by Diana Orgain
The same makeup artist from the day before materialized. She tilted my chin upward and began to apply foundation.
The gal doing my hair gave a garbled command through a mouthful of bobby pins. I figured it had something to do again with my posture, so I pressed my shoulders back and tried to study the woman doing my makeup. Unfortunately, I only got a flash of her face as she immediately went to work on applying my eye shadow.
Who did she remind me of?
They whipped me into readiness in short order and then I was ushered over to the men’s house for the announcement.
I entered the mansion and was positioned near the fireplace mantel. The men were all seated and watching me. Had it not been for the unsettling feeling that was already descending upon me, it would have been nerve-wracking to have the nine of them gaping at me. As it was, I felt myself tense, gearing up for a fight. Like answering a call during those few short years I’d been on the beat. You know the news is never going to be good. It may not be fatal, but it’s never good.
The guys who’d been on the date the day before—Ty, Pietro, Scott, and Edward—were all a bit ashen faced. The others were smiling and goofing around with each other. They seemed completely unaware of the disaster.
Hadn’t anyone told them?
Cheryl entered, but instead of addressing us she put on a headset and made a beeline to the back of the set. She motioned for cameras to start rolling.
Harris Carlson, our ever-fearless host, entered, clicking on a champagne glass with a silver spoon to get our attention, apparently oblivious to the fact that he already had it.
“Gentlemen. Georgia!” He smiled widely, almost blinding me with his overwhitened teeth. “I understand that Aaron had an unfortunate accident yesterday and he won’t be returning. So while that is certainly awful news, the good news is that there will be no elimination round.” He smiled again.
I surveyed Edward and Scott. They were looking at the floor. Ty and Pietro were looking equally straight-faced and grim.
Nathan, a surfer with shaggy, long blond hair and killer blue eyes, asked, “What happened to Aaron?”
So they didn’t know.
“Aaron is in the hospital,” Harris said.
In the hospital? Was he alive?
My God, how had he survived?
At the very least he was either in a coma or paraplegic or both.
“Did he break a leg or something?” Mitch, a wealthy real estate investor, asked.
Harris toned down the megawattage on his smile. “C’mon, guys, you know I can’t disclose his medical information.”
Mitch sat up straighter and flashed me his own toothy grin. “Well, don’t get me wrong. I hope he recovers fast, but that means I’m one step closer to ending up with this lovely lady.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “And then there were nine.”
“Yeah,” Nathan agreed.
I refrained from grimacing. Good God, one had just quoted an Agatha Christie murder mystery and the other had exuberantly agreed. I had to get out of here.
Harris cleared his throat. “We won’t be able to use the footage from yesterday. So we’re going to refilm the first date. Sort of ‘re-create’ it.”
This time I must have visibly grimaced because the cameraman normally trained on me panned to the fireplace. After a moment, he refocused on me.
Re-create?
What the hell did he mean, re-create?
I felt my ire rising and I couldn’t wait for the shoot to be over to confront Cheryl.
“And I should tell you that we have a new cast member. Sorry, Mitch. Not one step closer to the lovely Georgia, but sort of like a do-over.” He upped the wattage on his grin.
Do-over?
Aaron didn’t get a do-over. What the hell was going on?
Harris pivoted in his red Berluti loafers and motioned toward the door. “Gentlemen, meet your newest competition.”
Two cameras panned toward the door. Another stayed trained on me and the last on the remaining men in the room. Everyone’s reaction was sure to be captured and manipulated however Cheryl thought would get the most mileage.
My mouth went dry and I suddenly felt light-headed.
It couldn’t be true.
Through the doors walked Paul Sanders, my ex-fiancé. He even had the nerve to wear the tux he hadn’t worn to our wedding.
Four
First I fought the wave of nausea that swept through my body, then the urge to punch Paul in the face.
Harris introduced him as “Paul, the Insurance Salesman.” Paul flashed a grin at Harris and said, “Thanks for the warm welcome.”
He turned to me and outstretched his hand. “So nice to meet you.”
What kind of charade was this?
Nice to meet you?
There was something in his eyes. A warning. Play along, Georgia, it said.
I clenched my teeth and gripped his hand. A zing, on par with a full-on electric shock, zapped through my waist and hips. I didn’t trust my voice, so I said nothing.
I glimpsed myself in the mirror over the fireplace and realized that I looked mean. Downright hard. Why would any of these guys want to date me? I forced a smile.
Paul smiled back. He looked every bit as Hollywood-handsome as the others did.
He released my hand and took a seat on the couch next to Ty, who touched the brim of his hat and winked at me.
Harris clapped his hands loudly. “So, Georgia, you’ve met your eligible bachelors—or not so eligible.” He gave a little shake of his head as if he had just amused himself to no end. “You will select five for your first group date and tomorrow the fun will begin.”
It dawned on me then: The introduction to Paul was meant to replace meeting Aaron. Redo, re-create. A little Hollywood magic, some snips and edits, and Aaron never existed.
“Cut,” Cheryl yelled.
The cameramen took their units off their shoulders and left the area, presumably heading to the craft services area they had set up next door with unlimited coffee and tables overflowing with pastries.
