CHAPTER 7
Nikolay, my bodyguard, sat up in front of the limo, a look of dour seriousness never leaving his face. I knew he worked for me, but he just seemed like a really muscular version of a chaperone.
Stefano sat in the back of the limo with me, and he was just as beautiful as his photo. I wished I could use the camera on my cell phone to take my picture with him and send it to Lori—or better yet, send it to Theresa and Trevor. Who cared about the stupid Sadie Hawkins dance? I was in a limo with a specimen of a hundred percent male hunkiness.
Instead, I made small talk with Stefano as Bao-Zhi drove us to the club. Well, I tried to make small talk, anyway. Mostly Stefano talked about the shoots he'd done in Paris and Milan, dropped names of celebrities in the fashion world, and checked the time on his Rolex. I knew it was a Rolex because he pointed it out to me three times.
I wanted to tell him, "Okay, you’ve proved your point. You're rich and well connected. Please talk about something besides your stupid expensive watch.” Instead, I nodded and smiled.
When the limo finally pulled up to the club, I saw a line of people waiting outside. Every single one of them turned and watched the car. A wave of anxiety swept over me, and
I instantly regretted the whole thing. I shouldn't have come to California. I should have been back home listening to Abuela complain about humidity, taxes, and how many commercials she had to sit through. I should have been sitting on Lori's couch watching stars on TV, not pretending to be one.
Nikolay got out of the limo first and opened the car door for us. Stefano followed, then held his hand out for me. As I emerged from the car, a thrilled gasp moved through the crowd. I heard Kari’s name repeated over and over again. So many camera flashes went off around me that I felt like I was in the middle of a fireworks display. For a moment, I couldn’t move at all. I’m not sure if it was nerves or just the surprise that so much attention, so much adoration was aimed in my direction. This is why I had prepared nonstop for weeks. I was a superstar.
Stefano pulled me forward. My anxiety dropped away, replaced by warm elation. Each flash was a kiss blown in my direction. I was beautiful, famous, and most important, loved. I gave the crowd one of Kari's over-the-shoulder grins, then let Stefano lead me into the club.
Once the three of us were inside, the owner, a man who didn’t look much older than Stefano, hurried over and introduced himself. His hair was slicked back, he wore all black, and when I gave him my hand to shake, he took it to his lips and kissed it. I didn’t know men did that and had no idea how to react. Did I laugh or pretend that hand kissing was normal? Maren hadn't covered this area. Fortunately, the owner didn’t wait for a response. Still holding my hand between his, he said, "You’re even more gorgeous in real life, Miss Kingsley. Anytime you want to hang somewhere, consider this your home away from home.”
I thanked him and wondered how Kari ever got used to this sort of treatment. If I were her, I would go out every night just to see people’s faces light up.
The owner showed us around the club. I had to pass up the good appetizers in favor of grapes and cheese since I was pretending to be a vegetarian. After that, Nikolay leaned up against a wall looking for suspicious activity while Stefano and I danced. Club dancing, I noticed right away, was nothing like dancing at my school dances. Some of the people looked more like they were trying to conceive children than actually dance, and I had to keep averting my gaze from them. If Abuela had been here, she would have wanted to smack people with her Bible left and right.
The club played a couple of Kari’s songs, and when they did, a whole bunch of people sang along and turned to watch me. It was another aspect Maren hadn’t covered, and I panicked at the awkwardness of the moment. I did some of the moves Jacqueline had taught me and pretended to sing along too.
We danced for two hours, and I noticed I was leaving trails of glitter all over the floor. I hoped the owner didn't mind. A few times, people came over to say that they loved my songs, but Stefano always whisked me away before they could attach themselves or try to become my new BFFs. Stefano got high marks for crowd control. He got lower marks for the way he'd taken to staring into my eyes intently as though we were soul mates and not out on our first date.
Finally we left the dance floor to get drinks. Nikolay followed without getting too close, his eyes patrolling the crowd. I sipped a guava-kiwi juice while we walked toward the tables. A group of way-too-excited girls hurried by us without noticing me. "He’s here?” one said with an exaggerated gasp. "Really?"
