Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club (8 page)

Cici felt Nathan’s eyes linger on her breasts. He stepped closer, and his lips brushed against her ear. She tilted her head toward him, his breath now hot on her cheek.

“I said, the filmed version is never as good,” he whispered.

“To which of my films do you refer?”

“I don’t think it has a title.” Nathan’s eyes danced with wicked delight. “But I call it Pussy in Paradise.”

Cici’s heart dropped. She arched her eyebrow and stepped away from Nathan. “You are terribly confused,” she said. She reached for the outstretched robe and wrapped it around her.

Nathan grinned and shook his head. “No, Ms. Solange. I’m not confused,” he said and backed away to give her a once-over. “In awe, yes. Turned on? Perhaps. But confused? No, I am not that.”

Cici turned and walked up the beach toward Ted, a pinprick of fear growing wider with each step. How did he know? And how would she tell Ted?

*

Cici sat on the plush carpet in her thousand-square-foot custom-built closet, tucked behind a Carolina Herrera gown. She held her phone to her ear, and her stomach churned with panic. She couldn’t shake the dread that crept through her body and caused a light sweat to cover her palms. After the photo shoot, she had arrived home and immediately climbed into bed. Ted hovered in their bedroom, asking if he should call their doctor. Celeste finally feigned sleep until he disappeared downstairs. She knew that he was now occupied with a conference call with one of his film distributors in Tokyo. She clutched the phone tighter to her ear and listened to it ring, anxiously waiting for Howard Abramowitz, her attorney, to pick up on his end.

Howard had handled Cici’s divorce from Damien Bruckner four years ago. He had also negotiated the settlement that released to her all the video footage Damien had collected of Cici’s sexual trysts with others, footage Cici had forced Damien to give to her in exchange for her keeping quiet about Brie Ellison’s age and sticking to the alimony amount in their prenup. Footage, Cici now feared, Nathan Curtis had somehow viewed.

“Hello?” Howard answered groggily.

“Howard!”

“Cici?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Cici, it’s twelve-thirty in the morning,” Howard said.

“We’ve got a huge fucking problem.”

“Are you in jail?”

“No.”

“Hospital?”

“No.”

“Have you been abducted?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait,” Howard said.

“No! This cannot wait,” Cici hissed before Howard could hang up the phone. “Do you think I’d call you at twelve-thirty on a Wednesday night if this could wait?”

“Celeste, you are a very successful woman. And I think there are a number of people who work for you that, yes, you would call at twelve-thirty on a Wednesday night.”

Damn him. Okay, maybe he was right, but that was before Ted.

“Howard, I am telling you, this is important,” Cici whispered.

“Why are you whispering?” Howard asked, seeming more interested.

“Because I am in the closet.”

“Metaphorically or literally?”

“I have a stiletto stuck up my ass, so what do you think?”

“In this town it could go either way.” Howard laughed at his own joke. “Okay, okay. What’s up?”

“Somebody has it.”

Celeste silently waited for Howard’s mind to spin through the possibilities. “No. Celeste. You destroyed it.”

“Someone made a copy.”

“Impossible,” Howard said.

“I found out today,” Cici said.

“Did you see it?”

“No, but somebody else did.”

“Who? What did they say?”

“The photographer from my shoot today. He’s from the UK. Nathan Curtis.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He claims to have seen it.”

“Are you sure he’s not bluffing?”

“He called it Pussy in Paradise—sounds like he at least knows that it was mostly filmed at the beach.”

“Fuck.” Aside from Howard’s heavy breathing, silence was all Cici could hear coming over the phone.

“Howard?”

“I’m thinking. Have you told Ted?”

“You’re my first call.”

Cici covered her eyes with her hand. This was very bad. The idea of the footage going public made her feel ill.

“Okay. I know a guy. I want to find out if this is contained.”

Her career would end. And more important, what about Ted?

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Howard said. “I may need you to come to the office. Are you on a cell or a landline?”

“Cell.”

“Neither is safe. But my office is. We just swept it three days ago And don’t panic,” Howard said. “We’ll take care of this. Now go to bed.”

“Yeah, right,” Cici said. “Like that’s possible.”

