The It Girls

I toy with the idea of calling my mother, but just as quickly decide not to. She and Victor have been in England for three weeks now and I try to forget the argument we had before they left. Parents just have a hard time letting their adult children lead their own lives. Mama was just mad because I bought a penthouse in the West Village instead of living with them.

The flight is so long! It seems to be taking forever to reach L.A. and maybe that’s just fine with me because I can’t decide if I’m nervous about the next week or just sick of flying.

“Miss Rothschild, we are making our approach to LAX,” Tim, the pilot says over the intercom finally. The stewardess emerges from the cockpit, somewhat disheveled from her attempt at keeping her balance while we pitched and rolled, takes her seat and buckles herself in for the landing.

I look out the window and then over at Marlena in the seat beside me. She’s curled up, sleeping, looking like a tiny snowdrift of white fur except for the itty-bitty black satin eyeshades I had made for her. She likes them. The moment I put them on, she settles down and goes to sleep. Before the eyeshades, I had to sedate her when we traveled. I figured, what a ferret can’t see, a ferret won’t worry about, and I was right.

The runway comes up to smack the plane tires and we land with a little bump that shakes Marlena awake. I reach over and take off her blindfold.

“We’re here, sleepyhead,” I say. Marlena yawns, showing a mouthful of pearly, sharp teeth, and I lean down to kiss her nose. “We’re going to Paradise.”

I gather up Marlena and my purse, and begin making my way to the front of the plane and stop when I see Tim, the pilot, standing by the doorway. This isn’t unusual—in fact, it’s expected—but something about Tim is different, and before I can even consciously figure out what is wrong with the picture, I find myself feeling irritated.

He stifles a yawn, tries to cover it with by smiling, and says, “Hope you had a good flight, Miss Rothschild.”

I feel a tiny frown wrinkle its way across my forehead and try to smile back, but I’m thinking Since when have I been Miss Rothschild to you and not Porsche? And a visual memory cue plays its way across the movie screen inside my head and I see Tim and I clinging to each other and laughing one sweltering hot night on a beach just south of Rio de Janeiro and realize that even months after that mistake of an encounter, I was still Porsche, so what’s changed? And then I notice that the zipper on Tim’s pants is not quite fully zipped and I see the tiniest smear of pink on Tim’s collar. It is the same shade of pink lipstick the new stewardess, Dorothy, is wearing. I feel my face start to color.

I nod to Tim, but it’s frosty. I continue on past him, down the steps toward Dorothy, and I am so intent on my mission that I almost fail to notice three people walking across the tarmac toward the plane, two men and a brunette.

Then I see something else, a brief flash of silver glinting in the sunlight of a bright L.A. afternoon. When I glance in that direction, I see two men driving a baggage cart toward the plane, which would be fine if my Hawker jet were a commercial carrier, but completely out of place now, especially as the cart has the words “Amazon Airlines” emblazoned on the front grill.

I start to turn my head back toward Dorothy, and stop as something distracts me. I squint, narrowing my eyes and trying to force my 20/60 vision to do more with the far-off object I see held in the man’s free hand. A gun? Certainly not. But the cart picks up speed and seems not to notice the three people in its path mere yards away.

I’m on the bottom step when something—instinct—takes over and I shove Marlena into Dorothy’s surprised arms and take off running.

“Look out!” I yell, not sure if I’m warning the three people in harm’s way, or the unaware driver.

I am running faster than I have in years and I have the advantage because I’m closer to my greeting party than the cart is, but it has a motor and I’m wearing Manolo Blahniks with a three-inch heel.

“Look out!” I scream.

The brunette is the only one who hears me. She looks up, sees me running and does a double-take as she sees the baggage cart heading right for her. I am close enough to see the fright in her eyes, to hear the whine of the engine as the maniacal driver stomps on the accelerator and bears down on his waiting victims.

The brunette swings left, stiff arms the man on her right and I see them both fly backward. I launch myself toward the other man and feel my body soar into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

I hit Jeremy Reins midchest, hear the whoosh of breath leaving his body as we fall. I smell hot exhaust fumes and hear the cart’s engine rush past us, missing us by inches, it seems. The cart squeals to a stop, backs up and then the guy turns the cart around. He is actually heading back in our direction. At first I assume he is coming to check on us, but with a shock I realize this is not the case.

