Reunion Girls (10 page)

The Lincoln arrived with a smooth stop at the intersection of Mercer and Prince. Lara checked her watch again. Ten minutes early. Perfect. She asked the driver to wait for her and swung out onto the trendy SoHo street, making a beeline for the Mercer, a luxury boutique hotel well known for its romantic bathtubs and showers that easily accommodated two. The Romanesque Revival had been completely redone by French interior designer Christian Liaigre. The lobby-cum-library was intimate and understated—pale leather screens, Turkish carpet, leather banquettes, low oval coffee tables, and shelves of books.

Lara sat there until fifteen minutes after three. Still no sign of the Kometanis. Annoyed, she approached the front desk and asked the attendant to ring their suite and remind the girls that they had an appointment waiting downstairs.

He nodded dutifully, his expression transmuting into something close to weariness at the mere mention of their names.

Lara managed an empathetic grin and returned to her perch.

A half hour later, Mio and Mako Kometani turned in an appearance. They were extravagantly cheap-looking—surgically enhanced breasts spilling out of skimpy tops, expertly pillowed wet lips, and insignificant jewelry adorning their necks, wrists, and too many fingers. Except for the enormous, purple-stoned rings. At first, Lara had thought it was silly costume jewelry. But up close, she could tell it was alexandrite, a rare gemstone discovered in Czarist Russia in 1830.

Putting their unfortunate style aside for a moment, the Kometanis were astonishingly beautiful girls. Wide-set, almond-shaped eyes, flawless alabaster skin, and lithe, curvaceous bodies. They introduced themselves in perfect English, offering no explanation for the forty-five-minute wait.

Lara moved past her irritation. "I think it's wonderful that you've decided to celebrate your birthday in New York. Have you given any thought to what kind of party you want to have?"

"We want a big party," Mio said.

"Yes," Mako seconded. "With lots of stars."

Mio nodded. "And photographers from all the magazines."

Mako presented Lara with a single sheet of paper.

Lara studied it. A preliminary guest list handwritten in wavy, girlish cursive on pink paper ghosted with the image of Mio and Mako. She recognized only a few of the names. Obviously, a large contingent would be flying over from Tokyo. Suddenly, her eyes zeroed in on one particular name on the roster. Joaquin Cruz. She looked up. "Do you know Joaquin?"

Mio and Mako traded knowing looks, then giggled in concert, offering teasing nods in answer.

Lara felt a brief stab of anger. She didn't know why. As if Joaquin had anything at all to do with her. He was free to do whatever with whomever. But the possibilities of what had transpired in that dressing room at Tennis East rampaged through her mind. She pushed the thoughts away, ignoring the slight stirring in her loins. As she straightened her spine and turned her head to adjust her hair, Lara noticed Bizzie Gruzart clomping through the Mercer entrance with all the grace of a camel loaded up on Vicodin.

Bizzie Gruzart ran Bizzie Gruzart Public Relations, a boutique firm notorious for charging sizable retainers and delivering minimal results. But Bizzie was a big name, with bigger connections. Her father, Gordon Gruzart, produced blockbuster films, mostly megabudget action fare and mediocre sequels. His most recent conquest was the small screen.
The Complex
had become a ratings powerhouse and reality television's answer to the 90s juggernaut
Melrose Place.

Ironically, Bizzie shot to fame when she became her own PR crisis after crashing a Vespa straight into outdoor diners at Pastis in the meatpacking district. Nobody had been killed, but at least half a dozen turned up with semiserious injuries. Bizzie walked away unhurt, and disappeared until the next day, erasing any chance of nailing her for operating the scooter while intoxicated, which at least one member of her inner circle admitted she was. In the end, though, Bizzie just went through the media-scandal grinder, then her father wrote a few big checks, and the matter eventually disappeared from memory.

The incident only served to enhance Bizzie's business, as her every move stirred up attention. She taught sold-out seminars at the Learning Annex, where her inside tips for aspiring PR professionals ranged from "Google is a great tool, and it's free," to "Get a list of your parents' friends, and call them for help." It disturbed Lara that Bizzie had become such a major player. She was rude, pushy, sniping, and a borderline fraud. And her homeliness only added to her unpleasant nature. She had hard, unyielding, close-set eyes, a bulbous nose, thin lips, and big teeth that were stained from constant smoking. Add to that the stocky build of a butchy softball player.

