My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

If the ruse was found out, well, Reynard didn’t seem the forgiving type. He seemed like a lecherous bully, and they shouldn’t be playing games with that kind of man. They should leave. Now.

  At least that’s what common sense dictated.

  She ordered room service.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There was little that a hot shower couldn’t make better, Diana decided. The Tylenol-3 would take a little while to kick in, but the steaming hot water immediately took her back pain from vivid red to a bearable yellow. She wanted more than anything to tumble into the luxurious bed with the soft sheets and sleep for twelve hours.

  That wasn’t going to happen. Even through a layer of silky shampoo suds and luxurious soap, she was certain she could feel waves of Paris’s anger and disapproval. Fine kettle of fish this was, indeed.

  She scrubbed harder. Reynard made her feel dirty and everywhere he’d fondled her arm was soiled. Part of her would happily abandon her private mission. Every encounter with the man was going to be about as pleasant as a stroll through a sewer.

  Part of her was even more determined to do something, anything to thumb her nose in his face. Even better if he never knew it, which was her style. She didn’t think her father had ever missed the Sami stone bowl he’d occasionally used to put out a cigar. It was how, at every compulsory meeting with him, she had been able to smile and ignore his threats. Some day she’d go to Sweden and visit it in its new home where it was treated with respect.

  But taking a swipe at Reynard, however deserved, put Paris at risk. The Chumash Hammer, so old and so delicate, wasn’t worth mucking up Paris’s life. Paris would have to agree to going forward with the plan to take it, and that was bloody unlikely. Diana’s priorities could hardly matter to Paris, and why would Paris do anything to jeopardize a movie deal?

  If she didn’t tell Paris her real objective, could she convince Paris to at least let her go on pretending to be Anita for the rest of the weekend? Convince Paris to go home and leave it alone? Could she get another meeting with Reynard, this time in his office, where the Chumash Hammer might be on a shelf? Or in a display case? It wasn’t as if a lock would stop her if she had enough time. Was any of that possible without also being groped—or worse—by the man?

  She scrubbed harder.

  What could she offer Paris that would assure her that the ruse couldn’t harm her? Nothing plausible. Paris was no fool. And she didn’t want to fool Paris anymore.

  She hadn’t come to any decisions even after she wrapped herself in one of the thick hotel bathrobes and toweled her hair until it stood on end.

  It was a shock, as she looked at herself in the brightly lit mirror, to realize that it had been years since another human being had seen her naked of makeup and not in a carefully chosen costume. Even with her family she was who they wanted her to be. Light and fun, athletic, pretty and clever. Biddable, until she took off for parts unknown for weeks on end.

  So used to seeing her eyes with colored contacts she peered closer and wondered if the basic brown had gotten darker over the last couple of years. Were her freckles more vivid as well?

  The longer she looked in the mirror the more she replayed that moment when she’d seen Paris in the conference room. She’d been horrified. And then deeply, stunningly pleased. A hot flush had headed south from her heart. Just remembering it woke up the sensation again.

  No man in an Armani suit had ever made her feel as if a spotlight had illuminated sheltered, deep places, places she’d decided didn’t exist for her. Places this woman could reach. She searched her eyes again for a clue for what it meant, but had to turn away from the disquieting feeling that she didn’t know the woman in the mirror.

  She couldn’t go on hiding in the bathroom. She had set a job in motion. Nothing else should matter. The safest course of action would be to convince Paris she could go home. Go home and let Diana take care of Reynard.

  Convince her to leave, she told herself again.

  Except she didn’t want to.

  She belted the robe more tightly and felt absolutely naked.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Paris lost track of time as she looked down at the soothing, mesmerizing patterns of cars crisscrossing Fifth Avenue. Her clue that Diana had rejoined her was a patch of white in the window reflection, which turned out to be a hotel robe.

  “The light in there is too darned good. New wrinkles,” Diana announced.

  Turning from the window, Paris began, “Is that what you think we have to talk—”

  Diana had brown eyes. Short, wavy brown hair.

