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Authors: Shane Bolks

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BOOK: Reality TV Bites
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“No.” I don't even want to know why he's asking, but I'm suddenly glad Booboo Kitty is sleeping under my bed.

“Too bad,” Carlos says. “But when I get home I make a potion for jou and give it to papi.” He gestures to Josh. “That strong magic. Jou take that, jou forget the toad. Also, jou go get laid. That works, too.”

Well, I don't know if I'm going to get laid, but if Nicolo sees me in this dress and doesn't try to get me into bed, I'll seriously question what team he's playing on.

Nicolo calls a few minutes later to say he's on his way, and I've just pushed Josh and Carlos out the door when the bell rings again.

I glide back down the stairs, open the door, and raise my brows. “Nicolo. You look better than tiramisu.” Way better.
Maybe I should suggest we stay in? I reach out and finger the tux's material. “Armani?”

“Good evening.” Nicolo smiles and takes my hand, opening it and kissing the palm.

“Come in,” I say. “I just need to grab my bag.”

But he doesn't release my hand. “You are exquisite. The gown is vintage, yes?”

I give him a nod of approval. I love guys who know fashion. I love vintage, and my collection can't be fully appreciated if a man doesn't know a little about fashion. But not too much. “Know the designer?” I ask and hold my breath.

“Valentino?”

“No.” I relax. “Lanvin. Her mermaid line.”

“I have not heard of her.” Nicolo follows me inside. “But I like her very much.” He takes my hand and pulls me to him. “I like the way she looks on you.” He leans down and kisses me, his hand skating up my bare back, leaving a trail of warm tingles. He's handsome, knows fashion, and leaves me trembling. Any second the alarm clock is going to go off, and I'll wake up and realize this is just a dream. A delicious dream, but a dream.

When the kiss ends, he murmurs in my ear, “I like your hair up.” His hand spreads out over my bare back, warm and solid. “But it looks better down.”

I frown.

He nods expectantly. What, am I supposed to take it down now? I didn't spend twenty minutes pinning it up to take it down now. It's sweet that he likes my hair, but not that sweet.

You know, I've always thought my green eyes were my best feature, especially if I wear green or blue, but most men like my hair. I'm thirty-two, so I probably should have cut it by now, but I can't quite bring myself to do it.

If I were a princess, I probably wouldn't be able to change it without a royal decree.

“Ready to go?” I say breezily, starting up the stairs. He follows, pausing in the living room while I grab my clutch from the kitchen table.

I switch off the kitchen light and say, “Bye, kitty!” to the empty room.

“You have a roommate?” Nicolo asks when I walk back into the living room.

“Cat. White like everything else.”

Nicolo is studying my living room, his dazzling blue eyes taking in every detail. This would drive Rory crazy. She can't stand being scrutinized because she's so afraid she'll be found wanting. Every time I come over she tells me she's sorry her apartment is so dirty, when it's obvious she just vacuumed.

I love for people to see my house. If it's a little dusty, that doesn't faze me. But the cleaning service was here yesterday, so the house is polished and sparkly.

“White is a risky choice,” Nicolo says after a long silence.

“I don't mind risk.”

“No? Better and better,” he says, eyes skimming over me as though I were the room now. “But so much white.” He gestures to the room. “You had to exercise care in choosing the tones.”

“I stuck mostly with ivory. I reupholstered the couch and chair in a heavy ivory tapestry and then used the remainder to make the window valances. The material for the curtains was harder to find. It looks sheer and lets a lot of light in, but you can't see through them from the outside.”

Nicolo nods. “Yes, you need light to make such a pristine room work. And the cherry”—he motions to the armoire
where I hide the TV and DVD player—“the white brings out the rich tones in the wood.”

I smile. “I love cherry, and nothing looks better with cherry than ivory. It's a classic.”

“I see you are a classic woman. Vintage dress, elegant decor, timeless beauty.” He smiles and my pulse jumps at the warmth in his eyes.

