Entice Me

by J. Kenner

  “You’re telling me that your manager is the one behind that blackmail attempt?”

  She nods from her perch on the edge of the pool, looking miserable.

  I exhale and run my fingers through my hair. Not long after Damien and I were married, someone had tried to blackmail Damien by threatening to release some extremely racy photos of him and Carmela. What had made it worse was that the blackmailer had also gotten a hold of explicit pictures of Jamie with her next-door-neighbor.

  Thankfully, Damien had put the fear of god into the anonymous blackmailer, and the pictures weren’t released.

  But then about a year ago, not long before Jeffery was born, the photos had turned up again—in the hotel room of my prodigal father, who’d just reintroduced himself to me.

  At first, Damien had believed that Frank was behind the original blackmail attempt, but after Frank’s adamant denials and some investigative work, we’d all come to realize that the photos were planted in his room.

  But we never learned by who or why.

  The damn photos are like a bad penny, and I really don’t understand why or how Carmela’s manager fits in.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, sitting down beside her. “Why? Why on earth would your manager want to blackmail you? Or Jamie, for that matter?”

  “Because he is a horrible, vindictive, ambitious man.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, but she just sits by the pool pouting prettily as businessmen walk by, openly staring.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  She sighs and her forehead crinkles. “He has always been my manager, from when I was very young. It is much easier to model when you are young, no? And I am in my thirties now, and that is not so good for a model. Bertrand knows this, and so as I neared thirty, he tried to get me roles in the cinema.”

  “You did a few movies, didn’t you? Italian films, and a few small Hollywood roles, too.” Jamie had mentioned seeing Carmela on screen once or twice. At the time, I hadn’t paid attention, because that was before our truce. Now, I’d probably watch one of her films.

  “A few,” she confirms. “But I was not a star in either country, and Bertrand thought this was a terrible travesty. I will tell you a secret—it is not a travesty. I am not an actress. I do not like it, and I am not pleasant to watch. It is not my dream, and yet it was his. So he pushed and pushed, and I have always trusted him, and so I let him guide me.”

  “Let him bully you,” I say, and she lifts a shoulder in acknowledgement.

  “But what does that have to do with the photos?”

  “He was going to release them, thinking the scandal would help my career. He did not care that it would hurt you or Damien. He thinks only of himself.”

  I sit, shocked, as that bit of information washes over me.

  “You knew about it?” I finally say. “All this time, you’ve known?”

  She stands up, looking as shocked as if I’d slapped her across the face. “No! That is why I am here. I have only just learned all of this. Please, Nikki, you must believe me. I knew nothing.”

  “I do,” I say. “I mean, I did. I thought you were confessing now, and—”

  “No,” she says, her voice hard. “I would never do such a thing.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I believe you.”

  She nods firmly, but doesn’t continue.

  “I can kind of understand the whole scandal thing and why he might think that would drive your career. But why Jamie?”

  “Two reasons. He thought that photos of just me and Damie would be suspicious. And he was also expanding his business to America. He was looking for clients. And wouldn’t a young actress caught in a scandal need his guidance?”

  I frown—and realize my hands are clenched into fists so hard my fingernails are cutting into my palms.

  “Is he the one who planted the photos on my father?”

  She sits again, nodding miserably. “I am not sure what Bertrand was thinking about that. But your father is an excellent photographer. I understand he shoots mostly landscapes now, but he has done runway coverage, too, and he is very talented.”

  I believe that. I’ve seen my father’s portfolio, and though travel photography is his passion, he has an excellent eye overall.

  “He shot some portraits of a model who is on Bertrand’s list. She wanted to leave him, and so was building her own portfolio.”

  “Bertrand never pushed that,” I point out, because there was never a threat about the photos found in my father’s room.

  “The model—she was killed in a traffic accident. I do not know if Bertrand would have pushed against your father if she had not died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Did you know her?”

