Gold Diggers Page 12

  “We’re not dating,” Gillian retorted. “He’s simply invited me to a cocktail reception.”

  “Where is it?”

  There was no way that Gillian was going to mention that the cocktail party would be at the home of William Rutherford, the famous film director; she’d have to bind and gag Paulette to keep her from tagging along. “He didn’t say,” Gillian lied. Before Paulette could respond Gillian walked out of the room, heading for the privacy of the bathroom.

  Before she reached it the phone rang. She checked the LCD and saw an unfamiliar number and no name.

  “Hello?”

  “Daaaarling, it’s your mother.” Imelda spoke as if she were a 1920s movie star, a rhythmic blend of long vowels and sharp consonants, a preposterous combination of Zsa Zsa Gabor and Eartha Kitt.

  Gillian was accustomed to her mother popping in and out of her life without warning, so a call out of the blue wasn’t a surprise. “I didn’t recognize the number. Where are you?”

  “I’m in Rome, daaarling, with Stephan. We’ll be here for a few months and plan to be in the States in October.”

  This was a surprise. “Stephan? Who is Stephan?”

  “Don’t you worry, sweetie; you’ll meet him soon enough. I just wanted to check in with you to see how things are going with your movie career.”

  “I don’t have a movie career, Mother.”

  “Well, you will soon, darling. No one is as beautiful and talented as you are; besides, you’re my daughter. You’ll be bigger than Halle Berry.”

  Before Gillian could say another work, Imelda had plowed ahead. “All right, darling, see you in a few months. Ciao.” And she was gone.

  Gillian stood staring at the phone. The last she knew her mother was married to a baron and was living happily ever after in Barcelona, so what the hell was she doing with a guy named Stephan traipsing around Italy? And why were they coming to the States?

  She hung up and finished her makeup. I’ve got my own problems, she thought.

  Thirty minutes later the buzzer to the apartment rang. “Miss Tillman, this is Mr. Russell’s driver; we’re parked downstairs.”

  “I’ll be right down.” Gillian took one more look in the mirror, blew herself a kiss, and headed for the door.

  When she walked out of the building Charles stood like a wooden statue next to the back door of a black Maybach, waiting to open it for her. She slid inside, where Brandon and a chilled flute of Champagne Paul Goerg awaited.

  “Hi, babe.” Brandon wore a tailored Armani suit with a bright Nodus shirt open at the neck, and a pair of Italian handmade loafers. Everything about him was crisp and expensive, the very essence of new money. He leaned in for a kiss.

  She gave him her cheek. “How are you?” she asked.

  The inside of the quarter-of-a-million-dollar car was the epitome of decadent opulence. Tan handcrafted grand napa leather and rich Italian mahogany transformed the backseat into a posh living room on wheels, complete with a well-stocked bar, a humidor, reclining seats, and a state-of-the-art computer and entertainment center.

  “I couldn’t be better, but more important, how are you?” He was taking in her appearance, her exotic beauty and quiet confidence. He didn’t drool, but it was clear that what he saw was very appetizing.

  “I suppose I could complain, but that’s never very productive,” she deadpanned.

  “It depends on who you complain to.” His lips curled into a confident smile. “So, tell me, how are things going with your career?”

  “Not exactly according to plan,” she admitted.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

  She turned sharply toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Not what you think.” He gave a low chuckle at her reaction. “I really meant that as a compliment.”

  “If that’s a compliment, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of one of your insults.” She folded her arms and shot him an icy glare.

  “No, Gillian, what I’m trying to say is that you’re different. You don’t fit the mold of the Hollywood starlet, so it doesn’t surprise me that they don’t get it, but I do.” He reached into his humidor and pulled out a Cuban Cohiba, an eighteen-karat-gold cigar cutter, and a diamond-encrusted cigar lighter.

  Before she could respond, a phone rang from inside a wooden panel between them. He held up a hand to let her know that it’d be just a moment, then picked up a sleek Bluetooth headphone. “Brandon here.” He listened for a while, and puffed on his cigar, agitated. “Listen, you’re worrying for nothing. Don’t go getting nervous on me. I told you I’d find it.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, resting his elbow on the coffee table between them. After another fifteen seconds of listening, he decided he’d had enough. “Listen, Sam, you’re worrying for nothing, okay? Have a drink, and we’ll talk later.” Without another word he removed the earpiece and disconnected the line.