“Okay,” Cheryl continued, “gentlemen, go change, then come back to this room and lounge around waiting for the invite card. Georgia, you can go get ready for the date.”
It was an order, not a request.
I never did well with orders; my stomach churned at the thought that that very trait had been one of the reasons for the end of my police career and likely even one of the reasons for the end of my engagement with Paul. But, hell, sometimes you can’t fight your nature.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Harris linked his arm through mine. “I know you’re probably watching your figure, but they have amazing doughnut holes next door. Why don’t you have one? I’ll watch your figure for you.”
He raised his eyebrows at me in what I was sure was supposed to be a flirtatious way, only it came off flat and sort of like a cautionary signal.
I glanced at Paul. His smile was intact but the warning message in his eyes remained.
Everyone was telling me to shut up and leave the room.
• • • • • • • • •
“We’ll have you change into your date clothes and then you can get back to hair and makeup,” Harris said, as he led me to the craft services area.
I was fuming. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He looked confused. “With what?”
“With what?” I practically screamed at him. “With Aaron, with Paul, with the do-over, with—”
The cameraman at the craft services table stared at us. Becca appeared at my side and grabbed my elbow. “Hey. That was fast,” she said.
Harris ignored Becca. “Well, you were there. You know the poor guy isn’t coming back and we can’t air what we shot. So we’re doing it over on a set, with safety nets.”
Becca glanced at her watch. “In about forty minutes, to be exact—”
Harris laughed. “You better skip the doughnuts, cupcake!” he said, proceeding to pop thr
ee doughnut holes into his mouth in rapid succession.
Becca rolled her eyes at him, telegraphing that the conversation was over. Then she piled a plate with cheese and crackers, placing two grapes on top. “One for me, one for you. We need to eat our fruit. Come on. We’ll take this to go.”
“Spill it,” I said the moment we were outside.
She shrugged. “We need to reshoot the first date. What was that about Paul, though?”
“He’s here. He’s the bachelor replacing Aaron.”
Becca’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped.
I leaned into her personal space. “Yes, Becca, exactly. How did that happen?” I mocked her expression of outrage and matched it with my own.
She closed her mouth and stood up straight, taking on an air of indignation. “You’re not accusing me of anything, right?”
I squinted at her. “What could I possibly be accusing you of?”
“I . . . um . . . I wasn’t for getting him on the show,” she stuttered.
I pressed my lips together and motioned with my hand for her to continue.
She glanced around to make sure we were alone. “I told Cheryl it was a bad idea.”
“Uh-huh. And how did Cheryl come up with the idea exactly?”
“It wasn’t me. I swear.”
“Is he undercover?”
Becca shrugged helplessly.
Paul worked on 35 Car for SFPD. It was an undercover detail known to have free range to do what they pleased. But if Paul was here on assignment, why had we been able to leave the jurisdiction of San Francisco?
Further, if Paul was undercover, it could only mean that Aaron’s fall hadn’t been an accident.
A strange energy surged through my body.
An active investigation?
The door from the craft services room flew open and Cheryl appeared next to us on the sidewalk. She quickly assessed the situation. “What are you doing still in your evening clothes? Didn’t Becca tell you that we’re leaving in a few minutes?”
Becca popped a grape into her mouth and gave me a “don’t tangle with Cheryl” look.
I ignored her. “What’s the deal with my ex-fiancé showing up as a bachelor?”
Cheryl’s face registered surprise, then changed into something else. Something along the lines of devilish delight. “Your what?”
I stared at her, then at Becca, who now seemed to have enormous interest in the sole grape on her plate.
“I find it hard to believe you didn’t know,” I said.
“Well, I didn’t.” Cheryl smiled and studied Becca, who studied her grape. “But that certainly is a pleasant surprise.” She stroked her chin and I imagined her with a goatee much like I would Satan. “We can’t let on to the others, you know. It wouldn’t seem fair that you’ve already had a relationship with one of the bachelors.”
Before I could protest, she wagged a finger at me. “You should be happy. It’s to your advantage that you already know he’s unavailable. Practically cheating.”
She gave a vulgar snicker.
I clenched my fists, reminding myself that while it would probably stop her snorting if I smacked her in the nose, it most likely would lead to problems. I took a deep breath and simply said, “I’m not doing it.”
Cheryl stared at me. “Not doing what?”
“The show,” I said firmly.
Cheryl waved her hand at me and said to Becca with a laugh, “Pfft. What a prima donna.”
I walked away from them. I heard the door to the craft services room open and close and then Becca was at my side. I glanced backward: Cheryl was gone. Becca grabbed my arm.
“Honey, you can’t walk off like that. You’re under contract, remember?”
“Then I’m calling my lawyer,” I said.
“You don’t have a lawyer, sweetie, and you can’t afford one. Besides, even if you did get one, the network has an entire legal division. I mean, who are you kidding? You can’t just walk off.”
I wasn’t listening to her anymore. She was right. I didn’t have an attorney and I couldn’t afford one, but there was someone.
I turned back toward the bachelor house.
“Where are you going?” Becca asked.