  Her freckles were more visible than ever. In bare feet she couldn’t have been taller than five feet or so. In the robe it was clear that the rest of her, all the muscles and simple curves, was quite real.

  For a long moment Paris had no breath at all. Every time she laid eyes on Diana she was a different woman, and it was dizzying. Why wasn’t she worried? But it didn’t worry her—it was fascinating.

  Fascinations can be fatal, she warned herself.

  Diana was shaking her head. “No, it was a shock is all. There’s horrible lighting where I’m living now.”

  Paris knew a distraction when she heard one. “Tell me the truth, Fiona.”

  Diana’s eyes widened. “Lisa told you my stage name? Fiona Mahoney.”

  Stage name? Damn. That was plausible. “Why did you tell me ‘Diana’?”

  “I was startled. You have two names.”

  Diana had a positive gift for making Paris feel as if she were being unreasonable. “So what was your plan here? You lie to Reynard for the weekend, and then what?”

  “I told you. This was too good to pass up.” Diana’s back was to the window now, and she looked even smaller with robe sleeves dangling well past her hands. “And I figured I could convince them that I’m not their girl when it comes to publicity.”

  “You mean Anita isn’t their girl—and how are you convincing them of that? Looking like a million bucks, being charming and flirty?”

  “I looked okay?”

  “Like you don’t know that every time you look in the mirror?”

  “I’m not supposed to know. Modesty and all that.”

  At this rate Paris was certain she was going to give herself an eye roll headache. “Exactly how is Reynard supposed to find your rendition of Anita unpalatable?

  “I read up on him first. I thought I would do the falling-down-drunk thing, but I can’t afford to be vulnerable to that man. No woman should be.” Diana seemed to search for words. “I miscalculated. I am thinking now if I start saying ‘patriarchy this’ and ‘misogyny that’ he might lose interest without it being disastrous. For you.”

  “I’m glad you’re finally thinking about me.”

  Diana’s gaze never left Paris’s face, but she said nothing.

  “So your name really is Diana?”

  “Yes. Diana. Diana Beckinsale.”

  “You’re not Irish. Not from Derry. That whole accent and story was fake. Where are you really from?”

  “Kent. Well, near there.” At Paris’s continuing look of non-comprehension she added, “South of London, about halfway to Dover.”

  Paris felt herself relaxing, as if somehow everything was okay. But it wasn’t. Diana had a knack for making her behavior sound perfectly reasonable. And yet a powerful, unscrupulous businessman thought Diana was Anita Topaz, and he thought Paris—who was Anita Topaz—was Anita’s hired help. How did there get to be so many lies in such a short time?

  Diana stepped further into the light, her disarming spray of freckles stark against pale skin. Her soft brown eyes were remarkable not in their color but in their depths. She was nothing like the siren Anita or the lass Fiona. Something else. More dangerous, Paris thought.

  “I didn’t think he’d be so… So… Jabba—”

  “—the Hut,” Paris finished.

  “Like he was going to lick my face any minute. I get why you don’t want to deal.”

  “That’s not
why, actually. It’s not like he’s ever going to want to lick my face.”

  Diana flushed. “Probably not. I’d guess you’re exactly the kind of woman that makes him feel inadequate, and that’s all your fault.”

  Paris had to agree. “He looked at me like I was unnatural. Trust me, though. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve gotten that look.”

  “I’m sorry,” Diana blurted out. She pushed back the drapes to expose even more of the view. Her back to Paris, she continued, “I didn’t mean to do anything to make you worried. I thought you’d find out after the fact that they’d decided to leave you alone. If they mentioned the pleasure of meeting you, you’d probably figure it was me and you wouldn’t be able to find me…” Her voice got very quiet. “It wouldn’t do any harm. I didn’t think that part through, I guess. I just wanted…”

  She turned from the view with a gesture. “I just wanted all of this for a couple of nights. Not to worry about money and have a hot, hot shower. God, it was a religious experience. And see Hamilton. It was brilliant.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Paris reminded her crossly. She had reason to be angry, she thought, and it seemed very important to be angry about, well, something.

