My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Diana said. “I need to sleep. We’ll settle it in the morning.”

  Paris turned to face her, but whatever words she had thought to say froze in her throat. In her mind she was closing the distance between them to capture Diana’s face between her hands so she could kiss the upturned mouth.

  What is wrong with me? Kissing women she didn’t know in some hormonal conflagration had never been her thing, let alone courting the real possibility of getting punched in response. Diana might be but little, but she was fierce.

  With a tremor of panic that Diana might read her thoughts, she said, “I’ll go to bed too.”

  She bolted for her bedroom and stood behind the closed door, eyes screwed shut until she heard the other bedroom door close.

  She paced for a while and went through the motions of getting ready for bed, even though she felt far too wound up to sleep. This is what she got for trying to level up her life—a case of the weak knees for a chameleon madwoman. Fortunately, her body recognized stress-driven exhaustion. Had it only been this morning that she’d boarded the train? Nothing had gone as planned from that moment on.

  With the curtains drawn the room was completely dark. The vent blowing warm air became a soothing white noise. The sheets were cool and crisp and the pillow felt wonderful against her cheek. She was asleep in a moment.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A gentle touch to her shoulder woke Paris from a murky fragmented dream of Susannah running from toilet-plunger wielding rabbits through vineyards in Tuscany. The gate to safety was always at the end of the next row of vines, but Susannah didn’t have any magic unicorn dust and was all out of hit points.

  The touch came again and she sat up with a gasp. Then clutched her sheets to her naked chest.

  Diana looked like a small, cross elf on a bad hair day. Her faded maroon T-shirt bore the white letters To Sleep Perchance to Dream. “We have about forty-five minutes to get to brunch. I had no idea I’d sleep this late.”

  Paris blinked at the bedside clock. It was nearly eleven. “I never sleep late,” she said even though it was patently obvious that she had done just that.

  “Look.” Diana’s voice was hoarse with tension. “We can either not show up and I’ll call the restaurant and let them pass on the word, and then we split town. Or we can go to brunch and see this through. I’ll forget all about the job, it doesn’t matter. See through convincing them how wonderful a movie deal would be while they stop asking for personal appearances. And then we’re free to leave. Just because Reynard is paying for the room tonight doesn’t mean we have to stay.”

  Paris was intensely aware of Diana’s thin T-shirt and how much it didn’t obscure. All she could manage was, “Um.”

  Diana yanked back the curtains and slapped a hand over her eyes. Sunlight streamed in, making what was under the thin T-shirt even more noticeable. Paris stole a long moment to admire the graceful lines of Diana’s body then looked away before Diana caught her. “You’re not a morning person?”

  “I’m not a blinded by the light person.” Diana disappeared into the living room and returned with a can of Red Bull. “Caffeine. Come on, caffeine.”

  “I would give all my fame for a pot of coffee,” Paris misquoted, adding wryly, “and safety.”

  “It is way too early in my day to deal with Shakespeare.” Diana took another long swallow from the can. “Coffee takes too long. I’ll get you one of these.” The moment Diana disappeared from sight, Paris leaped from the bed and yanked open the closet door. She tied the hotel robe closed just in time.

  Diana tossed her the energy drink. “We have a performance in forty-two minutes and counting.”

  “I haven’t had one of these in forever. I used to live on them.” Paris gratefully popped open the can and drank about half in two long gulps. It tasted like all-nighters, long meetings and burnt popcorn. “Is that what it is? A performance? And we haven’t decided if we’re going.”

  “Okay, decide.” Diana went to the window and Paris studied her back. “What do you want?”

  She wanted to be able to trust that Diana was…Diana. She wanted Diana to look at her again. She wanted to find out what made them both laugh. All of which were too complicated and too scary.

  She knew better what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to ever explain to anyone at Reynard House that the woman they’d met wasn’t Anita Topaz after all. They weren’t the kind of people to laugh it off. “You promise you’ve given up the idea of taking the hammer you’re after?”

