Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (19 page)

My stomach roiled. “Which is why he needs me.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, there’s that spin doctor ego. For a moment I thought you were a rare breed. So you’re Buitre, then.” My new acquaintance’s demeanor chilled, and I suddenly felt the darkness of the plane circle our little pool of light. “Last I heard, Mr. Cabral was signed across the board, unless he has new representation…there’s been buzz, lately.”

“Technically, I’m not with the Buitre Agency.” Inexplicably, I wanted to stumble back into this man’s good graces. “I’m contracted to handle book publicity. I’m my own woman.”

I’m my own woman? Who said that—Disney’s next pop sensation? Patrick smiled at me indulgently, as if I were thirteen and had declared I’d bought my first training bra.

“I was under the impression that Buitre liked to do everything in-house, pretty nepotistic. But they’re New York and I’m LA—what do I know?” Patrick winked, and his chill lessened. “It sounds like you’ve already got a solid foot in the door, Miss…”

“Trilby. Kaye Trilby.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. Once again, his gaze swept over my plane-rumpled appearance and decided lack of anything designer, save for the wretched shoes. Then, as if I’d slipped a whoopee cushion under him, he chuckled in delight and extended his hand. I took it.

“Kaye Trilby. I should have known, but it’s always nice to be caught off guard. I’ve changed my mind.” He waved his hand at the pumps dismissively. “Ditch the ice-pick heels and go with the sturdy flats. You’ll do fine without them.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I yanked the Italian monstrosities from my feet and crammed them in my carry-on, then slipped into my ballet flats. But, just for good measure, I put up my hair. Patrick O’Malley nodded his approval.

“Perfect.”

Long minutes passed. I pressed my forehead to the window, anxious. We sailed above nighttime Los Angeles now, millions of lights stretching over the earth. Directly below us were the glowing pylons of LAX reaching toward the plane like giant pastel birthday candles. The airport itself was a sphere of purple-lit arches, curvy and flashy—the embodiment of everything LA loved.

Ten minutes later, passengers scrambled to gather their bags, filing along the aisle like antsy movie-goers in a ticket line. I didn’t expect to see Samuel right away. Caroline had warned me that LAX was always crawling with paparazzi, so celebs didn’t do the “kiss and greet” thing like the “little” people. Instead, I was to find Justin, the publicist from Berkshire House, who’d then drive me to the hotel where Samuel was tucked away until his next event.

With a final wave to Patrick, I darted around passengers crawling along with rolling suitcases or hovering below departure/arrival screens. I didn’t spare a glance for the gift shops, though it was my first time in Los Angeles. Instead, I whipped out my phone and punched in Samuel’s number, aching for his voice.

“I’m here. I’m in LA,” I said eagerly, the minute he answered. I heard his breathless laugh.

“I’m so glad. Did you have any trouble?”

“None, but I did get some unsolicited image coaching. Although, the advice wasn’t half-bad.” I silently thanked Patrick as I breezed by other women teetering in high heels.

He tsked. “Imagine that, on a flight to the celluloid capitol of the world. Where are you?”

“I’m almost through the gates, then off to find my suitcase.” And the guitars I’d brought as a surprise, praying they weren’t damaged in transit. I glanced around, searching for someone who could be a publicist. “What does Justin look like?” I asked.

“Utter hipster, that one. No, worse: he’s a scenester dirtbag.” I heard a commotion in the background, followed by a string of cussing and Samuel’s laughter. He continued. “Skinny as hell, scruffy, Camel Light super-glued to his lower lip. He’s wearing a keffiyeh the same color as your purple skirt, even though it’s southern California. And it’s the middle of August. And his mother’s Jewish.” More commotion, then a muffled “leave my mom out of this, man.”

Realization tiptoed through my brain and my head shot up, scanning the throngs of people. My heartbeat raced toward Samuel with the velocity of a cannonball.

“Where are you?” I squealed.

“To your left, Kaye.”

I skimmed the row of concierges holding signs and landed on a short man in skinny jeans and a plum scarf, Justin. Next to him was a man with wild brown hair—
my
man. Plain tee and jeans, bright eyes and a dimpled grin out-dressed anyone or anything times infinity. In his tawny hands was a sign of his own: Neelie Nixie.