  Carmela nods. “She was very sweet and very young.” She swipes at her eyes again. “Anyway, as I said, I knew none of this. At least not until last month.”

  She glances at her watch. “We should go up and tell this all to Damie, too. I am supposed to be there at ten. I spoke with—ah, Reagan? She said she would squeeze me in.”

  “Rachel,” I correct. “Let me ask you this—is your manager threatening to release the photos today?”

  She shakes her head, “No. No, he knows I found them, and he told me the whole story. He doesn’t plan to release them.” She licks her lips. “At least so long as I play nice. That is how he said it. Play nice.”

  “Sounds like a charming guy. Hang on.”

  I pull my phone out. “Hey, Rach, it’s Nikki. I’m sitting here with Carmela. Can you move her appointment with Damien to tomorrow? Same time?”

  Rachel, fortunately, doesn’t ask any questions. Carmela, of course, does.

  “But I need to see him,” she says. “I need his help. I do not want to play nice, and who better than Damien to play—what is the saying?—hard ball?”

  “Totally with you. But humor me, okay? It’s probably stupid, but I think I have an idea. And if I’m right, it’ll help both of us.”

  “Help you?”

  I stand and start pacing again. “Let me think this through. Bertrand told you everything? Why?”

  She sniffles. “I went to his house. We have known each other for many years, and I thought he deserved a discussion between friends when I left him as a manager.”

  “So you were firing him?”

  “I have no wish to model anymore, and I do not want to act. There is no business between us moving forward, though I had no ill thoughts toward him. I went to his house believing that he had always had my best interests at heart. That he was eager and aggressive, but that he wanted me to be a success. I thought he would be happy for me.”

  “So you were leaving for some other kind of job entirely?”

  “New job. New life.” Her smile lights up the morning and she holds out her left hand, revealing an engagement ring that I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed, because the stone is roughly the size of a small apple. “Paolo is a brilliant fashion designer. We will work together, and I will have my own couture line.”

  “Congratulations,” I say. “On both counts.”

  “He is very charming. And,” she adds with a wink, “he is at least as handsome as your Damie.”

  “I highly doubt that,” I say, a smile twitching on my lips.

  She laughs. “You are right, of course. But don’t tell Paolo,” she adds in a low whisper. “I am still one of the greatest models of this generation, no? I cannot marry a man prettier than I am.”

  Now I do laugh out loud. “Okay, okay, so we have to get back on topic.” I’m thinking I may take her up on the trip to London. I’m liking Carmela more and more. “So he was pissed that you were firing him. And then, somehow, you found the photos?”

  “He actually showed them to me. He told me everything. And then he said that if I didn’t want Paolo and the world to see the pictures, I would continue to let him represent me in the couture business. And that Paolo and I would book all our models through him, and—”

  I hold up a hand. “I get it
. Obviously, you don’t want Paolo to find out.”

  “No, that does not bother me. I told him. I even showed him—I took a photo of the print with my phone.”

  I nod slowly, processing all this. “You once told me that you’d cope if the photo got out. I think what you said exactly was that it would be embarrassing, but at least you looked damn good.”

  Her mouth quirks up. “It is true. The photo is explicit—but it is also very flattering.”

  “And Paolo doesn’t mind?”

  “He is thrilled to have a fiancée who is so delicious.”

  “Then you’re here to protect Damien.”

  She nods. “And you,” she says. “But also Paulo’s family. He is fine with the photo being public. But his mother is very conservative. And his sister has taken Holy vows. They are welcoming me to the family, but I know that I am a bit of a scandal to them, you see?”

  “I get it. And I have an idea. Is Paolo in LA with you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And Bertrand. Could you get him to come to California by Friday? Specifically Santa Barbara?”

  “I—well, yes. He is already in Los Angeles for meetings. So, yes. I think I can do that. Why?”

  “Carmela,” I say, “I want to invite you and Paolo to Damien’s birthday party next Friday.”

