Girl of My Dreams (17 page)

Cloisonné earrings, her ever-present jade ring, sheer taupe hose, one-inch black heels, and matching purse completed the ensemble.

Since she hadn’t received much money yet from the series, the costume had set her back in the financial department. On the practical side, it could come in handy for job hunting.

AS JILLIAN ENTERED the walnut paneled room reminiscent of a judge’s chamber, she felt as if she were on trial. The three board members she needed to impress sat on a dais behind a long wooden table.

“Young lady, you’ve caused quite a stir. What do you have to say for yourself?” Tweedsberry, the thin, gray-haired, gray-suited one said.

He and the other two board members peered suspiciously down at her.

Jillian swallowed hard. How could she convince them she was trustworthy? She had to say the right thing. She couldn’t let Blake down.

“First of all, I appreciate the wonderful opportunity you gave me to work as a temp at the studio. The experience was invaluable and I learned quite a bit about the television industry.”

“If you loved your job so much, you shouldn’t have gone on the show. Someone else could have filled in. Then we wouldn’t be in this mess,” O’Connor, the red-haired, large-boned man at the end said.

“I was the logical choice. There was too much riding on the outcome. No one stepping in at the last minute could possibly have known what to do.”

D’Angelo, the younger one with the dark, slick-backed hair, gave Jillian a lingering once-over. “And the popular choice, judging from the fan mail pouring in. I’ve watched the series and must say, you look even better in person than on television,”

She’d hoped for such a response, but it still grated on her. She hated being treated as an object and not a person. Forcing herself to smile warmly, she stifled an internal grimace. She’d dressed for the part and her planning had paid off. That’s what counted. Now if only she could follow through with the correct choice of words.

“In everything I’ve done, I’ve always had the studio’s best interests at heart.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t act so innocent. From what I’ve heard, before you appeared on the show, you were saddled with debt. How can you stand there and pretend you weren’t thinking of catching a fine, handsome billionaire?” O’Connor said, almost sneering.

How did he know her finances? What else did he know? He must have some awfully good fact-finders working for him to get such information so fast. Or had it been fast? Did they make it a point to check even their temps before signing them up? She was getting paranoid. She must focus on the main issue, which was putting on the Paris show.

“Troy Langley and his money mean nothing to me. If it were possible, I’d fix the show and make sure Ms. 44D, I mean, Maxine, won. I only want the segment to air. That’s all I ask.”

“And what if you do win, little lady? Then what? Won’t that little malcontent, Nadia what’s-her-name, cry foul?” Tweedsberry asked.

What if she did win? No, she couldn’t. All signs pointed to Maxine’s winning the grand prize. Jillian better not win. She only wanted to be there for window dressing so the public would believe there was competition.

“According to the rules, the contest was open to anyone not employed by the studio. I worked here, but the agency was my employer. Let Nadia and any other spoilsport say what they will. I’ve done nothing illegal or unethical.”

“She’s right. We could fight that little busybody in court and win hands down,” D’Angelo said, eyes glittering.

“The budget’s over, our staff’s thin and Caldwell’s tied up with a family crisis. If he’s not back in time, can you and the other stars pull off the Paris segment?” Tweedsberry asked.

She wasn’t a star, but she wouldn’t take time to argue the point. She sensed the board was weakening. With the right persuasion, she could convince these men to give the show a chance. She’d passed the hurdle from personality to practicality. If she were ever so careful of her wording, victory may not be far off.

“I, more than anyone else, know the script and know what Blake wants. We went over it more times than I can count. As long as the light and sound crews are competent, how difficult can it be for me and Maxine to change clothes and walk down a runway a few times? That’s about what it amounts to.”

“True, anyone could do that,” O’Connor conceded.

“The studio’s ready to fold. What choice do we have? The pretty lady’s right. Let the show go on. What do we have to loose?” D’Angelo said.

“Everyone in favor, say aye,” Tweedsberry said.

The three ayes, though they were in deep, masculine tones, were like angels’ music to Jillian’s ears.

Jillian stuck her chin out. “I won’t let you down.”

Her pronouncement was met by raised eyebrows and frowns. The board was skeptical, yet desperate. Nothing must go wrong. The series finale must be a success.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JILLIAN ARRIVED IN Paris on Friday afternoon. The show was scheduled to run the following evening, which meant no time for sightseeing.

She, Maxine and Troy were whisked to the François Hotel, and given their rooms.

That evening, in the dressing room, Jillian carefully slipped into the emerald-colored, floor length gown provided by Mecca’s Wardrobe Department.

As she entered the main salon beside the bubbling pink champagne fountain, she recognized many notables of the fashion world. She’d seen their faces in fashion magazines and their names on the labels of clothes she’d admired, but couldn’t afford.

She clamped her mouth shut to keep from gaping as she noticed Christov Klem speaking to Tim Hillgrove. Other faces also seemed familiar from their various fashion and cosmetics ads.

Calm down. They were just as human as the next person. To prove it, one of them licked his chops as he stared at the bountiful blessings of Ms. 44D, who stood across from him. “If I’d only known of your great magnitude, I would have offered to measure you myself,” the designer said to Maxine.

“Naughty man,” she said, wagging her finger back and forth, as she batted her false eyelashes.

Unaccustomed to being upstaged, Troy Langley, standing beside her, scowled, with eyebrows furrowed.

Deep down, did he care for Maxine? Whatever the case, it was fun seeing the rich guy squirm. Jillian smiled.

“Would you care to share?” Jillian heard a voice ask.

She turned to find Damien Moulant observing her.

