My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  “What’s done can’t be undone.” Diana’s accent had been wavering between Hollywood and BBC, but settled back into Hollywood. “Surprise of the day is that Ronald Reynard is escorting me personally to the theater tonight. I’ll do something inappropriate. Spit wine in his face. Say something feminist. And that will be that.”

  “You can’t do that,” Paris hissed. “I changed my mind because Reynard Entertainment might make a movie out of Hands Off the Merchandise. I really want that.”

  Diana looked momentarily nonplussed. “Well, that’s a coup. Um, how should I play it then?”

  “You’re not playing it—”

  “Of course I am. How about I say yes to everything, sign nothing. And tell him to have his people talk to my people, thanks for the play, buh bye. Okay?”

  “You don’t even know who your people are. I mean my people.”

  “So tell me.”

  The door opened behind them. Ronald Reynard asked solicitously, “Can I be of assistance?”

  “No, no.” Diana waved an elegant hand. “Ellis knows what to do. She’s my utility infielder, you might say. Driver, assistant, bodyguard.” With only the slightest pause she added, “My grandmother is poorly.”

  Reynard expressed his sympathies, all the while drawing Diana back into the conference room.

  Just as Paris thought she had found the ability to speak, Diana sketched a parting salute and the conference room door closed with Paris still standing in the hallway.

  She couldn’t make herself go back in. Her feet refused to move in that direction. When someone came out of an adjoining office, their curious look sent Paris back to the reception area and into the elevator.

  Halfway to the ground floor she blurted out, “Now I’ll never see Hamilton!”

  The other occupant didn’t seem startled. “You and me both, mate.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Reynard’s hand at the small of her back made Diana cringe. The stage she’d set for herself was dissolving under her feet. She’d told herself that her charade wouldn’t harm Paris, might even help her. But now, clearly, there was more at stake than she’d known. Reynard was the one with the object she wanted to take, the reason she’d come here. Paris shouldn’t be the one who lost.

  Clearly, she had misread Paris. Given all the signs—the agitation and the stubborn refusal to even discuss a plan—the last eventuality Diana had expected was for Paris herself to show up. That was her own hubris, performance over-confidence. She’d tried a new move without adequate preparation and the balance beam had smacked her right between the eyes.

  For a split second she hadn’t even recognized Paris. A gray-silver suit with a royal blue Oxford shirt that set off a perfectly knotted red tie with brushed gold tie bar—Paris was as sublimely turned out as William had been at his graduation from Regent’s Park. Her short brown scruff of hair that had looked as if she’d cut it herself was now trimmed and stylish, cocky even. The exposed ears revealed two small gold studs in the right ear which matched a solo stud in the left.

  “Your driver is interesting.” Reynard sounded as if he wanted to use a different word.

  “She certainly is. She’s become part of the family. We all love her.” Don’t babble, Diana warned herself.

  “Still,” he added in that sonorous tone of speaking the final word that was already grating on her last nerve, “I prefer women like you. Who look and dress like women.”

  Paris looked like a woman, Diana nearly retorted. Sure it was a man-cut tailored suit and tie, but if a woman was wearing them, they were a woman’s clothes, weren’t they? And it looked right on Paris. She looked confident and smart. Diana pushed away the voice that whispered, “And dead sexy.”

  His thinking was just like that of coaches and judges in women’s competitions who thought a double-twisting layout was better if the gymnast was wearing lip gloss and eye shadow.

  What it really means, she thought viciously, is that women should look like he wants them to so he can decide if it’s attractive. If he can’t fantasize about her, she doesn’t look like a woman.

  She really wanted to take the Chumash Hammer, that relic he treated like a toy, take it right out from under his flabby nose.

  But she couldn’t hurt Paris to do it.

  Bugger all, this was a mess.

