Celebrity Spin Doctor Page 2

  Brett threw back his whiskey and was about to order another when a flash of dark hair turned his head. He squinted, feeling the eighth drink in the back of his eyeballs. There, across the room, climbing the white staircase to the second-floor balcony, was the reason he was here.

  Michel Polce, multi-millionaire, Oscar winner, media sensation, and fashion icon whose Italian love ballad CD had been the first foreign language album to hit number one on the American pop charts. He had the look of a romance hero: muscular, angular, and handsome. He was an enigma, a mystery, a shadowed Lothario, entrancing and utterly unattainable.

  He also happened to be Brett’s former best friend and, for the night, Brett’s date. Or, rather, Brett was his date. All Brett knew was that, after not speaking to him for over two years, Michel had sent him an invite to the party with a note saying, “This is a matter of life or death.”

  The writer in Brett, long dormant, had stirred at the challenge. He’d dusted off his tux, combed his hair, and shown up—only to discover Michel was nowhere to be found. Now that he’d spotted the bastard, there was no way Brett was letting him get away.

  He abandoned his glass on the bar, wobbling as he slid off his stool. He shoved his way through a crowd of B-listers, ignoring their protests, never taking his eyes off Michel.

  Michel disappeared.

  Brett blustered with open-mouthed indignation. He made a dash for the stairs, busting through a group of anorexic teen actresses like they were dry twigs. On the far side of the teenagers, he ran headlong into a pair of ultra-fake, permanently perky boobs.

  “Brett Jacobs,” said a shrill, surprised voice from behind the boobs.

  He wilted.

  His chase had been impeded by a tall, thin woman in a plunging mauve dress, her equally mauve lips scowling at the sight of him.

  “Hello, Lauren.”

  “Uh uh. Only my clients can call me Lauren. To you it’s Lady Cunningham.”

  “Lady?”

  She shoved an enormous heart-shaped diamond in his face, wiggling her finger so it blinded him.

  Brett pulled together the last shred of his dignity. “Congratulations. Now, do you mind? I’m on my way out.”

  “Can’t cut it around all the real stars, can we? I suppose they start asking uncomfortable questions. Speaking of which, how is that second script coming along?” Lauren smirked, shaking her head in mock pity.

  Brett scowled back but couldn’t argue. Lauren had every right to be mad at him. As his agent, she’d had access to Stanton Enterprises, only to have her connections ripped away during his crushing descent. He owed her money, time, and pieces of her life that he could never pay back. He just couldn’t deal with that right now.

  “Lau— Lady Cunningham. Can we please not go into this? I’m trying to catch someone before they leave.”

  Lauren moved the tiniest fraction to the left on her razor-sharp heels. “Oh yes, I’m sure you have an incredibly busy schedule. Let’s just hope our paths don’t cross again.”

  Walk away. Don’t say anything. Just walk away. And for fuck’s sake, stop talking to yourself. You’re a grown-ass man.

  Brett pushed past Lauren, not meeting her eyes. If he had, he’d have told her to shove her stupid stiletto up her stupid, smart ass. As if it would fit after that much liposuction.

  Outside the party, the air was a whole barometric pressure unit lighter—free of the pounds of designer perfume and signature cologne. The lobby was also, however, free of Michel.

  “I bet he left,” Brett muttered.

  The well-dressed man at the front desk looked up. “Can I help you, sir?”

  Brett glanced around, checking for stray paparazzi. The black and white modernist entryway was free of cameras. “Could you tell me if Michel Polce is staying here?”

  The man didn’t blink. “I’m afraid no one by that name is staying at the hotel this evening.”

  “Dammit.” Brett racked his brain. His sluggish, drunk brain. Code names, codes names. If Michel was going to check in under a code name, what the hell would it be? A main character in one of his films? Too obvious. Nothing in popular media; Michel wouldn’t risk it. What is the last name anyone would ask about at the front desk of the Bonne?

  Brett closed his eyes for a moment to stop the slight spinning and turned back to the blank-faced man behind the desk.