“That's just the icing on the cake.” I haven't had this much fun flirting in a long, long time. Especially when I really shouldn't be. Maybe
because
I shouldn't be.

He takes my arm and we walk downstairs toward the door. “Then I shall have to lick the icing away as quickly as possible. I want to taste the cake.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

A little while later, we pull up to the Four Seasons on East Delaware Place, and I smile with anticipation. The Four Seasons is elegant, understated, and European in style.

“Good evening, Mr. Parma. Ms. Holloway,” the doorman says as Nicolo and I walk into the lobby with its Italian marble, crystal chandeliers, and curving, intricately carved wooden stairway.

“Hello, Jordan. Good to see you again.”

I wink at Nicolo. A week in Chicago and the doorman already knows him. I gaze at the chandeliers before moving forward. I love chandeliers, especially at night when the lights twinkle like a million diamond-cut stars. One of these days I'm going to have a house expansive enough for a chandelier. I glance at Nicolo to see if he's thinking about houses with chandeliers.

The hotel manager spots us and hurries over. “Mr. Parma. You are here for the Bourbon-Parma affair?”

Nicolo inclines his head. “Yes, Jean, merci.”

Bourbon-Parma affair? Just how much royalty is in Chicago at the moment?

“Right this way.” He shows us to a private elevator and instructs the porter to take us to the pool level. I arch a brow at Nicolo, but he gives nothing away.

As we step off the elevator, I hear the strains of music and the clink of silver and china. I can't remember seeing this floor of the Four Seasons before, so it's a pleasant surprise when we enter. Classic in style, the room is dominated by the rectangular pool. Surrounding the glass-blue water are Roman columns and, above them, a mammoth domed glass ceiling. A wide expanse of windows along one side showcases a view of downtown Chicago. Tables with delicacies are scattered about the room, and a few unobtrusive waiters are dispensing champagne and wine.

I take a glass from a passing waiter, and Nicolo does likewise. “Nice,” I say. “I thought you were staying at the Drake.”

He nods. “I am. Sixte and his wife, Valencia, are here at the Four Seasons.”

“Allison, dear! How good to see you.” I turn to see Jellie Abernathy sliding toward me. We were friends in high school, but I've recently bowed out of bridesmaid duty at her upcoming wedding, so her warm welcome is a bit surprising. Jellie air-kisses both my cheeks, missing by a mile, then stands back and smiles at Nicolo.

“Jellie, this is Nicolo Parma. Nicolo, Angelica Abernathy. We went to school together.”

Nicolo kisses her hand. “Enchanted.”

“Oh, Allison, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. You've met my fiancé, Marshall, right?” She indicates a short, handsome man standing behind her. We exchange more
greetings and small talk until we're joined by another couple and it starts all over again.

Now I remember why I rarely go to these things anymore. I'm bored in less than an hour. No one actually says anything of any consequence. I love talking about fashion. I can hold my own in discussions of finance and politics. I can even manage a few noteworthy comments on art and theater. But the inevitable start of the name-dropping exhausts my patience. I smoothly extricate myself from the group and make a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to real estate moguls, government bigwigs, and old friends.

I'm talking crown moldings with the mayor's wife when one of the waiters approaches and hands me a note.

“Excuse me,” I say and step away. The note's from Nicolo, asking me to meet him and his cousin in the presidential suite.

On the way back to the elevator bank, I glance at the pool and imagine the reaction were I to jump in. Of course, I'd peel off my dress first. One does not jump in a pool wearing a Lanvin. I wonder if peeling the dress off or jumping in the water would make more of a splash.

I take the elevator to the forty-sixth floor and step into luxury. The Four Seasons spares no expense on their best rooms. I knock on the door and a servant in a tux admits me into a small marble foyer dominated by a live flower arrangement on a gilt table. He opens a door on my left, and I enter a small hallway with more flowers and muted light. To my right is a powder room done in pink marble and ahead is the living room.

