Girl of My Dreams (16 page)

Jillian turned to the reporter. “You should be ashamed of yourself. A woman the world loves dearly lies close to death. She deserves respect.”

The man’s eyes widened. A flicker of admiration shone in them before he backed off.

The security men caught up. They flanked each side of Jillian, as, head bent, she forged ahead into the waiting limousine. The bench seats inside were spacious, but Maxine and Troy already sat almost on top of each other. Jillian sat across from them. The two security men clambered in next to her.

The limo sped from the airport and onto the expressway. Behind it, other engines revved. Through the back window she made out a line of cars, like a procession, following them. Jillian bit her lip. The interrogation was not over.

“It’s too bad about Barbara Branton. I just love her movies,” Maxine said, breaking the silence.

“The woman is hot, but not as hot as you, babe,” Troy said.

Maxine smirked and thrust her chest out further.

Troy’s response was to lean over and devour her mouth. His hand strayed from her waist upward. Maxine did not resist his groping fingers. It didn’t seem to bother either of them that Jillian and the security guards were also present.

When Troy had had his fill, he winked at Jillian.

She would not respond to such childishness. She turned away and stared ahead. Some men never grew up.

“I wonder what will happen with the show. I’ll die if I can’t go to Paris,” Maxine said.

“Why not have Troy take you there?” Jillian said, eyebrows lifted.

Maxine shot the billionaire an assessing look. Troy frowned. “No need for that. Caldwell’s obsessed. He’ll get the show in, no matter what.”

Well, well. Mr. Billionaire was not leaping at the chance of escorting the buxom blonde to Paris under his own power. Perhaps his attraction to Ms. 44D was not as deep as he let on.

Jillian thrust her chin out. “If Blake can’t make it by Saturday, the show will go on. He’s already told us what to do and we have the scripts.”

“You can’t be serious. How can we do it without him?” Maxine wailed.

“We’ll manage, one step at a time. First, we’ll need the tickets, the hotel information and the camera crew. We’ll get them, even if I have to go to the president of Mecca.”

“And the fashion designers? How do we deal with them?”

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t go ahead. The publicity’s already out. Everything’s ordered and set. Besides, the studio needs the money from the show,” Jillian said.

“She’s right, Maxine. And I, for one am looking forward to watching the two of you model those hot European outfits.”

“I’ll make sure you get your wish,” Jillian said to Troy, as if he were a small boy asking for an ice cream cone.

Apparently satisfied, Maxine smiled widely. “Oh, good. I really want to see Paris. It’s so romantic.”

Troy flashed Jillian a fevered look. “Veronica’s right. The three of us will do fine on our own without that nosy producer butting in. We’ll give everyone a show they won’t forget.”

“The cameras won’t shoot anything X-rated,” Jillian said.

“You are a tease,” Troy said.

When would she learn not to speak her mind? Again he thought she was coming on to him. What she didn’t understand was how a person like Troy could have managed to accrue such a huge fortune. Had he inherited it?

Maxine chatted merrily along, with Troy cutting in with quips. Jillian did her best to ignore them. She had more important things to think about, such as the state of Barbara Branton’s health.

Also, how was Blake holding up?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AT HOME, THOUGH JET LEG had set in and her eyes could barely focus, Jillian forced herself to stay up late to watch the evening news for word of Blake’s mother. Since no world crisis
du jour
had materialized, Barbara Branton’s hospitalization became the lead story.

The announcer began. “We have breaking news. Screen darling, Barbara Branton, lies close to death in a Santa Monica Hospital. At this moment, she’s undergoing emergency surgery. Doctors say she has only a fifty-fifty chance of survival. The country is saddened by this turn of events. The question is, will we lose another precious icon or will she miraculously pull through?”

A montage of photos from her various movies flashed on the screen, with brief dialogues explaining each of them.

The newsman continued, “Second in the minds of our viewers is the shocking allegation from one of the eliminated contestants from the popular game show,
Girl of My Dreams
, coincidentally directed by Barbara’s son, Blake Caldwell. For that, we’ll go live to an interview with Nadia Romanoff.”

The camera panned to the pure and virginal-looking Nadia dressed in a cream-colored, high-necked, flowing dress. Could such a saintly person lie? From the looks of her, it seemed unlikely.

“I can’t believe an employee of Mecca Studios would dare to enter a studio-run contest,” Nadia said.

“Who are you speaking of?”

“Jillian Baker, or as she now calls herself, Veronica Baker.”

“In your own words, tell us what happened.”

Jillian forced back a hysterical laugh. Who else’s words would Nadia use?

She leaned closer to the television set to hear what the ex-contestant would say.

“I had just come out of the bathroom stall at Mecca Studios...” Nadia blushed prettily for the cameras. Was it possible to train yourself to blush at will?     

“Go on.”

“Anyway, I happened to notice Jillian Baker, or as she now calls herself, Veronica Baker, inside. Clear as day, her employee name tag hung around her neck, with her picture and identification right there. It read Jillian Baker, or I’m not Nadia Romanoff, and I ought to know my own name.

“Anyway, she was twisting this jade ring on her finger, like she was nervous or something. Then she dialed from her cell phone. I caught her say the name, ‘Blake.’ After that I heard her say some of the contestants had come down with food poisoning. Then she counted the ones who were in the bathroom. That’s when I slipped out.”

“Why is that?”

“I wasn’t ill and my business was finished, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. Then what happened?”

“Well, imagine my surprise when I stood in line at the beginning of the show and turned around to find none other than Jillian-Veronica standing behind me, all made up like a femme fatale.”

“Are you sure it was her?”

