into her porcelain face, hiding the famous cheekbones
and to die for coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes. She leaned back,
stretched out the long, well-toned legs of her five foot ten inch
frame, and turned into a little girl. Despite the no-smoking rule,
the room smelled as though nicotine was part of the faded gray
wallpaper and made her feel dirty. "What do I do,
Nikki?"
Nicole ran her hand over
the straight honey blonde hair that dusted the shoulders of her red
jacket. She continued pacing, a petite, taut bundle of energy that
became a caged animal in a crisis. She snapped her fingers over and
over as her ice blue eyes searched the heavens for an answer. "We
need damage control, big time, Des. The piranha are already
circling and you've just dumped a bucket of blood in the water.
What did you expect?"
Desmona buried her head in
her hands. "Fine, whatever. How much?"
"How much
what?"
"To make this all go away.
How much will it cost? Ballpark. You know what? I don't care. Just
write the damn check."
Nicole pulled out a chair
and sat down opposite her. She reached across the table and lifted
Desmona's chin so that it was facing hers. The ice blues turned
soft as her hands. "I don't think I can make it go away, Des.
You're too big. You are Hollywood."
"You can spin anything,
Nikki. You did it for Roddy O'Hara last summer."
"Roddy already had a
reputation and a police record going back twenty years. You're Snow
White and Cinderella wrapped into one. You make Marie Osmond look
like a slut. No amount of money is going to buy people off this
one. You know the rule; Hollywood worships success but roots for
failure. And no one can fall farther in this town than you right
now. You may as well be the New Year's Eve ball in Times
Square."
Desmona wiped a tear from
her eye. "Just spin it, Nikki. Tell them I had an allergic reaction
to some medication when I drank a glass of wine."
Nicole rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, that's original. They'll buy that. Side effects include,
nausea, vomiting, and firing miniature quiches like Nolan Ryan
fastballs across one of Hollywood's classiest restaurants." Nicole
stood up and started pacing again.
Desmona knew she was
right, but there was also the question of The Part . The one that might finally
break her typecast. At twenty-eight, playing the virgin was getting
a little…old. "Have you heard anything from the studio?"
Her agent immediately
looked away. "Not yet, but I know I will."
Desmona felt her eyes well
up. "I cannot lose that part, Nikki, I just can't. It's got another Oscar
written all over it."
The agent looked at her
watch and changed the subject. "Look, the cops have been very
accommodating but won't let us stay here forever. And you know the
'razzi aren't going anywhere. So we might as well get this over
with." Nicole reached down into a shopping bag and pulled out a
wide brimmed woman's hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses, then
placed them on the table. "This will help."
"They'll know it's
me."
"Nothing I can do about
that, Des. You've got one of the most famous faces on the planet.
I've got the Navigator so you can hide in the back. You just have
to get ten feet from the door to the car."
"My hair's a
mess."
"That's the least of your
problems, Des."
Desmona put on the
disguise, stood up, and headed for the door. "Take me home, Nikki.
Just take me home."
***
The Vulture, being only
five feet four inches tall on a good day, liked lofty perches to
survey her prey. Her thirty year old body had spent enough days
being battered by the rest of the 'razzi, who were mostly
overweight men. Manners, of course, were non-existent in her
particular field. When she picked up a camera, she wasn't a woman
anymore, just a sexless shark in a feeding frenzy who often got
stepped on by those twice her size. Shoving angry photogs out of
the way when you only had one hundred and ten pounds to play with
wasn't terribly effective. Position, in her case, was more
important than strength when it
and to die for coffee-with-a-little-cream eyes. She leaned back,
stretched out the long, well-toned legs of her five foot ten inch
frame, and turned into a little girl. Despite the no-smoking rule,
the room smelled as though nicotine was part of the faded gray
wallpaper and made her feel dirty. "What do I do,
Nikki?"
Nicole ran her hand over
the straight honey blonde hair that dusted the shoulders of her red
jacket. She continued pacing, a petite, taut bundle of energy that
became a caged animal in a crisis. She snapped her fingers over and
over as her ice blue eyes searched the heavens for an answer. "We
need damage control, big time, Des. The piranha are already
circling and you've just dumped a bucket of blood in the water.
What did you expect?"
Desmona buried her head in
her hands. "Fine, whatever. How much?"
"How much
what?"
"To make this all go away.
How much will it cost? Ballpark. You know what? I don't care. Just
write the damn check."
Nicole pulled out a chair
and sat down opposite her. She reached across the table and lifted
Desmona's chin so that it was facing hers. The ice blues turned
soft as her hands. "I don't think I can make it go away, Des.
You're too big. You are Hollywood."
"You can spin anything,
Nikki. You did it for Roddy O'Hara last summer."
"Roddy already had a
reputation and a police record going back twenty years. You're Snow
White and Cinderella wrapped into one. You make Marie Osmond look
like a slut. No amount of money is going to buy people off this
one. You know the rule; Hollywood worships success but roots for
failure. And no one can fall farther in this town than you right
now. You may as well be the New Year's Eve ball in Times
Square."
Desmona wiped a tear from
her eye. "Just spin it, Nikki. Tell them I had an allergic reaction
to some medication when I drank a glass of wine."
Nicole rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, that's original. They'll buy that. Side effects include,
nausea, vomiting, and firing miniature quiches like Nolan Ryan
fastballs across one of Hollywood's classiest restaurants." Nicole
stood up and started pacing again.
Desmona knew she was
right, but there was also the question of The Part . The one that might finally
break her typecast. At twenty-eight, playing the virgin was getting
a little…old. "Have you heard anything from the studio?"
Her agent immediately
looked away. "Not yet, but I know I will."
Desmona felt her eyes well
up. "I cannot lose that part, Nikki, I just can't. It's got another Oscar
written all over it."
The agent looked at her
watch and changed the subject. "Look, the cops have been very
accommodating but won't let us stay here forever. And you know the
'razzi aren't going anywhere. So we might as well get this over
with." Nicole reached down into a shopping bag and pulled out a
wide brimmed woman's hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses, then
placed them on the table. "This will help."
"They'll know it's
me."
"Nothing I can do about
that, Des. You've got one of the most famous faces on the planet.
I've got the Navigator so you can hide in the back. You just have
to get ten feet from the door to the car."
"My hair's a
mess."
"That's the least of your
problems, Des."
Desmona put on the
disguise, stood up, and headed for the door. "Take me home, Nikki.
Just take me home."
***
The Vulture, being only
five feet four inches tall on a good day, liked lofty perches to
survey her prey. Her thirty year old body had spent enough days
being battered by the rest of the 'razzi, who were mostly
overweight men. Manners, of course, were non-existent in her
particular field. When she picked up a camera, she wasn't a woman
anymore, just a sexless shark in a feeding frenzy who often got
stepped on by those twice her size. Shoving angry photogs out of
the way when you only had one hundred and ten pounds to play with
wasn't terribly effective. Position, in her case, was more
important than strength when it
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