| |
Michel fucking Polce, Lucille thought as his hand closed around hers. Of course she knew who he was—she doubted there was anyone left in the world who didn’t. He was an internationally acclaimed, award-winning actor, director, screenwriter, producer, musician, designer, and all around media darling. He’d once hosted a reality TV show and all the contestants were eliminated in the first episode after spending the entire time fawning over him. Last year he’d published a book that was just half naked photos of himself and it’d been an overnight, runaway bestseller.
Of course, Lucille knew all this second hand. She’d never read, seen, or heard any of his work. She didn’t have that kind of time.
But she knew a profitable client when she saw one, and Michel reeked of money, fame, and desperation. His black tux was custom made, his diamond-studded gold watch handcrafted. Everything about him spoke of outrageous amounts of disposable income. Broad and muscular, he had a physique no one as busy as him could achieve.
He doesn’t need to work out. With the kind of money he makes, he could pay someone to work out for him.
This was not the time to think about his beautiful, perfect body. Something was upsetting Michel, something he’d come to her for help with. Her only interest in the man was what he needed from her and how much that assistance was worth.
“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?” Lucille suggested in a soft purr. The balcony was too exposed for the kind of discussion they were about to have.
Michel’s gaze flicked around the space before he replied. “Right, yes. I have a suite,” he stated, as if having a room at the most expensive, exclusive hotel in the city was a given.
Lucille led the way out of the ballroom. When they reached the elevator, she turned to discover Michel had donned a black mask that covered half of his face like some sort of swashbuckling pirate. She raised her eyebrow at him.
“So no one will recognize me,” he whispered.
Lucille’s eyebrow crept higher.
“It worked on the way in.”
People in this town are dumber than I thought. The elevator crept higher. “I thought you owned a house in Hills, Mr. Polce?”
Michel shifted. “I do. Of late it has become...convenient for me to keep a room here too.”
Now Lucille’s curiosity was on high alert. She had to know what had turned this suave megastar into a nervous wreck. And if that meant spending time alone with him in a hotel suite, then so be it.
It wasn’t, in the basic sense of the word, a suite. A suite would have been a downgrade. Michel was staying in one of four exclusive apartments reserved for the uber rich, royalty, the president, and the pope. On the fortieth floor, they were admitted into a short hallway. Michel hurried her to his room, his eyes scanning the area. The door stuck, however, and required a hefty shove before it yielded enough to let them in. Once inside, Lucille saw the door’s reluctance to open was the result of someone having shoved a large armchair in its way. This was not the only eccentricity, either. The whole room was, in fact, barricaded from within. The seating area had been stripped of all furniture save a solid black coffee table. A leather couch was wedged in the entrance to the adjoining bedroom. In front of each floor-length French door sat a white armchair, blocking access to the patio and its stunning city skyline view. A leather loveseat had been dragged inexplicably in front of the huge TV screen on the left-hand wall. Directly to the right of where she stood was a marble bar, the only part of the room that hadn’t been dismantled.
Lucille took note of this with bland interest. Michel was insane; most of her clients were. Now it was a matter of seeing whether his insanity was something she could work with.
“Expecting someone, Mr. Polce?” she asked.
“Please, call me Michel,” he said, ignoring her question. He was checking beneath the couches, behind the curtains, and even under the bar, in a methodical frenzy.
“Hmm.” Lucille nodded.
Michel paused, his head almost under a chair, and turned to meet her eye. He flushed and asked, “Would you care for a drink, Ms. Anton?”
“Lucille. Club soda with lemon. Thank you.” As she spoke, she strolled to one of the bar stools. It was bolted to the floor, which explained why it hadn’t been sacrificed to the barricade. She never drank during client meetings. Alcohol loosened the tongue, something she counted on but couldn’t indulge in. As she sat, she crossed one leg over the other, stretching the tight dress to its limit. This caused the Spanx to press on her bladder. She uncrossed her leg. This was not a situation in which she felt she could leave her new client alone, even to use the bathroom. “Shall we get started? I’d like to know where you heard of me.”
Michel slid behind the bar and, with a flourish, poured her drink and a generous glass of whiskey for himself. As Lucille took a small sip from her glass, Michel downed his in one long swig and poured another. He met her gaze with deep brown, intense eyes.
“You must get a lot of solicitations.”
