by Avery Aster
“Mr. Lee, where are you from?” She tried to stick her toe in his face for ruining her brief pedi-ecstasy. Can’t a girl have some fun? Men grope female massage therapists all the time. Lighten the flip up, Kimmie.
“Chattanooga, Tennessee. Please do not masturbate while I do your feet. I cannot take another moaning horny white woman this week,” he sassed dryly.
“Sorry, it’s this spa chair. It gets me hot and bothered.”
Mr. Lee unplugged her seat from the back wall and painted her toes at a rapid speed.
Her cell phone chimed an unfamiliar number. Acquainted with the area code, Cannes, France, she assumed Kiki was calling. For a second, she imagined Kiki’s second day in the French Riviera. Eager to see if she’d reveal some romantic tidbits from the night she’d shared with DJ Dejon, she answered.
“Kiki, darling, are you dancing at Nikki Beach with your lover?”
“Nooo,” Kiki whimpered.
“You’d be proud. I’m not at the office. I’m getting—”
“Miss Brill?” Kiki interrupted with an edge in her voice Taddy hadn’t heard from her before. “I’ve been…arrested.”
“ARRESTED?” she screamed. Kiki had to be kidding. But her assistant had never had much of a sense of humor.
“I’m serious! Please bail me out… Can you come get me?”
“Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Her pulse raced, undoing the last two hours of relaxation. Setting the tea mug on the table next to her, she leaned forward—lost.
Mr. Lee continued painting her toes furiously.
For a second, she tried to fill in the blanks with what went on. How? Why?
“I’m not hurt, just shaken up. Officers here grip people’s shoulders better than you do.” She sounded as if she was trying to laugh, but cried, “A Cannes policeman is telling me to hang up now. I’m at the Grasse Avenue station. Please come.”
“I’ll be on the next flight—”
Click.
Taddy called Pierre de Vergès, a Parisian lawyer she had retained to navigate her company through their global expansion. Pierre offered to contact the authorities and ring her with answers. Drying her feet, she cancelled the remaining treatments, paid the bill, ran home and packed. After leaving a message for Blake’s assistant, Duckie Capri, she was off to France. The Neve Adele account and Candy Land Ball planning was in his hands now.
* * * * *
No flights were available to France. She could only fly standby. Taddy offered an older gentleman two thousand dollars to give up his seat on an overnight flight going to Antibes. It was a resort town nearby. He’d accepted the bribe and took a later flight.
As the Air France jet’s door closed and flight attendants made final announcements for passengers to turn off their electronic devices, she received the much-anticipated call from Pierre. Leaning forward in her middle seat in coach, back by the bathroom, she ducked her head between the three hundred-plus passengers and answered the call.
Pierre said Taddy could have a European bail bondsman post funds to release Kiki but Taddy’s appearance and signature were required due to her name being the primary holder of the credit card processed to pay the hotel room’s incidentals. According to the Commissaire de Police de Cannes, Kiki was hanging out at a casino inside Hôtel du France. She’d recognized Manuel Coq de la Grande from a porno taken from Taddy’s apartment. When she’d introduced herself, Manuel Coq de la Grande had asked if they could use her hotel room to shoot a live-stream porn feed while at the Cannes Film Festival.
Kiki, being curious, had granted them access to her room.
It didn’t look good for Kiki.
The wheels on the Boeing 767 went up, and they jetted down the runway. Squashed in economy, Taddy gazed out over the other people’s heads. She caught Manhattan’s skyline out the right window. Seeing the Empire State Building, which always gave her peace, she reflected on what had gone wrong.
She reminded herself how impressionable Kiki was and, as her boss and friend, she’d failed her. Taddy wondered if this was karma biting her in the ass for blackmailing Monsieur Jérôme. Her intention was to see Kiki fall in love with DJ Dejon but that had backfired.
Why did women always go to the ends of the earth for love?
With 1.6 million residents on the island of Manhattan and a total of 8.2 million including the boroughs, why would someone as wonderful as Kiki have to go four thousand miles to find love? Or any woman for that matter?
