by Celia Mulder
Chapter Five
As she sat in her office, Lucille didn’t waste a single thought on one of the two men she’d met the night before. All her attention was focused on the other, the powerful, fragile man who needed her help. Michel was the most challenging, thrilling case she’d ever encountered, and her first move had to be perfect.
Even before Brett’s interruption, Lucille had known she’d accept Michel’s case. She’d grown bored with her typical clients. A person could only spend so much time helping teenage TV stars save face with their preteen fan clubs. She’d helped rappers keep their disreputable image, “it” couples maintain the charade after they broke up, and the truly tortured artists only appear tortured. But her résumé didn’t include a three-time winner of America’s Sexiest Man Alive who wanted to keep his heiress fiancée’s murderous schemes under wraps. That Michel, an intelligent though neurotic man, would make the conscious decision to stay with a woman who wanted him dead was intriguing.
Well, maybe she did think about Brett Jacobs for a minute. Or an hour. Or whenever she tried to focus on her work. The man was hot, in the completely opposite way Michel was hot. Michel was sexy and rich without a hair out of place. Brett was...a mess. His suit well-tailored but wrinkled, the top buttons of his shirt undone under his knot of a bow tie and his hair falling hopelessly over his eyes. He wasn’t muscular and his face had the haunted look of too many late nights. But the way he crashed into the room, not giving a damn what anyone thought, determined to save his friend at all costs, that was the sexiest thing Lucille had ever seen. She tried and failed to stop imagining what he looked like naked.
She pushed her thoughts of both men aside and got down to the real problem at hand, Sylvia Stanton.
It took her all morning to research Sylvia. As the only child of Lou Stanton and his first wife, whose name no one remembered, Sylvia was set to inherit millions, maybe more. Millions that were tied up in the vast holdings of Stanton Enterprises and guarded carefully by her father. However, party girl Sylvia didn’t seem to want to be a CEO, given that her activities were largely composed of throwing drinks at people in public places, giving interviews about her eating habits, and being a celebrity judge at modeling competitions. She was well known in her own right, but her relationship with Michel had made her status soar and even, Lucille suspected, spiral out of control.
There were articles on Sylvia and Michel, on every outfit she’d ever worn anywhere, and on the fights she’d started with other women, most notably her feud with Reina Winter. Then the story she’d been looking for popped up on her laptop as she sipped the last spice-laden dregs of her quad-shot, skinny, extra-dry cappuccino with a sprinkle of cinnamon between the espresso and milk. In the screaming pink headlines of a three-month-old Just Like Us magazine was an article about Sylvia. Prominently centered below the title “Daddy’s Little Girl Disowned” was a huge photo showing the Stanton Enterprises heiress strolling along the beach in a string bikini, her long blonde hair dancing across her tanned face. While the picture was flattering, the story was anything but. Sylvia, reportedly, had gone to her father for money. Negotiations had turned into a verbal blowout in the crowded bar of the Stanton Suites Hotel. A witness had filmed the debacle, and the video had gone viral within the hour. Lucille watched the linked footage eight times—for research purposes, of course. It was an ugly fight. Sylvia pouted like a preteen, while the normally laconic Lou Stanton threatened to cut her off without a credit card and have everyone in the place arrested if they didn’t fuck off immediately. Finally, after smashing several martini glasses, Sylvia stormed out, vowing never to speak to her father again. The article speculated on why Sylvia hadn’t gone to her rich fiancé for money instead.
Lucille had met Sylvia Stanton two years ago. She’d been attending the premiere of the latest blockbuster, written, directed, and produced by Michel Polce. Also starring Michel Polce, naturally. Her plan had been to gather intel for her new client, model Reina Winter, whose Swedish actor fiancé, Michel’s co-star, had just been caught in bed with the entire production team. It was the year gold was in and so she’d worn gold, a simple, elegant dress, without showing much skin and no daring long sleeves or bold accessories. She had worn the perfect outfit to ensure she didn’t end up on either the best- or worst-dressed lists for the night.
