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Lucille skipped the film screening. She never attended screenings or concerts, preferring to concentrate on her client’s unscripted public moments. Leave the other events to the PR specialists. They could handle the red carpet and the press interviews. Lucille would show up where she was most needed—at the after-party.
It took most of the day for her to get over her anger with Simon and Noah, catch up on her endless barrage of messages, and prepare for the evening ahead. Her client was the film’s director. Normally, she didn’t work with directors. They weren’t as easily recognized as the actors and therefore didn’t appear in the types of publications she leaked stories to. This director was different. He had a terrible habit of accepting bribes from up-and-coming actors in front of at least half a dozen media personal and industry rivals. During their first meeting, he’d explained at length how he only accepted monetary bribes and everyone did it so why should he be persecuted? Lucille, with great effort, held her tongue and agreed to spin the scandal for him. Provided he started using more caution and did what everyone else did, which was to accept the money in private.
Someday, she might get to be more selective in her choice of clients again. Someday when the business had fully recovered from her departure and Simon’s reputation. Not today.
She timed her arrival at the club to coincide with a sizable influx of guests. The media and paparazzi, distracted by big-name attendees, didn’t notice her slip through the door. The color of the season was blush, and so she wore blush, effectively blending in with the crowd. Those who wanted to stand out wore daring colors, those who wanted to be on trend wore the trend. Lucille didn’t ever want to stand out, but if she ever met this year’s trendsetter, she was going to have some harsh words about the color blush.
The party took over the entire club. The entrance led into a large reception area, lit in soft blues and purples and decorated in white and, of course, blush. Couches and armchairs were clustered together to create intimate seating along the walls. Waiters passed trays of appetizers and glasses of champagne. The mood on this level was seductive, charming, relaxing. Cocktail tables dotted the center of the space, and Lucille was not at all happy to discover her dress matched the table linens.
As she strolled around the room, sipping on soda water, she cataloged those present. A couple of current clients, a few celebrities she personally thought could use her services, and a lot of people she didn’t know in the slightest. An unsurprising gathering.
She reached a glittering white staircase and descended to the dance floor below. On this level, the vibe changed. Many of the guests were dancing, others grouped around the bar, laughing and staking their claim on the easy access to drinks. A DJ played techno remixes of pop songs and the celebrities put on a show of having a great time.
Her client wasn’t hard to spot. He stood at the center of one of the bar side clusters, talking out of his ass, the group hanging on his every word. As she watched from her inconspicuous spot against the wall, he literally accepted a check from one of the men in the group, looked at it, folded it, and grinned. He slapped the guy on the back and told him, loudly, to report to the studio on Monday. The whole interaction was filmed by another member of the group who, like just about everyone, knew how to take a video on a smartphone.
Whether it was her still smoldering anger with Simon and Noah and their terrible decisions or that she was experiencing a change of heart about representing misogynistic dicks, she was done. Her brain chatted away at her, telling her all the ways she could spin the video into a crowd-pleasing, humanitarian act of goodwill, but dammit, she didn’t want to. She fumed. The guy hadn’t listened to one word she said. One moment, he said he’d be more discreet and the next, he was standing in the middle of a crowd at the premiere party for his movie, accepting money in full view of a hundred witnesses, in direct contradiction to everything she told him. Sure, she could spin it. She’d gotten celebrities out of stickier situations. But this one, for whatever reason, she didn’t give a shit about.
Lucille kept her body language calm and relaxed as she ascended the staircase and made for the door. Before she could make her escape, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her into one of the dimly lit corners. “What the fuck?” she said, ready to land a punch on whoever dared to manhandle her. When she saw it was Noah, her desire to commit body harm didn’t decrease one bit.
“Noah. What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed at him.
Yes, she noticed he looked amazing in his black, glittering tuxedo. Lucille had only seen one other man who could rock a tux the way Noah rocked his and that man was currently on an island with her ex-boyfriend.
Yet, unlike Michel’s show-stopping ensembles, Noah looked exactly as a spin doctor should, stylish yet utterly forgettable. At least to anyone who wasn’t her.
All of this she noted without breaking her glare. The last thing she needed was for him to think she found him attractive.
Noah glanced around at the other guests. “Not here. We need somewhere private. Does this place have some sort of super-secluded alcove?”
Lucille didn’t need to check out the space around her to know a room full of celebrities, even a loud party where everyone was drunk, was never the place to talk. And the indignant yelling she planned to do would not only be observed, it would be remarked on, photographed, and possibly filmed if she were particularly unlucky. So, instead of the snarky retort she wanted to make, she said, “Not that I know of. I doubt I’ve been here much longer than you have.”
Noah, still checking out the area, said, “We can’t leave. There has to be somewhere...”
Suddenly, he grabbed her hand and said, “Come on.”
Lucille wrenched her hand from his grasp like she didn’t want to get burned because let’s face it. I don’t want to get burned. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
His head turned in her direction, but he didn’t say anything. He led the way through the crowd, gracefully avoiding the groups of chatting and drinking gaiety. At one point, a young woman who Lucille thought looked vaguely familiar in a grown-up child star sort of way, tripped and went crashing into Noah as he passed. He caught the woman, righted her, and gave her a panty-dropping grin. She smiled back at him and he told her something before continuing on his way.
Lucille took a wide arc around the teetering starlet, feeling sulky. Something about Noah’s little rescue rubbed her all wrong. Was she jealous of his charm? She could be charming when she needed to be, but it was a widely accepted fact between the two of them that Simon charmed and Lucille strong-armed. Simon distracted and diverted, Lucille told outright lies. And Noah...Noah made people feel like he’d go to the ends of the earth to help them and it would be his absolute pleasure. Even if the assistance was only righting a toppling party-goer.