Cheeky.

He stepped forward, catching me up in his arms as he dropped his sign and I dropped my bag at his feet. I buried my face in the crook of his neck and inhaled cardamom and cedar.

“Welcome to LA, Trilby,” he murmured into my hair.

“Thanks for having me, Cabral.”

He tilted my face up to his and kissed me hard, dragging my body in, his sensitive, full lips moving against my own, his smile touching mine.

“This is the way it should have been,” he said.

“Hmmm?” My eyes fluttered open.

“Seven years ago, in New York. I should have been waiting for you at the airport. I should have held you, just like this. I should have taken you home with me and never let you go.”

Tears burned my eyes. I shook my head. “Samuel, stop. Let’s just be happy right now, okay? You can take me home…or to the hotel, I guess.”

He brushed his mouth against my forehead and cheeks in silent agreement. Suddenly, I was aware of the crowds of people around us. Justin studied the LAX ceiling with his hands crammed in his pockets. Three young women eyed us curiously, one of them sporting a
Deep in the Heart of Nixie
T-shirt. And of course, there was the occasional bulb flash from several of the paps who trolled LAX for celebs. Samuel really was too pretty for his own good. I clutched the back of his shirt, the fabric still damp from the outside heat. Then, remembering my manners, I slid from his embrace and held out a hand to Justin.

“So glad to meet you. You’re a publicist with Berkshire House?”

“New titles.” Justin shook it with a surprisingly strong grip. “With the show Buitre runs, I’m more like Caro’s walking, talking Rolodex. Normally I’m off tour at this point and we leave ongoing PR to the agency, but this a-hole author called in a favor,” he said in a thick New York accent. He punched Samuel in the shoulder. Samuel shoved him back, then tucked me under his arm and kissed my cheek, just as another camera flashed.

Over our shoulders, a man shuffled camera lenses in a black bag. Catching my eyes on him, he tapped the brim of his ball cap in a hello. I nodded back, then lifted an inquisitive eyebrow at Samuel. “Funny, how you dodged paparazzi like bullets in Lyons,” I said, “yet here, on their home turf, you’re kissing me in public. What gives?”

Rebellious fire flickered in his eyes. “Fuck the paparazzi. I’ve decided I don’t care about them, anymore. They can print whatever the fuck they like.”

I jerked my head back in shock. Was he kidding? “Whoa, Cabral. Signing on with Def Jam, are we? Don’t let Sofia hear that mouth of yours or she’ll ground you to your bedroom.”

“I’d rather you grounded me to my bedroom.” He leaned over and breathed hot air into my ear. I shuddered. His hand slid over the plum fabric of my skirt and gently cupped my bottom. “I’ve missed you.”

Yeah. Felt that. If I was any kind of publicist, it was time for me to get my very horny client out of sight, pronto. Moving his hand away, I tugged him from prying eyes and toward the baggage claim.

“What sorta luggage do you got, Ms. Trilby?” Justin asked.

“A black suitcase with a red strap. Oh, and two guitars. I know they’re impractical to carry around on tour,” I said, turning to Samuel, “but we’re long overdue for some jam time. I thought you might like that.”

A wicked smile spread over Samuel’s face, as if I’d just announced the two guitar cases were brimming with garters and thongs. “I’d love it,” he said huskily.

Justin mumbled something crude under his breath and trotted away for my things. Snapping out of his lust haze, Samuel followed him.

Right. Apparently everything was about sex tonight. Now I was very anxious to get my client out of the public eye and into the back of a car. Er, just a car. “My client”…oh geez, I sounded like a hooker. Red spread from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair at the thought of pushing Samuel’s shoulders down into the leather upholstery of a BMW or Benz or whatever fancy car was parked outside, skimming my fingernails over his torso, tugging at the waistband of—

The shrill buzz of my phone broke into my lurid fantasy. I yanked it out of my purse and glared at the screen:

Caroline Ortega.