"I’m going to die!"
"I have to get a dance with him. I have to!”
I let my gaze follow them. To Stefano I said, "Who are they talking about?”
He pulled my chair out for me, then sat down himself. "Probably Grant Delray. He came in earlier.”
"He did?” I asked, sounding too much like the girls we'd just passed. I calmed my voice and casually added, "I didn't know he was coming tonight."
"I saw him while we danced. Do you know him?"
Good question. I had no idea. Maren had never said anything about him, but that didn't mean Kari and he hadn’t done something together. And he might know her well enough to spot a fake.
This could turn bad quickly.
Stefano laughed. "Judging from your response, I'd say you do know him.” He leaned closer, and his voice took on a teasing edge. "You look uncomfortable, so it must be a good story.”
“That’s not it at all," I said. “I just suddenly remembered that...”
I had come to California to find out who I was, and I learned something about myself right then—I am not a good liar. I needed a reason to call Maren and talk to her privately, and my mind was a complete blank.
I rifled through my purse until I had my cell phone. "I, um, forgot to turn off my sprinklers and they’re probably flooding the lawn by now. I need to call my assistant and tell her to turn them off.”
His eyebrows drew together at this new piece of information. "You don’t have landscapers to do that sort of thing?”
Which is why you shouldn’t try to think up excuses for rich people.
I stood up. "Usually I do, but I thought the lawn was looking dry, so I turned the water on, and now I need to find a quiet place to make a call."
He frowned. "Why don't you text her?"
Because with the way Stefano kept draping himself around my shoulders, he was bound to see what I texted, and I couldn't very well write Grant Delray is here. Does he know Kari?
"My assistant might have questions."
Stefano stood up as though he would come with me, and I waved him to sit back down.
"You don't have to come. In fact I'll probably stop by the restroom too, so I'll be a few minutes.”
Nikolay had seen me stand up and he walked over, ready to shadow me, but I didn't want him as an audience either. “You don't need to come," I said. "Really, I'll be okay from here to the ladies’ room.”
I turned and walked away before he could reply. I’d find the owner and ask him if I could use his office. As I walked, I chided myself for being so easily rattled. One unforeseen thing happened and I’d gone off about sprinklers. I could have just used the restroom excuse in the first place. That would have given me enough time to make a phone call to Maren. If Kari knew Grant—if he could identify her—I'd fake a headache and make a night of it.
I hadn’t gotten very far when I realized I’d made another mistake. Maren had warned me that I shouldn't go into crowds by myself. It was too easy to get swarmed. First a couple of guys asked if they could take my picture with their cell phone, then a girl wanted my autograph. In seconds, an entire crowd had surrounded me. People were actually shoving each other and jostling me. I said, "Look, I’m sorry. I need to get through," but no one listened. They waved pens in my direction and pushed their way next to me so that their friends could get pictures.
I felt bubbles of panic rising in my chest. Why hadn't I taken my bodyguard with me? Could he see this happening
? Would my Warrior Princess dress stay put if someone pushed me over? I hoped so, since everyone here seemed to have a camera phone.
"Break it up!" a male voice yelled. "Come on, back off, unless you want the bouncer hauling you outside!”
At once, the crowd drained away, leaving me shaken but, thankfully, alone. I expected to see Nikolay. Instead Grant Delray, flanked by two towering men—probably his bodyguards—stood in front of me.
I stared back at Grant in awe. I’d heard his songs on the radio hundreds of times. I had a few of them memorized, and now here he was in blue-eyed, bronzed-skin real life. And the picture of him on that magazine cover—it didn’t do justice to his broad shoulders or pecs.
But another part of me was frozen in fear, waiting to see if he said, "Hey, you’re not Kari Kingsley.”
He raised an eyebrow. "Most people would say thanks at this point.”
"Thanks,” I said.
He rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed with my gratitude, then returned his gaze to my face, letting his eyes linger there longer than normal. He was studying me. I felt my face flush pink. Did he know the truth?
Nikolay walked up beside me. "You all right, Miss Kingsley?"
So he had seen the crowd descend on me, after all. I nodded, still afraid to speak while Grant was staring at me.
