The Publicist Book One and Two

by Christina George

  “Mac, stop making fat jokes.”

  “At this point, Kate, it’s all we have. No book, nothing. You’d better call your contacts and tell them the book is canceled. We’ll need to get everyone here to sign NDAs. If this gets out, Edward will fire us both.”

  Just then, Saundra walked out of the studio and approached them.

  “So, do I still get to have a book?”

  Chapter Fifty

  The next several hours were spent calling all media and recalling all review copies. Mac briefed Edward, who was furious, but Mac promised to clean this up before anyone got wise to what had happened.

  Kate and Mac worked late into the night. Finally, around midnight Mac wandered into Kate’s office. He looked beaten and exhausted.

  “I think we’re in the clear, Mac,” she offered supportively.

  Mac dropped himself into a chair. “Maybe, but a lot of people are waiting on this book. There will be fallout.”

  “It’ll be minimal. I’ll do whatever I can.” She knew it could cost Mac his job if this got out.

  Mac looked at her, “I should have flown to California and supervised this. I shouldn’t have trusted that crack-head of a producer.”

  “Mac, you didn’t know. How could you? The updates seemed legit.”

  He shook his head, and then his eyes softened.

  “I don’t know what I would do without you, Katie.”

  She sighed. She didn’t know what she’d do without him, either.

  “I came by your apartment on New Year’s Eve. I came back early to help you through losing Allan. You were there, with Nick.”

  Kate couldn’t respond. He’d been there?

  Mac raised a hand.

  “It’s okay, Katie. You have every right, and I have no right—none at all. But that doesn’t seem to stop me from feeling what I feel.”

  He stopped short of saying he loved her. It was a slippery slope. Saying that would mean things, would promise her things he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

  “You should leave me and go be with Nick, but I don’t want you to. I want you with me tonight, and tomorrow we’ll figure out the rest.”

  Kate sat behind her desk, unsure of what to do. She had planned to break up with Mac. Make a clean break and fall in love with Nick. But as the saying goes, we make plans and God laughs.

  Mac stood up and walked over to her desk, gently lifting her from her chair.

  “I thought of you every day while I was gone, and I wished like hell that my life was different. I would love to stand here and promise you that I will leave her, that we will be together forever, but you and I both know it’s never that simple.”

  Mac took her in his arms.

  “You deserve a man who can be with you, body and soul. If I were a decent person, I would send you off to be with a man who could offer you something I can’t: A future.”

  Mac kissed her, and all she could think of was how much she wanted him.

  They left the offices and headed for Mac’s apartment.

  She had promised Grace she would leave him.

  She would keep her promise, just not today.

  The Publicist: Book Two

  SHELF LIFE

  To George, for telling me I could. And for the “other” Starchild, thanks for loving this story as much as I do, and thanks for always making me shine.

  Prologue

  The floor was uncomfortable and cold; Kate hoped at least it was clean. She bent down farther, her face almost touching the tile and her deep brown hair brushing the floor. She tried not to think about how many germs she was being exposed to. She could see a sliver of light under the door and knew that Chelsea was standing just on the other side. Why the hell couldn’t anyone find the key? Oh, right, she couldn’t tell them her author had locked herself in the green room minutes before she was going on one of the top national morning shows. Of course, this couldn’t happen on some small, podunk station in the middle of nowhere. It had to happen in New York, and it had to be national. No one could find out that Chelsea was in full red-alarm-pre-TV-interview meltdown.

  Kate could hear sobbing. She wondered if the last thing she would remember on her deathbed would be the sound of one of her authors crying or wailing. God knows she’d heard enough of it to last her a lifetime. Kate scooted closer to the door, No, she thought, likely it would be Mac finally telling her he had left his wife. Sure. Perfect timing. She could hear him now. “Sorry you’re dying. Guess what? We can be together now.” Just her luck.

  The sobbing from the other side of the door grew louder.

  “Sshhh, Chelsea, keep it down. We can’t have people knowing you’re having a panic attack.”

  “I’m not having an attack!” she screamed. Well, so much for that. Kate heard footsteps in the hallway, which made her jump to her feet.