  “Yes? Do you have another request, sir?”

  “Yeah, my name is Brett Jacobs and I seem to have forgotten my room number. Could you remind me which one it is?” Brett asked, his voice flat. He produced his ID and swayed a little to add credibility to the claim that he was sufficiently drunk enough to be lost.

  After examining his ID briefly, the man handed it back to him. “Suite 4018, Mr. Jacobs. It is on your room key.”

  Brett hung his head. “Right, yes. Thank you.”

  Of course it’d be his name. No one would ever expect the disgraced screenwriter, the laughing stock of the business, to be staying at a hotel whose nightly rates were higher than the cost of a five-bedroom house in Nebraska.

  ***

  Lucille leaned against the balcony railing, casually contemplating what it’d be like to fall off the edge. Would people notice when I splat in their midst? Or would they chalk it up to another heiress gone off her meds? That’s all I am to these people. A rich, snobby heiress who gets invited to these things because of who they believe my family is.

  That’s not fair. That’s what I let them believe, and they’re just too self-absorbed to see through it. God, I’m bored.

  If this mysterious client didn’t show up soon, she was leaving. Like all the others, this event was ridiculous, dull, and shallow, and she was busy. Still, she liked having Raphael owe her.

  “Lucille Anton?”

  She turned to find a tall, tanned, dark-haired man in a sleek designer suit standing a few feet away and staring at her intently. She recognized him at once. His face was plastered all over the media as the forerunner for hottest man in the world. She glanced around. There were a few other people on the balcony, but their faces were glued to each other’s like kids at prom.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, feigning innocence. Raphael’s speech was about to begin. That was the other reason she’d come: to hear one of Raphael’s riot-provoking orations. She loved seeing the sycophantic crowd’s awe transform into uncomfortable horror.

  “I’m supposed to meet you here?” He had an accent, slight, but enough to cause the women of the world to collectively swoon. For sex on a stick, though, he seemed incredibly nervous.

  “Yeah. Right.” Real professional, Lucille. Pull yourself together, woman!

  He grabbed her arm like he thought she might leave. “No, wait, Raphael told me to see you. He set this up.”

  Lucille’s skin tingled under his broad hand. He was her meeting. She stepped back, out of his touch, to pull herself together. When she had, she extended her hand with all the casual grace she didn’t feel. “Lucille Anton.”

  The man’s smile could melt a glacier, his full lips parting to reveal straight white teeth. His deep brown eyes lit up as though Lucille was the most beautiful, charming woman on the planet and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but right there at that moment. Lucille felt her heart jump on impact.

  “Michel Polce,” he said, reaching out his hand to clasp hers.

  Chapter Three

  Michel fucking Polce, Lucille thought as his hand closed around hers. Of course she knew who he was—she doubted there was anyone left in the world who didn’t. He was an internationally acclaimed, award-winning actor, director, screenwriter, producer, musician, designer, and all around media darling. He’d once hosted a reality TV show and all the contestants were eliminated in the first episode after spending the entire time fawning over him. Last year he’d published a book that was just half naked photos of himself and it’d been an overnight, runaway bestseller.

  Of course, Lucille knew all this second hand. She’d never read, seen, or heard any
of his work. She didn’t have that kind of time.

  But she knew a profitable client when she saw one, and Michel reeked of money, fame, and desperation. His black tux was custom made, his diamond-studded gold watch handcrafted. Everything about him spoke of outrageous amounts of disposable income. Broad and muscular, he had a physique no one as busy as him could achieve.

  He doesn’t need to work out. With the kind of money he makes, he could pay someone to work out for him.

  This was not the time to think about his beautiful, perfect body. Something was upsetting Michel, something he’d come to her for help with. Her only interest in the man was what he needed from her and how much that assistance was worth.

  “Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?” Lucille suggested in a soft purr. The balcony was too exposed for the kind of discussion they were about to have.