Her face grew hot. Her thoughts were not for public consumption, unless she wished to start a dog or cat fight, which she didn’t.

“Mr. Moulant, I do enjoy your style,” she said, skirting his question.

“A diplomat, I see,” he said, eyes twinkling. Turning to the assistant who stood at attention beside him, he said something in a low tone, which the man jotted down.

Carlo Toronado approached, took one look at Jillian and said, “Those eyes are to die for. You are temptress, virgin, jungle cat, gypsy, the clay for my mold.”

How could she answer that? She settled for smiling inanely and thanking him as she pretended to sip her drink. A hangover would definitely not be
de rigueur
tomorrow.

Stella Sodasku eyed Troy. “I see a ruffled silk shirt, troubadour pants.”

The billionaire shifted his feet at being the object of scrutiny.

The assessments by the designers and the note-taking by their assistants lasted close to an hour. By then, Jillian was happy to retreat to her hotel room.

Stretching her legs out on the gold velvet settee, she felt decadent. All she needed was a box of bonbons to complete the picture. And it wouldn’t hurt if a certain man were laying on the same couch, gazing at her in helpless fascination.     

Jillian sighed. It was a shame she couldn’t take proper advantage of her surroundings.

She really ought to go over the details of the next evening’s show, but she was far too comfortable to move at all.

The next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming through the casement windows. She’d spent the entire night on the settee and hadn’t had the opportunity to slip between the ivory satin sheets of the priceless antique bed in the other room.

She better get going. Costume fittings awaited her.

ALL APPEARED READY. If only Blake could be here to witness his grand plan coming to fruition.

Jillian took a moment to breathe in the rich air, redolent of exotic perfumes. Some of them had to cost more than a year of her prior salary. Beyond the runway sat the celebrities, corporate owners, designers, buyers—people who were accustomed to and demanded the best.

Had she forgotten anything? Jillian peeked from behind the curtains. Red, blue and yellow spotlights danced, affording glimpses of the billionaire resplendent in a cream, v-necked satin shirt, black troubadour pants, with the requisite matching cummerbund, as he sat on his velvet throne at the end of the runway, awaiting his servants.

Maxine, in a Toronado bejeweled, fitted corset sheath, with her finer points almost spilling out, stood poised for a grand entrance. A fortune in diamonds glittered at her neck and ears. She looked magnificent.

Jillian, bandana wound across her head, with hair spilling down the sides and back, wore a shoulder-baring, white peasant blouse over a gaily colored gypsy skirt. Gleaming gold hoop earrings, matching bracelets and three-inch clear plastic heels completed her ensemble.

It was time. She’d hoped that somehow Blake would make it here at the last minute, but that was not to be. With or without the producer, the show must go on.

Maxine’s and Jillian’s tasks were to assume the roles inspired by the costumes especially designed for them.

Jillian nodded to the band leader, who struck the chords of the show’s theme song. Maxine minced onto the runway in her super-high glittering heels.

At her entrance, the audience, dazzled by Ms. 44D’s attributes, broke into heavy applause. So far, so good. Jillian could almost feel relief, if she didn’t have so much more to do. It was already her turn.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ARRIVING IN THE middle of Jillian’s performance, Blake took a position at stage right, watching her sway to the strains of a wild Hungarian rhapsody, with a rose clutched between her teeth.

Sweat sprang to his forehead. Damn, she was sexy.

His eyes narrowed. His blood pulsed in time with her hips. Suddenly he was a gypsy, snatching his woman away, plunking her down in a vineyard and making love among the grapevines. In his dreams.

At the end of the runway, Jillian flew through the air, like a guided missile, straight into Troy’s lap. His arms closed around her.

Miraculously, somehow the rose remained clenched between her teeth. She plucked it out and held it up to wild applause from the audience.

Troy whispered something in Jillian’s ear. Blake’s collar grew hot. She’d claimed she wasn’t in the contest to snag the billionaire. Huh, that grandstand stunt proved otherwise.

Yes, he’d asked her to stay in the running as a favor, but not until the bitter end. You could never trust a woman.

As the familiar refrain began, his thoughts strayed to his mother to reinforce his opinion. However, this time it was different.  

He felt a surge of protectiveness and a lump in his throat at the thought of Barbara Branton lying bravely in her hospital bed awaiting the life-threatening operation. His mother wasn’t perfect, but she was his. She’d more than proven her guts. She’d faced down death and defeated it.

With the successful operation completed, like the movie queen she was, two days later, she’d sat up grandly in her hospital room, attended by her ever-faithful husband and surrounded by the flowers, cards and trinkets of well-wishers.

When he was young, Blake had dreamt of a fairytale mother who would read him bedtime stories and tuck him into bed. He’d felt robbed that he couldn’t have one. He hadn’t appreciated Barbara for what she was: a driven fighter, lovable in her own right.

By wanting the impossible, he’d missed out on what he had. Thank goodness it hadn’t been too late to show he cared.

“Get back to your show,” she’d told Blake in a tone that broached no argument.

The doctor had said the crisis was past. Was it safe to leave? There was still too much unspoken between them.

“You heard me. Get over there. You’ve earned your success. Don’t let anyone steal it from you. Go and fight,” she’d said, eyes glinting.

She knew him. He was more like her than he’d care to admit. He had to be in on the action, proving his worth. So here he was, trying to establish control, but feeling it slip away. How could he think straight when his heart tripped and his lungs burst at the sight of Jillian?

“Get a grip. You’re the boss. Do your job,” he muttered.

He rushed backstage and made it there right before Jillian returned.

“That was quite a performance,” he said as she stepped away from the curtain.