  That she’d said nothing in response to his comment didn’t seem odd to Reynard. He was that kind of man, Diana thought. Clever, but like many of the men in his strata that she’d met, he had a huge blind spot about women. Because some women could be acquired like bottles of wine, he thought they all could be. Their silence was of course agreement.

  All in an instant she realized why Reynard annoyed her so much. He reminded her of her father.

  Her mother was ruthlessly devoted to maintaining her social status, a trait Diana disliked. But she could humor it for the simple reason that her mother had taken toddler Diana away from a man who would have eventually broken her bones too. And over the years that followed, her mother had presented Diana with a stepfather and two half-siblings who were all very easy to love.

  Meetings with her father were always strained. His tendency toward violence when crossed seethed under every gesture, every word. Reynard set off all the same alarm bells. They’d been ringing from the moment they’d met not ten minutes ago, but his immediate disdain for Paris, a woman of no sexual or business use to him, had let her clearly hear them.

  “Now where were we?” Reynard handed Diana a fresh glass of champagne. The so-called business meeting was basically a cocktail party, and so far no one had said a serious word about future plans.

  She faked a sip at the champagne and addressed one of the other men. “John, I think—do I have your name right? There are so many of you.” Six men in all, including Reynard. The other five were here to be pleasant but certainly not to lead. She knew their names from the public organization chart, but Reynard’s introductions had been so perfunctory that she hadn’t been able to match all the names and faces. John Newsome was the head of the publishing house, that much she’d put together. “John was telling me about the latest corporate changes.”

  “Reynard House,” the dutiful John resumed, “has been newly reorganized to optimize our media group’s twenty-first century approach to the new consumer. With global opportunities that marry live arts to news and entertainment, reality programming and—”

  “Yes, yes,” Reynard interrupted. “RMG has all the tools to take Anita Topaz into the stratosphere of popularity. But we’ll need your help to do it. Think of the boost and buzz if you appeared at the next RonCon with a featured talk about writing passionately and growing brand loyalty.”

  “Do those two things go together?” She looked at Reynard over the top of her still full glass.

  “You’ll convince people they do. We have a number of pros who can work with you on the mechanics of the presentation and get it finalized in time. Don’t worry your beautiful head about that. I’m not sure I understand why you haven’t agreed. Perhaps we can sweeten the pot a little?”

  His oily regard made her tiny sip of champagne sour in her mouth. “It’s not the incentives. I know this might sound unbelievable, but I have a deathly fear of crowds. I hardly ever come into Manhattan. Public speaking is impossible. I get so overwrought that I sometimes faint. So I simply don’t do it.”

  There, she thought. I’ve tried to express Paris’s situation.

  “That’s no trouble at all at RonCon. The audience can be darkened. You’d never see them.”

  “I’d know they were there.” Diana gave him her best disarming smile. “That’s why I said no to even having this meeting at first. Though it’s lovely to be here and meet all of you, I feel like it’s under false pretense because I can’t agree to public speaking.”

  Reynard looked at her as if she were a child refusing to eat a new food. “I think if we tour the facility you’d become more comfortable.”

  She wondered if Paris had to deal with pe
ople telling her that her fears were inconsequential and easily fixed. “It wouldn’t—”

  His geniality cracked slightly. “Let’s not close the door on possibilities. I’m certain we can find a way to work together.”

  It was the minute shift in posture by two of the men that cued Diana to their discomfort. So she wasn’t mistaken about his meaning. You idiot, she thought. He’s not a man you can be alone with. What’s worse, the men who work for him know it too.

  She made a show of selecting some grapes from the buffet and putting them on a plate. It gave her a chance to put down the champagne she had no intention of drinking. “I’m terribly interested in the idea of a movie. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but Hands Off the Merchandise is my favorite book so far. It would make a great movie. All those Devil Wears Prada sets and glamorous models in the latest fashions.”

  “We agree,” dutiful John said. “We’d love your input on the essential story line that would carry a two-hour movie. It would be impossible to replicate the entire book without making it a miniseries.”