The decor up here is also European—dark handcrafted wood, tasteful upholstery, plush carpeting. The view from the huge windows is a panorama of Lake Michigan, framed
by heavy royal-blue drapes with gold fringe. Nicolo turns from one of the windows, the indigo of the sky and azure of the lake in stark contrast behind him. “Allison, come in. Meet my cousin Sixte.”

I step into the living room, and smile at the assembled party. There's a mahogany dining table to the left with eight plush chairs. The ivory pillar candles have almost burned down. Directly before me are several club chairs and two couches in delicate ivory and blue chintz.

Nicolo indicates a man reclining on one couch. This must be Sixte, though he looks almost nothing like Nicolo. He's older, dark with an orangey tan, and he's got a pencil-thin mustache. Beside him is a waif-thin woman in a peach A-line dress from Narciso Rodriguez's spring line. Four or five other men, all lounging carelessly, cigarettes drooping from their mouths or fingers, look up as I enter. “This is Allison Holloway,” Nicolo says. “She is the best interior designer in Chicago.”

I smile and approach Sixte. “A pleasure to meet you. Nicolo's told me so much about you.”

He glances at Nicolo, then back at me, but doesn't rise or even sit up. I'm expecting an air kiss—a handshake at least—so I'm a little taken aback by the cool welcome.

“Please sit down, Allison,” his wife says with no trace of a European accent. “We were just discussing Philippe de Villiers' presentation of Les Sables d'Olonne. Three women are racing this year. Do you sail?”

I take a moment to shift gears. Les Sables d'Olonne. Non-stop yacht race around the world. “I used to. My parents have a house on Lake Geneva.”

Sixte and his wife frown. “Switzerland?” Nicolo asks.

I shake my head. “Wisconsin.”

I get several blank looks, but before I can explain how
upper-crust Lake Geneva is—how it's the “Newport of the West”—the topic moves to car racing.

This is interesting. I've never been the unfashionable one before. I know almost nothing about car racing, so I sit on the edge of a cushy chair and listen until everyone's discussing plans for Fashion Week in New York.

“I loathe New York,” Sixte says, drawing another cigarette from his gold case. “I loathe fashion.”

“We must make an appearance, no matter how tedious,” his wife, Valencia, says.

“All those clothes and girl after girl, all flat-chested,” another man who I think Nicolo called Maxmillian whines.

The group is silent for a moment as everyone but me drags on their European cigarettes.

“Oh, Allison,” Valencia says after a moment. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Thanks.”

“Red or white?”

“Red.” I glance back at Nicolo, resting on the arm of the chair, leaning casually across the back. He gives me a bored look. Being royalty isn't quite as fun as I'd fantasized. I'm missing
The Amazing Race
for this?

A shriek sounds from across the room where Valencia is standing at the dining table. “What's wrong?” Sixte asks.

“We're out of the Dom. de la Romanee.”

Sixte actually sits up at this. “Call down and order more.”

Nicolo rises. “I will do it.”

Valencia shakes her head. “The hotel won't have it. We're in
Chicago.
The best they'll have is a 2000 Château Mouton Rothschild.”

“We could try for the 1986 Rothschild,” Maxmillian suggests.

“Oh, what's the use?” Valencia flops down on the couch beside Sixte.

“I could drink white,” I say, but no one acknowledges me.

“This is all so tedious,” Sixte says.

I agree.

When we arrive back at my house, Nicolo doesn't try to wrangle an invitation to come inside. He sighs and kisses my cheek. All that ennui can really tire a guy out.

After a weekend of frantic reality-star wardrobe shopping, life looks less
tedious and I'm looking TV-ready. Jeweled cuff from Emanuel Ungaro, leather ankle boots from Tod's, jeans from Michael Kors, a new bag from Bottega Veneta, and a top from Luca Luca. I went to Louis Vuitton, too, but I didn't buy anything. I just like to say Vuitton. If only Trinny and Susannah from
What Not to Wear
could get a look at me.