Part Three
French Riviera, Here Comes Taddy Brill
“I knew I was in love when I couldn’t fall asleep because she was lying next to me.”
—Warner Truman, CEO of Truman Enterprises
Chapter Twelve
Two Percent of the Women in the World
May 19
Commissariat de Police, Cannes, France
At the Cannes police station, Warner had declined all press interviews. That left the media anticipating a statement from him even more. The reporters waited outside.
Inside, he stood holding his cell phone. A text message from Sheldon, who was partying in Ibiza, read, “Yo, bro, ur hotel is creamed on TV. Hook me up w/ Caramel.”
Asshole. He typed back, “Fuck off, Shel.”
Sheldon immediately texted back, “Rock-on w/ ur hard-on dude!”
Thick in scandal, Warner had arrived in Cannes only twenty-four hours ago, and Hôtel du France, his elite property, was the news headline. Warner didn’t have a problem with porn. And this could’ve stayed under wraps with no one the wiser. What set him off? It had all been captured on the major TV stations around the world. His Hôtel du France’s sign and logo had been broadcast right behind the adult actors while they sucked, jacked, screwed and came all over the spectators below. The news this morning had coined the property “Hôtel du Anal”, with the catchphrase “You’ll get a load full at Hôtel du France”. He’d placed Kip Von Scott on an unpaid leave and had stepped in as acting general manager until his relief arrived from Marseille. He’d have to sell Hôtel du France at the end of the season or rebrand the property under a new name. The hotel video, combined with the fact that he hosted Prix du Cinéma Pour Adultes, had nailed his grave shut. Any hopes for his luxury hotel to be taken as a five-star property on the French Riviera had just died.
He filed the papers against who’d started the drama, the American. “Here’s my signature for the trespassing charge.” Warner stood at the counter, returning the documents.
“Monsieur Truman, your signature confirms Hôtel du France will file charges against Mademoiselle Izatt.” The officer stamped the papers and placed them atop a large claim file. Warner had worked too hard to build his empire to have it ruined over something so crass.
“Oui, correct.” He smiled, confident that he’d made the right decision. Someone needed to be made an example of.
“Take a seat in the waiting area. We’ll call you up once the paperwork has been processed.” The policeman pointed to an alcove area in the middle to sit.
“Merci.” He walked over, poured himself a glass of water and sat on the bench, closing his eyes to rest. I will never come back to Cannes as long as I live. We’re ruined.
A racket at the front from someone struggling to get through the reporters and paparazzi, who’d tried to get Warner’s attention when he arrived, caused him to look over.
“I’m here for Kiki.”
That voice. Her voice! Red’s voice?
“Over there, mademoiselle,” an officer responded from the front reception area.
A gorgeous redhead walked his way. He did a double take. No way. He squinted. Sure enough, Red had lived on.
Red’s confidence and flair turned the police officers’ heads as she walked down the main hallway. The police station was filled with criminals who’d come to Cannes, perhaps to see a celebrity. They’d caught a glimpse of something much more fantastic.
He noticed her legs first. Elegant high heels elevated her to a position taller than most men.
Just below her waist, an off-white stretch miniskirt wrapped tight around her narrow hips. From where he stood, the fabric seemed sheer, revealing her peachy cream skin from her inner, ever-so-toned thighs when she walked. Must kiss.
Her “just what the doctor ordered” breasts were encased in a cream blouse and somewhat concealed by her crimson-hued, made-to-her-measurements blazer. Her cleavage had been fastened together by two exaggerated metallic sailor-type buttons. Their vivid sparkle resembled two gold bars. Must touch.
His eyes fixated on his favorite Red asset, her signature wavy ginger spice hair. Oh how he’d savored running his fingers through those locks at Privé Extreme. Must love.
Warner had developed an obsession for red-haired women after he’d met her. He hadn’t come in contact with any woman since. To his surprise, he’d learned from a stylist at his Dublin hotel, only two percent of people in the world had her natural hair color, making Red all the more special, and he’d found her.
Red walked up with her oversized sunglasses on, she didn’t see him as she passed. Two feet from where she stopped, he stood within earshot.