Sylvia Stanton, on the other hand, had topped the best of the best with her daring, skin-revealing navy gown designed personally for her by renowned recluse Martín Piero. The dress rippled around her as she flowed across the red carpet, graceful in her five-inch heels, her hand resting casually on Michel Polce’s arm and her look one of pure, smug satisfaction.
Lucille, per usual, had slipped in the side and arrived just in time to watch this perfect pair flaunt their way into the post-screening ballroom. She’d stared at them; it was impossible not to. She hadn’t been close enough to see their expressions, but she’d felt she could sense a shade of tension in Michel, a small sign that he wasn’t quite comfortable being the center of so much unadulterated fawning. Sylvia, however, had looked around at the packed room of celebrities as though they were her subjects and she their queen.
But confirmation on why half of the room hated Sylvia and the other half envied her was not why Lucille had been there. As Michel had broken the spell in the room with a casual wave of his hand, Lucille had spotted Reina with her own gathering of adoring admirers, ninety-eight percent of whom were men. Which meant that the news of Reina’s break up had got out. Which meant that Lucille had been there to find out if her plan had worked, if the public had bought her cultivated story as the truth.
An hour later she had been convinced they had. Reina had still been swamped with fans of the single male variety, and everyone, save his agent, had been giving her ex, Andreas, a wide berth. Lucille had smiled to herself and left without anyone noticing.
As she watched the video again, Lucille was struck by the difference the two years had made on the heiress. She was smaller, slimmer, and had lost that holier-than-thou posture. The woman in the video was desperate and vicious, which lent proof to Michel’s claims.
Lucille thought of her options. If there was no way to keep the murder attempts secret, she’d have to leak the story, on her terms, with her spin. It would be easy to frame a jealous stalker fan gone mental. Michel had to have other people with motive to murder him. But whatever she came up with would have to explain Sylvia’s disinheritance as well; otherwise, the fiancée would be the primary suspect.
Lucille’s phone buzzed, reminding her of her noon lunch meeting with the very same Reina Winter. No doubt the model would have something to say about Sylvia Stanton.
***
“Excuse me. Do you have to put your chair there? No, no, don’t bother moving. I’m only trying to get by. Oh, that’s really mature. Yeah, you enjoy your lunch too, sir.”
Lucille’s fingers paused over her phone. Some idiot was bumbling through the crowded restaurant, pissing people off in his wake.
The café thrived on atmosphere. Everything from the pianist playing Chopin in the corner to the monosyllabic waiters in starched black and white spoke of prestige and intimate discretion. Being the noon hour, the small room was full. The primary clientele were men in dark business suits with matching ties and deep furrows in their brows. Some ate accompanied by smartphones and laptops so the physical necessity for food would not hinder their productivity. Others lunched with well-dressed clients, conducting business meetings with leisurely efficiency. The waiters slid between the tables, holding trays like extensions of their arms and never breaking their smiles. The Chopin meandered in the background, loud enough to be present without upsetting the intimate haven. Miachelli’s was the mecca of the business lunch and the private tête-á-tête.
Now an ignorant troublemaker had splintered that artifice of calm elegance. An ignorant troublemaker with a familiar voice. Lucille dismissed any recognition and returned to the pressing demands of her email.
R
eina was late, and Lucille’s patience wore thin over the caprese salad. If Reina weren’t an obscenely rich, colossally dysfunctional model, Lucille wouldn’t bother waiting. Punctuality was her unbreakable rule, yet, with the right combination of fame, wealth, and chronic issues, she’d overlook it.
Three things happened at once. Lucille hit send on an email to a prospective client, her stomach rumbled in hungry protest, and she looked up to find the obnoxious gatecrasher standing over her, wearing a ferocious scowl.
“Can I help you?” she asked the man. That her heart jumped when she saw him only annoyed her more.
“You don’t remember me from yesterday,” Brett said.
“I remember you. Mr....Jacobs, yes? That doesn’t explain why you’re interrupting my lunch.” Lucille knew she was playing her ice-queen-bitch role, but dammit, the man was a hot mess and his gaze made her want to squirm in her chair.