“I couldn’t believe it at first, but yes, it was. For one thing, she was wearing the identical ring. The filigree is very distinctive. If you’ve seen it once, you can’t miss it.”

“Go on.”

“I asked her if I knew her from somewhere. She denied it.”

Jillian glanced sadly at the ring her father had saved up for so long to buy as a high school graduation present. He’d been so proud of his find, saying there couldn’t be another like it anywhere. She’d treasured it and worn it proudly as a reminder of him. Nadia’s mention of the ring almost tainted its sacred symbolism.

The damning tape at the beach ran, with Jillian groping to hold onto her bikini top and Blake coming up behind her to tie it.

“My, isn’t that steamy? It certainly does seem something’s going on between those two,” the announcer said, with a chuckle.

Jillian swallowed hard. The man was right. How could anyone miss the longing on her face and the heat in Blake’s gaze? Who would believe nothing had happened?

Helpless and fuming, Jillian stared at the screen. She couldn’t allow Nadia to turn her sacrifice into something dirty. There had to be a way to save face. Maybe airing a copy of her temp contract would help. Would the studio do that? Would it even matter? If people thought the contract had been drawn up and signed after the fact it would be hard to change their minds.

This whole thing was ridiculous. The newsman had spent more time on the non-story about Jillian and Blake than the real news about Barbara Branton. A woman lay at death’s door. Pettiness didn’t matter.

She hoped Blake hadn’t heard any of this. Right now he needed prayers for his mother, not accusations.

The phone rang. Jillian rushed to pick it up.

“Jillian, I just got off duty. How’s Blake’s mom?” Denise asked.

“I don’t know. The way things stand, I may not hear anything. He’s not exactly confiding in me these days.”

“I’d call him an ingrate, but I don’t believe in kicking a man when he’s down,” Denise said.

“Well, he certainly won’t be grateful for my gesture when he hears the news clips from that crazed Nadia.”

“Look on the bright side. Even bad news is good when it comes to publicity. You can bet everyone will tune in for the next segment. There will be one, won’t there?”

“Yes, I’ll make sure of that. With or without Blake I’m forging ahead…that is, unless Nadia gets a court order or does some other crazy thing.”

“Don’t underestimate the studio’s attorneys. They’re wise to her kind of tricks. I’m sure they’ll be on it. The show will go on. You’ll see.”

“I hope so, Denise. It’s bad enough Blake might lose his mother. It would be terrible if he lost everything else as well.”

“Jillian, one thing he should be grateful for is you. I wish he’d wake up and see that fact. The man has to be blind.”

“You’re a good friend, Denise. You have a way of making me feel better.”

“I’m just prodding you along in the right direction. One of these days you’ll realize your own worth and do something about it. You’ve made definite improvements in that direction and you’re almost there. I predict it won’t be long before you completely shed your shell. Well, I must be going. I’ve got a double shift tomorrow and need my beauty sleep. Let me know what happens, okay?”

“You’ll be the first. Take care of yourself, my friend. You work too hard.”

“I’m afraid we suffer from the same affliction. There’s no cure for it.”

“You’re a nut. Goodnight, Denise.”

A warm feeling welled inside Jillian as she hung up. It was good to know someone cared about her. Since her parents’ deaths, there weren’t many people left in that category.

This was not the time to get maudlin. Blake may not realize it, but he needed her. She’d not let him down.

First, she’d make a list of what needed to be done. At the top were the airline tickets. Where were they? Then, she must find the itinerary. A copy should still be in Blake’s or what used to be her computer at the studio. Unfortunately, since she was no longer an employee at Mecca, she was not allowed to go back in. Clarisse, the legal department secretary, had always seemed nice. Hopefully, she’d be kind enough to extricate the necessary documents and messenger them over.

Jillian bit her lip. Her plan had to work. The studio had to see it her way. The powers-that-be wouldn’t abandon her and file a lawsuit, would they? Instead of modeling designer clothes down a Paris runway and spending time in a fancy hotel room, would she be staring through the iron bars of a tawdry jail cell?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE NEXT MORNING, Jillian took a deep breath before dialing the studio’s number.

“I need an emergency audience with the board members,” she said.

“And who are you?” the receptionist wanted to know.

“Jillian Baker, also known as Veronica Baker.”

“Oh, that one. One moment, please.”

Apparently, her reputation preceded her. Was that good or bad? What would happen if the board members refused her request? They just couldn’t. They had to give her a chance. Too much was at stake.

Jillian drummed her fingers on the side of the phone and shifted her feet during the interminable wait for the receptionist to get back to her.

“Ms. Baker, they’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.”

Jillian breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”

As she hung up, her mind raced ahead. She didn’t have much time for a clothes hunt, so her efforts must be swift and productive. If only Denise weren’t working.

She’d have to do it herself. Think, what should she wear? It made sense to dress for her audience. What did she remember about the board members?

She seemed to recall that Mr. Tweedsberry, the elderly gentleman, was conservative, somewhat fair-minded, but also inclined to be stubborn. O’Connor was rash and outspoken. D’Angelo was practical and had an eye for the ladies. That meant she must appear capable, yet feminine, a daunting task.

It took a good three hours at the mall for Jillian to find an appropriate outfit.

On Wednesday morning, she scooped her hair to each side of her face with tortoise shell combs. The curls fell gracefully to her shoulders.

She applied her makeup with care and made sure to highlight her eyes. After that, she slipped into the charcoal-gray suit she’d bought for the occasion. It skimmed her figure, flowing smoothly, caressing her breasts and hips. The moss-colored blouse peeked out at her neck to emphasize her green irises. The understated right side slit of the skirt flashed an occasional hint of thigh.