Unnoticed, Warner stepped up behind her and inhaled her familiar scent. It’s Red! He’d found her. Not in Sydney, Australia, the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro or the Xai-Xai Beach in Mozambique. It was the Cannes police station in the South of France.
“Officer Gaston?” Red asked.
“Oui.”
“My name’s Taddy Brill. My lawyer Pierre de Vergès spoke with you on the phone. I’m here to pick up Kiki.” She gently placed her canvas tote on the floor.
“Excusez-moi?” Gaston’s face went blank.
“Tabitha Adelaide Brillford—for Kelly Ivy Kailyn Izatt. She’s the American you’re holding. Kiki was arrested along with her friend, Dejon something-or-another.” Her hand went on her hip, gold bangles jangling from her impatience.
Brillford? Warner had heard her name before. He’d heard it in December. She’d come with the rock-n-roll star’s daughter and Farnworth Firewater heiress. It made sense to him now.
“Oui, mademoiselle, we’re processing Izatt’s paperwork.” His jaw tightened. “Monsieur Dejon was not charged. He left our station about an hour ago.”
“Typical! I want to see her. Where is she?” Red grabbed her bag, ready to be led in the direction she’d intended, to her friend. It reminded Warner of her eagerness to move on the second he handed her the bronze purse in his driveway.
“Your friend will remain here ‘til charged. You may bail her out then.” The officer looked down as if to move on with his paperwork.
Red released her belongings with a noisy thud. It caused two police officers at neighboring cubicles to stand with their hands over their gun holsters. “Prostitution and pornography are not illegal in France, correct?” She leaned her weight on one foot, digging her heel into the floor. He admired her calf muscles as they flexed.
“Izatt isn’t being charged with prostitution or pornography.” The officer took out a stack of paperwork, ready to move along with his own agenda.
Red put her hand on top of the policeman’s. Warner noticed because the officer’s face flushed. “So then—what’s the charge?”
“Trespassing.” Officer Gaston stared at Warner as if asking, “You wanna take this one?”
With a head shake to hush the policeman, Warner remained behind her. Unaware of his presence, she tapped her nails on the wooden countertop. The wavy red curls bounced around her neck as she spoke. “Who’s pushing the trespassing charge?”
He wished he could get a view of her face.
“Kiki didn’t do anything wrong.” Her foot stomped. For a second Warner thought Red would jump across the counter and strangle the officer. He could see her struggle to stay calm.
“Mademoiselle, the gentleman pressing charges is standing behind you.” The officer pointed over her shoulder at Warner, not wanting to deal with Red’s wrath.
Warner leaned against the wall. This was going to be good.
Red turned around, her jaw set. Snapping her sunglasses off, she shouted, “YOU.” Her pupils dilated. “If it isn’t the infamous Warner Truman.” She stepped forward, bringing her face close to his. He could smell her chewing gum.
“Nice to see you, too, mademoiselle.” Her beauty was more magnetic than he’d remembered. Warner extended a hand, in hopes she’d accept it. “And who are you pretending to be today?”
Irked by his cool behavior, she brushed his hand away. “I should’ve figured. It’s your hotel. Only an asshole would press charges.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, possibly to calm her huff as she exhaled.
Warner sidestepped her and faced the officer. “Do you have a private room we could use—to talk?” He eyed the detective, then directed his attention to Red.
“Oui, follow me,” ordered the officer. He appeared relieved to be getting rid of them both.
Hoping a little Red would ease his frustration over Hôtel du France, Warner inhaled her tuberose the second she walked past him. He followed, entering an interrogation room maybe eight by ten feet in size with no windows. It was dark, with dim ceiling light. They’d have some privacy.
“Your paperwork is going to take about an hour. I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”
“Mr. Warner is going to drop these silly charges. You don’t have to file anything.” Red tried again to persuade Gaston, putting her hand on his shoulder. She stood taller than he did. Her confidence felt alluring and annoying at the same time.
Officer Gaston smirked up at her, as if to say, “We’ll see.” He closed the door, leaving them alone.