Brett took her words as an invitation and helped himself to the chair across the table. He ignored the glares from the indignant diners he’d upset and leaned over the pristine white china to scowl more at Lucille.
Unlike the well-dressed patrons of the restaurant, Brett wore last night’s clothes. His jacket gaped open. His bow tie had become a limp scrap of silk that hung about his neck. His shirt was more wrinkled than before and sported a light stain on the left collar. The deep spice of whiskey assailed Lucille’s nostrils as he leaned closer. His dark hair stuck out in a disheveled mess of poorly applied product and unbrushed mayhem. The stubble around his jaw was scruffy and unkempt, yet his blue eyes were sharp, lucid, and intent on hers.
Lucille had to look away before he could read the interest she couldn’t hide. She let her breath out slowly, her gaze sweeping the room. She spied the maître d’ shifting uncomfortably by the door, his gaze flicking to Brett. Why hasn’t the man dealt with the situation already?
“Excellent. We’re on the same page then, Ms. Anton.”
“What page would that be?”
“We both remember each other. Meaning we must have made a strong, repugnant impression on one another. Same page.”
Yes, I find you totally...repugnant.
“Look, Mr. Jacobs, I am about to have an important, private meeting with someone, and your rude intrusion is very unwelcome. If you are seeking representation, email me, don’t stalk me. But you should know I’m not currently accepting clients, and even if I was, this”—she gestured to his appearance—“wouldn’t increase your chances.” Lucille gave Brett a long, withering, introspective look, lingering on the unknown collar stain and the ratted mess of hair. She returned to her email, thereby giving him what she felt was a firm invitation to go fuck himself. It was a cover, of course. Not even she could deny what that look had cost her composure. If she’d looked any longer she’d have banged him right there on the table, right on the starched white linen until they were both covered in expensive olive oil and were arrested for public indecency. The idea almost made her smile and fueled her annoyance with Mr. Brett Jacobs.
“I have a publicist.”
“Not for much longer, I would think.” Lucille didn’t, couldn’t, look up.
“If you’re referring to my second film, it’s coming out next year, and my publicist is well aware of that fact. If you had seen the first, you’d know—”
“I’ve seen it,” Lucille cut him off. She wished he’d give up and leave. She wished the maître d’ would stop skirting around the eyesore in his establishment and have Brett thrown out already. The man appeared to be a short, solid sort of waiter. The kind who was used to having his orders obeyed. At the moment, though, he was dithering, his mouth twitching beneath his mustache.
“You’ve seen my film?” Brett returned her attention to the matter at hand.
“Yes.”
“So you understand why—”
“I hated it,” she lied to shut him up. She loved his film, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
“You hated it?” Brett blinked, grasping for composure and missing. “But...what did you... I mean, you hated it?”
“I prefer my movies with less fluff and fantasy. It was utterly unrealistic. Besides, zombies are done. Stop reanimating them.” Now that is funny. Though not as funny as how much he seemed to care what she thought about his work.
“Unrealistic? Zombies? You didn’t see it,” Brett sputtered, his face reddening. “Because if you had, you’d know the reanimation theme is a metaphor for—”
And totally lost on him. “I got it. You, Mr. Jacobs, are a cliché. A so-called visionary screenwriter who wrote a single mediocre script and now can’t write the second to save his life. Wasting away on alcohol and mismanaged fame.” It was a bitch move, but she needed him to leave before Reina arrived. Or before she grabbed his stupid, indignant face and made out with it. Besides, no one had ever accused her of being a people person.
Brett gulped, his face scarlet. “But. But—”
“Mr. Jacobs. I am an incredibly busy woman. I can’t sit here and argue cinematic merit with you. Nor do I wish to. I’m about to have an important meeting that you are not welcome at.”
Brett found his voice again. “Your client is either invisible or very late. Since I doubt you believe in ghosts...”
Lucille bristled. “Your point?”
“I was about to make it.”
“Then make it.”
Brett didn’t say anything right away. His face had gone back to a nice, normal color, but his eyes bit out anger. Lucille admired his persistence but loathed his timing.
“What are you doing with Michel?”