  Diana didn’t turn. “I’ve given up on getting it. I don’t want anything to interfere with Anita Topaz’s future. Your future.”

  “But you want to go ahead with the impersonation part.”

  “Movie deal, remember?”

  Paris grimaced. “I remember.” She’d been ready for her own Storming the Office Building quest. Steeled herself to cope with her own affairs. Part of her was weak and stupid, thinking that Diana would be the better warrior to send into this particular battle. “This is madness.”

  “It could work. Work out really well.”

  “Okay.” She felt slightly faint. “If you promise no stealing anything.”

  “I promise.” Diana dropped her empty can into the trash. “Shower time.”

  All through her shower Paris regretted her decision. She was taking way, way too much on faith. Toweling her hair dry she told herself it would only take one phone call to end the whole charade. She could pack up and go home. Get an agent and bury herself in the stories of her own choosing. That was literally the best decision she could make.

  It meant saying goodbye to Diana. Who was chaos and confusion and nothing but complications, none of which mattered whenever she was close to her. What was it about Diana that kept her from focusing on the real issues, in the real world, involving real people? Did she even know Diana’s real name for a certainty? No, she didn’t. Why wasn’t she anxious about that?

  Instead, she worried that her new designer slacks and button-up under a cashmere pullover weren’t right for a power brunch. Great, she was nervous about her clothes. But not about Diana playing the role of Anita Topaz for the likes of Ronald Reynard.

  Diana called out, “About ready?”

  She stepped nervously into view. “Am I okay for Sunday brunch?”

  Diana was waiting for her at the door. Finally, for the first time since waking their eyes fully met and locked. It didn’t matter that Diana was again sporting the blond French braid and that her eyes were now blue. Something in those eyes made Paris hungry and more than a little dizzy.

  “Yes,” Diana said finally. “You are okay for Sunday brunch.”

  Paris gestured at Diana’s sleeveless, belted shirtwaist dress patterned with Van Gogh sunflowers. Her blue high-heeled pumps had small gold stars across the toes. “You look okay for a Sunday brunch too.”

  “Thank you.” Diana led the way toward the elevator bank. “We can do this. It’ll be fine.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Paris gestured for Diana to precede her into the empty car.

  “Knock off the ma’am thing. Call me Anita. I told him that you were practically a member of the family.”

  “Anita, I think we’re both crazy.”

  “Possibly.” Her lips, lavishly red, twitched into a smile. “I’m used to being crazy all by myself, so this is a nice change.”

  Paris laughed to cover the fascinated chill of watching Diana become someone else as the elevator doors opened. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, even the way she looked at Paris with a friendly distance—she was not Diana anymore.

  Diana’s “Anita” smile for the mustachioed bellman was broad and immediate, deceptively unguarded. “How can we get to Salazar’s as quickly as possible?”

  “It’s two blocks,” the bellman advised her. “Perhaps three minutes.”

  “So faster to walk?” Paris confirmed.

  “It truly is and it’s a beautiful morning out there. Sprin
gtime in New York and it’s warm, even. Turn right out the door, then left at the first block.” He hustled to open the door for them.

  She glanced down at Diana’s shoes. The little stars caught the light, making it hard not to watch. “Can you walk in those?”

  Diana slid sleek, bright red sunglasses onto her nose as she breezed past Paris. “I know how to walk.”

  “I’m talking about the shoes.” The bright sunlight made Paris wish she’d thought to bring sunglasses as well.

  Diana gave her an over-the-shoulder look that Paris couldn’t decipher. “So am I. I’ll show you when we’re not in a hurry.”

  Diana plunged through the clusters of people crowding the sidewalk, leaving Paris to admire the alluring sway of Diana’s hips and the powerful flex of her calf muscles. Other people noticed Diana as she passed, some with a look of wondering if she were someone famous. She walked that way—head up, shoulders back and seemingly unaware of anyone else’s notice.

  They turned at the first corner where the sidewalk was far less crowded and it was easy to walk side-by-side. “And this isn’t what you meant by showing me your walk?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You learned that in acting school?”