Warner pulled out a chair. “Have a seat, Mademoiselle Red.”
She walked over to the chair and pushed it into the table’s edge, leaving it unoccupied. “My flight here cramped my legs. I prefer to stand.”
He sat opposite the empty chair. “Would you rather I call you Miss Brillford or Tabitha Adelaide?”
“Neither. Taddy Brill is fine, thank you.” Smiling, serious or aloof, her face disturbed him.
“You came to St. Barth’s as a firestorm with your rock-n-roll and speed boat party friends. You ruined my New Year’s.” He’d given her too much credit. “Then you sic your Kiki minion on Hôtel du France during our busiest week of the year.”
“Kiki is my executive assistant.” Her voice resonated. “And a damn good one—this is a mix-up.” The skin on her décolleté began to blush. He enjoyed watching her get hot. “She is impressionable and didn’t do anything wrong except be nice to a few endowed actors who paid her some attention.”
He sat back, crossed his arms, kicked his feet up and mocked, “Now, now, Red. Let’s not get our vajazzled self in a glitter knot, shall we?”
“Don’t speak to me that way.” Her lips pursed, but she was close to a giggle. He could tell “vajazzle” had lightened her up a bit. Fighting the urge to laugh, she’d bitten her cheeks inside. Warner noticed because her cheekbones became more pronounced and her jaw tightened. It was the same restraint she’d used the night she’d stood motionless, clenching her fists in his driveway.
“Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused me and my hotel?”
“Damage? On the plane ride over here I caught Hôtel du France on the news.” She reached in her tote and pulled out the newspaper. “Your little motel’s logo is plastered globally. It’s massive exposure.”
Motel my ass. “What would you understand about publicity?” Probably nil. He couldn’t believe she’d upswing this. “Truman Enterprises is highbrow, not low, Miss Brill.”
“Meaning?”
“You may work in a whorehouse, but I do not.”
She moved closer to him, her head thrust forward. “You have no clue as to what my brows do for a living.” Reaching inside her tote, she withdrew two papers and flung them across the wooden table’s smooth surface.
Catching the items as they zoomed toward him, he looked at the business flyer. It read, “Get fame, get glam, get Brill, Inc.”
The other item was a brochure on her media services. Hmmm. “Appears we’re in a bind.” He folded the papers on the table and then flung them back in her direction. “I’m not dropping the charges.” Confident in his decision, Warner smiled at her.
“I’ll get the media to flip this in Hôtel du France’s favor,” she said as if it was just another day at her office. Taddy held court well.
“How long will your fame-glam-Brill strategy take?” He couldn’t imagine it was possible to rebrand or re-launch anything until at least a year from now. The hotel would most likely be closed by then. Who would want to stay at a place reporters had coined “Hôtel du Anal”? He had to act fast.
“Twenty-four hours.” She clamped her jaw tight and stared at him. “Drop the charges against Kiki this second and we’ll get your little PR stunt crossed off my long to-do list.”
Warner noted how confident Taddy was of her PR capabilities. But he wasn’t convinced. “And what’s the contingency plan if your publicity mastery backfires?”
“I don’t have one.” Her voice raised a pitch. “Brill, Inc. won’t need one.”
“If you fail…” He imagined the possibilities. She’d have to do whatever he wanted. “We finish what we started at Privé Extreme…Red and her Big Daddy.”
Her perfect eyebrows furrowed. “I would never sleep with a married man.”
“What are you talking about?”
“How’s Rielle?” Taddy blurted his ex-fiancée’s name as if calling sooey to a pig. He thought, for a second, she might add an oink, but she didn’t.
“You honestly don’t think I’d marry her.”
“Yes I do.”
Upright in the chair, he held his left hand out and illustrated no wedding band. “Not married. Rielle’s insane—arrested after you left. Had you not run away so fast—” He cut himself off and swallowed a deep breath. “If you’d given me the benefit of the doubt after I held you in my arms, you would know this already.”
“I thought…” Red’s features clouded with unease. “Sorry.” She reached for the chair and rested her tall body against the backrest. He hoped she’d sit down with him. “You’re single?”
