Girl of My Dreams (14 page)

“Let’s warm you up a little,” he said.

Before she could protest, he rubbed her shoulders, then her arms. It didn’t seem to help. She still felt cold and wet to the touch. He picked up her hand and rubbed it.

“Your fingers are icy,” he said. “You need circulation back.”

As he circled her palm, he reveled in its peach-like softness. He gently ran his hands over her fingers. They were long and tapered, just right for digging into a man’s back, while those long legs wound tightly around him. This was not the time for a hard-on.

The whites of her eyes flashed in the darkness. Damn, she’d read his mind and could tell he wanted her. What she couldn’t know was the fierceness of his need. The kicker was he couldn’t do anything about it. Nothing must arouse suspicion from Nadia or anyone in her camp. If that happened, all his hard work, plans and dreams would flush down the toilet.

He could handle it. Unlike Darryl, he didn’t need a woman that bad.

“Any better?” he asked.

She had to be. He was scorching. Too late he realized he shouldn’t have laid hands on her.

“Take a hot shower when you get back. That ought to do the trick.” He ignored the vision created in his mind.

“What time is it? Are we late?”

“Good point. I’ll fix that,” he said, grabbing the cell phone and punching in the number to his latest assistant.
[EJ1]
 
“Luanne, push everything back an hour, would you?”

He hung up before the backlash started. That one call would throw the poor girl into a panic. She was the second assistant he’d gone through since Jillian had left and hopefully would be the last.

Jillian shot him a guilty look, as well she might. Before the fiasco had started, she’d been the one to smooth his way and keep him on track. Her rash move had thrown everything off course.

Blake frowned. He still couldn’t get over it. Before, he’d thought he knew Jillian up and down, but try as he might, he still couldn’t figure her out. She’d been an outstanding worker, anticipating his needs before he spoke them. It irked to settle for less when he was used to the best. He’d counted on her more than he realized. He’d thought she’d stick by him through thick and thin, in every eventuality, kind of like a wife, but better. Instead, she’d abandoned ship.

Jillian looked at him dolefully. “I’m really sorry.”

Those jade eyes could make a lesser man melt, but Blake had experience with female wiles. He couldn’t count how many times his own mother had said such words to him, before flitting off to different locations for months on end.

He ignored the sight of her bedraggled figure. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. Make sure you’re ready to go by eight. We’ll hold the shots till then.”

Now he knew that she was safe, he could indulge in justifiable outrage. What the hell was she thinking, wandering around the streets in a strange country? Where were her brains? Had she checked them out when she’d signed the contestant contract? It sure seemed that way. If only he could get the old Jillian back. Then everything would be right with the world.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TAPING RESUMED. THE theme song played in the converted ballroom of the Hotel Granada. Facing the makeshift stage, rows of chairs stretched outward, filled with excited, whispering fans. The room quieted as the announcer’s voice boomed. “All right, contestants. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Show our audience how a hot-blooded woman feeds her man.”

Jillian watched from the side curtain as Trudi, the first tunic-clad “handmaiden,” fed the toga-clad King Troy, who sat on the red velvet throne. To the hoots and hollers of the audience, the redhead flashed her legs, smiled at the billionaire, leaned her breasts in his face and slowly fed him the grapes. Troy remained silent, yet seemed to savor every morsel.

Next came Ms. 44D. Needless to say, her attributes almost smothered Troy as she repeated Trudi’s performance and further embellished it by running her fingertips over the billionaire’s lips.

“Are you still hungry?” she asked, all innocence.

“You bet I am. You’re coming to France with me,” Troy said. With that, he threw her onto his lap and kissed her square on her puffy lips.

The audience cheered and applauded. Thaddeus Larimore broke in. “You’ve heard it, ladies and gentlemen. Our billionaire has chosen the first of the contestants to accompany him to France. That leaves one lucky woman from the remaining two. Who will she be? The wild redhead, Trudi Tomaso, or the jungle-cat, Veronica Baker?”

From behind the left camera, Blake beckoned. “All right Veronica, it’s your turn. On cue, you’re the handmaiden feeding the king and you love what you’re doing. Maxine, hand her the grapes. Okay, roll ’em.”

Jillian, dressed like the others in a sleeveless, scoop-necked, short white tunic and slim sandals, approached Troy warily. Ugh, the thought of sliding the grapes between those wet lips was not appealing.

She held a grape up to his mouth.

“Cut. Veronica, lean a little closer. Not so fast when you slide the grape in. And smile. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself,” Blake said.

By the third take, Jillian was ready to smash the grapes into Blake’s face instead of Troy’s mouth. Forcing back a grimace, Jillian again performed the maneuver. This time, she fed Troy successfully. As her fingers grazed his tongue, she fought back a wave of revulsion.

After he’d sucked the grape, Troy pulled her close. She wanted to squirm away, but smiled instead. Inside, she wondered how to exclude herself from the final round.

Her hands were wet. They still felt soiled after coming into contact with Troy Langley’s tongue. What better place to wipe them than on the back of the billionaire’s tunic? She rubbed them briskly on the cloth. His eyes narrowed, his breath shortened. This was not what she’d had in mind. Instead of repulsing him, she’d turned him on.

“That was sweet, but not half as sweet as you. Come with me to France,” he said, pulling Jillian into his lap and smacking her straight on the lips with his grape-tasting mouth.

The camera zoomed in on her. As alarm filled her, she smiled and tried to look happy. Oh, dear, she’d done it again.

The audience burst into applause. The announcer said, “So be it. The battlefield is drawn. Stay tuned next week for the final phase of our contest, when these two hot babes fight to win our billionaire by putting on their very own fashion show in none other than Paris, France.”

At Blake’s, “Cut,” Troy’s hand roamed to Jillian’s right breast. She pushed it away.