Now she was derailing my imagination, too. I stamped my foot in unbecoming peevishness, startling an older gentleman who dropped his cane. I picked it up for him with a self-conscious apology.

“Hello?” I answered.

“I take it you arrived safely? Good. Now try not to do anything that will make Perez Hilton scribble drool and hearts on your pictures, please.” Too late for that. “I have a conference call arranged for eight o’clock tomorrow night in my suite at the Roosevelt.”

The
Hollywood
Roosevelt? My inner Molly squealed with glee. Any classic movie buff knew the Roosevelt had been the playground of the stars for eighty years. I pictured Samuel and me sauntering arm and arm through hallways a la Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. I wondered if Samuel had requested we stay there, or if Caroline had chosen it.

“The partners will be on the call, as well as Samuel’s business manager, his lawyers, and the marketing director at Berkshire House. Samuel has a packed schedule tomorrow, so any prep for the call will need to be done tonight.”

“But it’ll be eleven in New York,” I stammered.

Caroline huffed. “Here’s the Cliff Notes, don’t bother with the book: Samuel Caulfield Cabral is a big deal. They’d ditch their wives during the best sex of their lives if Samuel called for a bestsellers report.”

I snorted in spite of myself.

“Half of them will just be stumbling in from martinis at Bruno Jamais, anyway,” she continued. “Eight will give you enough time to brush your teeth and go potty—that’s
it
.” I didn’t miss the subtle inflection of her voice. “That is, if Samuel’s dinner with the
Water Sirens
producers doesn’t go late. You and Justin are welcome to come along, of course.”

Dinner with Hollywood producers? I almost dropped my phone. Caroline had successfully made me a nervous wreck in thirty seconds flat. I craned my neck toward the boys. “We’ll be out as soon as my guitars show up.”

“Guitars.” There was a pause, and then a hiss. “Do whatever you want, as long as Samuel continues to garner good press. See you in five.”

From what I could tell of the city blurring by, Hollywood Boulevard was a mix of tacky tourist museums, tattoo parlors, and liquor stores, streaked in neon lights like a Pollock painting. Palm trees lined streets of old movie theaters with glittering marquees and gift shops with tattered overhangs. Star impersonators peddling post cards mingled among tourists and artists and prostitutes. Chicken shacks perfumed the air with grease, making my stomach rumble. Not somewhere I’d wander alone at night, but from the breezy back of Justin’s rented convertible, I soaked it up.

“Justin, put up the top!” Caroline yelled as she pushed whipping black hair from her face, her voice swallowed by the cacophony of car horns and street music.

“No way, Caro! This is a Bentley Continental GTC. You’re supposed to feel the summer wind in your hair with this baby!”

“More like car fumes,” Caro bit out and scowled back at Samuel and me, looking for help. Her onyx eyes darted down to his hand on my knee, then up. “Samuel, we need the top up. Kaye and I have a lot to discuss before I leave.”

I started, thinking I must have misheard her. Leave? Leave where?

He merely shrugged at her, his fingers still stroking the underside of my knee.

“Samuel, the top!”

Samuel sighed, his fingers absently squeezing my knee. “Caro, you’ll have all the time you need with Kaye tomorrow,” he said loudly. “Give her a chance to relax and enjoy LA.”

Caroline turned her glare to me and said something I couldn’t quite hear. I gave her an apologetic tap of my half-deaf ear and turned back to the lights and air rushing by. I probably should have given in and asked Justin to put the top up. But honestly, what was five minutes?

Though the August air was heavy with
eau de exhaust
, the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel smelled heavenly, like tea and almonds. Before I even took in the staggering arched lobby or chandeliers, the scent pumping through their vents assaulted my nostrils. I’m not sure how I expected the Roosevelt to smell—something tropical to match palm trees and swimming pools, like coconuts. Chintzy, I know. The Spanish-style hotel towering around me, though, was not tawdry. Warm-hued woods, coffee and cream upholstery. Several guests milled about, posh in high-end lounge wear that probably cost more than my new shoes. Which, incidentally, I was seconds away from yanking out of my bag and shoving onto my feet.