He stopped at the opposite side of the club. In front of him was a leather couch, pushed up against the corner. Hazy drapes, lit with a soft purple glow, half hid the couch from the rest of the room. It wasn’t a secluded alcove or a private room but, given the options available, she begrudgingly agreed it would have to do. This was, of course, going off the assumption Noah was right and they couldn’t leave the party yet. After all, she might not have done what she’d come to do, but she’d done all she planned to.
“After you,” he said, extending his arm to offer her a seat.
Yeah right. Like I’m going to be trapped against the wall while he has free rein to get up and leave when he wants. “Absolutely not. You sit first,” she replied with fake sweetness.
Noah sat. Lucille took a seat across from him in a white faux leather armchair.
“Lucille,” Noah said, giving her a nonplussed look and drawing her name out.
She raised her eyebrows and waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. She crossed her right leg over her left, knowing it hiked her dress up.
She wasn’t disappointed. He glanced down at her leg and then blinked and fixed his gaze firmly on her face, his brown eyes unreadable.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Ms. Anton?” he asked in a deep, dramatic tone.
Lucille was caught off guard. Her surprise lasted only long enough for her to raise her eyebrows. She thought about how to react, running through the possibilities swiftly. She reminded herself of her earlier resolution to let him screw up his life all on his own. Her resolution that she couldn’t be angry with him because she didn’t care enough to be. And yet... “You wish,” she said, taking another sip of her soda water.
He seemed like he was about to say, “I do wish,” but then looked away and changed the subject.
Interesting.
“Lucille...Simon told me about what happened.” His voice lost all of its usual smooth edge.
Lucille didn’t need to ask what Simon had told him about. She knew it was the night at Michel’s, the night Sylvia held her, Brett, and Michel at gunpoint, nearly killing them.
“I honestly didn’t know,” he said, his face contrite like he was feeling her pain, empathizing with what she’d gone through. It was a powerful move, one she could almost believe was genuine.
Lucille scoffed. She’d had time to think about why she was so upset about them working with Sylvia. Time to sort through the feelings and find what was at the ugly heart of her anger. It had nothing to do with Sylvia’s attempt on their life. Sure, Sylvia had threatened her two best friends, and that pissed her off a lot. But Simon was absolutely right about all the reasons they should take her on as a client. Sylvia Stanton was a gold mine, especially if the rumors were true and she’d patched things up with her father. She was America’s favorite heiress, a consummate partier, fashion icon, social media influencer, and she had a terrible temper. She was the next best thing to having Michel Polce as a client, and since they already had the one, why not make it a set? The rare trading cards of celebrity spin doctoring.
“Yeah, I got that,” she said, her voice clipped and cold.
“Okay, so why are you mad at me? Do you not want us to work with her?” Noah asked, frowning, his questions trying to burrow into her, to get to her secrets.
Lucille itched to reach over and smooth those frown lines, to take away his confusion. It irritated her how much she wanted to tell him things, how much she wanted to touch him, how she couldn’t stop thinking about their kisses and wanting more of that heat, the potent combination of dislike and attraction fueling their passion. Her next words came out harsher than she’d intended. “You work for both Simon and me, remember? If you’re taking on a celebrity as a client, that’s my side of the business, as you well know. If this is going to work, I need final say on your clients.”
She didn’t know how she expected him to react. She didn’t know how she should react. It was one of the first completely honest speeches she’d ever given. It was vulnerable putting her needs out on the table. If Noah decided to fight her on this, she was going to drop some more truth bombs and tell him exactly what she thought of his methods of sneaking around and stealing flash drives.
But instead of armoring up, Noah did something completely unexpected. He gave a slight shiver, so quick she almost didn’t catch it, and for a moment, his eyes blazed with want. A second later, it was gone, his face an expressionless mask again. “Fine,” he said. “Then you should know I have a meeting with her tomorrow.”
Lucille was stuck on the brief response she’d observed. She wasn’t usually so serious and direct, hell, she avoided open honesty if at all possible, but Noah’s reaction was intriguing. He’d also enjoyed being pressed against the side of the building the night before and when they’d first kissed at the charity event. She didn’t know what she’d do with this information yet, but she certainly had some ideas. Unfortunately, they all involved breaking her vow not to spend any more time around him than she had to.
“And I do need your help,” Noah added, doing that thing where he stared at her with bold openness.
Lucille pretended her heart wasn’t beating faster and the heat she felt was the aftermath of her rage. Outwardly, she smirked. “Why don’t we ditch this party and go somewhere we can talk freely? Then you can try to convince me to help you.”
Noah shook his head. “Well...”
“You didn’t just come here to apologize,” Lucille guessed.
“No,” he said slowly.
“What does Simon want me to do now?”
He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees and getting closer to her.
Lucille uncrossed her legs and leaned into him so he could deliver his message. She did not think about them being close enough to kiss.
“Simon’s trying to get one of the executive producers on this movie to work with him. Apparently, the guy’s a scandal magnet. He’s been married four times, has been involved in multiple Ponzi schemes, and is one bad press release from getting sued for all he’s worth.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Lucille said, leaning back. She could easily follow Simon’s line of thinking. If the producer thought Simon could keep his name out of future scandals and keep him out of jail, it would be a huge account. “Has he reached out at all?”
Noah shook his head. “He thought it would be better received coming from you.”
She narrowed her eyes. Lovely. She knew what they meant. The guy was more likely to be intrigued by a beautiful woman than a man in a sparkly tux.
“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” he added.
Lucille set her drink down. “Point him out to me and then disappear. Don’t let him see you in case you end up working with him later. Where is he?”
He casually scanned the area.
Lucille kept her gaze on him.
“He’s on the move at your four. Heading toward the door.”
“Watch and learn.”