Hollywood Hit (20 page)

“If I say yes to security, then Aunt Cici will ask why,” Nikki said.

Christina shook her head no. “Already done. I told Lydia I want a security detail on the town house beginning next week. I told her I felt uncomfortable with what happened with Jeb and until the police find whoever shot him, I’d feel safer knowing someone was looking out for us.”

“Do you?” Nikki asked softly. “Do you feel uncomfortable?”

Christina sighed. She tilted her head to the right. “After what happened last night, I feel more uncomfortable than I did before. But I definitely think between Worldwide’s security and the cops they’ll find out who did both and what the connection is.”

Nikki looked toward the bright blue pool. Her upper teeth ground against her lower ones. The sunlight sparkled and shadowed across the triangular bouncing waves. Nikki closed her eyes behind her sunglasses. She was meant to be at Jeb’s when he was shot. She lived at the town house with Christina. Nikki’s teeth plucked at her bottom lip. She was the one with the dusty background. She was the one with former bad-news rock star fuck buddy. She was the one who’d searched even the dregs of LA for a great script.
She
was the connection. 

Nikki’s heart beat faster in her chest and her palms were wet. Fear prickled her arms. This wasn’t about Jeb, this wasn’t about Aunt Cici, this had to be, must be, all of it, about her.

Security was a man down and that wasn’t good. Rush stood inside ICU at Cedars-Sinai. Jay’s eyes were swollen closed. The whispered
whoosh
of the machine that breathed for Jay pulsed through the hospital room. Hours after Nikki’s house was ransacked, Jay had been found unconscious and close to death behind a dumpster near LACMA, not far from where he’d been posted. He still had all ten digits and each of his toes, but his palms and the soles of his feet bore the marks of someone who’d been lucky to pass out.

Jay was meant to be found alive. Whoever did this would have shot him in the head if they wanted to finish him off. No, Jay’s bruised, battered, beaten body was meant to be a sign. A signal that whoever was after Nikki Solange would get what they wanted and not be stopped.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to leave,” the blond nurse said, her voice firm.

Rush nodded. He needed to get back to Nikki. He’d posted a man in the bungalow beside hers and Christina’s, plus a guy at the pool—the Chateau was accommodating of Mr. Robinoff’s needs—but Rush wanted his own eyes on the target. Jeb’s death, her town house, now Jay? Rush had to be close to Nikki to protect her.

Rush exited Cedars-Sinai into the Los Angeles sun. He pulled his shades down over his face and slipped his phone from his pocket. Things were getting hot. Hot for Nikki Solange, which meant hot for him. Her protection was his job even if she didn’t know about his assignment. He needed to give Ted’s investigative security staff time to operate: to find as much as they could and take the facts to the police. And he needed to keep Nikki safe while they looked for the crazy person who was hunting her. Soon she’d be on a Worldwide soundstage and it would be easier to track her whereabouts, but here, now, in LA? He could tail her, he even had her phone chipped, but there were too many free radicals. Too many maybes. Too many things out of Rush’s control, and Rush preferred control.

He pressed Call.

“Hello?”

A shock pulsed low in his gut with her breathy greeting. He turned onto the sidewalk and walked toward his car.

“How would you like to get away for a couple of days?” Rush asked. His fingertips squeezed the door handle.

“Not sure if you remember,” Nikki’s voice teased, “but I have this little film that’s meant to go into production.”

“Even better reason for me to scoop you up and stash you away while I still can.” Rush slid into the Italian leather of his car. The long pause indicated she was considering his offer but wasn’t quite sold. Rush knew how to sell to a woman; he could sell a woman anything—especially himself.

“Nikki.” His voice was deeper, sexier, breathier—he didn’t even have to try really—the idea of being alone with Nikki made heat tingle up his spine. The challenge wasn’t convincing Nikki that this attraction between them was real; the challenge was reminding himself that it wasn’t. “Come away with me. Just you and me.”

The quick inhale of breath on the other end of the line convinced Rush that Nikki was as turned on as he was with the idea of the two of them alone and far away from everyone and everything in LA.

“When do we leave?” Nikki breathed out.

“How about after the premiere party for
Concession to Her Delight
?”

Cici pulled the handheld mirror away from her face. “The fact that you’re producing my next film is the reason why you
must
come to the premiere of
Concession to Her Delight
.”