I walk into work early Monday, before the camera crews have arrived, wearing my new Michael Kors jeans, black stiletto boots, a sheer black top, and OPI's Would You Like a Lick-tenstein on my nails.

“Roo-woo! Call the fire department because you're scorching!” Josh pops his head out of his office and watches me walk by. “Miranda isn't going to like it. Stealing the
limelight from her like this. And you're wearing jeans on a Monday.”

“She can suck it up. These jeans are Michael Kors.”

“It's not only the jeans, sweetie.” Josh slips into my office right before I can close the door in his face. “I don't know if you noticed, but that shirt is sheer, it's showing a lot of cleavage, and if we move these little ruffles here—”

I swat his hand away.

“—we're going to see more than is technically legal.”

“It's not that sheer, Josh.” I sit down in my chair, prop my feet on the desk, and lean my head back. “This is going to be a long day.”

“Tired from a hot date with His Majesty?”

“No.” Josh walks behind me and starts massaging my neck. “Mmm, thanks. I have so much to get done today, and the cameras are going to get in the way.”

Josh chuckles, and I glance up at him. “I never thought I'd hear you complaining about cameras.” His hands massage my temples, but he's careful not to mess up my hair, which I'm wearing long, wavy, and supermodel sexy today.

“It's hard being a celebrity.”

“I know, sweetie.” He gives my shoulders a last squeeze. “And you look the part today.”

I sit forward. “It's not too much?”

“If I was straight, I'd be all over you.”

“Promises, promises. Speaking of which”—I pick up a file from under a stack of magazines—“where's the furniture mock-up for the Wernberg project?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Josh!”

He holds up a hand. “Carlos and I had a fight and I indulged in a little pity party all weekend. I'll finish it this morning, then take you out to lunch to make up for being late.”

I frown. “I guess.”

“Oh, good! Where are we going? Le Colonial? I'll buy you a Melon.”

“No.” I don't want to think about Le Colonial or Melons. “How about—”

“Ms. Holloway, Mr. Bryant,” Natalie says on the intercom. “The cameras are here. Mr. Watanabe needs you to come out and get—ah, miced.”

I look through the glass window into the reception area. Nicolo is standing in the lobby, wearing a black suit, white shirt, no tie. He looks really hot, and he's staring at me.

“Here we go, sweetie,” Josh says, pulling me up. “Let's show the princelet who's got the royal flush.”

We're filming the first show Wednesday, and the preproduction conference is interminable. By the time I've called back the clients I missed Friday, it's after two and Miranda's assembling everyone for a meeting on the Wernberg project.

This is the first really big project I've planned and coordinated, so I'm actually on time for the meeting for once. I'm so on time that when I walk in, Nicolo's the only one there, sitting in the same chair where I first saw him. “Hey, why are you in here?” I ask.

“I thought it might be interesting to see you at work.”

I frown, noting he's chosen an area out of camera range. “Are they filming this?”

He nods.

“Did Miranda okay that? I'm not so sure Wernberg wants our meetings about them made public.” I'm not so sure I do.

“We have complete access. Miranda signed the contract.” At my worried look, he motions me toward him. “Stop your worry. It will be used for filler only. Now then, come here and let me see what you are wearing.”

I smile and saunter closer. When I stop in front of Nicolo,
he reaches up and runs a hand over my midriff, pale beneath the sheer black material. His hand climbs slowly upward, under the ruffles covering my breasts. A flash of heat courses through me, but I keep my expression sexy and casual.

When Nicolo looks into my face, I reach forward and slide my hand in the V of his white shirt, flicking another button, so the shirt is open to midchest.

“Oh, dear. It's a tête-à-tête,” Josh says from behind us. I step back and give Josh a dark look. “Sweetie, save that look for Miranda. Here come the cameras.”

Nicolo smiles and mouths “Later.”