  Michel’s gaze flicked around the space before he replied. “Right, yes. I have a suite,” he stated, as if having a room at the most expensive, exclusive hotel in the city was a given.

  Lucille led the way out of the ballroom. When they reached the elevator, she turned to discover Michel had donned a black mask that covered half of his face like some sort of swashbuckling pirate. She raised her eyebrow at him.

  “So no one will recognize me,” he whispered.

  Lucille’s eyebrow crept higher.

  “It worked on the way in.”

  People in this town are dumber than I thought. The elevator crept higher. “I thought you owned a house in Hills, Mr. Polce?”

  Michel shifted. “I do. Of late it has become...convenient for me to keep a room here too.”

  Now Lucille’s curiosity was on high alert. She had to know what had turned this suave megastar into a nervous wreck. And if that meant spending time alone with him in a hotel suite, then so be it.

  It wasn’t, in the basic sense of the word, a suite. A suite would have been a downgrade. Michel was staying in one of four exclusive apartments reserved for the uber rich, royalty, the president, and the pope. On the fortieth floor, they were admitted into a short hallway. Michel hurried her to his room, his eyes scanning the area. The door stuck, however, and required a hefty shove before it yielded enough to let them in. Once inside, Lucille saw the door’s reluctance to open was the result of someone having shoved a large armchair in its way. This was not the only eccentricity, either. The whole room was, in fact, barricaded from within. The seating area had been stripped of all furniture save a solid black coffee table. A leather couch was wedged in the entrance to the adjoining bedroom. In front of each floor-length French door sat a white armchair, blocking access to the patio and its stunning city skyline view. A leather loveseat had been dragged inexplicably in front of the huge TV screen on the left-hand wall. Directly to the right of where she stood was a marble bar, the only part of the room that hadn’t been dismantled.

  Lucille took note of this with bland interest. Michel was insane; most of her clients were. Now it was a matter of seeing whether his insanity was something she could work with.

  “Expecting someone, Mr. Polce?” she asked.

  “Please, call me Michel,” he said, ignoring her question. He was checking beneath the couches, behind the curtains, and even under the bar, in a methodical frenzy.

  “Hmm.” Lucille nodded.

  Michel paused, his head almost under a chair, and turned to meet her eye. He flushed and asked, “Would you care for a drink, Ms. Anton?”

  “Lucille. Club soda with lemon. Thank you.” As she spoke, she strolled to one of the bar stools. It was bolted to the floor, which explained why it hadn’t been sacrificed to the barricade. She never drank during client meetings. Alcohol loosened the tongue, something she counted on but couldn’t indulge in. As she sat, she crossed one leg over the other, stretching the tight dress to its limit. This caused the Spanx to press on her bladder. She uncrossed her leg. This was not a situation in which she felt she could leave her new client alone, even to use the bathroom. “Shall we get started? I’d like to know where you heard of me.”

  Michel slid behind the bar and, with a flourish, poured her drink and a generous glass of whiskey for himself. As Lucille took a small sip from her glass, Michel downed his in one long swig and poured another. He met her gaze with deep brown, intense eyes.

  “You must get a lot of solicitations.”

  She shrugged. He went on.

  “Which is curious, because no one knows who you are or how to find you. How do you manage that kind of anonymity?” He went on without an answer. “No, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets. You see, I’ve found myself in an...awkward situation of late.”

  He paused, staring at nothing. “Raphael knows. He told me to find you and that you could help me. But he didn’t elaborate, so I’m intrigued—what is it you do?”

  Lucille waited to see if he’d keep talking. When he didn’t, she launched into her speech. “I’m a sort of spin doctor, but for celebrities. My clients are people who’ve done or said something they want to hide, and that’s where I come in. I help them with the cover up, I manage their media image, and I protect their reputation.”

  Michel’s eyes lit up as she spoke, and he leaned toward her. “Yes! That’s what I need.”