Nikki wouldn’t win this battle. Aunt Cici was right. Attending the premiere of Cici’s latest movie when Nikki was producing Cici’s next film was a required part of her job.

Aunt Cici examined the false eyelashes Que had affixed to her eyelids. Cici leaned forward. “Is that straight?” She lifted her gaze and looked at Que.

Nikki closed her eyes and counted. She didn’t enjoy the red carpet. Each time she accompanied Aunt Cici to an event or a gala or a premiere, Nikki had to pour herself into an outrageously expensive gown that Aunt Cici had borrowed from some outrageously famous designer and then Nikki spent the night fearful she would spill on or rip the beautiful creation, which cost more than she’d earned in the last four years.

“I borrowed a gown from Karl for you,” Cici said from behind the mirror. She lifted her arm and pointed toward her walk-in closet. “Go take a look. But hurry, darling. We have to do something about your makeup and hair.”

Nikki paused before Aunt Cici’s walk-in closet and pulled open the twin doors. Her breath always caught when she gazed upon the luscious treasures in this room. She inhaled deeply before entering and the scents of lavender and primrose filled her nose. Fresh-cut pink peonies and purple hydrangeas adorned the gargantuan, marble-topped island in the center of the closet. The closet was bigger than Christina’s entire town house. The room held so many colors, so many lush and extravagant fabrics, so many bags and shoes made from the most exotic of leathers. Amidst the multitude of silk, leather, and lace, at the far end of the closet, displayed as if Nikki had entered a couture showroom, was a gorgeous silk dress.

Nikki walked toward the creation. Cut on the bias, the dress would accentuate Nikki’s curves and show off her long legs. Her fingertips brushed across the exquisite blue dress with its fine silk and the gossamer-like threads.

“See it?” Cici called.

Nikki’s eyes fluttered around the closet. The selection in Aunt Cici’s closet was more extensive than the most high-end department stores. Her aunt possessed so many beautiful things. With one phone call, Aunt Cici could have any dress, any evening gown, any
thing
delivered to her door.

“What do you think?” Aunt Cici asked. She now stood behind Nikki.

Nikki opened her mouth to tell Aunt Cici that the gown was too much, too provocative, too eye-catching, that she couldn’t possibly wear the dress, but then Nikki glanced over her shoulder and caught the look on her aunt’s face. A hopeful and expectant Cici with her eyes wide and a smile curling the ends of her lips caused Nikki’s heart to widen and thump in her chest. Her words halted in her throat.

The look on her aunt’s face seemed to beg for Nikki to love the dress. Cici had gotten this dress for Nikki for no other reason than simply because she loved her. Aunt Cici wanted this dress for Nikki. Aunt Cici wanted Nikki to love this fine silk gown. Borrowing this dress from Karl wasn’t only for Nikki’s benefit, but for her aunt’s benefit as well. Aunt Cici wanted Nikki to be happy, to love the dress, to feel beautiful.

“It’s gorgeous, Aunt Cici,” Nikki said. She wrapped her aunt into a hug.

At first Cici stiffened with Nikki’s touch, so unused was she to being hugged by her niece. But Aunt Cici's tense muscles melted and she relaxed into her niece. “Go on then,” Aunt Cici said and pulled away. A smile played across her lips. “Let’s take care of this hair.”

*

Nikki looked into the lighted mirror that held her aunt’s reflection. Four people used their magic on Nikki. The counter held tiny little pots of colors, dainty brushes, hairspray, mousse, gel, long irons that flattened and curled.

“Ow!” Nikki screeched.

The woman with fluorescent green glasses, a half-shaved head, and hair dyed a peacock blue met Nikki’s eyes in the mirror. “Sorry,” the girl said and again ran the brush through Nikki’s untamed mass of red hair.

“It’s okay,” Nikki said softly.

Aunt Cici appeared to inhabit Nirvana when a multitude of people fussed around her. She enjoyed every precious moment as though she entered a meditative state when others brought her world-renowned beauty to the fore. Nikki couldn’t create the same sort of inner calm with eight hands probing and prodding her scalp, face, and nails.

“I think the Chanel red is best,” Aunt Cici said. One of her makeup minions held two shades of red nail color for Cici to peruse. Nikki saw no difference between the shades.

The man with angular features and shocks of white-blond hair settled the rejected nail polish back into a giant traveling makeup case on wheels and then assumed the position at Nikki’s feet.

“Perfect,” Que said and stood back to look at the work of the hairdresser he employed and whom he allowed to work on Nikki’s hair.