She shrugged. He went on.
“Which is curious, because no one knows who you are or how to find you. How do you manage that kind of anonymity?” He went on without an answer. “No, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets. You see, I’ve found myself in an...awkward situation of late.”
He paused, staring at nothing. “Raphael knows. He told me to find you and that you could help me. But he didn’t elaborate, so I’m intrigued—what is it you do?”
Lucille waited to see if he’d keep talking. When he didn’t, she launched into her speech. “I’m a sort of spin doctor, but for celebrities. My clients are people who’ve done or said something they want to hide, and that’s where I come in. I help them with the cover up, I manage their media image, and I protect their reputation.”
Michel’s eyes lit up as she spoke, and he leaned toward her. “Yes! That’s what I need.”
There was more, a whole history of how her Uncle Simon had started the business to meet the need for personalized celebrity image protection services, how stars had flocked to him, and now her, to guard them from their own career-threatening mistakes. We make lying, cheating, nut-job celebrities look like caring, well-intentioned individuals. I am, in fact, a miracle worker, she didn’t say.
“Great. Now why don’t you tell me more about your difficult situation and I’ll tell you how I can help.”
Michel’s smile slid from his face. He deflated against the bar. “I’m afraid it isn’t a simple one. The situation is...complicated.”
“I’ll decide that.” Lucille was rarely rattled after eight years of such confessions.
Michel took a deep, exaggerated breath, the movement causing a piece of dark hair to fall over his eyes. “Two years ago, my life changed forever when I saw Sylvia Stanton. I was meeting with my producer to protest the title change of my third film, when in glides Sylvia, sweeping through the building like Athena riding into battle—terrifying and breathtaking.”
Christ, actors.
He went on to depict Sylvia in precise sensory detail. Everything from the curl of her hair beside her left earlobe to the little sigh she gave when she put on a new pair of shoes. As Michel spoke, he paced the room, lost in memory. He described the first year and a half of their relationship in explicit detail. How inseparable and in love they were. How generous, kind, and supportive Sylvia was. How many times they’d banged on the side table in the entryway. Lucille cut him short when he launched into an exposition of how Sylvia tasted. She couldn’t stomach it.
She resisted the temptation to look Sylvia Stanton up on her phone. Perhaps there were two women by that name. The Sylvia she knew of was spoiled, selfish, and obsessed with personal monetary gain.
“That all changed,” Michel went on, a frown clouding his wistful recollections.
Here it comes.
“The moment I realized what she was.”
A colossal bitch?
“She’s trying to kill me.”
Lucille choked on a sip of club soda. She forced herself to swallow, her eyes tearing as the carbonation caught in her throat. Swallowing again, she held back a cough, though the effort caused a few tears to fall. She wiped them away, hoping Michel hadn’t noticed.
He hadn’t. He was still talking, his back to her as he pulled aside a gauzy white curtain to stare into the dark night beyond.
“I can hardly believe it myself,” he was saying.
“What did you say?” Lucille croaked.
“My fiancée is trying to kill me. Has been for some time.” He spoke with flat detachment, devoid of his usual embellishment.
“But, what do you mean, she’s trying to kill you?” She was asking dumb questions but couldn’t help it. It wasn’t every day a celebrity, and potential client, informed her that his fiancée wanted to murder him. “What’s happened? What’s she done?”
Michel turned to look at her, seeming to assess her, before continuing in the same flat, emotionless voice. “At first it might have been an accident. When I’m working on a film, I roam around the house with little heed to my surroundings. One afternoon, while acting out some dialogue, I tripped over Sylvia’s suitcase, which had been left at the top of the stairs. I might have fallen down all forty-six stone steps, breaking my neck and each bone in my body on the way, but I grabbed the railing just in time. When I told Sylvia about it later, she apologized profusely and then was silent, sullen even, the rest of the night. Sylvia never stops talking, you see. I suppose I’ll never know if that one was an accident or not, but I assure you, the next incident was intentional.” He paused.
“Go on.”
“I was walking through my gardens at the time cinematographers call the ‘magic hour.’ That last moment before the sun disappears beyond the horizon. When the sky glows red, orange, purple, and gold. Before the evening settles in with calm, graying dusk. I wandered slowly among the flowers as they prepared to close for the night. I paused to inspect a particularly vibrant leopard lily. From the periphery of my eye, I caught the flash of a camera. I straightened to get a better look. No sooner had I moved than a fifty-pound stone bust catapulted to the ground right where my head had been, taking the unsuspecting lily with it.”