As Miranda, trailed by the cameras, walks in, I take a seat next to Josh. The meeting goes pretty well at first. Everyone likes my color choices and Josh's lighting design. The furniture mock-up Josh worked on all morning looks spectacular—one of his best.

“Okay,” I say. “Everything appears to be on schedule.” I flip through a couple pages of my notes. I try to ignore the cameras, Nicolo, too, but I've felt his eyes on me throughout. I wonder how much later “later” is.

“We haven't discussed the budget,” Miranda points out, preening for the cameras.

I glance at Dylan. He and I haven't had time to go over what he's prepared, and I'm not going to hear it first on camera. “Miranda, why don't we save that for later?” I glance at the cameras so she won't mistake my meaning. But she's not watching me; she's smiling at one of the cameras, her head held high to keep her neck from looking wrinkled.

“Now is fine, Allison.”

I look at Josh, and he says, “Can we take a moment to talk about Aguirre and Bailey. I spoke with them this—”

“Whatever you think is fine for them, Josh. Now, tell me about the budget we're presenting to Wernberg, Dylan.”

Dylan passes copies to everyone and stands to run through the numbers he's worked up. Five minutes in, I stop him. This is a mess—Dylan's forgotten to calculate fees for inspection, he didn't include the cost for installation of the floor covering, and the consultation fee he's listed is based on last year's rates. If Wernberg saw this, they'd fire us before we even had a chance to present our scheme.

“Dylan, that's great.”

He glances up at my interruption.

“Why don't you and I go over a few things in my office, and we'll finalize everything tomorrow.”

Lila, a junior designer we hired about three months ago, who is still trying to impress everyone, says, “Where's the info on the SBCCI codes? Where are the Load Factor Tables?” She flips through the sheaf of papers. “We'd better get on that or we'll be late and end up having to cut corners like we did at Harpo Studios.”

I inhale sharply, and the room goes silent. Harpo is owned by Oprah Winfrey, and Interiors by M just redecorated her studio. It was a major coup, a major pain in the ass, and very nearly drove Josh and me into rehab. “Lila,” I say in the tense silence, “we didn't cut corners at Harpo. We were late getting the paperwork in, but I wouldn't say we cut corners.”

Lila looks up at me, then seems to notice the cameras. She pales visibly. “Oh, right. I was just kidding.”

“If all the kidding is over,” Miranda says with ice in her voice, “let's get back to work.” She rises and strolls out of the conference room. Thankfully, the cameras follow.

Dylan looks over at me. “I'm sorry, Allison. I told you I'd never done one of these before.”

I shake my head. “It's okay, but I don't want to go over things with all the cameras around. Can you stay late tonight and we'll work on it?”

He nods. “Sure.”

“I'll stay, too,” Josh volunteers. “Carlos is still being huffy, so I've got nothing better to do.”

We get the budget and the inspection papers worked out, but not until after ten. Tomorrow Josh and I plan to spend most of the day getting everything ready for the taping Wednesday, so I've put Dylan and Lila in charge of the Wernberg details.

I know I should feel excited that the first
Kamikaze Make-over!
is only two days away, but at this point, I couldn't care less. I'm exhausted from trying to balance the cameras, the interviews, the prep work for the show, and my other clients.

Who knew being a reality TV star was so tough?

Earlier this evening, when I finally admitted I was impossibly behind, I gave in and called Mia, home on maternity leave, and begged her to take two clients, then I asked a junior designer I've worked with before to take another. I kept people like Mrs. Bilker-Morgan, but playing musical clients isn't a good strategy. The more you play, the greater the chance that when the music stops, you'll be the one left without a chair.

Miranda says that the attention garnered by the TV show will make up for any slight a client feels, and that I'll be in even higher demand after the show airs, but I've kept more clients than I can really handle as a precautionary measure, and I'm starting to fall behind on my self-imposed deadlines.

Josh and I are the last ones to leave the office that evening, and we walk out together. “You should just sleep with His Highnesty and get him out of your system,” Josh says. “All that sexual tension between you is making me edgy.”