“He’s got a camera!” the brunette cries.

A camera? Not a gun, but a camera?

Two other guys come running out from the concourse building onto the gray tarmac—big, burly men wearing suits and carrying guns. They waste no time. They fire and the driver takes off, circles wide and veers away from us, but his passenger just keeps snapping away, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s being shot at! Beneath me, Jeremy Reins is recovering his composure.

“Hel-lo, darling!” he drawls. “Come to Daddy!”

I look down at him and see dark eyes, black, curly long hair, and realize this fool is smirking at me. I am lying directly on top of him and I realize something else at the same time; contrary to popular belief, Jeremy Reins is not only not gay, he is quite happy to meet me.

He brings his hands up, cups my bottom and gives me, Porsche Rothschild, a firm double-handed squeeze! I draw back and am about to slap him, when his eyes darken, his grip tightens, and he says through gritted teeth and a completely phony smile, “Watch it, lovey, the press has its eye on us!”

I plaster an equally fake smile on my face, dart a quick glance to the right through my dark Versace sunglasses and see the swell of photographers lining the upper windows of the concourse. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking, and I am resisting the ridiculous urge to cry—all signs, I’m sure, of my leftover adrenaline rush and the near miss with the baggage cart.

Jeremy pulls me down into a long, slipped-tongue kiss of welcome, which I resist for all I’m worth. “Lovey, now, play along!” he cajoles.

I ignore him and push away just as the two men with guns arrive, accompanied by the brunette and a man I assume must be Jeremy’s agent, Mark Lowenstein.

“Jesus Christ!” Lowenstein gasps, panting for breath and struggling to brush invisible dust off his black suit jacket. “Those assholes could’ve killed us!” He turns to look at the brunette by his side and his expression takes on an almost worshipful quality. “Thank God, Andrea’s got her brown belt. I will never say another word about you taking those classes, Andrea honey. They might’ve killed us!”

Andrea smiles at her husband indulgently. She is a tall, statuesque brunette in her midforties with long, brunette hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail. Her face is flawlessly made up, just enough to look polished and not enough to look as though she uses anything but the merest trace of mascara. She is wearing a tailored, Anne Klein suit, a cream silk T-shirt beneath it and a massive rock that has to go fifteen carats on the third finger of her left hand. Money without advertisement.

“Mark,” she purrs, “you wouldn’t say anything to me about my classes even if this hadn’t happened. And you were not almost killed—it was just stupid paparazzi trying to get a close-up.”

I look at Mark and realize the man is clearly besotted with his wife, even though he is trying to appear in control and unaffected.

“The true credit for your safety should lie with this woman,” she says, turning to meet my gaze. “She’s the one who warned us. Porsche Rothschild, I believe?” she asks, extending her hand toward me.

I feel like an absolute idiot. I have made a fool of myself over a couple of paparazzi in a baggage cart. There was absolutely no danger and now Andrea, a complete stranger, is trying to help me save face.

Her grip is firm, her blue-gray eyes clear, and her smile honest. My kind of woman. I find myself grinning back at her and making a mental note to keep her around, in case a real threat to our safety materializes and I need help.

In the meantime, Jeremy has dusted himself off and is now standing behind me. When I turn around, I see he still has the same stupid smirk stuck on his face but when I concentrate on his eyes, I think I see fear there. A little frisson of apprehension runs down my spine and hits my stomach. Had he mistaken the paparazzi for a threat, too?

“What the fuck were you two doing while Miss Rothschild here was attempting to save my ass from the overeager press?” he asks the security guards. His voice is dangerously low and ugly, deceptively so when you take into account that he is still smiling and attempting to fool the paparazzi on the upper level of the concourse.

“Sorry, Mr. Reins,” the shorter of the two says. He is bald, his body thick with steroid-improved musculature, his eyes small and deeply set into his puffy, reddened face.

“I’m afraid we were unavoidably detained,” the taller one says, his voice deep and gruff, like an ex-military officer. He smiles, his blue eyes twinkle and I realize he is attempting to be charming, but when I take in the flattop haircut and the military bearing, I don’t buy the act. His eyes are flat and cold. He is angry at being taken off guard and resentful of me because I’m the “girl” who just did his job for him—at least, that’s how I figure he is thinking.