  “Hi,” she said, louder than necessary. “I just dropped, eh, my….”

  “Is she nearly ready?” The producer interrupted, stepping toward her. He was clearly not interested in why Kate had been on the floor. “We’re on in ten and I have to get her mic’d.”

  Kate threw him her best ‘I’m-the-publicist-and-in-control’ smile but her green eyes showed a glint of worry. “Of course. She’s just, eh, meditating.”

  He shook his head, “Sure, whatever. You have five minutes.”

  Crap.

  The producer escaped back into the studio, so Kate pulled a small pill from her purse, then dropped to the floor again. The day before the segment, Chelsea’s manager Francine had shoved a pill bottle in Kate’s hand. At the time, Kate was a bit confused. Valium? Francine said it was for “just in case.” Francine was always annoyingly chipper and, at the time, Kate didn’t really give it another thought. Francine assured her it was hardly necessary. Right. But right now she didn’t care. Valium would save the day. She wrapped it in a tissue and shoved it under the door.

  “Chels, you take this and then unlock the door; otherwise the entire segment will be canceled.” Kate took the chance that this would only increase her panic, but then she saw the pill disappear under the door and heard the crying subside.

  Within minutes, the door unlocked, Chelsea stood there, face swollen and tear stained. Nothing that some heavy makeup couldn’t fix. Kate pushed her back into the green room and started digging in her purse for the emergency stash of concealer she kept for just such an occasion. She considered investing in the company that created this stuff or, hell, developing her own. She’d create a line called “Panic” and sell it to other publicists. She could make a fortune. She pushed Chelsea into the chair and started smearing it on her face.

  Chelsea pinched her eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” she said in a gentle voice.

  Kate had a feeling she meant it. Kate wished that Chelsea’s manager had warned Kate that her author had an intense fear of being on camera; it could have saved her a lot of trouble booking her on TV shows. She would have pushed her to magazines, gotten her the number for a good therapist, and called it a day.

  “Ready?” the producer asked, clearly annoyed that things were taking so long.

  Chelsea threw him her brightest smile, and he—like every other breathing male on earth—melted.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” he beamed, clearly hoping for more. Kate rolled her eyes. Another crisis averted and it was only 6:30 a.m.

  Chapter One

  After Chelsea’s segment, Kate stopped by the City Bakery for something frosted; she didn’t even care what. She needed sugar and caffeine. The segment had almost gone off without a hitch, but she noticed Chelsea had started to giggle and slur her words toward the end. Probably some Valium allergy. Now that the segment was done, Kate could focus on the rest of her national television campaign, or, rather, convincing her manager to accompany her on future segments. Kate didn’t feel like playing rescue maiden or pharmacist again.

  Initially, Kate objected to drugging her authors. Although, she soon realized that sometimes it was doing them a favor—like when a
parent forces their kids to eat broccoli. There were many benefits to eating “broccoli,” and after the Skinny Saundra escapade, she needed to be sure that Chelsea could pull off her morning show commitments without another meltdown. As for Saundra, things had died down quickly and there had been minimal fallout from the book, although Edward had been critically pissed off and Mac had only marginally avoided getting fired. Kate was fairly certain that if The Continued Promise hadn’t been looming on the horizon like a shiny brass ring, Mac would be among the missing.

  “I’d like your double fudge chocolate cake and a double espresso, please.” Ten thousand calories in one glorious cake, Kate thought as she ordered.

  The bakery was bustling; it was a hot New York attraction, even in January at this early hour. Kate took her order and found a seat upstairs. She shrugged out of her coat and sat down. She saw a woman drinking tea and it made her think of Grace. She had blamed not seeing Grace much lately on the Saundra mess, although she knew Grace was getting suspicious. She needed to come clean soon and she knew Grace wouldn’t be happy. Grace wanted her friend to dump her married lover, although the likelihood of that happening was decreasing with each passing day. Then there was Nick. Sweet, handsome, single, Nick. Single. What was her problem? Kate took a forkful of cake; it was heavenly, melting on her tongue and sending a sugar surge through her system. Suddenly the morning seemed more tolerable. As if on cue, her phone buzzed with a text from Nick. It’s 80 here today, the sun is shining, and I’m missing you.