  “What about a miniseries?” Diana batted her eyelashes.

  “Miniseries are dead,” Reynard said.

  Another man, as memorable as a cotton swab, came to life. “What about as a flagship event on the release of RMG Streaming Entertainment?”

  Diana said, “What an intriguing idea.”

  Reynard scowled.

  Cotton Swab wilted.

  “Something to talk about over dinner,” Reynard pronounced. “We have reservations at The Spotted Pig. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it. How wonderful.” So they were to dine together and go to the theater together? She ought to have anticipated that, but she’d not met Reynard. Clearly, this was his idea of mixing business and pleasure. He was making it clear that money was of no consequence. Yet, like her father, she knew he would add up every dime he was spending and put it on her account. In his mind, she would owe him. Her father had wanted compliance with his choice of schools, social contacts, and living arrangements. Reynard wanted her business capitulation. He also wanted her body because he found it attractive and that meant he was entitled to it.

  No doubt he would take her back to her hotel. And then she’d have to kick him in his privates. Which would put Anita Topaz’s future—and Paris’s—at risk.

  You fool, she told herself. You bloody, stupid fool.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Paris literally did not know what to do, so she did nothing but wander. She supposed it was a blessing the train had run late and she hadn’t tried to check in at the hotel—Diana had obviously already claimed the reservation. It looked as if she’d spent quite some time getting costumed for the meeting.

  Starving actress, my eye, Paris thought, recalling the emeralds and the perfectly tailored dress. What was her game?

  Meanwhile, the hotel wouldn’t give out another key just because Paris said she was also a guest. She supposed she should be angry, but she wasn’t. Maybe she was too stunned. Or did it mean she agreed with this crazy plan? Had seeing how easily Diana was accepted as “Anita” changed her mind? Diana had said she had them in the palm of her hand, after all.

  But Diana was a fraud. If she’d lied to Lisa, to Reynard, then it was simple logic that she’d lied to Paris as well. Nothing good would come from a pile of lies.

  Park Avenue’s shadows gathered early. The Empire State Building glittered with gold and silver beauty, but her pleasure in it was dimmed by the honking of cars and constant jostling of people moving in all directions at the same time. Whichever way she turned she was going upstream.

  Weary and chilled, she let her nose follow the sharp aromas of curry and cinnamon into a warm side-street diner. The ginger dahl was filling and not too spicy, and she chased it with a decadent rice custard topped with chopped lime and toasted coconut. For a few minutes she pretended she was back in San Francisco enjoying a similar meal, comfortable in her job with just enough money to get by, future no more certain than the gaming marketplace itself.

  Food helped. Her brain slowed. She realized now it was a bad thing that she had no way to communicate with Diana—but how could she have known she’d need that phone number out of the junk drawer? And it wasn’t as if there were pay phones anymore. A quick glance around confirmed she was the only person in the diner who wasn’t also tapping at a phone. They would have to figure out a communication strategy if this plan was going to succeed.

  She snorted into her last spoonful of dessert. Was she actually considering this lunacy? She’d gone over to the Dark Side.

  Heartened by the meal and soothed by a lovely hour of quiet bliss at the Fifth Avenue public library, she walked the dozen or so blocks to the theater district, thinking she would possibly run into Diana when the play let out. One look at the crowds changed her mind, and instead she made her footsore way back to the hotel to claim her suitcase and take a seat near the elevators.

  Uneasiness crept up on her as she waited. What was taking so long? Were the staff aware of her waiting? What if she were challenged? Finger rolls kept her from fidgeting in the chair, and she distracted herself by thinking about her character Susannah and her daring plan—yet to be written—to steal information that would clear her family name.

  Just when she thought she’d have to start pacing she heard Diana’s voice. In fact, she suspected the loud laugh had been meant to carry because there was relief in Diana’s face when she spotted Paris. Reynard was with her, his hand possessively clutching her arm.

  “Ellis, you’re an angel, waiting for me.” Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Paris’s suitcase.