“What is it that you people say, Scott?” Jeremy says. His tone is mocking. “Excuses satisfy only those who make them?” He doesn’t wait for the man to answer. “Perhaps you and Dave stopped to bugger each other in the men’s room. It really makes no difference to me. What matters is that I was nearly killed and I pay you to prevent that!”

Jeremy’s voice had taken on a hysterical quality and I began to wonder if Jeremy’s complete personality was just one long acting class. Rage, then hysteria with the bodyguards, and cheeky nonchalance with me; what does he really feel about what just happened?

Mark’s cell phone rings and he turns away briefly to take the call. Behind us, a door from the concourse building flies open and two uniformed security guards come barreling out onto the concrete, heading at a run toward our little cluster.

“Handle them,” Jeremy says to his security guards. He turns his back on the others, blocking my view of them with his body. The smirk has returned as he cocks his head and reaches out with one finger to chuck my chin. “Shall we go to the car?”

“Give me a moment,” I say. “I need to collect Marlena.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You’ve brought a playmate along? How delightful! The more the merrier, I always say. Will she be sleeping with us?”

I feel a tiny switch flip somewhere inside myself and I temporarily forget all about Renee Dalton-Sinclair, the Gotham Roses and the salivating paparazzi above us.

I reach out, snatch Jeremy’s shirt collar and, before his little pea brain can register what’s happening, pull him toward me, so close I can smell the scent of cigarettes and cologne on his small, wiry body.

I smile as I look into his insolent eyes, but the smile is all show. I am well aware that he can read the full intent of my warning in my eyes.

“Listen to me, you little punk,” I say. “I am here to cover your ass, not grab a piece of it. You will keep your hands to yourself and your mind out of the gutter where I’m concerned. If you don’t, I promise you this, I will cut your balls off while you sleep and stuff them inside your still-beating heart. Are we clear on that point, lovey?”

I smile and wait for his answer.

“Why, Lovey,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know you cared!”

Chapter 2

I don’t slap Jeremy. I want to, but I realize this is just what he wants me to do, so I stop myself. Marlena is mad as hell, though, and she starts chittering and hissing at Jeremy, who seems highly amused by her. I watch all this and begin to formulate an opinion about my spoiled charge; he gets off on other people’s reactions. I suppose this makes him more of a true director than an actor, but it also fits with Renee’s supposition that Jeremy is staging the threats on his life in order to create publicity. I mean, Jeremy Reins is about as well known as any star in Hollywood. He doesn’t need more publicity, but now I see he craves it.

Andrea takes my arm as we’re walking toward the car, with Jeremy and Mark several yards ahead.

“Porsche, I’m so glad Renee sent you,” she says in a low voice. “I was afraid she might not follow through on this.”

I am trying to calm Marlena down and so I am not being my most tactful self when I say, “He’s full of shit and this is just a big game to him.”

To my total surprise, Andrea nods in agreement. “Actually,” she says, nodding to the two men ahead of us, “they’re both assholes at times, but you need to look past that.”

I’m not sure what to say. I mean, I think she’s just called her own husband an asshole, which even my mother, faced with her husband’s philandering, fails to do when the occasion really calls for it. So I switch to active listening mode and nod sympathetically. “So, you look past their behavior?” I murmur, using her own words to lead her on to her next thought because this is what good therapists do, they open the gate, but never shove the patient through.

“Yes,” Andrea says. “Mark is really an overgrown little boy who desperately wants approval, but he needs to feel that he is in charge. He blusters and tells me what I should and shouldn’t do, and then I just do as I please. You know what I mean?”

I nod and smile softly, but I’m thinking, why would you do that? We enter a building and as we follow the two men down a long corridor, Marlene falls asleep again—she is not therapist material.

“Jeremy is a lot like Mark, really,” Andrea continues. “He comes off like a spoiled brat, but he’s really quite insecure. Mark would give you the shirt off his back, but he needs to be praised. Jeremy’s the same way—he’s really very good-hearted.”

