The trouble with being on a yacht, Tina Calvert had decided, was that the salt air made you hungry all the time and jogging wasn’t really practical—there wasn’t quite enough space to run around freely. Besides, the deck was slippy half the time.
So after days of binge-scarfing out of pure boredom, you were in danger of having to be forklifted off the effing ship once it finally docked somewhere. She had weighed less than one hundred pounds since she was in her late teens and she was determined to keep it that way. Of course, what’s-her-name—Delphine, the fitness guru or whatever—held daily yoga sessions but it wasn’t the same, was it? Tina would choose Pilates any day—less B.S., more workout.
Considering it was a ship that had everything else, including a wine cellar and even a teensy movie theater, it was downright odd there was no fitness center, not even so much as a treadmill.
Generally, Tina liked to burn up extra calories with vigorous sessions of sex but Romero was about a thousand years older than she was and it really wasn’t working out—so to speak. She would never tell anyone that, of course, because just being in the company of such a famous guy was fantastic for her career, but, like, on a personal level? Meh. She might as well adopt a cat or something for all the affection or anything else she got from Romero. She didn’t even have a diamond necklace or something, like, tangible to show for her trouble. And here he was reputed to be such a ladies’ man. Well, back in the day, maybe.
She was at her dressing table in the cabin she shared with him, looking down at her hands and pondering her fate. The nail polish—wasn’t it just a little too peachy-orangey to go with her coloring? Redheads had to be so careful about that sort of thing. With a sigh, she twisted the top off a bottle of polish remover, pulled a cotton ball from her makeup kit, and went to work. She would just have time to apply the tomato-red polish and have it dry before for dinner. Romero was on deck, doing something vaguely nautical, giving her room to get dressed. It was easier for men, wasn’t it? He just threw on a cravat and a jacket and announced he was ready to party. While she—
Dammit. The red wasn’t working, either, not with the violet-blue dress. It needed something more purplish, but this was all she had. The minute they landed or docked or whatever it was you called it in Podunk Village, she would see if they had something like a manicurist. Probably in one of the big hotels—you could just see those huge old buildings, ranged above the harbor—they would have a salon. Her hair could use a trim, too, and some dark gold highlights, but she would die rather than entrust her hair to anyone outside of New York. Just, like, die. With the screen test coming up back home—no way could she risk it. It would be nothing less than career suicide. There was a reason Phillipe could get away with the insane amounts he charged.
However—and she was stilled for a moment by the thought—there was Maurice. Technically, he was quasi-retired and it would be a sort of busman’s holiday for him but certainly, as he was right here on board with nothing to do, and she was so famous, or soon to be—well, surely, this would not be an imposition. Not that she cared overmuch if it was an imposition. It was, looked at the right way, like doing him a favor. Maurice was close in age to Romero, and certainly, she was doing Romero a favor to be seen hanging on his arm. It would be sort of the same deal with Maurice.
Good old Maurice. He was not exactly a has-been but he had been a stylist for Margot Browne, for God’s sake, and if that didn’t date a person, what would? Margot had to be edging close to sixty, and it was sort of a wonder she could still breathe, much less tag along on this trip pestering the hell out of Romero and generally getting in the way. She, Tina, would never understand why Romero had not just put his foot down in the first place, but Romero could be such a softie.
The unintended pun made her smile, and, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Tina was struck again by her own loveliness. She stopped to gaze raptly at the almond-shaped eyes, the polished arch of brow, the adorably clefted chin. Yes, why pretend? She was spectacular and she knew it. And she knew how to work it to her advantage. Her confidence in her looks had carried her this far and it would carry her over the top, yes it would.
As to talent, well, look how far Margot Browne, the old has-been, had got without having any talent to speak of. Tina knew she needed a few acting lessons, but really, the money might be better spent on an orthodontist for invisible braces to wear when she was not on camera. That one tooth in the front crossed just a bit. Romero claimed it was part of her appeal—that winsome, crooked smile—but really, perfection, when it was just within reach, was so much better. So why not go for it?
She waited for her nails to dry, thinking how much more pleasant this voyage would have been without Margot. She was always there somehow, trailing her scarves and shawls, hanging about the deck and then lunging at Romero the second she spotted him. She wanted so desperately to be in this film of his and anybody—anybody—could have told her that was never going to happen. At least she had the sense not to wear a bathing suit, so everyone was spared the sight. She’d sit by the pool wrapped to the eyeballs, claiming she was allergic to sunlight, which fooled absolutely no one.