  She blinks, obviously confused. “We—we would be delighted. But what does that have to do with—”

  “Everything,” I say, as I sit down beside her again. “I have this plan. . .”

  Chapter Six

  “I’ll fucking kill him myself,” Jamie says after I’ve relayed everything that Carmela told me that morning.

  “I think I’d like a piece of that action. And I know Damien would. But I wasn’t actually thinking homicide. You’re in, though, right? You and Ryan? Because I need Ryan on my side at the meeting tomorrow.”

  “Not a problem. Ryan is going to be so stoked to take that fucker down.”

  We’re window shopping in the Beverly Center, and I’ve been letting the whole Carmela problem gel. If my plan works, I’ll get Damien to Santa Barbara instead of Vancouver, solve my double-blind problem, and also help Carmela by shutting Bertrand’s blackmail scheme down cold.

  Ambitious, yes. But the pieces are coming together.

  Of course, I now realize that Jamie and Ryan have to be in on it, too. Bertrand only threatened Carmela with the photos of her. But the bastard still has Jamie’s pictures. And, frankly, I think he needs to meet with a little of Ryan’s wrath.

  “And now that we’re all set on the extortion side of the equation,” I say, “let’s turn back to the equally important task of finding a birthday present for my husband.”

  “Sexy lingerie?”

  I shoot her a sideways look. “I’m shopping for Damien, not me.”

  “Well, obviously. What girl wears sexy lingerie if it’s not for the guy? Without a guy it’s all snuggly flannel or soft cotton or totally ripped up sleep shorts and a threadbare T-shirt.”

  I have to concede that she has a point. “Still, I was thinking of something to give him. Not to wear for him.”

  “Well, I don’t have a clue.”

  Neither do I, which is why we’re at a mall instead of one of the smaller, locally-owned boutiques where I prefer to shop. I’m hoping that wandering aimlessly through a shopping nirvana will jump-start my creative, present-buying mojo.

  So far, my mojo is less than enthusiastic.

  “A tie? Cuff-links? A really excellent walking stick?”

  I just raise my brows.

  “I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  “Try harder,” I say, then laugh when Jamie sticks her tongue out at me.

  “He is absolutely the hardest person in the world to buy for,” Jamie says.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Just go with the party and call it a day,” she begs. “I want to get over to El Coyote and have a drink before dinner.”

  “I could get him a book,” I muse. “A first edition Asimov or Bradbury? One he doesn’t already have, of course.” Damien loves sci-fi, and he has a small collection of first editions from his favorite authors.

  “Not bad,” Jamie concedes. “We could go grab a drink and then hit Mystery Pier, that really cool bookstore by Whiskey A Go Go.”

  “I think it’s closed now,” I point out.

  “Then we just get the drink.”

  I bump her hip. “Would you stop? We’ll be at dinner soon enough.”

  “Drinks after?”

  Now she’s just being a goof. “You’re going to have to settle for margaritas when we meet Wyatt. I’m booked after.”

  “Really? I kinda thought we’d hang out tonight. I mean since Ryan’s working late. And Damien’s in Palm Springs. What’s he doing, anyway?”

  “He went out with Jackson. Something about that retail center they’re building. They’re meeting the contractor in the morning.”

  “See? You need company.”

  I laugh. “Sorry. I told Evelyn I’d stop by on the way home. And after that, I’m digging in on my proposal.”

  “For that company in Dallas?”

  I nod, and she makes a face. “What?”

  “Just you actually going out of your way to go back to Dallas. This might be one of the signs of the apocalypse.”

  I roll my eyes, but the truth is, she’s right. Hell, I’d almost declined to submit a proposal for that very reason. But I’d pushed through, and told myself it was too good an opportunity to pass up. “It’s a global company in the downtown area of a very big city. It’s not like I’ll be moving back there. And I sure as hell don’t have to visit my old neighborhood.”

  “Hey, if you’re cool, I think it’s great. Seriously.”

