge, and the frilly collar of her tight racerback dress added to the childlike persona. Even her mannerisms—she alternately chewed on a thumbnail and pulled on a braid while she watched her half-brother talking to another guest—seemed juvenile.
Allison sighed. Where to start with this one?
“Case in point,” Mazy said. “A mess.” A stray bit of chewed lettuce had stuck to Mazy’s upper lip. She swiped at it with the back of her arm, embedding bits of lettuce in the black hair sprouting from her tan skin. “Hopeless.”
Allison took advantage of Mazy’s momentary interest in her Scotch and water and turned to Shirin, who was busily swirling a piece of tomato around and around on her plate. The rest of her salad sat untouched.
Allison introduced herself. Shirin looked up from her food reluctantly, dinner plate brown eyes taking a moment to adjust to Allison’s presence.
“I’m allergic to tomatoes,” Shirin said finally. She pronounced the fruit tom-ah-toes in a thick, clipped British accent. Her disdain was evident—clearly in her mind someone had purpo
sefully delivered tomatoes onto her salad for the express purpose of seeing to her untimely demise. “One bite can be enough to have my face swell like a cantaloupe.”
Allison wasn’t sure how to respond. She settled for, “I guess you shouldn’t eat it, then. Perhaps the wait staff can bring you something else.”
“How can I trust this kitchen now?” Shirin pushed the plate away with a dramatic flip of her hand. “And you’re an American.” It came out as an insult.
“Indeed, I am.” Suddenly Mazy was looking like a better choice for a dinner companion.
“Hmm.” Catching the eye of the lone waiter, Shirin called him over. “Take this away. And tell the chef that I am deathly allergic to tomatoes. Unless she wants la polizia at her door, I suggest she read my menu notes.”
The waiter, who looked as though he hadn’t understood a word of what Shirin had said but understood the tone all too well, cleared her plate, nodding apologetically.
When he was gone, Shirin turned to Allison. She held out her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I must appear quite mental. I provided Elle with a list of foods I cannot have and expected that since Sam quite insisted on Douglas’s presence here, she would abide by my requests.” She scowled. “Obviously I was mistaken. Our girl hasn’t changed one bit. Flighty as ever.”
Shirin was a few years younger than Allison. While not a beautiful woman by conventional standards, she possessed a certain glamour born of confidence and the marriage of several striking features, including flawless pale mocha-colored skin, a long, slender neck, and a prominent nose. She twirled a single strand of her mass of dark, wavy curls around a finger and contemplated Allison with cool regard.
Unfazed, Allison asked, “How do you know Elle?”
Shirin smiled, showing impossibly white, straight teeth. “The foundation.” She took a long sip of white wine, making even that mundane act look like a rite of seduction. “Douglas is here for Elle’s father.”