“I’m serious. Plausible deniability is your friend, at least with Ted. If the footage hits the street, you don’t want Ted thinking you knew about this ticking bomb, do you? No, you can’t have known about this. So get off the phone, wash your face, put on some lingerie, and get into bed.”

“How about sweatpants?”

“A man can fantasize, can’t he?” Howard asked.

“Yeah, as long as the fantasy isn’t based on a digital reality.”

*

Howard Abramowitz hung up the phone next to his bed. Celeste Solange was one of the world’s biggest stars and his most profitable client. Adrenaline pulsed through his body. If there was a tape, any kind of tape, showing Celeste having sex, all the dollars Celeste made for him and the rest of Hollywood would disappear.

He put on his glasses. During Damien’s two divorces, Howard saw two different DVDs containing Celeste’s erotic “material.” In preparation for her divorce, Amanda Bruckner, Damien’s first wife, compiled footage of Damien sleeping with Celeste while still married to Amanda. Then Howard found out that Damien himself often filmed his and Celeste’s sexcapades and had compiled all the footage onto a DVD. The footage chronicled a number of encounters between the couple, along with some of their multipartner trysts. Damien promised Celeste that the DVD Howard had received from him was the original and that there were no copies. Howard knew Celeste had destroyed the DVD. And according to the settlement—and Damien’s claims—Damien had destroyed the original footage. So where was this DVD coming from?

Howard rolled over and pulled himself upright, hoping he wouldn’t awaken his wife. She was a chatterbox and would want every sordid detail, none of which Howard felt comfortable sharing. He made his way down to his study, first stopping in the kitchen for a glass of milk.

Howard knew one person who could determine if the footage was readily available: Sherman Ross. Howard kept Sherman’s number on speed dial. When you were a divorce attorney in Los Angeles with A-list clients, it was paramount that you kept the best private investigator on retainer. Some used Pellicano, but Howard liked Sherman. Besides, Sherman Ross never got caught.

Pick up, pick up, pick up
, Howard thought to himself as he paced his home office. For someone like Sherman, at 1:30 A.M., the night was just getting started.

*

Sherman Ross leaned against the bar at Velvet Tokyo. He watched as a gorgeous Latina rubbed her way down the thigh of a very married basketball star. Sherman turned his night-vision camera, built into a disabled cell phone, toward the dirty duo and tossed off a dozen quick photos.
Hello, money
, he thought. He felt his real cell phone in his pocket vibrate. He pulled it out and checked the number.

“Hey, Howard, little late for you.”

“Very. Where are you?”

“Velvet Tokyo, little surveillance,” Sherman said.

“I’ve got something for you. Something big.”

“Big money or big job?”

“Don’t they go together?”

“Usually.”

“And as always—”

“Discretion is key,” Sherman finished Howard’s sentence.

“Exactly. Can you come by my office tomorrow? Early?”

“How early? This gig may take all night.”

“How’s eleven?”

“Works for me. Can you tell me the client?”

Howard paused. “Did you see
Seven Minutes Past Midnight
?”

“Two times. I liked that one.”

“It’s the star.”

“Bradford?”

“The female star,” Howard said.

“Got it. I’ll see you at eleven.” Sherman snapped his phone closed.

Tonight was the third time this week he’d dealt with things close to Celeste Solange. First the sex tape Sherman had watched at a party, then shooting photos for the head of security at her boyfriend’s studio, and now her attorney.

Sherman had experienced the sex tape thing several times before, with a number of celebrities. Celeste’s team was obviously worried. One of her people must have discovered that the footage of Celeste in flagrante was making the rounds at high-end sex parties in Los Angeles. Now her team would circle the wagons in preparation for the media attack.

He glanced over at the NBA superstar, where a hot blonde had assumed the lap position. She pushed her breasts into the player’s cheeks. Sherman snapped off more shots—he was positive that the basketball star’s soon-to-be ex-wife would pay top dollar for the photos. After all, she’d much rather own the shots than see them on the cover of the Enquirer.