  “Thanks,” I say, though I can’t deny that the conversation has watered my already planted seeds of doubt. “At any rate, you’re welcome to come back to Malibu with me. We’ll go to Evelyn’s, and then afterwards, you hang out while I work. Lounge in the hot tub or the media room. We can have a couple of drinks after I finish if it’s not too late, and you can crash in the guest suite.”

  She considers, but shakes her head. “Ryan’s going to be late, but he’s still coming home.” She sighs loudly. “God, when did I get so domesticated?”

  “It creeps up on you slowly,” I say completely deadpan.

  “Isn’t that the truth? Anyway, tell Evelyn I said hi. And I still think the book idea is a good one. A really snazzy first edition would probably knock Damien’s socks off.”

  “I’ll pop in tomorrow if I don’t come up with a more amazing idea in the meantime.” I still want something with a little more oomph, but I’m also still completely lacking in ideas.

  “An old-fashioned shave?” She points to The Art of Shaving, just a few doors down from where we’re loitering. “Hot towels. A straight razor?”

  Since that’s not a terrible idea, I head that direction. We pass by a display of sexy lingerie, and I pause—because of course Jamie’s put the idea in my head—and then I come to a complete stop, my hand reaching out to grip Jamie’s wrist as ice courses through my veins.

  “Jamie.”

  “Hey—shit, Nikki, what is it?”

  “No,” I whisper even as I whip around to face the reality I saw reflected in the window.

  Mother?

  But now that I’m turned around, there’s nothing there. But I’d seen her. I’d seen her. Behind me. Near the escalator.

  Didn’t I?

  “Nikki.” Jamie is yanking on my arm. “What the hell? Are you okay?”

  I reach out blindly, my hand going to the glass front of the shop window. I lean against it and breathe in deep.

  “Are you sick? Should I call Damien? Shit, he and Jackson are all the way in the desert.”

  “I’m okay.” I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. I just—I just thought I saw my mother.”

  “Your mom? She’s in town?”

  “It wasn’t her. I must have j
ust seen someone who looked like her. It freaked me out. Seriously, James. I’m fine.” But I can’t help but think that maybe I shouldn’t submit the Dallas proposal after all.

  Jamie screws up her mouth. “I believe you. I just think if you’re going to freak out over a mirage, it should be something more interesting than your mother.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I suck in a gulp of air, then push away from the wall and run my fingers through my shoulder-length hair. “Let’s get out of here,” I say firmly. “I’m starving.”

  El Coyote is one of my favorite divey restaurants in LA, and is about the closest thing to Tex-Mex I’ve been able to find since moving from Dallas. That’s not saying a lot—apparently there is a law that Tex-Mex can really only be found inside Texas—but the food is delicious and the atmosphere easy-going and fun.

  As usual, the place is packed. I hand my keys to the valet, and Jamie and I walk through the parking lot toward the entrance together. I hesitate before we go inside. “You’re not going to drive him screaming from the restaurant by asking him about his grandmother, are you?”

  “Oh, please. Give me a little credit.”

  I just stare her down until she raises her hands in surrender. “No, I won’t harass Wyatt.”

  “Good. Because I need him to do this favor, and if he bolts, I can’t run after him in these shoes.”

  “Sure you could,” she says, glancing at my feet. “I mean, honestly, Nicholas, if you can’t run in wedges, you have no business living in Los Angeles.”

  I snort, then lead the way inside. I’m looking around to see if Wyatt has beat us there when he texts that he’s about five minutes away and to order him a margarita.

  “That’s why I like him,” Jamie says. “He gets straight to the heart of the matter.”

  The hostess leads us to a booth with a view of the door, we order our drinks, and the bus boy brings chips and salsa. We both dive in, and for a moment we’re both quiet. Then she looks up at me and says, “Not even one little question? I mean, he’s the one who dropped the bombshell about his family. That’s like opening a door.”

  “James,” I say sternly. “Forget it.”