Grant motioned toward the dance floor without taking his eyes from me. "Let’s dance—that’s what we’re getting paid for. Then I want to talk to you.”
"Okay.”
He took hold of my arm and I walked beside him, breathing deeply. I wanted to say something; I felt like I should, but somehow having three bodyguards trailing us made small talk impossible.
If Grant knew I was a fake, it didn't seem like he would expose me right now. But what did he want to talk about later? That didn’t seem to be the kind of thing you said to someone you’d never met. I found it hard to think clearly about any of this, since my mind was mostly concentrating on the fact that Grant Delray was touching my arm.
We walked to a raised pedestal on the dance floor and as we did, the DJ changed the song that had been playing to one of Grant’s. People noticed us and sang along. Grant danced—and not your average guy dancing, he danced as though performing on stage. He was all muscle and rhythm, movement and glide. I watched him so intently I nearly forgot to dance myself. I tried; my feet kept moving to the beat, but I looked pitiful next to him. Which meant maybe Jacqueline had a point after all and I should listen to her better.
Grant didn’t look at me while he danced. But every once in a while, his gaze would connect with mine and then I’d quickly glance away so he wouldn’t see me staring. Kari wouldn’t gape at him like some groupie. Even if he did have deep blue eyes, a square jaw, and touchable brown hair with golden highlights.
People snapped pictures of us with their cell phones, and even though it was too dark on the dance floor for them to turn out, I really wished I could ask someone to forward a picture to me. Whether he knew I was a fake or not, I so wanted a souvenir of this moment.
The dance finally ended, and the people around us clapped. Grant took hold of my arm with one hand and waved at the crowd with the other, then led me off the platform.
To tell you the truth, I’d completely forgotten about Stefano until I saw him glaring at us from the corner of the dance floor. He walked up to me and thrust his hand in the air between us. "You left your sprinklers running, eh? The next time you want to get rid of a guy, tell him the truth.” Then he turned around and stalked away.
Grant raised his eyebrows. "Is that where you were going—to turn your sprinklers off? When did you start doing your own yard work?”
I didn’t answer, just looked at Stefano's back retreating into the crowd. I should go after him. Only I couldn’t. Not when Grant Delray wanted to talk to me. I had to find out what he wanted, didn't I?
"So you really were ditching him?" Grant asked.
I didn’t know how to answer. Saying "No, I wanted to be with you instead” sounded borderline starstruck, which Kari wouldn’t be, even if I was.
When I didn’t go after Stefano, Grant laughed under his breath, then took hold of my hand again and pulled me toward the back of the club.
"You could have least told him 'I left something on the stove.' That’s nearly believable."
He spoke to me so casually, like he knew Kari. Maybe he hadn’t realized I was a fake in the low lighting of the club, but we were heading toward a back door with a sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. Would his tone of voice change then? A bouncer stood by the wall, surveying the crowd. When he saw us and our entourage of bodyguards he said, “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Delray, Miss Kingsley?”
“We need a place to talk alone for a few minutes."
The bouncer stepped aside—just like that—and let us by. Grant opened the door and we walked into a supply room, leaving the bodyguards outside. He hit the light switch and I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the harsh white glare. I was afraid to turn and face him, so I stared at boxes stacked against the wall labeled “NAPKINS, CUPS, STRAWS”.
"I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Grant said tightly. “I shouldn’t feel obligated after what you've done.”
He knew then. He knew I was a fake. I turned to him, trying to think of the right words to plead my case. I had considered the fact that I might not be able to pull this charade off. I had even thought out justifications for my position when I got caught, but I had never once thought I'd be busted by Grant Delray in a supply closet.
Before I could say anything, he went on. "I guess I'm telling you this because, despite everything, I hate it when people make a profit trashing celebrities, and this time I feel partially responsible. So I'm giving you fair warning. You know I helped Lorna Beck get a job?”
"What?” I asked.
"Lorna Beck. I got her a job working for my agent. She's his personal assistant now.”
"Oh.” Maybe he didn’t know who I was. That was good news, except that I had no idea what he was talking about.