  She shoved her phone in her purse without replying and sipped her highly caffeinated drink. She was almost tempted to have one of Chelsea’s leftover happy pills but instead decided on another bite of cake. How had her life gotten so wildly complicated? Of course, the crown jewel was Allan Lavigne’s book. Brilliant, exquisite, poignant, and entirely unpublishable.

  Chapter Two

  Mac leaned back in his chair and observed Rebecca, a fellow editor, as she walked in and sat down.

  “So how is it to be back?” he smiled, knowing the answer.

  “It’s hard to leave a newborn,” she sighed. “It’s even harder when the minute I get back to work, Edward’s insisting we sign nothing but porn.”

  Mac laughed, “Well, he tactfully called it ‘erotic romance’ but yeah, same thing.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes, “I hate Fifty Shades. Well, I hate what it’s doing to the industry. This hideously written book is being marked as a game-changer. I have to wonder if anyone who actually read the book said this. It was a repetitive and boring pile of crap. I want more literature. I was hoping to come back and do more children’s books and instead I’m ‘encouraged’ to sign porn.”

  Mac spotted Kate walking past his office, “Katie, come in and say hi to Rebecca. She’s back from maternity leave and mad as hell.” Mac’s light blue eyes were on her; as usual, she heated up instantly. A smile rose from his lips, crinkling those eyes set off by his dark, thick hair. She wished she could run her fingers through it.

  Pull yourself together, she thought. She took a deep breath, walked in, and sat down.

  “Good to see you back. You’re not mad at me, are you? Chelsea did great this morning.” Mac’s eyes were still on her, burning into her. Kate shifted in her seat.

  Chelsea was one of Rebecca’s authors, Kate wondered if she should tell her that she had to drug her up. It looked like her coworker had enough on her mind; Kate decided to wait to share Chelsea’s fear of national television.

  Rebecca shook her head, “It’s not Chels, though I do appreciate the update. It’s the memo Edward sent around this morning.”

  “I didn’t see it.” Kate was puzzled.

  “It only went to editors,” Mac began, “encouraging us to sign more erotic books. ‘It’s what the readers want,’ Edward insisted.” Mac tapped a pen on his desk, clearly impatient with his boss.

  “Shocker.” Kate threw Rebecca an encouraging smile, “I’m sorry, but you know this will wane. At some point housewives will get tired of reading about red rooms and being tied up.”

  Rebecca laughed, “You’re right, I know we need to jump on trends. It was one thing when we were trying to sign young adult after the Potter craze, but this takes the cake.”

  “I know,” Mac said supportively, “but you know Kate’s right. Edward will lose interest once something else shiny pops up on his radar screen.”

  Rebecca stood, “You’re right, Mac, thanks for listening.” She turned to Kate. “Glad it went well with Chels this morning, I’ll catch her segment online.”

  After Rebecca left, Mac turned to Kate. “So,” he smiled a broad sexy smile that drew her in, “how did it really go this morning?”

  Mac observed a tiny muscle flicker near her eye. It always happened when she was stressed. She’d smile, her poise never wavering, but Mac knew. He could always tell when she was feeling ready to punch someone.

  “I had to drug her to get her to go on. Her manager told me that she gets nervous from time to time, but it’s nothing major. Nothing major my ass! She was in a full-blown meltdown and there I was, shoving a pill under the door.”

  Mac laughed so hard, he rocked his chair back. “Katie, world class publicist and author rescuer saves the day, again.”

  A tiny smile slipped across her face. Mac was right; she was often less of a publicist and more of an author 911. She shook her head. “I have to call her manager and tell her that she’s either here for the rest of Chelsea’s TV gigs, or I’m pulling them. I barely got her to go on air this morning.”

  “I think as a general rule, all authors should be sedated from the moment we sign them.”

  Kate stood up. “It sure would make my job easier.” Mac’s laughter followed her down the hall.

  Chapter Three

  The chipper voice on the other end of the phone annoyed Kate to the point that she wished she could toss the phone and the person on the other end of it out her window.