*

Cici glanced over at Ted. He breathed deeply and his face looked calm as he slept. Her distress made her twitchy, and she kicked her leg out from under the covers. She was envious of Ted’s peaceful slumber—he was unaware of the secret that could potentially sink his studio. Cici had three pictures in the can at Worldwide and another going into preproduction. If Nathan were telling the truth, and Cici feared he was, Ted’s half-a-billion-dollar investment in Celeste Solange films would be worth pretty much zero. America’s sweetheart would be seen as a sexual deviant by most of America. Celeste’s secret could potentially bankrupt Ted’s studio.

Even when Damien promised he gave Howard the original and only DVD, Celeste knew that the DVD was too tempting. Damien claimed no one had burned a copy, and she trusted him at the time, but she knew his divorce attorney, Janice, had kept the DVD for a short time during their divorce. Any one of her assistants, paralegals, or even an inquisitive member of the cleaning crew could have burned a DVD. But why now? And why wasn’t the footage all over the Net? Celeste scoured the Internet after speaking with Howard. Three search engines and two hours later, she couldn’t find any trace of pornographic footage of her. So where was this tape? How had the photographer, Nathan, seen it?

There was one way to find out. But why would Nathan Curtis tell her the truth? And why would he have told her that he had seen it—what was he after? She cringed at the thought. She doubted he simply wanted money. She had an idea of what it might take to get the horny little Brit to spill. As if reading her mind in his sleep, Ted rolled over and flopped his arm protectively across Celeste. Sex with celebrities was like big-game hunting for some men. As if the number of actresses they banged were testament to their ability as lovers. But Celeste discovered early in her celebrity career that a man’s perpetual need for high-profile conquests usually meant he had a tiny penis.

She’d give Howard a small window of time, and then she’d call Nathan. She placed her hand on Ted’s arm, now resting across her chest, and watched him sleep, his solid chin and lips outlined against the bedroom window. He was a good man, a protective man. For Celeste, he represented everything she had hoped for in a partner but had failed to find until now. Her heart swelled with love as she watched him. Ted couldn’t know. Celeste set her mouth into a firm line. She’d do anything so that Ted never found out.

Rule 8: When You’re Invited to a Party in Malibu, Go

Lydia Albright, President of Production, Worldwide Pictures

Lydia sat beside Jay as he pulled her Bentley up to the gate at the edge of The Colony. Lydia preferred staying home on the weekends, but When an A-lister like Jennifer invited you to her afternoon birthday soiree and you were president of production at a studio—especially a studio that wanted to do the actress’s next film—attendance became mandatory.

“Lydia Albright,” Jay said.

Lydia watched as the guard scanned the list and put a small check next to her name. He waved them through. Already a dozen cars waited behind them. Lydia knew all the vehicles were headed to Jennifer’s birthday party, because after Labor Day, aside from the hard-core residents, The Colony remained empty. But Jennifer loved the beach and refused to move inland with the rest of the migratory Los Angelenos.

Jay pulled up to the valet outside the house, hopped out of the car, and dashed around to Lydia’s side.

“What are you, my date?” Lydia joked.

“No, just here watching out for you. I’ll walk you in and then I’ll be circling.”

“And when I’m ready to leave?”

“I’ll know,” Jay said. He held Lydia’s elbow as they walked up the steps to the front door.

“Oh, you’ll just know?” Lydia quipped.

Jay looked at Lydia, his joking tone replaced with a serious look. “Yes. I’ll know.”

Lydia tilted her head to the side and looked at Jay. For a second, a nice feeling of safety encapsulated her.

The birthday girl stood just inside the front door with her current boyfriend, greeting her guests. Her honey-colored hair caught the sun beaming through the deck doors. Lydia heard the surf pound.

“Lydia!” Jennifer threw her arms around Lydia, engulfing her in a hug. “I’m so glad you came.” Jennifer eyed Jay, assessing him. “Hi, I’m Jennifer.”

“This is Jay,” Lydia said.

“Nice to meet you,” Jennifer said. “And thank you for the gift.” Jennifer looked at Lydia. “I absolutely adore Lagerfeld.”

“You’re sure? Because if you don’t, please tell me; I can get you something else.”

“Lydia, I’ll be outside,” Jay said and touched her on the arm.

Jennifer watched him walk toward the deck. “Could you get me one of those?” she asked. Her eyes hungrily ate up the rear view of Jay.

“He’s one of a kind,” Lydia said. She handed her purse over to one of the party’s staff who had magically appeared by her side.