Bizzie's eyes were clocking the lobby. She located Mio and Mako right away and beamed brightly. Then she noticed Lara and scowled, pausing a moment before stomping over to greet them. "Are you finishing up here? It's time for
our
meeting to start." Bizzie directed this at Lara.

Lara gave her a cool glance. "Actually, we just sat down."

Bizzie looked to Mio and Mako. "I think I'll have a drink in the bar while you wrap things up with her."

The Kometani twins merely grinned. They obviously enjoyed holding court and having a ringside seat as two PR mavens duked it out for the honor of their business.

Bizzie started to leave, then halted. "Oh, Lara, how was Dean Paul's wedding? I couldn't go. Lady Gaga and Taylor Kinney had a thing at Bungalow."

"It was lovely," Lara said evenly, knowing full well that Bizzie was aware of her romantic history with Dean Paul and was simply probing for a weak spot.

"I met Aspen in L.A. a few months ago. She's an awesome girl. I think they're perfect for each other."

"They seem very happy together." Suddenly, Lara rose up to give Bizzie the full benefit of her height, her slender frame, and her power of style. Plus, it always helped to be standing eye to eye when you issued a proper dismissal. "It's great to see you, Bizzie. We'd better get back to it, so you're not kept waiting long."

Bizzie took the cue huffily and stalked away in a hideous pair of brown pumps. The story was that Bizzie Gruzart had been born with such odd-shaped feet that her shoes had to be specially made. It was a source of great humiliation that she could never wear Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos.

Lara banished Bizzie from her thoughts and returned to the matter at hand, sitting back down to directly face Mio and Mako. "Have you had a chance to view the electronic press kit I messengered over?"

The girls nodded in unison.

"Then you know the caliber of event that Regrets Only is capable of producing. I can't discuss specific themes for your party until a contract is signed. I've run into the problem of other event planners poaching ideas from preliminary meetings like this one. But I would like to point out that my firm employs a staff of thirty and maintains three warehouses throughout the city. Regrets Only is about illusion. For example, last week I did a fund-raiser for breast cancer research and transformed a hotel lobby into a Venetian streetscape." Lara paused to glance at the handwritten guest list. "This is a good start, but to pull off a major event, you need a better mix. Social, junior social, media elite, politicos, sports figures, entertainers, models. They're all in my database, and with the right theme and buildup, I can deliver them to your party." Abruptly, she stood up.

Mio and Mako appeared stunned.

Lara didn't play the please-choose-me game with anyone. If the Kometanis wanted Bizzie Gruzart, then they could have her. "Let me know what you decide. My calendar is open to commitment now, but that could change." With that, she nodded politely and walked out of the Mercer and into the waiting Town Car.

Her Kelly bag started to ring. She fished out the cellular and saw Jennifer Goldblum's name on the ID screen. A tremor of dread raced through her as Dean Paul's new job crashed back into her thoughts. Jennifer was a producer at
Hollywood Live.
She would be able to fill in the blanks. Lara picked up eagerly. "Were you holding out on me?"

Jennifer's voice was perpetually hoarse. "I'm sorry, Lara. I was
dying
to tell you, but they were threatening to fire anyone who leaked it before the deal was signed."

Lara laughed. "So you
were
holding out."

"Only at gunpoint."

"For a minute there I thought you were out of the loop, and I rely on you for the best dish, so this is a relief, I suppose," Lara said easily.

"I just hope this won't be awkward for you," Jennifer said.

Lara was puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Dean Paul will be the show's primary New York correspondent. He'll be covering all of your events."

Lara fell silent.

"But that's ancient history, right?" Jennifer asked. "I mean, you went to his wedding. You must be
so
over him."

"It's not a problem, Jennifer," Lara lied. "I think Dean Paul will be a great asset to the show. Viewers will love him. I hate to cut this short, but I got a late start today, just left a meeting, and have a million phone calls to make."

She signed off and put a hand over her rapidly beating heart. Damn him. Lara had worked so hard to create her own world without Dean Paul Lockhart, and now he was invading it like some third-world marauding conqueror.