  “Chelsea did great; she was such a bright, shining star!” Chelsea’s manager enthused.

  Kate sighed, “Francine, your shining star was drugged up. Why the hell didn’t you tell me she’s terrified of being on TV?”

  “I, um, well, she gets nervous sometimes.”

  “Nervous? She nearly passed out and didn’t make her appearance. I tell you this, she’s due on Letterman tomorrow, and you will get her coaching or meditation or Zen tea or something today. And guess what else? You’re going with her, not me. You get her on the air—stable, confident, and drugged if you have to. If she misses any of these gigs, her book will end up remaindered. Am I clear?”

  Kate could almost hear the caller nodding on the other end of the phone. “Sure,” a quiet, far less exuberant Francine responded.

  “Good.” Kate said and hung up without saying goodbye. She had dropped her head on her desk for a moment when she heard a soft knock. It was Lulu, her assistant.

  “Come in.” Kate lifted her head and tried to wipe the anxiety off of her face.

  “Hi Kate, I heard yelling, are you okay?”

  Oh, Lord, had she really talked that loud? “It’s fine. It was, well, never mind. What’s up?”

  “Kate, have you checked your email?”

  “No, not lately. I mean, I was on the phone. What, Lu? What’s up?”

  Lulu seemed agitated. “You should check it.”

  Lulu slipped out of Kate’s office, closing the door behind her. Moments later it swung open and Kate emerged, looking as pissed as Lu had ever seen her.

  “What the hell?” Kate burst into Mac’s office. It wasn’t even noon and it had already been a long day. Not to mention her precious sugar and caffeine high had evaporated the minute she’d seen that email. Part of her wished she’d taken a piece of cake to go. Or maybe just the whole cake.

  “Good morning again, Katie.” Mac spun in his chair to face her. There was an unmistakable glint in his eye that made Kate go weak in the knees, heat form in the pit of her stomach, and blood tingle. She almos
t hated the way she felt around him, like she had no control of her own hormones. Well, she didn’t actually. Mac controlled them, he was behind the wheel and God only knew where he was taking her. Kate turned her attention back to the conversation.

  “Seriously, Mac. A book written by the Shenkman twins? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Kate, it wasn’t my decision. You know how Eddie can be.”

  “But Mac, last week this book was dead, and gratefully so. How the hell did this happen and moreover, how did I end up with this?”

  Mac leaned back, “It happened over the weekend, Kate. One of the twins, I forget which one, filed a request for a retrial based on new facts. The book is timely; if she gets it, we could sell a lot of these.”

  “If she gets it? Gets what? A new trial? What’s to go back to court for? They gunned down their parents in their posh Beverly Hills home and then went on a spending spree. These are two spoiled brats who wanted their inheritance early. I can’t sell this!”

  Mac’s face grew stern. “Yes you can; you can sell what we’re going to print. Sit down, Kate.”

  She wanted to storm out, but she was, after all, the publicist. It was her job to push books and shine turds when asked. Taking a deep breath, she dropped herself into a seat.

  Nine years ago, the Shenkman twins, Iris and Sara, eighteen at the time, had walked into their parents’ kitchen one bright, sunny, Sunday morning and gunned down their mother and father. The Shenkman family was a prominent Hollywood dynasty that founded one of the biggest movie studios. Howard Shenkman, their father, was a feared and formidable businessman. He wasn’t well liked in Hollywood, but that never seemed to bother him. Any deal he signed was sure to be gold, and when a big movie was in production, he made sure he was on the set every day. He had a temper that was legendary and would often fire entire film crews if someone brought him stale coffee. After the Shenkmans were killed, the entire town of Los Angeles was up in arms. No one had seen such a witch hunt since the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson. By the time the girls walked into an LA precinct six months after the murders and tearfully confessed, they had blown through over two million dollars of their parents’ fortune. They spent it on cars, parties, lavish trips, and, apparently, high-priced male hookers. Kate still recalled the gruesome photos of their parents splayed out on the kitchen floor. It was Sunday morning, and a stack of pancakes lay scattered across the floor like golden discs. Half of them were soaked in blood.