“Richard! He’s an attorney.”
“Richard? From the show?” Becca sounded slightly hysterical.
I nodded and kept walking.
“You not allowed to go in there without a crew,” Becca said.
“Then come with me. You’re part of the crew,” I said.
“No. It’s not the same. I mean, cameras and—”
Suddenly the walkie-talkie at her waist crackled. Cheryl’s voice came over the line. “Did you get the prima into hair and makeup yet?”
Becca looked at me. I shook my head and said, “No! Tell her I’m not going to do it. I’m done.”
Becca grabbed the walkie-talkie off her belt and said, “Yup, on our way.”
Five
Becca steered me toward hair and makeup, all the while chatting back and forth with someone other than Cheryl on her walkie-talkie.
We both knew the reason I’d continue on the show was for her. She’d been my best friend since middle school, practically a sister to me. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. She’d gotten me on as the lead when my life had come unglued and if I bailed on the show I’d ruin her chances to produce her own series down the road.
Not to mention, if there was an active investigation in progress . . . and I somehow managed to help . . . perhaps even resolved the case . . .
Although, how could Aaron’s fall be anything other than an accident? Was he really in the hospital? Was it possible he had died and the producers were just placating the cast?
No, that didn’t make sense. If Aaron had died, there would be legal implications to the producers for not discussing the information with us. And yet, what was Paul doing here? If he was here undercover, that was one thing, but was I going to have to date him?
“Leave her in the dress,” Becca said to a blond woman who had materialized in front of us.
“What? Why?” I asked.
“We need to reshoot the intro scene,” she answered.
“The whole scene? I thought we were only doing the first date again.”
Becca gave me a strange look. “An intern just reviewed the tapes. Aaron is in practically every shot at the cocktail party. We need to reshoot the introductions so we can match up the lighting. Cheryl wants to rerun the scene from the top.”
• • • • • • • • •
I stood on the cobblestones in front of the mansion, waiting for the limo to arrive. They were only driving it around the corner. What a joke.
I smiled for the camera and refrained from tapping my foot with impatience. However, clad in the awesome Sergio Rossi shoes that exactly matched the violet of my dress, I think the cameraman might have been happy to zoom in on the tap.
The first time we’d done this I’d been nervous and excited. Had it really been only a few days before? I’d been eager to meet the men, wondering if one really could be my Prince Charming. All certainly were handsome and I’d even felt a little zing with some of them, but now the entire process seemed ludicrous.
I’d quickly lost my patience with the camera. That had been almost immediate. The first night I’d been talking to Aaron and had completely forgotten where I was, his boy-next-door charm sucking me in and making me feel like I was the only person on earth. Then Cheryl had interrupted us, repositioning Aaron and me. When he’d asked her if his lighting was all right, I’d lost that loving feeling.
The limo stopped several yards away from me. The driver got out and opened the door. Pietro stepped out. He looked as stunning as he did the first time I saw him—his Italian good looks complemented by the tux he was wearing. He crossed the pathway confidently and outstretched his hand to me.
“I am Pietro. So happy to make your acquaintance, signorina.”
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you. Yes, me
, too.”
He took my hand and pressed his lips against it. “We will have fun inside, no?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
He gave my hand another little squeeze and winked. I couldn’t help but feel he was winking more toward the camera than at me. He released my hand and strode off toward the door.
I took a deep breath; the next person out of the limo was Scott, with his shaved head looking sexy as ever. He crossed the cobblestone path and smiled at me. He took my right hand in his and with his left grabbed my elbow. The warmth of his hand sent a shock through my body.
“I’m Scott,” he said, his voice smooth and polished, making me flush.
I nodded and squeaked out, “Pleased to meet you.”
This was ridiculous. Why was I having such a schoolgirl reaction to a man squeezing my elbow? Especially this one. The gruesome, ghoulish horror writer!
It had to be hormonal.
As if sensing my hesitation, Scott released my hand, saying, “I’ll see you inside.”
The next person out of the limo was Ty. He was wearing his signature cowboy hat and boots. He put a hand to his hat and tipped it, saying, “Howdy, ma’am.”
“Howdy,” I said.
He looked me up and down and said, “Sure are lucky, the little lady they picked for us looks good to me.”
I looked him up and down in return and I couldn’t help but smile. God, he was sexy.
“I’ll be looking for you inside,” he said as he left.
Next was Dr. Edward. He walked toward me, his gait projecting a certain resoluteness. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Edward. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance this evening.”
The first time we’d met we’d had a little repartee about his being a doctor. I’d said something about his making my heart go pitter-patter and he’d promised to give me a checkup.
Somehow I felt compelled to let him make that first impression again with the audience. So I placed my hand over my heart and gave him my corny line. Then he said his line.
We both laughed and he strode toward the door.
The next person out of the car was Nathan, the surfer. He was the only one so far not dressed in a tux. Instead, he was wearing tight-fitting jeans and an orange tee that set off his tan and showed his massive biceps. Under one arm was his surfboard. His smile lit up his face—almost making me forget that the last time around Aaron had been the final guy to step out of the first limo.