  “I didn’t think you wanted to.”

  “You really have no idea what I want,” Paris snapped.

  “That’s quite clear to me now. I am sorry.” She sighed, then brightened. “Where did you get this smashing suit?”

  “I think it’s more to the point where a starving actress got her clothes. And jewelry.” There, she was proud of herself for finally asking something that mattered.

  Diana hesitated.

  Remembering Lisa’s comment about the emeralds, Paris insisted, “The truth. You’re not here to live free for a few days.”

  “I went home for the clothes. And to visit family. I always have the emeralds with me.”

  “You had that dress at home?” It had looked as if it were sewn on her, and Paris was now well aware how much hand-tailoring cost.

  “Yes. And a few others that were suitable upmarket corporate chic. The emeralds were my father’s mother’s.”

  “So you’re not a starving actress and your parents don’t really want you to be a dental hygienist.”

  Diana shrugged as if every part of this conversation was normal for her. “My father’s views are of no consequence. My mother would be both pleased and horrified if I did something conventional.”

  Why horrified? Paris didn’t know where to start. It was a different part of her that asked, “You like the suit?”

  Diana cocked her head, her gaze traveling over Paris’s body. “Very dashing. You were the best dressed person in pants in that room. You put the men to shame.”

  “I’m not a man.”

  With a fervent edge Paris didn’t know how to interpret, Diana breathed out, “I know that.”

  A knock at the door startled them both.

  “I ordered food,” Paris explained as she went to answer it. “You seemed… I’m hungry.”

  “Me too.” Diana pulled her robe more tightly around her as she stepped out of view from the door. “For the record, Anita Topaz eats like a bird. Reynard eats like a toddler. Gobbles down what he likes and picks at the rest like someone put veg in it.”

  Paris pulled the door open.

  Ronald Reynard stood there, a bottle of champagne in one hand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Diana heard Paris’s startled intake of breath and instinctively backed further out of sight.

  “Is Ms. Topaz available?”

  Bugger all, it was Reynard. As lightly as possible she bolted for her bedroom, closed the door quietly and dashed into the bathroom. Towel, she needed a towel. They were enormous—maybe he’d think it was all the long blond hair he thought she had. She’d have to squint and keep some distance because there was simply no time to put in contacts. Paris shouldn’t have to deal with him. She’d gotten them into this mess.

  The lecherous wanker.

  She wrapped the towel around the back of her head, twisted it in the front and tucked the ends. The weight of it set her back to jangling in distress. She quickly patted her cheekbones with cold cream. Back at the bedroom door she focused on using her Hollywood accent before calling out, “Is there someone at the door?”

  There was no audible answer.

  Showtime. She began rubbing the cold cream into one cheek and reentered the living room.

  Reynard had made it a few feet past the door already. His chest was puffed out, and he loomed over Paris in a way meant to force her to step back. He grinned when Diana came into his line of sight.

  Paris was saying, “I’m quite certain she’s retired for the evening.”

  Reynard gestured at her, which made Paris turn to look.

  “Ronald?” She crossed about half of the distance to the door, still rubbing in cold cream. “Oh dear, you’ve caught me out in my beauty secrets.”

  Very smoothly he explained, “I recalled you saying you hadn’t visited The Big Apple before. I wanted to drop this off to welcome you. And make sure the accommodations were to your liking.”

  Paris had moved away from Reynard, but Diana couldn’t risk a look at her.

  “This suite is simply beautiful. Ellis and I are extremely comfortable.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it.” He made no attempt to withdraw.

  Diana kept massaging cold cream into her cheeks. “Really, your administrative staff did a great job.”

  “Only the best for the best.”

  Paris suddenly came to life, moving in between Reynard and Diana. She held out her hand for the champagne. “May I?”

  “Oh yes.” Diana half turned away from Reynard. “Please put it in the refrigerator, Ellis. Thank you Ronald. It was so thoughtful.”