  “Uh, your missing bag arrived just now. Ma’am.” Paris had no idea what a driver-assistant-bodyguard would call her employer.

  “Awesome!” Diana gave Reynard a sunny smile. “Items go missing all the time, don’t they?”

  “Crime is an epidemic in this country.” Reynard finally let go of Diana’s arm, but only because Diana had leaned over as if checking the suitcase more closely.

  “They said it was misdelivered,” Paris offered. Her shirt suddenly felt itchy, and she realized it was her skin crawling. An anxiety spike bled the bright yellow and blue walls into black and white. Fortunately her vision steadied, but only after a long, deep breath she hoped neither of them noticed.

  “Just one of those things. Happily resolved.” Diana, who had moved closer to Paris, favored Reynard with another smile of beaming pleasure. “It has been a spectacular evening. I’m incredibly grateful.” She put out her hand, palm down.

  To Paris’s amazement, Reynard made a show of kissing Diana’s hand with a half bow. “My Queen, the pleasure has been all mine.”

  Paris swallowed down a queasy pulse in her stomach.

  “As fabulous as this day has been, the crowds were very large and I’m exhausted. Beauty sleep must be had.”

  Reynard hadn’t let go of Diana’s hand. “You won’t forget about brunch tomorrow?”

  “Of course not. I’m looking forward to it and meeting your charming daughter. I’ve heard so much about her.” She relaxed any grip she may have had on him and Reynard had to let go of her.

  Turning to Paris, Diana said, “Are the accommodations to your liking?”

  She didn’t know quite what to say. “Yes, certainly.” She realized that Reynard was still within earshot, and he was watching them closely. “Ma’am,” she added belatedly as she rang for the elevator.

  They were thankfully alone as it bore them upward.

  “I gather that went well,” Paris observed.

  “Too well.” There was chagrin in Diana’s voice. “I’d forgotten about men of a certain age. His charming daughter is older than I am.”

  The oddness about him holding onto Diana’s hand so long clicked into place. “He wants to sleep with you.”

  “He sees something he wants, he expects to get it then and there. That you showed up helped snap that assumption.” She fervently added, “I
was so glad to see you.”

  “And you did the rest with body language,” Paris mused. Everything from the set of her shoulders to the grip of her fingers. Had she ever given the women in her books such subtlety? “Where did you learn to do that? I wouldn’t have a clue.”

  Diana looked at her oddly, but the doors opened and she led the way to the end of the floor. “You didn’t get a separate room, did you? This suite has two bedrooms. We could play polo in it.”

  “I didn’t want my name in the hotel records. In case…”

  Diana had flipped the lights on to reveal a spacious living room, all in ivory and gold brocade. In addition to two sofas and several side chairs there was a fully stocked bar and a burnished mahogany table that would seat six. The curtains had been pulled back to show off the view of an adjacent roof garden lit up with strings of white lights. Their glow faded into the sparkling skyline of Midtown. Directly in front of the window was a fainting couch covered in gold velvet.

  “Wowza.” Now that they were away from Reynard, Paris’s anxiety abated. So much so that she could picture Diana lounging seductively on the couch. Stop that, she told herself, or you’re no better than the slimy guy. “This could be a film set.”

  “I need a shower.” Diana’s face paled and fine lines appeared around her mouth. “I’ve been on for hours. He took me out after the play for drinks with no food so I’m buzzed and not in a good way. My back is killing me. Can we wait to talk until I’ve cleaned up? I know you want to talk.”

  That was putting it mildly. Even as she told herself that Diana’s stiff movements could be an act, and that Diana/Fiona/Anita had lied about everything, Paris set aside her objections and questions for the moment. “Yes, okay.”

  Paris stood staring at the bedroom door on the right, now closed behind Diana, then rolled her suitcase into the bedroom on the left. Don’t unpack, she told herself. It makes this normal.

  None of this was normal.