Blonde Ops (7 page)

I emerged from my interrogation to find Ortiz and Nelson bustling about in a cool but determined matter. Ortiz had an electronic device and was scanning everything as if it had a bar code. I knew what she was doing—looking for listening devices. I guessed frequent security sweeps would be the new norm around here, probably until the First Lady left. But I was still wondering about Parker, what injuries she had. Where she was. Serena and Ortiz were the last people with her before the accident. One of them had to know something. I was pretty sure I could talk my way around Serena if she would give me a moment—and why not? It wasn't like she had much say anymore. Candace had stepped on, and into, those editor's shoes. Ortiz, on the other hand, was a trained Secret Service agent and so more of a challenge—but hey, I was up to one if it came to that.

I slipped downstairs and into the bathroom that was right off the kitchen, checked my makeup and my braids. And then I heard Serena's voice.

“I can't believe how bad it was!”

“You did what you had to.” That sounded like Ortiz. “Stop worrying about it.”

It was nice of Ortiz to comfort Serena, I thought.

“How long do you think she'll be in the hospital?”

“I don't know. Her injuries … were extensive,” Ortiz trailed off. Was she unwilling to say any more? Agent Case did say the information was classified.

“And Candace? How long will she be here?”

“Her being here is as much of a surprise to me as to you.”

Ortiz didn't sound too happy. And Serena … there was no mistaking the anxiousness in her voice.

Then it hit me.

She wanted to run the magazine.

She was Parker's second in command and would have been running the show if Candace hadn't shown up. They stopped talking, but I waited a long time before coming out. I wanted to be sure that they were both gone. When I opened the bathroom door, there was Ortiz standing by the espresso machine. The squeal of the hinge made her start and turn around.

“Bec?”

I nodded, trying to keep a straight face, as if I hadn't heard anything private.

She scrutinized me closely. “I didn't know you were in the bathroom.”

“The one upstairs was occupied.” I scrunched up my face. “The men use this one. So it's almost always free.”

A short laugh, and then, thankfully, she turned away.

I spent the rest of the afternoon fetching accessories, food, and water and getting yelled at in Italian by Angelo. When he wasn't manning his camera, he was eating. Aldo, who usually doubled up as Angelo's personal waiter, was AWOL on a long lunch. Aldo's surrogate—me—had been busy being interrogated, and Angelo was hungry.

What kept me going was that whenever Sophie and I crossed paths, we smiled and mouthed, “Four thirty!”

Dante time!

But the magic hour came and went with no deliveries. And I really
really
needed one happy moment after all I'd been through in the last two days.

Sophie shrugged at me when we packed up to leave for the night. “I probably should have told you he doesn't come every day.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said, feeling let down.

Before any of us could go home, Candace insisted we all had to have staff photo IDs taken. I wasn't taking a picture without a little sprucing up; my school ID card was scary enough. For once, I counted myself lucky that we were stuck behind the primping models, giving Sophie and me valuable time to improve whatever we could. I sidled up to her as Ugi “fixed” her already perfect complexion. I leaned over to borrow a brush from Joe but he pushed me into the chair.

“The braids,” he said as he unraveled my hair, “too young for you.” A few pulls of his brush and a spritz of something that smelled like plums, and he handed me a mirror.

“Ooooo!” was all I could get out. I loved my braids, but this …

“Nice color,
bambina
. But no need to look like a little girl.” He wiggled his fingers at the model behind me. “Next!”

Dismissed, I moved into Ugi's chair.

Ugi rolled his eyes in Joe's direction. “It's nice,” he said offhandedly, as if he didn't want to admit it.

“Office romance gone bad,” Sophie said under her breath next to my ear as he sorted through his array of skin-toned powders. “I'll have to fill you in later.”

Ugi gave me a dab of foundation and a swipe of lip gloss and mascara. “Don't go overboard, you don't need much,” he said sternly as I stood.

“It's not a beauty contest,” said Case, tapping his arm.

Ugi shook his head and shooed me away with a grumpy “You're welcome” to my “Thanks.”