  “Problems in paradise?”

  Without humor he said. “There’s no such thing as paradise, only temporary respites from purgatory.”

  Fifteen minutes later they drove through a ten-foot-hedge-surrounded gate that proceeded ceremoniously up a winding curved driveway to a mansion nestled in Beverly Hills. An unrivaled collection of Rollses, Bentleys, Porches, and Mercedeses snaked along the incline, and a staff of white-jacketed valets stood at the ready. When Charles pulled up, two butlers dressed in black tuxedos opened each side of the car for Gillian and Brandon to disembark.

  When they met along the walkway, Gillian whispered, “A small cocktail party, huh?” She suddenly felt a craving for a cigarette, and she did have a pack in her bag. She thought about sneaking away somewhere, perhaps the ladies’ room, for a quick fix, but knew that it could ruin her image in Tofu Land if she were caught. So she sucked it up and kept moving.

  “As you’ll see, with me, Gillian, everything is relative.”

  Upon entering the palatial home, Gillian crossed the threshold into a habitat populated by one percent of society; the women wore diamonds the size of small fruit, and were nipped and tucked so tightly that smiling risked a rupture. The home was owned by William Rutherford, one of the most commercially successful, if not critically acclaimed, film producers in Hollywood. He strolled through the crowd, looking quite dashing in an Asprey silk ascot, sipping a dirty martini. He was of the old-Hollywood school of style, believing in glamour above all else.

  When Brandon and Gillian entered the room, since they were the only black people in attendance, their DNA seemed to alter the very chemical balance of the elite gathering. Scapel-perfect noses immediately picked up the whiff of a foreign scent.

  Gillian looked stunning and wore her dark beauty with casual grace, and Brandon reeked of money. Though his face was not one readily known by the readers of People magazine, or the National Enquirer, people in the know, knew. The sight of the two of them at this exclusive enclave brought about all sorts of conjecture as to who they were. Of course, the easy money would have bet that he was an athlete (football, not tall enough for basketball) and that she was his trophy girlfriend, though some might have guessed an entertainer, perhaps some new breed of rapper, and his model girlfriend.

  “Brandon, glad you could make it,” Rutherford bellowed, swirling his martini. The only accoutrement missing was a smoking jacket, though he probably owned a few.

  “Thanks for the invite, William. I’d like you to meet Gillian Tillman, the actress I mentioned to you.”

  Gillian took note of his statement, but registered nothing. When would he have mentioned her to William? And why?

  William peered at her thoughtfully, “You’re right; she is absolutely stunning.”

  Gillian extended her hand and pretended that he’d not spoken as though she were an object instead of a person. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She even managed a sm
ile.

  He shook her hand, his pinkie ring glittering like the North Star. “The pleasure is all mine.” Slipping his arm about her waist, he guided her through the grand room out to a bar at the poolside terrace where more of L.A.’s power players were gathered like a thirsty herd of cattle. “What would you like to drink, my dear?” He turned to Brandon, who trailed behind them. “I’m afraid you’ll have to fend for yourself,” he teased.

  Brandon laughed lightly and turned to Gillian. “I have to warn you, he’s quite the ladies’ man.”

  “She’s a big girl, and I’m sure that she can take care of herself.” William smiled. “So,” he said, turning away from Brandon to focus his complete attention on Gillian, “what can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a French martini,” Gillian said, keeping her ice-princess cool.

  After returning with her cocktail, he asked, “How long have you been in L.A.?”

  “A few months now.”

  “Are you working on any projects?”

  This was the part she hated, when she had to admit failure. “I can’t say that I am,” she reluctantly admitted. Happy for the distraction, she took a sip, enjoying the champagne’s rich effervescence.

  “Brandon and I are planning to do a film together,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction.

  “I thought he was in the music business,” she replied nonchalantly. She didn’t want this guy or anyone else thinking that she was so familiar with Brandon that she would audition on his casting couch.

  “True, he is, but he and a group of investors are interested in putting some money into a film project.”

  She took a sip of champagne and glanced around the room, as if the conversation were of only marginal interest to her. “Uhmmm.”

  “It’s really an exciting project. It’s an urban drama, but with a breezy mainstream story line. I think it could be big, just the sort of project to completely legitimize urban films.”

  Gillian wasn’t exactly sure what that last phrase meant. “Sounds interesting,” she said.