“Now makeup.” The team dabbed and blended, airbrushed and sponged. Did anyone truly realize how many hours of work were required in a chair or how many talented people were necessary to make stars so beautiful?

Nikki shut her eyes as Que loaded the spray gun with the base color they would spray upon Nikki’s face. A light but forceful mist danced across her skin. Next came the firm strokes as they contoured her cheeks and jaw, then her lids and finally her mouth. Her face weighed a ton—so much prep for so few hours.

Finally, she opened her eyes.

The result was spectacular. Her hair was a silky toss of deep amber—no tangles, no uneven curls, no frizzy mop atop her head. Once she’d become accustomed to the face staring back at her from the mirror, Nikki followed Aunt Cici into the walk-in closet.

The dress was so beautiful. Too beautiful for Nikki. A dress like this was reserved for the most beautiful women in the world. This dress was meant to gather stares and garner attention. Producers were meant to wear discreet black.

“It is gorgeous, isn’t it,” Aunt Cici said. “Perfect color for you. And the cut? To die for. I only wish I could wear it.”

“But you can wear it,” Nikki burst out, seeing a lifeboat and hoping to play upon her aunt’s desire to always be the best-dressed woman in the room.

Cici slipped out of her robe and let the silk puddle on the floor at her feet. “No, darling, that dress is definitely for a woman your age.” She sighed as though the fact was difficult for her to admit. She turned to Nikki. “But if anyone should wear it and me not want to eat them alive, it’s you. I want you to wear it.”

Nikki couldn’t say no. Her aunt had made a special request to one of the biggest designers in the world for a jaw-dropping dress. Nikki would wear the gown. She walked across the closet to the spot where the barely there dress with the keyhole neckline waited for her to fill it. How would she keep her boobs from falling out? How would she wear a bra? How would she ever—

“Don’t worry, darling,” her aunt called from the other side of the closet as she stepped into her own beautiful gown. “With double-sided tape and Que’s helpful hands, we’ll make certain there isn’t a nip slip.”

*

Celeste “Cici” Solange wasn’t the screen siren of the moment; she wasn’t the screen siren of the year, nor even the decade. Celeste Solange’s celebrity had eclipsed even time—she was a celebrity to be forever remembered as the feminine ideal of her generation. The magnitude of Celeste’s star was most apparent when she walked the red carpet—any red carpet, whether it be Cannes or Westwood or Sunset Boulevard. Nikki stood beside her aunt and the photographer’s flashes were bursts of sun that created spots in Nikki’s vision.

Why did she even worry whether she fell on the carpet when she was with Aunt Cici? No one would notice—absolutely no one. So enormous was her aunt’s star that when Cici stepped onto the carpet, all others disappeared. Nikki stood to the far right of her aunt beside Kiki Dee as Cici worked the line, doing her step and repeat.

“They can’t get enough of her.” Kiki smiled. She tilted her head toward Nikki. “They never could. I could sell a pair of her dirty underwear for six figures. They love her, absolutely love her.” Kiki opened her arms wide and gestured to the bank of shutterflys climbing over each other like a multiheaded Medusa trying to get the perfect shot of Celeste Solange.

The shouts at a premiere weren’t nearly as nasty as those yelled on the streets. No words such as homicide, or incest, or love triangle came from any of the photogs’ lips. Here beside the carpet, they each knew that should they piss off Celeste Solange or Kiki Dee, their press credential would be pulled and they would be barred from photographing any other Worldwide event for the foreseeable future.

Cici cast her signature Celeste Solange look, sexy eyes with one perked eyebrow and a wicked smile. She turned a millimeter and let her eyes scan across the bank of photographers, trying to give all of them their shot.

“She’s so good.” Kiki clapped her hands together. “Darling,” Kiki said and nudged Nikki in the ribs, “that could be you! We could make that you!”

Nikki cast her wide-eyed gaze across the sea infested with cameras. She wanted nothing of that—she cared little for the thought of giving up all her privacy so she could act. She didn’t have the passion for the craft that Aunt Cici possessed. No, Nikki desired to stay firmly entrenched behind the camera, in the shadows. Her eyes wandered toward the stands where fans shook and screamed at her aunt. She didn’t want that kind of mass hysteria wherever she went. Nor did she want to be recognized when she ran to Coffee Bean with bedhead and a pair of cutoff shorts.