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Brett had never drunk poison before, so he didn’t know whether the effects were normal or not. He also didn’t know what kind of poison it was nor what size of a dose Lauren had given him. These were questions a medical professional would want answers to, should one happen to materialize in time to save him. Brett should do some research. Just in case. He might be dying, but he was still a scientist, dammit.
His thoughts cut off abruptly as his body convulsed.
His lungs constricted even as he tried to force air into them. He gasped, desperate to keep breathing as his throat closed. Whether these were the symptoms of death by poisoning or symptoms of his panic about his death by poisoning, he didn’t know.
Another spasm racked through him.
He blinked at the fuzzy image of Lauren Fontile sitting across the table and smiling in what he thought was a cruel way. “What did you give me?” he choked, and his voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else and that person was underwater.
Lauren laughed, the harshness of her laugh cutting through the fog and stinging Brett’s ears. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now. You’ll be dead before anyone can get to you.”
Brett frowned, or thought he did. Weren’t villains supposed to monologue before they delivered the fatal blow? Weren’t they supposed to talk for so long the hero’s friends had time to arrive and conquer the foe? Lauren hadn’t waited. She’d gotten him alone and vulnerable, slipped the poison in his glass, and waited for him to drink it.
It was all wrong. Not at all according to plan. The plan where Brett found out who’d been messing with his life, made up with Michel, and lived happily ever after. The plan where Brett didn’t die.
“It’s cyanide,” the shape of Lauren said.
Was it just him or did she say cyanide? The word echoed in his ears, reverberating off the walls of his brain as it struggled for oxygen. There was no mistaking the echo, it was clearly saying cyanide.
If Brett were in a better head space, he’d have a hundred jokes about this. Who used cyanide poisoning outside of an old-timey detective novel? Or a spy movie where the agents were all told to take cyanide capsules if they were caught and questioned. Where did someone even get cyanide these days? Someone who wasn’t a chemist or meth maker. Brett didn’t know for sure if people who made meth had cyanide handy, but it seemed more logical for them to have it than his former agent. Then again, she was married to some lord or something now, so maybe she thought she’d gone back in time?
This is good stuff, Brett’s brain managed to tell him. He should write it down and maybe he’d have enough content to write that sequel film. That would show Lauren. He’d write the sequel and she wouldn’t get a penny of the proceeds.
Somehow, during this jumbled rambling of his thoughts, Brett found himself on the floor. He couldn’t remember getting off the chair or falling. He couldn’t be certain it was the floor, but it was hard and pressed against the length of his back. It felt cool and smooth.
Voices. Lauren had been talking, and maybe she realized she’d done things backward. If this was her monologue and she wanted him to hear it, it was too late. He wasn’t listening.
Someone said his name, and he didn’t think it was Lauren. The voice was too emotional, too familiar. He tried to force his eyes open, but his brain wasn’t sending messages well and he could only manage a squint. Blurry light, shapes, vague recognition of Michel, and someone else. Noah? They were there and they were the people he needed to tell about the cyanide, the people who could save him.
He convulsed into a black nothingness.
Lucille burst through the door of the private event room, followed by Noah and Michel in his bathrobe. She’d expected the situation to be bad, but not this bad. The tall, vaguely familiar woman in the red dress, standing, no, gloating, over a convulsing, dying Brett. The woman, Lauren, turned, saw them, and ran for the patio door. She was fast, but Lucille’s reaction time was faster. She’d taken in the scene, guessed Lauren would run, and reached the door first. Lauren looked at her in surprise and Lucille used those brief moments of shock to corner her.
Across the room, Michel grabbed Noah’s arm and they ran to where Brett lay, spasming on the floor. As they approached, Michel dropped Noah’s arm and fell into a beautifully graceful slide, coming to a stop right next to his dying lover. Noah performed more of an awkward falling-to-his-knees action and ended up banging his right knee against the floor and grimacing at the pain. He knelt on the opposite side of Brett from Michel, staring down at the man who was showing signs of—
“Cyanide poisoning,” Michel said in a brusque voice.
Noah blinked. “How do you know that?”
“He’s exhibiting all the classic symptoms,” Michel said and started to list them.
“But...how do you know that?”
Michel gave him an intense look Noah interpreted to mean, “I’ll tell you when my boyfriend isn’t dying.” Then he said, in perfect, unironic seriousness, “I have the antidote on me.”
Noah had been preparing to do CPR. He didn’t quite remember how to do it but knew he needed to get Brett breathing again. Luckily, his questionable CPR skills weren’t needed as the next second, Michel whipped open his bathrobe and pulled out a gold, old-fashioned cigarette case from the inside pocket. Inside the case were a number of loaded syringes, each with tiny labels on them. He grabbed one, deftly rolled up Brett’s sleeve, and stabbed the needle in his arm, pressing until the syringe was empty. Brett stilled.
There was no way this was really happening. Noah gaped at Michel. “Why the fuck do you carry around a bunch of syringes?”