It took over an hour to get my badge. I said good-bye to Sophie and started making my way back to the hotel. It felt so good to get out of the office.

A cool breeze played with my hair, sliding it across my face. I brushed it out of my eyes. A few steps ahead of me, a guy with his back to me sat on his Vespa. Two girls smiled and played shy, batting their lashes at him.

I knew who owned those broad shoulders, that golden mane—

Dante!

Maybe it was being in Rome, or the new hairdo, or hearing the heartbeat bass of his voice that made my breath flutter in my chest, but I found myself walking right by him.

Close enough for him to see me.

“Bec!”

I stopped short and turned, a totally believable look of surprise on my face.

“Dante!
Come sta?
”

“
Ciao
,” he said to the two girls, who looked miffed that he pushed his scooter over to where I stood.

I win!

“Your hair, it looks
bella
, beautiful. I like it very much.”

A little shiver ran down my spine. “
Grazie.
”

“Want to take a ride? I can show you around town.”

I winced. I oh so wanted to, but wasn't sure if it was a good idea with Candace monitoring my movements.

“How about we grab a drink instead?” I pointed to a café few yards away.

“Okay.” He grinned and rolled his Vespa down the side of the street. “So, you like Roma?”

“I like it more every day,” I answered truthfully. Sure, I'd been shipped here without my consent, but I was discovering so many amazing things, like the breathtaking sight of Dante in front of me.

The Vespa parked, Dante chose an outdoor table under a large canvas umbrella. All around us, waiters bustled, people chattered, plates clinked. He pulled out a chair for me.

And a gentleman too.

“It's better here, we can watch the people go by.” He waved to someone. “You know,” he said, leaning closer and whispering conspiratorially, “you can tell all the Americans. They wear jeans and sneakers.” He shook his head sadly, then smiled. “But not you. Ever since I saw you, you are different. I like that. And today, you are different again.”

I smiled at the unexpected compliment. “So, what's good to drink here?” I asked.

“Forget the drink. Get a limoncello gelato.”

“Dessert before dinner? I'm in!” Rome was so decadent!

He ordered, and soon the waiter brought a single plate stacked with scoops of pale yellow gelato—with two spoons. As we savored the tangy-sweet dish, Dante asked, “Are you an exchange student, like Sophia?”

It sounded so cute, the way he called her So-fee-ah, rather than So-fee. I shook my head. “No. I'm still in high school.”

He waved his spoon energetically. “I finished last year. Now I am saving up to study in America. I have cousins who moved to New York City. Tell me about Broadway! Times Square!”

I smiled apologetically. “I live in California.”

His eyes lit up. “Hollywood! Have you seen any movie stars? I would like to visit there.”

Again I had to disappoint him. “Sorry, I don't live near Hollywood or L.A. I live farther north and I'm usually in boarding school because my parents travel.”

He looked a bit sad. “My parents never traveled out of Italy. I want to see the world. First, study in the United States to make a fortune.”

We spent the next hour discussing places around the world we wanted to see. At the moment, he was working two jobs. Soon, his sister would finish school and get a job and he would be free to travel.

When it was time to go, Dante paid the bill before I could offer to chip in, and then he walked me back to the hotel, pausing in front of the doors. I knew one of the agents was probably watching.

He sweetly kissed my cheek and grinned. “I see you again, no?”

I nodded—hopefully not too eagerly. “Yes, I'd like that.”

“
Buono
.” He waved and walked back toward the café and his ride.

Happy, I strolled into the lobby. Inside, Nelson stood by the elevator looking deceptively relaxed; I could see his fingers twitch as I approached. Bet he had a gun under all that black.

“Rebecca,” he said, and stood aside so I could go up.

In the suite there were clothes and boxes piled everywhere. Gingerly stepping around the stacks, I headed toward my room. Parker's bedroom door was open, and I caught glimpses of a coat, a hand, and a sensible shoe. There was a flash of silk, maybe an evening gown. And then someone staggered past, hidden behind a stack of monster electronics. Varon spotted me and kicked the door closed with his foot. Totally rude.

