and said,
“You fell into the moat? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Michel let go of my hand and stepped back. He raised his camera for a third time and
snapped again. “You have the most beautiful skin,” he said, lowering the camera to
show me the shot through the viewfinder.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat even more. I gave a cursory glance at
the image and my breath caught. My hair was an awful mess. I tugged at it self-consciously,
and Michel took notice. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “The wild look is all the
rage these days.”
“Michel!” someone called, and we all glanced up to see one of the male models pouting
at the photographer. “André says that we can go to lunch before the afternoon shoot.
Take me to lunch, okay?”
I barely caught the small sigh from Michel before he pushed a smile onto his handsome
features. “Of course, love. Be right with you.”
Inwardly I was surprised. My gaydar was almost as good as Gilley’s and I hadn’t caught
a hint of that from Michel. But after he excused himself and the other younger man
came to take up his hand, it was quite obvious the model was sweet on the photographer.
I glanced at some of the other young men chatting away in the hall. Not a straight
one in the bunch. Gilley was going to be in heaven. And that thought made me wonder
where he was. “You said Gil was still asleep when you came to the hospital?” I asked
Gopher.
“Yeah. I couldn’t get him to answer his phone or the door.”
I reached for Gopher’s wrist and turned it so that I could read the time on his watch.
“God, is it only noon?”
Gopher yawned. “I know, it feels more like midnight.”
The one thing about filming in all these foreign locations was that we were constantly
fighting jet lag. I saw Arthur scoot behind the counter and overheard him politely
refer to the elegant gentleman as Mr. Lefebvre. The name sounded familiar to me, and
then it hit me who he was: none other than the fabulous fashion designer André Lefebvre.
I even owned a pricey cocktail dress designed by him, but Gilley was the real fashion
horse. He loved the Lefebvre label.
It was clear that Lefebvre and Crunn were discussing the main hall as a setting, because
the designer kept holding his hands in a square, as if looking through a camera lens.
At last he seemed satisfied and Lefebvre motioned to his wife to follow him toward
the dining room, probably on their way to lunch, leaving his models to continue their
loud chitchat and gossip in the main hall.
I approached the desk, still needing to arrange a better room, when I heard a very
loud cry of alarm from somewhere up the stairs. The chatter in the main hall came
to an abrupt halt and we all turned our attention to the top of the stairs as another
high-pitched cry sounded.
I recognized that shriek and, in a panic, was about to bolt for the stairs when Gilley
suddenly burst into view and came dashing down the steps. “Taxi!” he cried. “I need
a taxi to take me to the hospital!”
Just behind him came John, and it was clear that John was trying hard to catch up
to Gil and calm him down.
All eyes in the main hall were still pinned on Gilley as he tripped and nearly tumbled
down the rest of the steps, but he caught himself in the nick of time by clutching
the railing and then he used his momentum to pull himself up and over the railing
to drop gracefully onto the stone like something out of a Jackie Chan movie. Gil was
wicked agile when he wasn’t busy stuffing his piehole. . . or complaining.
His acrobatics elicited a few gasps from the people in the hallway, but he hardly
noticed. Instead he set off like Usain Bolt, passing right by me. I even waved to
him, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Instead, as he whizzed by, I saw him nod
slightly, but he didn’t stop or slow down.
So I waited as he sped across the wide hall
“You fell into the moat? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Michel let go of my hand and stepped back. He raised his camera for a third time and
snapped again. “You have the most beautiful skin,” he said, lowering the camera to
show me the shot through the viewfinder.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat even more. I gave a cursory glance at
the image and my breath caught. My hair was an awful mess. I tugged at it self-consciously,
and Michel took notice. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “The wild look is all the
rage these days.”
“Michel!” someone called, and we all glanced up to see one of the male models pouting
at the photographer. “André says that we can go to lunch before the afternoon shoot.
Take me to lunch, okay?”
I barely caught the small sigh from Michel before he pushed a smile onto his handsome
features. “Of course, love. Be right with you.”
Inwardly I was surprised. My gaydar was almost as good as Gilley’s and I hadn’t caught
a hint of that from Michel. But after he excused himself and the other younger man
came to take up his hand, it was quite obvious the model was sweet on the photographer.
I glanced at some of the other young men chatting away in the hall. Not a straight
one in the bunch. Gilley was going to be in heaven. And that thought made me wonder
where he was. “You said Gil was still asleep when you came to the hospital?” I asked
Gopher.
“Yeah. I couldn’t get him to answer his phone or the door.”
I reached for Gopher’s wrist and turned it so that I could read the time on his watch.
“God, is it only noon?”
Gopher yawned. “I know, it feels more like midnight.”
The one thing about filming in all these foreign locations was that we were constantly
fighting jet lag. I saw Arthur scoot behind the counter and overheard him politely
refer to the elegant gentleman as Mr. Lefebvre. The name sounded familiar to me, and
then it hit me who he was: none other than the fabulous fashion designer André Lefebvre.
I even owned a pricey cocktail dress designed by him, but Gilley was the real fashion
horse. He loved the Lefebvre label.
It was clear that Lefebvre and Crunn were discussing the main hall as a setting, because
the designer kept holding his hands in a square, as if looking through a camera lens.
At last he seemed satisfied and Lefebvre motioned to his wife to follow him toward
the dining room, probably on their way to lunch, leaving his models to continue their
loud chitchat and gossip in the main hall.
I approached the desk, still needing to arrange a better room, when I heard a very
loud cry of alarm from somewhere up the stairs. The chatter in the main hall came
to an abrupt halt and we all turned our attention to the top of the stairs as another
high-pitched cry sounded.
I recognized that shriek and, in a panic, was about to bolt for the stairs when Gilley
suddenly burst into view and came dashing down the steps. “Taxi!” he cried. “I need
a taxi to take me to the hospital!”
Just behind him came John, and it was clear that John was trying hard to catch up
to Gil and calm him down.
All eyes in the main hall were still pinned on Gilley as he tripped and nearly tumbled
down the rest of the steps, but he caught himself in the nick of time by clutching
the railing and then he used his momentum to pull himself up and over the railing
to drop gracefully onto the stone like something out of a Jackie Chan movie. Gil was
wicked agile when he wasn’t busy stuffing his piehole. . . or complaining.
His acrobatics elicited a few gasps from the people in the hallway, but he hardly
noticed. Instead he set off like Usain Bolt, passing right by me. I even waved to
him, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Instead, as he whizzed by, I saw him nod
slightly, but he didn’t stop or slow down.
So I waited as he sped across the wide hall
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