Michel watched Brett, grasping the dying man’s arm. “I grabbed them when we left the room.”
“But...why do you have them in the first place?”
“It’s something I do,” said Michel, his voice strained and clipped. “Now could you save the questions for later? I need to see if it worked.”
Noah dutifully closed his mouth, pushing back the rest of his curiosity. He knew Michel was eccentric, but carrying around poison antidotes seemed a bit more than that. Still, if his eccentricity saved Brett’s life, what did it matter why?
He made a mental note to ask Michel how often people tried to poison him and what they could do to stop it.
A few tense seconds passed, punctuated by the loud, violent confrontation taking place across the floor, a confrontation that seemed to have no sense of the gravity they were dealing with.
Brett suddenly inhaled, his whole chest rising with the force of his breath. Noah thought it might be the longest breath he’d ever witnessed. Finally, Brett exhaled and then began to breathe normally. But he didn’t wake up. Noah glanced at Michel and saw, for what he now realized was the first time ever, real fear in the celebrity’s eyes.
Leaving Noah and Michel to take care of Brett and hoping they wouldn’t fuck it up, Lucille faced her trapped foe.
“Lauren Cunningham.” Lucille fell into her role with ease. She was tempted to tell Lauren to pick on someone her own size instead of preying on Brett but knew it wouldn’t deliver the punch she was looking for. “Really? You? I would have thought it was someone with a little more at stake.”
Lauren, her back to the tinted windows, stopped looking around the room, for an escape no doubt, and fixed her glare on Lucille. Then she charged, hitting Lucille squarely in the gut. Lucille grunted but stayed her ground. She slid her hands between her body and the kicking, scratching agent, and pushed as hard as she could. Lauren stumbled back and hit the floor.
A moment later, she regained her footing, took a deep breath, and smoothed her dress. Lucille planted her feet in preparation for another attack, but it seemed Lauren was changing tactics.
“Who the hell are you?” Lauren asked, her voice biting and cold. She looked Lucille up and down, clearly trying to make her feel self-conscious and insecure.
But this woman didn’t know who she was dealing with. Lucille’s life was filled with celebrity clients trying to make her insignificant to boost their own perceived superiority. She’d been raised by a mother who specialized in that kind of treatment. Yes, there were a few people who could get inside her poised exterior—Simon, sometimes Brett, Michel, and, damn him, Noah. But not this woman, not Lauren Cunningham. Lucille waited until Lauren had given up her attempt at an eviscerating stare before she responded. “Aw, that’s cute. You’ve never heard of me. I thought you knew everyone in the business, Lauren. I can call you Lauren, right? Great. It’s so much easier than remembering all of your last names.”
Lauren’s eyes flashed with anger so quickly, Lucille wouldn’t have noticed it if they weren’t engaged in an intense stare-down. Then it was gone, and Lauren’s face was a cold, hard shell, a mirror of Lucille’s. She stalked forward, closing the distance between them.
Lucille didn’t move. She wasn’t intimidated by Lauren and wouldn’t be. She knew what this was.
She was, however, petrified about what was happening to Brett. The background snippets of conversation she could hear from Noah and Michel weren’t exactly comforting.
“I know everyone of importance in Hollywood,” Lauren said, still advancing until she was right in Lucille’s face, her stilettos putting her a good inch higher than Lucille’s strappy platforms. “And since I don’t know you, it means you must be a no one.”
Lucille smiled, slowly and dangerously. “When’s the last time you had clients, Lauren?”
Lauren laughed, a cold laugh. “Clients. How silly. I don’t need clients. I have a whole new business now.”
“Oh?” Lucille wanted to feign interest but found herself actually intrigued. “And what’s that? Poisoning people?”
Lauren laughed again. “Gold-digging.”
Lucille couldn’t help herself, she was impressed. “Really.”
“Oh, yes. It’s an excellent business. I marry rich men, take their money, and move on,” Lauren said candidly, “It was a shame when Lord Cunningham died while we were married, but I must say, it was nice to not have to go through the divorce proceedings for once.”
Lucille almost lost her composure but pulled herself together before any of it showed on her face. It was the meeting with Sylvia all over again. She’d gone in expecting to find a heartless bitch and had left with a new friend. One who could match her for being cold, calculating, and always on top. “I have to say, that’s brilliant.”
“I know.” Lauren’s smile became a little more genuine.
“Maybe if things were different, we could have been friends. I am always looking for ways to expand my business,” Lucille said, feeling a warmth toward Lauren she couldn’t quite repress.
“What’s your business?” Lauren asked, matching the warmth, her gray eyes gentler.
“Lucille Anton, Celebrity Spin Doctor.”
“No,” Lauren gasped. “Really? I-I mean of course I’ve heard of you, but I never knew what you looked like. No one did.”
Lucille smiled smugly. She wanted to preen a little, then get down to the details of how she might be able to incorporate gold digging as a branch of the celebrity spin doctor empire.
But it was not to be.
“Lucille. What the fuck are you doing?” Noah hissed from somewhere to her right.