I forget therapist mode and fall into my new bodyguard persona. “Then why the threats on his life? Why set up a scenario like that? Why doesn’t he just buy a poor family a house or something?”

Andrea laughs and sound makes Mark look back over his shoulder at her. Andrea’s laugh sounds like wind chimes—high, musical and pleasant.

“Jeremy needs the drama and Mark loves to provide it.” Andrea’s eyes darken and a small frown furrows her forehead. “I think at first it was just to call attention to Jeremy’s new project. It’s a very dark picture about a religious figure who rises to become the leader of a powerful new nation. I think they wanted to blur the lines between the project and Jeremy the person, but something has gone wrong and Mark won’t tell me what it is.”

I switched back to therapist. “Mark won’t tell you what it is?”

Andrea almost whispers her answer, “no.” She takes a deep breath and pushes through double doors that lead to a waiting stretch limo. Jeremy and Mark are just climbing inside the car, and in order to finish her thought, she grips my arm tighter and pulls me aside.

“They don’t think I know about all this,” she says. “And really, I don’t. What I mean is, Mark would be terribly angry if he thought I was interfering with his business. We made an agreement when we got married years ago that I stayed out of his business affairs. He’s quite particular about that. I think his first wife nearly ruined him and he needs to feel as if his business is completely under his control now. So I learn what I can by listening when he’s talking and piecing things together.”

She glances at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. “I don’t mean I intentionally eavesdrop. I just mean that when he says something, or if he’s on the phone, I pay attention. I try to look out for him. The entertainment business is ruthless, Porsche. The more I know about Mark’s business, the easier it is for me to avoid little pitfalls and unpleasantness in our social life. Do you understand?”

I am nodding like a bobblehead, but I am totally not sure at all about what she means. I assume she’s trying to tell me that the world is full of ruthless, dishonest people, but like, duh, who doesn’t know that?

“When these occurrences began with Jeremy, I noticed that Mark didn’t seem nearly as concerned as others were. Then I realized that Jeremy wasn’t just playing at not being frightened, he was genuinely enjoying the attention. I realized then that they’d concocted this entire scheme for whatever misguided reason they’d felt it necessary. But two weeks ago, everything changed. There hadn’t been any threats for almost three weeks and suddenly they started back up again. This time Mark was almost hysterical and Jeremy was scared to the point of seeming enraged at Mark. That’s when I knew…”

The limo’s rear window slowly slides down and Jeremy pokes his head out, waggling his finger in our direction.

“Loveys,” he calls. “Are you two going to join us, or must you gossip there on the street like common pigeons?”

His voice has taken on an exaggerated English accent, and as much as he is trying to keep the tone a gentle tease, no one is fooled by the act. Jeremy is tense and angry and working mightily to disguise it.

As we enter the car, Marlena wakes up at the sound of Jeremy’s voice and leers at him from the safety of Mommy’s arms. He stretches out a finger in Marlena’s direction and I say, “Watch it, she’ll bite you!” But to my amazement, she doesn’t, and Jeremy coos something unintelligible to her and turns his forefinger up right under her nose, offering her the meatiest part to bite down on. I suppose it is his way of apologizing for his earlier behavior and I am shocked when my normally suspicious ferret sniffs, but does not chew, the fleshy digit.

“That’s a love,” Jeremy murmurs and I am reminded that he is rated one of the ten sexiest men on the planet. Of course, I do not find him remotely attractive. To me, Jeremy Reins is a street urchin, thin, unkempt and ill-mannered. The word on him in my circles is that he is quite the slut and not at all discriminating about who he beds, male or female. Recently, all I’ve heard about Jeremy is that his tastes are now purely reserved for the male gender. Of course, that little rumor was put to rest quite quickly out there on the runway, but I realize I am allowing my mind to drift quite far off the task at hand.

“So, Porsche,” Mark says genially, “do you spend much time in L.A.?”

I take the flute of champagne that he hands me and sip it appreciatively before answering.

“No, I’m afraid I find L.A. to be rather tiring,” I say, but then I smile at him and hold my glass out in front of me. “However, I’ve never been treated so graciously.”

I hear Jeremy chuckle softly and ignore him as Mark smiles delightedly. “Ah, a connoisseur—I see we will have much to discuss.”