That boyfriend of hers, or whatever he was. That Jake person. Her boy toy? It really was hard to say what was going on there. They acted more like mother and son. Looked it, too. Anyway, there was potential there, if it was true that sexuality was something that existed on, like, a scale. He was amazing, with his dark, smoldering looks, just as amazing as she was, and if Romero didn’t shape up, well, Jake would do nicely as a place to land while she thought through her next move. Jake didn’t have anything like Romero’s stature, of course, but the only thing that mattered was that she not be photographed alone at the Oscars or somewhere like that, only to appear later in People or Us, mooching around the edges of the red carpet like some loo-ser who couldn’t get a date. Stars sometimes brought along some old geezer from their family—the fans ate that stuff up, particularly when men brought their moms—but no one had ever seen Tina’s family and that was not about to change now. She had shaken the dust of Texas off her boots a long time ago, and there was no going back.
Oh no. The light had changed, and now she could see the dark blue eye shadow was all wrong. Way too sparkly and trailer-trashy. She dipped a small brush in makeup remover and dabbed it along the crease of her eyes, erasing the excess. It was a trick she’d picked up from Maurice—well, from watching one of his videos on YouTube. There. Now she didn’t look so much like her sister.
She hadn’t thought of Peggy in years. Stuck back there on some ranch in Texas with three kids, each one more homely than the last, trapped in a trailer with that doofus she’d dated in high school. Peggy liked to send photos by text message, as if Tina could somehow be persuaded to show a sisterly interest in that no-talent brood. Beyond thinking how much Peggy owed her, all familial ties were about nonexistent. She, Tina, had single-handedly kept their creepy stepfather away from her baby sister so she could have something approaching a normal life. And there the family debt ended, as far as Tina was concerned. Reminders were certainly not welcome.
She sat back in her chair, critically surveying the emerging perfection in the mirror. There was one other male possibility on board, that Baron Whatsit, but he and his baroness looked to be pretty tight. Still, if Tina put her mind to it, the baroness would be packing her bags before she knew what hit her, and headed back to … wherever it was she came from. They were both a bit vague about that—she’d asked him when they’d first boarded, and he’d murmured something that sounded vaguely German. Romero had told her he’d met the pair in a casino in Monte Carlo. They’d hit it off, so he’d invited them to join him on the cruise. They were freeloaders, in Tina’s estimation, but Romero was such a sucker for the nobility.
The baron might do for her needs in a pinch, Tina decided. He had the looks, and a title. Wowzer. And he was about the right age—she was getting a bit tired of this geriatric gig. Romero was sixty, for God’s sake. Yes, the baron was definitely something to keep in mind. Maybe the baroness would fall overboard. That would be nice.
Or Margot would. That would be equally nice, and more likely to happen, since she was in the bag half the time, anyway.
There was the sound of a knock followed by a door opening—it was probably Romero, come to collect her for the party. She turned in her chair, kilowatt smile at the ready. Keep him happy, for now.
But it was only Delphine, the cruise maven or whatever. Apart from leading yoga classes each day, it was difficult to say what Delphine did. From the look of her, all long legs and blond ponytail, she might think she was in the running for Romero’s affections. Fat chance. Tina Calvert alone would decide who her replacement would be.
“I’m just dropping this off,” Delphine said, placing a small shopping bag on the floor by the vanity. It had a logo on it, a big red L. “As promised. Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
“I know. I’m just waiting for Romero. It’s funny he’s not here. He’s always on time.” She decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind this little yoga person that long legs or no long legs, Romero was miles out of her league. “For me, anyway, he’s always on time. He can’t stand to be away from me for a minute. It’s endearing, really.” Here, a conspiratorial wink: the women were close in age, both in their early thirties. “Older men can be so needy.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t wait if I were you,” said Delphine. “I just saw him talking with the chef. They seemed to be in—well, they were having quite a heart-to-heart.” Actually, they looked like they were about to come to blows. The chef was temperamental—artistic, sure, but not in a good way. Sometimes a beautiful creation offset all the chaos from which it emerged, but not in Zaki’s case. He was a highly strung scoundrel, unable to keep his mouth shut—just to name the biggest things wrong with him. Delphine had learned to tiptoe very carefully around Zaki, and to leave him out of the loop wherever possible. “Anyway, Maurice is in the lounge already, having a cocktail. So you’ll have company while you wait. It might be a while.”
Tina was thinking she was always her own best company. She stared at Delphine with distaste, for Tina didn’t like being upstaged in the “I Know Romero Best” competition. It was a narrow look that would quell most people living at the yoga-instructor level—a look Tina had perfected at the start of her career. “Feisty” was the word reviewers most often used to describe Tina. One treasured review had called her a petite virago—she’d had to look it up, but decided that overall, it had been a compliment.
Delphine stared straight back, calm and unfazed, smoothing her ponytail over one shoulder. She could have told Tina she’d soon be on her way out of Romero’s revolving door—Delphine had been around long enough to spot the signs. He’d had nearly enough of Tina’s fatuous self-absorption. He’d find a role for Tina and she’d be gone before she knew it.
But Delphine decided to leave all that to Romero. He was so good at it—so experienced.
Hiding a smile, Delphine closed the cabin door behind her with a solid click.