Were all those cases full of clothes? What did a model-turned-reality-show-star-turned-temporary-editor need with so many high-grade laptops and electronics equipment? Why would Secret Service agents be unpacking for Candace? If that was part of the security detail for the First Lady, why was it in Candace's bedroom? And where had they put Parker's things?

My room, on the other hand, was exactly the way I'd left it.

Or was it?

Having had more roommates than most people have in a lifetime, I'd figured out ways to protect my privacy. A single hair draped across my laptop, pens aimed at some focal point, money hidden in smelly shoes. Only I hadn't had time to set up my usual safeguards. Anyway, a strand of my neon pink locks would be too bright and noticeable lying on the black cover of my laptop—and I'd had that with me all day, so it was safe. Was I paranoid? A little. I'd had my share of privacy invasions.

Still, something didn't feel right. I had nothing anyone would want, but something was out of place. I scanned the room. On the desk was the homework packet from Dean Harding.

I'd left it with the text facing the window; now it faced the door.

My room had been searched.

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Nothing is as versatile as classic beauty. Flawless skin, a cat-eye sweep of black liner or shadow, and red lips …

7

I banged on the door of Candace's room. The talk on the other side went silent, and after a long moment, it opened. Varon stared back at me, his eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“What can I do for you, Miss Jackson?” he said.

“I want to see Candace. Now.” I tried to peer around him, but somehow he managed to take up all the available space the doorway had to offer.

“Ms. Worthington is busy.”

“I. Don't. Care.”

Suddenly Candace materialized behind him, towering head, neck, and shoulders over her proper PA. “What is it, Varon?” she asked. Catching sight of me, she wrinkled her brow—someone skipped a Botox session. “What do you want?”

“Someone was in my room,” I said.

I thought I heard Varon huff. Candace definitely did. “I doubt—”

I crossed my arms over my chest. I wanted to show them I meant business, and I wasn't leaving until I was taken seriously.

Candace stared at me but eventually Her Highness gave an impatient sigh. “No one searched your room. Why would we?”

I fixed her with a stare. “I never said you did. And I don't know why, all I know is that someone, not me, was in there. My homework packet was moved. The address on the envelope was pointing toward the window when I left. After I came back from the office, it was pointed in the opposite direction, toward the door.”

“The maid service—”

“I was here when they were. My stuff was moved after.”

Her face gave me no clue to what she was thinking. She tapped her fingers against her elbow; 1, 2, 3, 4.… “I'm sure with all the excitement, the First Lady's upcoming visit, the Secret Service asking questions—”

“It's true!”

Her tone was even and sure. “No one was in your room. We know everything about you. Unless there's something new…?”

“No.” My reply was a bit surly, but at least it wasn't offensive. Yet.

She nodded. “I thought so. Now, I don't want to be bothered with nonsense like this again. I don't have time for it.” She held up a broad palm when I opened my mouth to argue. “No one touched your things, Rebecca. Go back to your room.” She turned away. “Varon,” she called, and the door was slammed in my face.

WTF just happened?!

I felt like banging on the door again, but I was smart enough to know when I'd been dismissed.

No—dissed.

And I wouldn't be getting any further information.

Right there I made a holy vow to get even with Candace. No one—and I mean
no one
—touched my stuff and got away with it. It was probably one of the agents who did it—before they returned to the office, when I'd stopped at the bakery. Or it could just as easily have been Blondie herself. Or her little minion. They were both here before I was, thanks to the ID photography session. I stomped back to my room. Someone had been in there, and dammit, I was going to find out who and what he—or she—messed with.

I pulled my pencil case out of my backpack, retrieved my makeup kit from the bathroom, and took out my black eye shadow, blush brush, and some clear tape. I locked the door against someone coming in, then like a CSI investigator hunting a serial killer, I dusted the surface of the desk and the envelope from Dean Harding. Real detectives used a special black powder. I would have to make do with MAC Onyx Dust.