it.
Meanwhile, he had his own fire to put out. He grabbed the phone and called Mecca’s legal department. The head secretary answered.
“Clarisse, can you get me the name of a good investigator? I need to know anything and everything about a certain disqualified contestant named Nadia Romanoff.”
The sore-headed, pretty loser would not get the better of him. If she was looking for a tussle, she’d find one. No one was completely clean. If she brought down, she tumbled along with him every step of the way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JILLIAN STOOD WITH the other two contestants, along with the billionaire and the film crew, at the center of the Piazza San Marco. Gazing around her in awe at the beauty of Venice, she felt as if she’d entered a time warp. Gone were the glass-and-steel skyscrapers, replaced by byzantine, gothic and renaissance wonders. She was as far removed from Hollywood as she could get.
Even the air smelled different. A gentle breeze wafted from the canal, carrying with it a watery, pungent smell, hinting of deep mysteries and soulful dalliances.
Jillian sighed. Venice was meant for lovers.
Blake’s voice interrupted her musings. “Troy, stand out of camera range. Okay, girls, time for the fountain shoot.”
His midnight blue shirt emphasized his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The outline of his strong, muscular thighs in the coal black jeans turned Jillian’s mouth to sawdust. This man was meant to be loved, and Venice was the right place to do it.
Unfortunately, Blake’s no-nonsense voice said it all. She was only an object to be decorated and placed at his disposal. Though it was her own fault she’d landed in this mess, she still felt ridiculous standing in the fuzzy, black mule slippers and plunging leopard-skin nightie and matching thong. The gathering mob of show watchers and tourists gawked and got an eyeful. From now on she must remember not to volunteer for anything.
“Yeek.”
An agonized shriek, followed by a rustle of wings, startled Jillian. When she spied the reason for the commotion, she stifled a smile.
In her eagerness to get to the fountain and pose in her almost transparent, pink baby-doll nightie with the matching fur-trimmed neck, Ms. 44D had rousted an ensconced flock of pigeons. One pigeon, taking exception, had issued a strong protest right on top of Ms. 44D’s beehive.
“Oh, my God, pigeon poop. Get it off of me,” she screamed.
Larry, the hairdresser rushed forward to inspect the damage, then shook his head. “This will take time to repair,” he pronounced.
“Can’t you just wipe it off?” Blake said.
Larry stepped back in shock. “I will not be associated with such defacement.”
“You’re on my payroll. Fix it and fast.”
Maxine thrust her already overblown chest out further. “That proves it. You don’t want me to look good,” she whined.
Had Nadia confided in her? Though every day Jillian had expected calamity to strike, so far all had remained silent on the malcontent’s front. She suspected that like a volcano, lava was gathering beneath the surface ready to explode and spill out.
Blake shot Ms. 44D a quelling look. “Don’t say that too loud, unless you want your fraternizing with Troy to come out as well.”
Jillian bit back a smile as Ms. 44D snuck a guilty look at the billionaire, then clamped her Botoxed mouth shut. It was uncanny how Blake knew everything that went on.
Larry reached for his squirt bottle, poured water on a cloth, then carefully swiped Ms. 44D’s beehive. The offending blotch spread further on the platinum. Shaking his head, he poured water on another section of the towel, repeated the process, and fluffed at her hair here and there. After more ministrations, he finally reached into his kit, withdrew a large hand mirror and held it up for Ms. 44D’s inspection. “There, my lovely. You look as good as new,” he murmured.
He was right. Every lock stood exactly where it should be. The man knew
Meanwhile, he had his own fire to put out. He grabbed the phone and called Mecca’s legal department. The head secretary answered.
“Clarisse, can you get me the name of a good investigator? I need to know anything and everything about a certain disqualified contestant named Nadia Romanoff.”
The sore-headed, pretty loser would not get the better of him. If she was looking for a tussle, she’d find one. No one was completely clean. If she brought down, she tumbled along with him every step of the way.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JILLIAN STOOD WITH the other two contestants, along with the billionaire and the film crew, at the center of the Piazza San Marco. Gazing around her in awe at the beauty of Venice, she felt as if she’d entered a time warp. Gone were the glass-and-steel skyscrapers, replaced by byzantine, gothic and renaissance wonders. She was as far removed from Hollywood as she could get.
Even the air smelled different. A gentle breeze wafted from the canal, carrying with it a watery, pungent smell, hinting of deep mysteries and soulful dalliances.
Jillian sighed. Venice was meant for lovers.
Blake’s voice interrupted her musings. “Troy, stand out of camera range. Okay, girls, time for the fountain shoot.”
His midnight blue shirt emphasized his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The outline of his strong, muscular thighs in the coal black jeans turned Jillian’s mouth to sawdust. This man was meant to be loved, and Venice was the right place to do it.
Unfortunately, Blake’s no-nonsense voice said it all. She was only an object to be decorated and placed at his disposal. Though it was her own fault she’d landed in this mess, she still felt ridiculous standing in the fuzzy, black mule slippers and plunging leopard-skin nightie and matching thong. The gathering mob of show watchers and tourists gawked and got an eyeful. From now on she must remember not to volunteer for anything.
“Yeek.”
An agonized shriek, followed by a rustle of wings, startled Jillian. When she spied the reason for the commotion, she stifled a smile.
In her eagerness to get to the fountain and pose in her almost transparent, pink baby-doll nightie with the matching fur-trimmed neck, Ms. 44D had rousted an ensconced flock of pigeons. One pigeon, taking exception, had issued a strong protest right on top of Ms. 44D’s beehive.
“Oh, my God, pigeon poop. Get it off of me,” she screamed.
Larry, the hairdresser rushed forward to inspect the damage, then shook his head. “This will take time to repair,” he pronounced.
“Can’t you just wipe it off?” Blake said.
Larry stepped back in shock. “I will not be associated with such defacement.”
“You’re on my payroll. Fix it and fast.”
Maxine thrust her already overblown chest out further. “That proves it. You don’t want me to look good,” she whined.
Had Nadia confided in her? Though every day Jillian had expected calamity to strike, so far all had remained silent on the malcontent’s front. She suspected that like a volcano, lava was gathering beneath the surface ready to explode and spill out.
Blake shot Ms. 44D a quelling look. “Don’t say that too loud, unless you want your fraternizing with Troy to come out as well.”
Jillian bit back a smile as Ms. 44D snuck a guilty look at the billionaire, then clamped her Botoxed mouth shut. It was uncanny how Blake knew everything that went on.
Larry reached for his squirt bottle, poured water on a cloth, then carefully swiped Ms. 44D’s beehive. The offending blotch spread further on the platinum. Shaking his head, he poured water on another section of the towel, repeated the process, and fluffed at her hair here and there. After more ministrations, he finally reached into his kit, withdrew a large hand mirror and held it up for Ms. 44D’s inspection. “There, my lovely. You look as good as new,” he murmured.
He was right. Every lock stood exactly where it should be. The man knew
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