He arched his eyebrows. “Still hard to get?”

Before she could answer, a frowning Blake descended upon them. “Okay, Veronica. Enough necking. It’s bad enough we had to delay the shoot because of your antics. Dinner’s in an hour. Be ready.”

How dare he use that tone? She had no desire to endure her experience atop Troy any longer than necessary and had been about to bolt off of his lap anyway.

Just to prove Blake didn’t own her, she delayed the process and inched slowly along, brushing her legs against Troy’s thighs on the way off. For good measure, after dismounting, she turned and cast a longing glance at the billionaire. Troy responded by clicking his tongue.

That would show Blake.

AFTER A QUICK shower, Jillian slipped into the white terry gown provided by the hotel. As she reentered the living room, she detected a movement outside. Stepping closer, she glanced through the small slit in the drapes and saw Trudi, shoulders slumped, trudging from the hotel to a waiting limo. The sight made Jillian feel guilty. She should be leaving, not the redhead.

Who said life was fair? If it were, Jillian’s mother, her original namesake, wouldn’t have died waiting for a heart transplant. Five years before, Jillian’s father would not have been killed in the car crash that had caused irreparable damage to his wife’s heart. After the crash, Jillian had sacrificed and done what she could to make her mother comfortable and happy, short of plucking her own heart out of her body and giving it to her.

She’d prayed for a miracle, but it had not happened. She’d had to watch helplessly as her mother grew frailer with each passing day. When it was over, Jillian had refused to think about the ordeal, even going so far as to abandon her first name, Veronica, an aching reminder of her mother.

Only for Blake had she temporarily reverted back to it. The worst part was her sacrifice appeared to have been in vain. Blake was fast falling in her estimation. He was not the god she’d thought him to be, but a mere mortal with far too many failings.

She’d seen his picture plastered with countless stars in the tabloids and had heard him call them on the phone. She’d smiled over the anecdotes he’d shared about his dates. Through it all, she’d ignored the evidence of his imperfections and had believed deep down he was a decent, loving man. She’d hoped to be the woman who’d make him realize his worth.

It hadn’t dawned on her that Blake was a manipulator. He had no liking for her or any woman, except for what he could get out of them, whether it be sex, publicity or other service in his best interest. He was not husband or family material and never would be. Her Dad had once told her, “Don’t settle for second best, hon. If a man really loves you, he’ll buy that wedding ring and stay with you forever.”

Her parents had had their little spats as married couples do, but through it all, their love had shone through. That’s what she wanted, not an empty sexual fling that was over and done with before it had started. For her own peace of mind, she’d forget any romantic notions she’d harbored about Blake.

He still deserved respect as her producer and boss. She’d follow his directions like any actress would do, then sensibly part ways with him.

She turned from the window. It was time to get ready.

She changed into the jade green pantsuit, grabbed her purse, and dashed outside to the waiting
vaporetti
. Paparazzi snapped pictures and security held off the waiting mobs, as Jillian and Maxine climbed into the back of the boat. She’d never get used to this celebrity thing. She could do without it and be perfectly happy.

In a plume of water, they took off for the mayoral palace, with Troy and Blake in the front, Jillian and Maxine in the back. Following swiftly behind them, a second boat held their wardrobes, along with Larry, the hairdresser and other valuable crew members.

Once inside the palace, the girls were rushed to an opulent ladies room, replete with gold faucets and antique chandeliers. Garment bags hung over the doors of their private dressing areas. Jillian’s held a lime green empire gossamer gown, reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
. After slipping it on over her head, she stepped into a matching pair of green cloth pumps.

Maxine smiled with superiority at the modesty of the lime green ensemble. In turn, Jillian did her best not to stare at her competition’s crimson figure-molding dress, with the formidable display of bosom, obviously patterned after that of her idol, the late, great Marilyn Monroe.

Larry ministered to Maxine’s hair, doing his best to complete the Monroe reincarnation, while Tony applied Jillian’s makeup. Then the the ministrations were reversed.

Jillian’s tresses were piled upward in a graceful sweep and allowed to cascade in a rain of curls down her back. Tiny tendrils brushed each of her cheeks.

A quick glance at the mirror startled Jillian. She looked less and less like the person she thought she was. How strange it would be to revert to Plain Jane again later, but kind of nice. At least she wouldn’t be forced to smile almost until her lips dropped off and pretend she didn’t have a care in the world.

As Jillian passed through the main corridor, she caught glimpses of sparkling chandeliers, marble pillars and fireplaces, along with precious Renaissance paintings. Inside the dining room, Jillian stifled a smile as Troy and a short jovial man, whom she assumed to be the Venetian mayor, gawked at Maxine’s heaving bosom. After introductions, Jillian and Maxine were placed on opposite sides of the billionaire, with Mayor Lorenzo across from Jillian.

Her eyes were drawn to the bold mustard, maize and navy blue floral pattern of the antipasto platter.           

“You like?” the mayor asked.

“Yes, it’s so vibrant. Who makes it?”

He beamed. “It’s from our own Geribi Shop in Deruta. Quite popular, even in your own country.”

The olives, calamari and oysters were delicious, yet Jillian still fought to stifle a yawn. She’d had a long and eventful day. Her eyelids could barely stay open.

A vegetable soup was placed in front of her. Stifling a smile, she thought of the rerun of
Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman
when the coach drowned in his soup. If her head began to fall, would Blake notice in time to rescue her? She pressed the red cloth napkin to her lips to stifle a giggle.

Blake shot her an inquisitive look. “Is everything all right?”

The mayor and everyone else at the table trained their eyes on her. Nothing like being the center of attention. “Everything is just wonderful. I can’t get over the beauty of this palace, or, for that matter, Venice itself,” she said.