"She’s a good assistant—has a photographic memory. You might not have realized that about her."
I smiled. It seemed like I should. After all, he got someone a job, and she was good at it. "That’s great," I said.
His eyebrows drew together at my words, and he scanned my face to see if I was serious. "You think that's great?” Which meant I'd given the wrong reaction, but I didn’t know why. I swallowed hard. "I mean, I'm glad your agent likes Lorna...’’ That seemed like a safe statement.
More doubt shadowed his face. He took a step closer, examining my expression. "You’re serious.” This seemed to surprise him. "You don't hold any bad feelings for her?”
I shrugged. "Why should I?" And I wasn't being rhetorical. I really wanted to know.
"Well, you're the one who fired her. Remember that entire bit about 'you’ll never work in this business again’?"
Oh. Kari had fired Lorna. That was an important detail, but how was I supposed to react now?
Right there staring at the paper towel box, I decided that as long as I was being Kari, she could be gracious about her ex-employees. I nodded sadly. "Right, well, sometimes in the heat of the moment, we all say things we don’t mean, and I'm sorry about that. Really. I'm happy she's got a good job now.”
"Uh-huh." He watched me, still not convinced.
"Tell her I said hi the next time you see her."
He folded his arms and regarded me silently.
It was easy to smile back at him because I was Kari and she was important enough to hold his attention. For the first time since I'd become her, I really relished her status. I was looking at Grant Delray, and he was staring back at me with deep blue eyes. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?’’
He shook his head. "No. I thought you should know she's writing a tell-all book about you.”
"What?” I took a step backward. "What is she saying about me?”
“That you're a gambling addict
, for one thing.”
"I am not." The denial came out before I could fully process that he meant Kari. I had no idea if she was or not.
"Lorna says you owe half a million dollars to casinos, and she’s seen the documentation herself—dates, amounts. She's got photographic recall." He said this as a challenge. He expected me to deny it or explain it away. I couldn't do either.
"She's an ex-employee with an ax to grind," I said, perhaps more to myself than to Grant. I didn’t want the claim to be true, even if it did make sense, and maybe it did. Kari had brought me in to make money. Why would she take the risk unless she needed the money fast? I hated the thought of being used that way—to pay off casinos.
I didn't want to hear any more bad things about Kari—my sister—and yet I had to ask. "What else is Lorna saying?"
Grant didn’t speak for a moment, his expression turned from accusing to something else, contemplative maybe. His voice had gone quiet. "That you're a spoiled prima donna, raised with a silver microphone in your mouth. I don't know a lot, only the things my agent has let slip—’’
“Is she saying anything about my father?”
My question seemed to take him aback. “What are you afraid she’ll say?”
I was afraid if anyone dug into Kari's past—or her father’s past—they would turn up information about my mother and me. The thought of my life being laid open that way made my throat feel tight. Would the tabloids try to track my mother down? Would they come after me?
"I don't know,” I said. "I just want her to leave my family out of it. If she has something against me, that’s one thing. I might deserve it, but they don't.” I realized my mistake after I'd spoken. I had referred to my family as "they” instead of "he." Kari only had her father as her family.
Grant’s eyebrows rose, but if he noticed my mistake, he didn’t mention it. "I don’t know what she’s saying about your father.’’
"Can you find out what’s in the book?”
"You mean like ask to see the table of contents or something?"
"Wouldn't Lorna tell you?"
He put his hand on his chest in disbelief. "You're asking me for a favor? Me?”
I weighed his words and then decided I should answer him anyway. "Yes.”
He tilted his head, blinking. "And what did you say when I asked you for a favor?"
Well, that was a question I couldn’t answer. Although I imagined it was some sort of no since he was acting like I'd sprouted a second head. I shrugged and held my hands out to him as though reaching to make amends—anything rather than stand there and stare at him like I had no idea what he meant.
"You said you didn't do appearances unless you got paid,” he said. "And your fee for singing was twenty thousand dollars." He walked to the door, resting one hand on the doorknob. "How about this—I’ll do a book review for you for the same price.”
Then he walked out and left me standing there among the boxes.