“I'm working too hard to even think about sex right now, Josh.”

The elevator in the hall outside Interiors by M opens, and Josh hits the button for the parking garage. “Sweetie, you know what you're really doing, don't you?”

“Filling the chasm of my nonexistent sex life with work?”

“Oh, please. It hasn't been that long.”

The elevator plunges downward with a whirr.

“Yeah, that's easy for you to say when you've got Carlos from Cuba.”

Josh sighs. “I told you, we're having a tiff. Besides, I haven't decided about Carlos yet. He's bi, and I don't know if I want to date a guy who likes girls.”

“Well, I don't know if I want to date a guy who has obnoxious friends.”

“Yes, you do.”

The elevator door opens, and we step into the parking garage. It smells like heat, oil, and exhaust.

“You just want to make the princeling work for it.”

“I don't give a fudge what he does.” I'm working on not cursing so I don't mess up in front of the cameras, and
fudge
is my new favorite word. “I'm going to watch my reality shows on TiVo, then sleep. If I'm lucky I won't dream about LSC Codes, occupancy classifications, and reverse stenciling.” My heels click on the concrete, the sound echoing through the barren garage.

Josh waits, knowing I can't leave it at that. He's right.

“In a few weeks this fudging kamikaze show will be over,” I say, “and if Nicolo's still interested, I'll think about it.”

“Please. He's your fantasy man. You've dreamed about this guy.”

“Yeah, and I have to wonder if he's real.”

“Is anyone?” Josh says. Then, “What have we here?”

Josh slows, and I follow his gaze. Nicolo is standing beside
my BMW, looking cool in casualwear: black slacks, black silk shirt, leather jacket thrown over his shoulder.

“I'm calling later, and I want details,” Josh says, then turns abruptly and heads across the garage to his turquoise Jeep.

For a long moment I don't move, trying to figure how I'm going to handle this. Then Nicolo spreads his arms, gives me a disarming smile, and the next thing I know I'm walking toward him. I stop close enough to smell his cologne. It must be made with pheromones because I can't think of anything but pushing him up against the car and devouring that sexy mouth. “I'm too tired to go out,” I say, surprised that my words trickle through the constriction in my throat.

“Then we should stay in,” Nicolo says softly, his voice and tenor matching my mood, almost as though he can read my mind. “I will entertain you.” He leans closer. “With my mouth, my hands, my body…”

Okay, this is really corny. I swear, if a friend told me a guy said this to her, I would laugh my ass off. But we're inches apart, his voice is low and seductive, his body's hot, and I deserve a little fun after the day I've had.

So instead of laughing at his cheesiness, instead of repeating my professional relationship mantra, I put my hand on the back of his neck, pull him to me, and kiss him hard. I don't know how long we stand behind my car, our tongues entwined, our bodies wrapped around each other, but when his hand slides under my top and touches skin, I pull away.

He frowns and sighs with frustration. I know exactly how he feels. The last thing I want to do is stop. I want him, and the role of good girl is a size too small.

But just because I've capitulated internally doesn't mean I'll let him see how I really feel.

“Allison, I will take you home, yes?”

I shake my head, not my body's first choice for a response, and my libido retaliates by certifying my brain clinically insane. But my suffering feels deserved. It wouldn't be right if Nicolo were the only one sexually frustrated.

“My car's right here.” A voice that must be mine, but as it's not screaming, “Take me now,” I'm not quite ready to claim ownership, then says, “We have a long day tomorrow.”

“My driver will come back for your car, and the taping I will move to Thursday.”

“No.” Goddamnit! Yes. I meant yes!

His hands fist at his side and he glances away. He
really
doesn't like being told no. And that reassures my mind—if not my body—that I'm taking the right tack with him. There are a lot of good reasons not to get involved. He needs to give me a really solid one to change my mind this soon.

When he looks back, his face is impassive. “Then perhaps you would be interested in accompanying me to an event Friday evening.”

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