  There was more, a whole history of how her Uncle Simon had started the business to meet the need for personalized celebrity image protection services, how stars had flocked to him, and now her, to guard them from their own career-threatening mistakes. We make lying, cheating, nut-job celebrities look like caring, well-intentioned individuals. I am, in fact, a miracle worker, she didn’t say.

  “Great. Now why don’t you tell me more about your difficult situation and I’ll tell you how I can help.”

  Michel’s smile slid from his face. He deflated against the bar. “I’m afraid it isn’t a simple one. The situation is...complicated.”

  “I’ll decide that.” Lucille was rarely rattled after eight years of such confessions.

  Michel took a deep, exaggerated breath, the movement causing a piece of dark hair to fall over his eyes. “Two years ago, my life changed forever when I saw Sylvia Stanton. I was meeting with my producer to protest the title change of my third film, when in glides Sylvia, sweeping through the building like Athena riding into battle—terrifying and breathtaking.”

  Christ, actors.

  He went on to depict Sylvia in precise sensory detail. Everything from the curl of her hair beside her left earlobe to the little sigh she gave when she put on a new pair of shoes. As Michel spoke, he paced the room, lost in memory. He described the first year and a half of their relationship in explicit detail. How inseparable and in love they were. How generous, kind, and supportive Sylvia was. How many times they’d banged on the side table in the entryway. Lucille cut him short when he launched into an exposition of how Sylvia tasted. She couldn’t stomach it.

  She resisted the temptation to look Sylvia Stanton up on her phone. Perhaps there were two women by that name. The Sylvia she knew of was spoiled, selfish, and obsessed with personal monetary gain.

  “That all changed,” Michel went on, a frown clouding his wistful recollections.

  Here it comes.

  “The moment I realized what she was.”

  A colossal bitch?

  “She’s trying to kill me.”

  Lucille choked on a sip of club soda. She forced herself to swallow, her eyes tearing as the carbonation caught in her throat. Swallowing again, she held back a cough, though the effort caused a few tears to fall. She wiped them away, hoping Michel hadn’t noticed.

  He hadn’t. He was still talking, his back to her as he pulled aside a gauzy white curtain to stare into the dark night beyond.

  “I can hardly believe it myself,” he was saying.

  “What did you say?” Lucille croaked.

  “My fiancée is trying to kill me. Has been for some time.” He spoke with flat detachment, devoid of his usual embellishment.

  “But, what do you mean, she’s t
rying to kill you?” She was asking dumb questions but couldn’t help it. It wasn’t every day a celebrity, and potential client, informed her that his fiancée wanted to murder him. “What’s happened? What’s she done?”

  Michel turned to look at her, seeming to assess her, before continuing in the same flat, emotionless voice. “At first it might have been an accident. When I’m working on a film, I roam around the house with little heed to my surroundings. One afternoon, while acting out some dialogue, I tripped over Sylvia’s suitcase, which had been left at the top of the stairs. I might have fallen down all forty-six stone steps, breaking my neck and each bone in my body on the way, but I grabbed the railing just in time. When I told Sylvia about it later, she apologized profusely and then was silent, sullen even, the rest of the night. Sylvia never stops talking, you see. I suppose I’ll never know if that one was an accident or not, but I assure you, the next incident was intentional.” He paused.

  “Go on.”

  “I was walking through my gardens at the time cinematographers call the ‘magic hour.’ That last moment before the sun disappears beyond the horizon. When the sky glows red, orange, purple, and gold. Before the evening settles in with calm, graying dusk. I wandered slowly among the flowers as they prepared to close for the night. I paused to inspect a particularly vibrant leopard lily. From the periphery of my eye, I caught the flash of a camera. I straightened to get a better look. No sooner had I moved than a fifty-pound stone bust catapulted to the ground right where my head had been, taking the unsuspecting lily with it.”

  Lucille realized she’d been holding her breath, and exhaled slowly. She gulped her remaining drink, wishing it was whiskey, as she tried to think of how to respond.

  Michel hadn’t finished. “Since then, she’s tried to poison and electrocute me as well.”