Right. Brett. Brett is dying. She was back. She shook her head sadly. “But you had to go after Brett, didn’t you? Couldn’t let that one go, could you?”
Lauren’s friendliness drained away. “Why do you care? He’s not one of your clients, is he?”
“God no. He’s one of my best friends,” Lucille said, “and the only ex-boyfriend I’m still on speaking terms with. I’m pretty invested in him living.”
“That’s unfortunate. Because he’s going to die.”
“No, he’s not,” Michel said, “I had an antidote.”
“What?” Lauren said, and this time, her voice came out as a screech. She evidently hadn’t counted on anyone, if they did come to help Brett, having an antidote.
Lucille herself was surprised. Michel was unpredictable, but to carry around poison antidotes? Actually, no, it made a lot of sense for Michel. After all, only a few months ago, Sylvia had threatened his life regularly and those precautionary habits were, Lucille could imagine, hard to break.
Lucille shook her head. “Vengeance never works, Lauren. Should’ve stuck with what you were good at.”
Lauren launched herself at Lucille again, this time with an enraged growl. Lucille had good instincts but not good enough to block an opponent at close range. Lauren hit her hard and they both fell backward onto the smooth, tiled floor. Lauren was wild with fury, her hands a flurry of clawing and tugging.
Lucille put her arms up to protect her face. She was on the bottom and hadn’t been able to cushion herself on impact. Her left hip and elbows had taken most of the damage, luckily not her head. This is why I’m never on the bottom, she thought as her surprise turned to annoyance. With a grunt of pain, she lifted her right knee up and used it to push Lauren off.
It worked in part, then someone else, Noah, she guessed, stepped forward and grabbed Lauren’s flailing arms.
Lucille didn’t waste time lying on the floor. It may be a private room, but it was still a restaurant. She got to her feet as gracefully as she could, her elbows stinging, her back protesting, and her knee smarting. Her abs ached from the first hit. Still, the pain didn’t even begin to compare to being shot, so she ignored her bruises, tossed her hair, and surveyed the fallout.
It wasn’t Noah who restrained Lauren Cunningham. It was a man in a security uniform, trying to get her under control while a man in a suit talked to her. The resort manager, if Lucille had to guess. She gave them a zero out of ten on their response. After all, as soon as they’d landed, she’d called the main office and told them to contact whatever local police they had immediately. And they were only now arriving. Men.
She turned and caught Noah’s eye. He raised his eyebrows at her, as if to ask if she was okay. Like he cared. As if she cared if he did or not. She nodded so he’d stop looking at her.
For reasons completely unknown, he left the room.
Beyond Noah lay Brett, still on the floor but not jerking around anymore. Michel knelt over him, rubbing his cheek. The gesture was so tender, the moment so achingly sweet, Lucille had to look away.
She approached the man in the suit. As she drew closer, she saw he was, in fact, the resort manager. Charles, according to his name tag. He broke off at her approach, turning to stare at her with wide eyes.
“What took so long?” Lucille demanded, not in the mood to play games.
“I-I apologize, ma’am. We’ve never had an incident like this and, well, there are rules to follow and protocols—”
He hadn’t believed her. Hadn’t believed her when she said there was a dangerous guest at his resort, one who was intent on harming another guest. There was no way everything was perfect all the time at The Reef, not with the type of clientele they catered to. But Lucille wasn’t going to care what this man thought and wasn’t about to listen to him stammer out an explanation.
“We don’t have time for any of that. This woman is wanted by the feds—”
“What? No, I’m not,” Lauren protested.
“After JP Tanaka called and told them about you? Yes, you are,” Lucille said, perfunctorily. She hadn’t mentioned it earlier, wanting to keep Lauren talking. Now Lauren was the hotel’s problem. They could keep her in check until the government officials arrived.
The color drained from Lauren’s face.
It was a shame. Maybe she’d reach out to Lauren later, help her get back on her feet after she got through whatever punishment she was dealt for attempted murder.
For now, though. “This man”—she gestured to Brett—“needs medical attention immediately. He’s been poisoned.”
“Oh, my God, I didn’t realize,” the hotel manager exclaimed, trying to move in multiple directions at once. “I thought this doctor was caring for him.”
Lucille was exhausted. “That’s Michel Polce. Not a doctor.”
At the sound of his name, Michel looked up.
The manager’s eyes grew, if possible, even wider. He finally pulled his shit together and soon the room bustled with activity. A protesting Lauren was led away by the security guard. An actual doctor arrived and pushed Michel aside to examine the unconscious Brett. The manager glommed onto Lucille, asking her endless questions about what happened and whether she was going to sue.
Lucille took a seat at the high-top table where the two glasses still stood, as though waiting for the intermission to be over and the scene to resume. She ignored the manager’s questions so completely she didn’t notice he’d stopped talking to her until another voice replaced his chatter.
“Lucille.”
She glanced up to find Noah in front of her, his expression one of guarded concern.
“You’re bleeding,” he said and handed her a martini.