But I’m not thinking about champagne. I am thinking instead that I need to shake this man and his manipulative little client until they give up the truth about their little publicity gimmick and tell me how it seems to have gone out of control and taken on a dangerous life of its own.

I am about to ask this when Andrea interrupts her husband.

“Weren’t we lucky then, to have Porsche join us for the Oscars?”

She licks her upper lip nervously and I look at her flute and find it nearly empty. What’s with her? I wonder.

“I am so glad I called my old college buddy and learned of Porsche’s desire to attend the festivities. Of course, Jeremy, I know you’ll be glad to return the favor when you escort Porsche to CeCe Goldberg’s big do next week.”

The three of us are looking at Andrea like she’s suddenly sprouted an additional head. She’s babbling, talking like this is some elaborate play date she’s arranged and not a case of Jeremy’s life being on the line and me coming to the rescue, real or imagined…and of course, then I get it. That is exactly what’s going on. Jeremy and Mark have no idea why I’m really here, a fact Andrea seems to have omitted in her plea for help to Renee. She is pulling the strings like a puppet master and the three of us were all dancing.

“What?” Jeremy sputters. “Charity party? I hate that old windbag!”

“Oh, now, Jeremy, didn’t Mark tell you?” Andrea says, her voice taking on a soothing mother quality.

Mark is looking equally flummoxed. “Charity party? What charity party?”

Andrea manages to look sweetly frustrated with her husband, but I note the beads of sweat that pop out along the ridge of her upper lip.

“Now, honey, remember? You said Jeremy needed to plump up his image and also show his fans that he was not frightened by the threats on his life. You thought the Oscars and the party would be perfect opportunities, and what a coup to be going with Porsche. The press will be all over you two! I mean, Hollywood’s bad boy and New York’s ‘It’ girl, what an amazing duo you’ll be!”

Jeremy has started scowling and I believe I am seeing his first honest emotion. He is pissed.

“I can get my own date, you know,” he snarls.

“Of course you can, honey,” she coos. “But Porsche is the current ‘It’ heiress. Everyone knows her. She is co-hosting the Children’s Fantasy Party with CeCe and, well, you know the nasty little rumor mill has been working overtime about you and, well, your love life…. Having such a sexy, well-known, heterosexual woman on your arm…”

Andrea skitters to a stop here, her voice dying away as she tips the champagne flute to her mouth and drains the one lone drop at the bottom of her glass.

“I was only trying to help,” she says finally, lowering her glass and slowly raising her head to face Jeremy. Her voice is now that of a little girl, pleading for sympathy and understanding. As I watch, making matters even worse, Andrea’s eyes actually well up with fat tears that threaten to spill over onto her cheeks.

Jeremy and Mark are just lost and I make a mental note to nominate Andrea for my own “Best Actress in a Manipulation” category.

“Well, I guess if you put it that way,” Jeremy says, recovering quickly and turning to give me his standard insolent smirk, “I’d love to escort the little waif. Now tell me again, who you are? An heiress?”

I drain my glass and hold it out to Mark for a refill. It takes everything I have not to slap the patronizing attitude right out of Jeremy’s skinny little body. He knows full well who I am; everybody knows who I am! I force a smile and meet his eyes.

“Now, tell me again, Jason,” I say. “You make commercials?”

Jeremy’s eyes glitter dangerously for a split second before he laughs, tilting his champagne flute in my direction. “Touché!” he says softly.

Two hours later, we arrive at Paradise Ranch and I get my first glimpse of what is to be my home for the next week or so. It takes my breath. I am expecting gray and brown desert or something, but instead the green is so lush and verdant that I am tempted to remove my pumps just to feel the cool grass between my toes. Instead I climb out of the limo and stand beside it, breathing in the fresh, salty air of the nearby Pacific Ocean and listening to its dull pounding against the rocky shore somewhere in the nearby distance.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Jeremy asks, appearing by my side. The ever-present smile is still in place, but in his eyes I see the need for my approval.

“I thought you said this was a working ranch?” I say, remembering that he expects me to be a bitch and not wanting to disappoint him. “Doesn’t look like one to me. Where are the horses? Where’s the farm equipment? I don’t even see a cowboy.”