  “No, I learned it walking a four-inch wide beam of wood—and watching Maggie Smith movies. She could be quite the vamp when necessary. She’s more my stature than Audrey Hepburn. I make do.”

  Yes, Paris thought, she made do. She was suddenly afraid of what might show in her face. “Are we sure I’m invited to this shindig?” As if that was the most perilous part of the outing.

  “Who cares? You will not, under any circumstances, leave me alone with him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise me.”

  “I promise.” Paris wanted to hold her hand. This was a crazy, bizarre game, but they were in it together now, weren’t they? “Do you know anything about his daughter? Isn’t she going to be there?”

  “Supposed to be, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s a no-show. Just his kind of move.” Diana’s annoyance was obvious. “I looked her up before I got here. She’s thirty-four and an only child. Second-in-command of the entire media group.”

  “So the heir apparent to this highly lucrative empire?”

  “She already runs the cable network group. Her mother, who was a model, died years ago. Heather got Daddy’s genes big-time. Tall, big shoulders.”

  “Can’t be easy being his daughter. And no doubt a succession of temporary so-called mothers.”

  “I don’t know about that.” In spite of their quick pace, Diana wasn’t even breathing hard. “It’s hard to know what family life was like. She went to boarding school, that I read. As for him, social media photos show a new woman on his arm every month, and he likes them young. None of them seem to ever stay around for long.”

  “That makes me want gloves when we shake hands. I mean—do the math.”

  “I have,” Diana said grimly. “It’s creepy.”

  They turned the corner, coming within sight of the restaurant marquee. “Sounds like you know his type way too well.”

  Diana sighed. “He reminds me of my father. And I’ve met his type more than once.”

  More proof that Paris knew nothing about Diana’s background. The trust fund meant money, and the clothes and social aplomb meant status. She’d been fooling herself, thinking she was beginning to know this woman.

  Chapter Twenty

  Diana appreciated the cool breeze. It took a step and a half of hers to every step of Paris’s, and in heels it was closer to two. She didn’t want to arrive in a sweaty mess.

  As they covered the last few yards to the restaurant, the breeze lifted into view a green and red flag in front of Salazar’s. It was centered by a contented white sheep with a glass of wine in one hoof and a pale lavender stemmed blossom in the other. The sidewalk directly outside was crowded with clusters of people waiting for tables.

  She caught Paris’s arm before they wound their way to the door.

  “Let’s catch our breath. We can afford fifteen seconds.” She’d had enough stage practice to have perfected a few mental triggers that brought calm before a performance. Paris brought something else to the energy of the setting, like acting a part with a brand-new understudy. Unpredictable, skill level unknown.

  Paris had closed her eyes, and within a few seconds her face relaxed. Lines of worry around the firm mouth and long-lashed eyes eased. Unable to stop herself, Diana followed the line of Paris’s jaw to her throat where the skin looked so very soft. Belatedly she realized that Paris had caught Diana’s rapt gaze. Heat rose between them as Paris gave her a look of unflinching vulnerability that took Diana’s breath away.

  Paris swallowed hard, then her lips curved up slightly. “Ready?”

  She used Anita’s slightly breathless voice and generic Hollywood accent. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Paris blinked. “That’s unnerving. I’m never sure who you are.”

  It was too late to ask her what she meant, but Diana supposed she already knew. When a job was afoot it didn’t bother her to be a changeling. It was one of her best skills and she reveled in it. But she wanted to tell Paris not to worry—not to worry about what? That she wasn’t a lie? When she’d told Paris only some of the truth? There were still a lot of lies.

  She had never felt less prepared to make an entrance. She almost forgot to maintain her Hollywood voice as she gave the tall, brown-skinned hostess her name.

  The restaurant was long and narrow, with a tight path between white-draped tables. Paris touched her elbow with her fingertips. Instead of steadying Diana, the light contact fractured her focus. All her maturity, her professionalism—gone in less than a heartbeat. Paris’s nearness grew more devastating with every second that passed.