“As we covered last night, I have been contracted to help Mr. Polce with his media image.” She never broke her icy stare. She did, however, push her breasts out. Because she could.
Brett’s breath hitched, his gaze flicking to her cleavage before returning to her eyes. “You didn’t blink once. You’re lying through your teeth and you didn’t blink. Impressive. But let’s get something straight. I know about Sylvia, I know what she’s trying to do, and I know Michel needs to go to the police, not you. I know you know all of this too. So, I’ll ask you again, who are you and what are you doing with Michel?”
Lucille narrowed her eyes at him. She felt cornered and wanted to pounce, but she’d already used her attack. She’d thrown her underhanded punches, hoping to enrage his self-eviscerating inner critic, but he hadn’t budged. Michel had told Brett her true identity, that was clear, but the annoyingly cute, scruffy asshole was trying to trick her into admitting her bluff. She didn’t know what his angle was and was starting to realize she cared. It was time for a new tactic.
Her eyes softened and she smiled. “Can I call you Brett? Brett, I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed. I’ve only been hired to help with his media image. I’ve never met Michel before last night. All I know is what my client tells me, and I have no idea what you’re referring to.”
Brett watched her. “Oh, you are good. Now you’re trying to, what, make me out as a delusional nutcase? I may end up dying alone in a mental ward from cirrhosis of the liver, but I know I’m right about this.”
Writers. Always so damn dramatic. She suppressed a laugh and gave him an extra glare for making her laugh when she was irritated.
“You’re right about what?” she asked, baiting him.
“I’m right that Sylvia is trying to kill Michel. I’m right that whoever you are and whatever you’re doing, it isn’t being his fucking PR manager. I’m right that someone needs to arrest the deranged bitch before she actually succeeds in murdering him.” Brett was breathing heavily. With each statement, he’d bent closer to Lucille, stopping inches from her face. In the process, he’d dragged the sleeve of his jacket through the forgotten caprese salad, and olive oil dripped onto the spotless white tablecloth. “You’re an intelligent woman. But you’re remarkably misguided if you think whatever you’re doing will help save Michel’s goddamn life.”
Lucille boiled. She hadn’t been attacked so veheme
ntly since Simon’s trial, and the unbridled rage that had surfaced then was returning for an encore. Brett was close enough for her to kiss him or punch him, and at the moment both were likely.
The previously inattentive waiter chose that moment to arrive with what he likely felt was a casual proposition.
“Would sir and madam care to place an order?”
The vicious snarls he received in reply were, he clearly felt, entirely unwarranted, and he hurried away, no doubt thoroughly discouraged about the prospect of a good tip.
On his heels arrived the long-awaited lunch companion. She was not so easily dismissed.
“Lucille! Darling, terribly sorry I’m late. Oh, hello. Will you be joining us?” Reina Winter floated to the table in spiky, nude stilettos, wearing what resembled a burlap sack draped across her tall, thin body in cascading beige folds. Though the restaurant patrons had ignored the heated discussion between the rude man and the unobtrusive woman, every eye turned at Reina’s entrance. She had that kind of appeal. The rebuffed waiter hovered nearby, just staring at Reina.
Lucille stood, clasped the model’s outstretched hands, and kissed her on each cheek. Internally, she seethed, but externally, she snapped into professional detachment. “Reina. Not a problem. Don’t bother with Mr. Jacobs, he was just leaving.”
Reina turned to Brett, who stood glaring at Lucille. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Jacobs,” she purred, kissing him on either cheek. “I’m—”
“Reina Winter,” Brett mumbled. His face flushed and he spoke with some difficulty. No man on earth, no human on earth, was immune to Reina. Lucille, who considered herself immune to everyone, had blushed more than once in the presence of her enchanting client. That didn’t stop the stab of jealousy she felt at Brett’s reaction to Reina.
Brett turned back to Lucille. “I’ll see you later.”
Before she could protest, he strolled through the restaurant. By the door he was stopped by the nervous maître d’ who, still sweating and twitching, whispered something in the Brett’s ear. Brett nodded, scribbled his autograph on one of the starched cloth napkins, and left.