Lucille realized she’d been holding her breath, and exhaled slowly. She gulped her remaining drink, wishing it was whiskey, as she tried to think of how to respond.
Michel hadn’t finished. “Since then, she’s tried to poison and electrocute me as well.”
“But how do you know she’s the one doing this?”
“She hasn’t exactly been subtle. She’s never around when these things happen. And she’s the only one who knows my creative process and the house well enough to set up these ‘accidents.’”
Lucille stood, smoothed her dress, took a breath, and headed for the door. “Mr. Polce, I’m not sure what Raphael told you, but I don’t cover up murders.”
“Lucille—please don’t leave.” Michel grabbed her arm as she walked past him. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re about to tell me you took matters into your own hands and murdered Miss Stanton. I’m saying I don’t want any part in it.”
Michel released her and frowned. “Kill Sylvia? Why would I kill Sylvia?”
Wait, what? “You haven’t?”
“Never. I’d never kill her or hurt her or leave her. I love her,” Michel said passionately.
“Oh.” She exhaled in relief. This was a crazy she could handle.
“Lucille, how could you think I could... You thought I wanted you to...” The unspoken words hung in the air between them.
“Oh no, not at all! I’m sorry, I misunderstood you. Of course you wouldn’t, couldn’t, do such a thing.” Lucille gave him her most dazzling smile.
Michel relaxed. Then his shoulders slumped more and he sighed. “That was Raphael’s reaction, too. He told me I should go straight to the police.”
Lucille asked why the hell he hadn’t.
“If only I could! But I can’t do that to Sylvia, I can’t have her arrested. I love her too much.” In the dim light of the room, Michel appeared tired and haggard. Beneath his cultivated façade, dark circles stood out under each eye and weary lines framed his mouth.
Neither spoke. Michel seemed to be trying not to cry. He stared through the window to the bright city lights beyond.
Lucille was trying to come up with a plan. Of all the celebrities she’d handled, all of the drug problems and weird fetishes, nothing came close to the story Michel told. Now he was crying in front of her. Should she call the police? Or a therapist? Should she comfort him or tell him to stop the delusion and face reality? None of the options seemed appropriate for dealing with an emotionally unhinged celebrity she’d just met. And none of them would get her the job.
She went for the obvious. “What if she kills you?”
Michel sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face as he turned to Lucille. His eyes were red and a little puffy. “I have thought of that. Which is why I’m going to confront her, tell her what I know, and ask her to stop doing it.”
“You haven’t tried that already?”
“I couldn’t find the words.”
I bet. “But you think it’ll work.”
“What other choice do I have?” His voice broke.
Lucille could think of a whole list of choices but didn’t share them. Although he hadn’t directly said so, Michel obviously didn’t have a death wish; otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned his hotel room into a fortress. But that was his problem. She wasn’t being hired to save his life.
“So, what is it you want from me?”
Michel crossed the room and sat on the adjacent stool, facing her. “I wasn’t sure at first, not knowing much about you. But now it’s all coming together. You see, last week, Sylvia cut the brakes in my Ferrari. I hit a bush, totaled the car, yet emerged unharmed. My name, however, was slandered by the media.” His voice was animated and hopeful as he recounted the traumatic incident. “I was accused of driving drunk, high, or both. Sylvia’s murderous plots won’t be contained to our property forever. With my new film coming out, I can’t lose fans over a falsely diagnosed drinking problem. Therefore, until I can convince her to stop trying to murder me, I want you to keep all this a secret. You protect Raphael’s reputation—no small task. I want you to do the same for me.”
That was when the pounding and shouting began.
They both jumped, the intensity broken.
Lucille expected, given his psychotic reorganization of the room, that Michel would handle the intruder with equally profound derangement. Instead, Michel broke off his wild-eyed panic and frowned at the door.
“That voice...” he mumbled to himself.
She watched in shock and horror, certain she was about to see Michel cut down at the height of his career, as he strolled to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. A slovenly dressed man crashed into the suite.
“A period piece, no less!” the man shouted in a rousing finale.