  What had happened to the woman who could tell her body, “Tumbling Run Two” and then simply do it? Run, fly, spin, flip-cartwheel-layout-flip, foot-foot, and dismount. She should shake off the contact but she couldn’t make herself do it.

  She wanted more.

  Paris murmured, “Something smells good. I’m starving.”

  “We’re not here for the food.” She spoke more sharply than she intended.

  Quietly, in her ear, Paris said, “I know that.”

  Goose bumps prickled across the nape of her neck. Diana attempted to calm herself by studying the decor. Skillful murals of the Mediterranean countryside brightened the walls. She liked that the chairs were eclectic, some metallic gold, others wood, some with tapestry seats and others with tied-on cushions as if their hosts had collected chairs from multiple houses for a large family celebration. The effect was simultaneously classy and homey.

  Paris was right, there was a wonderful smell of oranges and roasted peppers in the air. Her focus would steady once she had some food. She enviously eyed an espresso on a table they passed. Her stomach growled—and then she saw Ronald Reynard.

  He was scanning his phone with quick grimaces and stabbing at the device as if it were to blame for his displeasure. She had made a promise to Paris, but the moment Diana saw his face she wanted to harm him. Not physically, though the thought of slipping laxative powder into his tea had an appeal.

  One of her favorite aspects of a job was being both the director and the stage manager who knew everybody’s lines. She liked being in charge of how the scenes would play out. Right now she was in charge of diddly-poo and she hated the feeling. Paris wasn’t in charge either, and Diana was never going to let Reynard or his ilk be in charge. So what exactly was running the show now? Sheer luck?

  She wasn’t ready for this scene. Paris’s touch at her elbow was all that kept her from fleeing. Too late—Reynard had seen them.

  The phone disappeared into his breast pocket. Though it was a struggle to raise his bulk quickly, Reynard rose to greet Diana with utmost courtesy. His manner was infuriatingly proprietary. There was no sign of his daughter.

  “A pleasure, Ronald. You r
emember Ellis of course. Is Heather not joining us?”

  His nod to Paris was perfunctory. “She’s running late. An old friend is in an important tennis match and Heather is very loyal.”

  “Terrific. I’m so looking forward to meeting her. What a charming spot you’ve discovered.” She glanced at the nearby empty tables, all marked reserved. “Is there a party arriving?”

  “I prefer not to have anyone close enough to eavesdrop.” With a flash of almost genuine charm he added, “Or notice that I’ve ordered two of the rib eyes. Which I recommend.”

  Paris forestalled Diana’s third reminder that she was vegetarian by saying, “Is that what smells so wonderful?”

  “Everything here is magnificent. I have a fondness for Basque food,” he admitted. “From my maternal grandmother’s side of the family.” He launched into a pat speech about the old family farm halfway between Bilbao and Biarritz, overlooking the Bay of Biscay. World War Two resistance fighters had changed the family name from Azeria to Reynard in solidarity with their French neighbors.

  It sounded to Diana like myth-making at its finest, a practice of the nouveau riche and of dusty monied families alike. Her father doted upon specious bloodlines to polish his already upper crust credentials. Reynard used the humble origins of his grandfather to make his brash, lavish riches all the more remarkable. Neither of them was capable of ever being satisfied with who they already were by birth and by their own effort. Neither would ever look around them and think, “This is enough.”

  She was momentarily swamped by a flood of affection and homesickness. Her visit home to grab a wardrobe appropriate to Anita Topaz had been too brief. Her mother and stepfather had their flaws, but lack of love and compassion weren’t among them.

  “I come to this place for its intersection of the French obsession for fresh ingredients and the Spanish love of spice,” Reynard was concluding. “I’ve already inquired and they have St. George’s mushrooms today. They’re not to be missed.”

  A waiter was already hovering, eager to explain the chef’s special dishes and offer sangria made with Graciano wine, lime, and blood oranges. It sounded delicious, but she was annoyed at Reynard’s presumptive order of a pitcher “for the table.”