  A clatter from the hallway followed by a quiet knock on the door drew all their attention.

  Paris cleared her throat. “That’ll be room service. I ordered the soup you like.”

  “Thank you.” Diana couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  The uniformed waiter gave them all a cheerful greeting and wheeled the long cart across the room, where he efficiently moved covered plates onto the table, added napkins and cutlery for two, then finished by decanting sparkling bottled water into two frosted glasses.

  Reynard blustered. “If I’d realized you were hungry we could have gone to Sardi’s for steaks after the theater. The evening in New York is just getting started.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” she reminded him. She’d told him at dinner when he’d offered her a steak then as well. Apparently, she thought sourly, steaks and champagne were his aphrodisiacs of choice. She held up her cold cream smeared hands. “As you can see, it was time for repairs. And I am truly exhausted.”

  A tight pulse in his neck put the lie to his gentlemanly tones. “Then it’s time for me to say good night.”

  She sketched a wave. “Until tomorrow.”

  Paris had signed the bill for the waiter and opened the door so he could be on his way. She continued to stand next to the open door, looking at Reynard expectantly.

  Good heavens, Diana thought, did the man not understand that he literally was being shown the door?

  It seemed to Diana that for just a moment Reynard was going to approach her, attempt to touch her in some way. Alas, a dollop of cold cream chose that precise moment to drip from her hand onto the floor. He kept his distance and tipped an invisible hat. “Until tomorrow.”

  He breezed past Paris and she let the door quietly click behind him.

  Diana’s arms felt like lead weights. She dragged the heavy towel off her head and used it to wipe the cold cream off her face. A delicious aroma was filling the room and she zoomed toward the table. “Thank you for ordering food. I’m famished.”

  Paris said from behind her, “I don’t believe this is about a free weekend. I’d like the truth this time.”

  “I was only trying—”

  “I cou
ld have gotten rid of him.”

  “I wasn’t sure. He’s going to be the persistent type.” She lifted the covers from the dishes. “That smell is making me faint. Tomato soup for two? And grilled cheese?” Diana eased herself onto one of the chairs, and her back immediately felt better. Too much standing, and in heels. Seizing a sandwich half, she dunked a corner into the steaming bowl of soup she’d pulled toward her. She was chewing before Paris had even sat down. “Brilliant. I’m going to live, I think.”

  Paris picked up half of her sandwich. “You can keep changing the subject, but I’m not going to stop asking for the truth. You’re not a starving actress.”

  “What do you think I am, then?” She immediately regretted the question, but she felt drunk on soup and cheese.

  “I don’t know. You say you’re unemployed but you wear couture and real emeralds.” She set the sandwich down again, untasted. “If this were one of my stories you’d be a jewel thief.”

  Diana coughed in mid-swallow and grabbed up a glass of water.

  Paris gaped. “No, dear lord, tell me you’re not.”

  She coughed again and managed to say more or less steadily, “I’m not a jewel thief.” Not the way Paris meant, anyway. And to her horror, she heard the half-lie in her own voice.

  “What have you gotten me mixed up in?” Paris looked wary and disappointed, mournful almost. Like she was beyond anger. “Whatever it is, I’m a pawn. I know that.”

  There was raw pain in Paris’s voice and Diana again saw in her mind’s eye the image of the wary, wounded dog she’d first compared Paris to. A wave of guilt washed over her. She was piling onto whatever it was that had beaten this smart, creative woman down so hard. She hardly knew Paris and she still wanted to tell her the truth. Yet, in all the annals of thievery, no thief ever said it was a good idea to tell anyone.

  And that was what she was, a thief. Just not jewels. Well, the Fijian wooden tiki had had small pearls embedded for eyes, but they weren’t technically jewels.

  Focus, she warned herself. You can’t tell her the truth.

  But she didn’t want more lies between them. It had been such a short time and there were already so many lies. She couldn’t add to the list, not when a low, burning turmoil in the pit of her stomach, growing by the minute, told her that Paris might be the source of a surprising revelation.