On impulse, Lara dug through her purse until she found the business card Babe had given her last night. She dialed the cell number listed. The act alone provided a modicum of relief. It felt good to have a friend who would truly understand . . .

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

Don't you just know the powers-that-be at
InStyle
are fist-shaking, boot-stomping mad. The magazine paid a fortune (yours truly heard a million plus!) for exclusive photo rights to the recent "I Do" bash between Mr. Gorgeous and Ms. Survive the Jungle. A certain tabloid has the pictures they didn't want you to see. Like the one of the "beautiful" bride with a salmon wrap spilling out of her mouth. Yuck! After seeing that, no one may ever eat fish again.

Babe

"GO JAKE! TAKE IT TO the limit, man! Oh, yeah! Give her what she wants!"

Babe clamped her legs around Jake James, holding him vise tight as he pumped away like a madman. She knew he was close. Whenever he began referring to himself in the third person, he was ready to explode.

"You love it! Don't you, baby? I bet that punk Dean Paul never made you feel this good! Go Jake! Go Jake! Oh, yeah!" He shuddered and expelled a deep, satisfied sigh.

Babe pushed him off her body. "Why do you have to be such a pig?"

He rolled over, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tweaked one of her nipples, laughing.

She slapped his hand away. "I'm serious, Jake! That's your idea of pillow talk?"

"What? I was just talking shit. You know me. I'm not responsible for anything I say right before I come." He jumped out of bed and started for the shower.

Babe glared at the sculpted muscles of his back and ass. "You're disgusting.”

Jake shook his head, then turned around to face her, completely naked, waving his index finger at her. "I knew you shouldn't have gone to that wedding." One beat. "It got you feeling all sentimental." He said this in a mocking female voice.

Sometimes Babe hated him. Like right now. "You're an idiot."

His smile was smug. "But I'm right, aren't I?"

If he only knew how wrong he was. A sentimental girl didn't sell bootleg photos of her ex-boyfriend's wedding for two hundred thousand dollars. That's what Babe had negotiated even before Jake had left for his early morning gym workout. But he didn't need to know this. It was Babe's secret. So let the jerk believe whatever he wanted.

"I thought so," Jake muttered arrogantly. He disappeared into the shower.

"Asshole," Babe hissed.

He was always impossible in the last hours that led up to him leaving for the studio to tape
In the Ring with Jake James.
Horny. Full of himself. Pugnacious. And those were the better qualities.

Babe slipped on one of his T-shirts and grinned to herself. Jake could put on that macho game face, but she knew he was still smarting from the announcement about Dean Paul's new job. Most notably the part about salary. His college rival would be waltzing into his first broadcasting gig earning more than Jake. And it burned him up.

It occurred to Babe how unhealthy this relationship was. Besides an active sex life, they rarely enjoyed each other. Sometimes she felt like Jake was just using her to mark his territory on one of Dean Paul's exes. Shit. Could she blame him? After all, Babe was using him for the same reason. Dean Paul hated the fact that she had hooked up with Jake.

Babe looked around the cramped, cluttered Union Square apartment. Jake had the bucks to live better now but just hadn't taken the time. He insisted that they meet here because it was convenient for him. Everything always operated on his terms.

Jake stepped back into the bedroom. There was a short towel tied around his slim hips. Droplets of water trailed down his tanned and defined six-pack abs. Even without the benefit of an erection, the imprint of his manhood was impressive.

Babe experienced a tiny rush of desire. Sex with Jake had become a drug. But it wasn't good for her anymore. She needed to detox.

He shook the water from his hair with both hands, flexing his big, boxer-perfect arms in the process. "Still pissed at me?"

Babe could feel herself thawing out... and heating up. "I'm always pissed at you, Jake. It's our thing. Didn't you know?"

His lips curled into a half smile. "I want you to watch my Shadow Boxing segment tonight."

"Let me guess," Babe said. "You have an opinion on Dean Paul's career direction."

Jake moved toward her, placing his hands on the top of her thighs and moving up and under the T-shirt to cup her buttocks. "You can bet your ass on it." He squeezed.

"Why do you care so much, Jake? Why can't you just let it go? At least I have the excuse of having been in love with him." She paused a beat. "What's yours?"