  “What are you two talking about?” Brandon walked up carrying a small plate of Petrossian caviar and toast points, which he offered to Gillian.

  Gillian took one and popped it into her mouth, which put the onus of answering the question squarely on William. “Our project and Ms. Tillman’s acting career, two perfectly compatible subjects, the way I see it.” Again William was looking at her as though she were an object rather than a living person. Clearly, at this juncture Gillian didn’t care about his lack of manners.

  Though she managed to remain cool on the outside, on the inside she throbbed with a renewed energy and purpose. She could hardly wait to get home and call Lauren. Finally, something positive had happened.

  FIFTEEN

  While things were finally looking up for Gillian, Lauren felt trapped inside a gilded cage. Her life, which was supposed to be a charmed cakewalk, was turning into a slow stroll across smoldering hot coals. Since the explosive reading of her grandmother’s will, things had gone steadily downhill. Her mother had all but physically attacked Paulette, so sure was she that her niece had had a hand in stealing her inheritance. Then Mildred suddenly and dramatically turned on Max with a vengeance. He fought back, stoically wielding client confidentiality, insisting that Priscilla was of sound mind, and had freely chosen to atone for the favoritism that she’d always shown Lauren and Mildred. During all of the fireworks, Paulette had gloated like an arsonist at the scene of a five-alarm fire. Not only did she now have wealth and social redemption, but the best part was witnessing her aunt Mildred’s humiliation. Through it all, Lauren sat strapped amid a rock, a hard place, and hell.

  Dressing by rote, she slipped into the easiest garment possible, a simple sundress, brushed and styled her hair, added makeup to give life to her sallow, lifeless complexion, and reluctantly headed out the door to Stephanie Green’s bridal shower. The last place on earth she wanted to be was in a room full of black Barbie dolls, but she’d known Stephanie since third grade, and Stephanie had been a bridesmaid in Lauren’s own wedding.

  As she was driving out to Rochester, New York, her cell phone rang. She saw the caller ID and answered the call. “Hey.”

  “How are you?” Gillian asked with an upbeat tone that Lauren hadn’t heard in quite a long time.

  “Obviously not as good as you are. You sound great,” Lauren enthused, glad that someone was in a good mood. “Your date must have gone well.”

  “It did. He’s a very nice guy, and even better than that is the fact that he is financing a film project with William Rutherford, and they want me to be in it!”

  “That’s great!” Lauren was genuinely happy that Gillian was catching a break.

  “I don’t want to get too excited, but it does sound promising.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  “And I’ll keep my legs crossed. I just hope that he doesn’t have plans to audition me on his casting couch.” Although Gillian was enjoying Brandon’s company, she feared that he wanted only one thing, and it wasn’t a screen test.

  “I doubt that a legitimate producer like William Rutherford would do that, especially with someone as talented as you are.”

  “It’s not William I’m worried about; it’s Brandon.”

  “Has he mentioned anything suggestive?”

  “No So far he’s been a perfect gentleman. I just hope that he doesn’t, because he is definitely not my type.”

  “Who is?” Lauren said. All the years she’d known Gillian she’d never once seen her with a boyfriend. “My exit’s coming up. Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

  Minutes later Kathy Hill greeted her at the door, chipper as a sorority girl before homecoming. “Hey, girl!” Though the women were all in their thirties, the glee surrounding one of their own bagging one of the men they called the Eligibles was palpable, like being at a party for a bunch of three-year-olds, all high on glucose. An Eligible was the quintessential Jack from Jack and Jill; he was well-bred, well educated, successful, and not too dark.

  “Congratulations,” Lauren said as she made her way over to Stephanie. She even managed a degree of conviction. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you.” Stephanie blushed in a way that a thirty-four-year-old shouldn’t be capable of, but there was no greater joy than that of a BAP on the brink of fulfilling her life’s destiny by marrying an Eligible.

  To balance her sour mood, Lauren grabbed a glass of white wine and took a seat in the corner of the room, bracing herself for the next two hours of bridal-shower hell.

  After muddling through the first forty-five minutes of giddy but inane conversation, Lauren propped herself up with a second glass of wine, preparing to bear witness to the obligatory but painfully stupid bridal-shower games.

  “Now, I have a special surprise for you ladies,” Kathy stood up and announced. She was even clapping her hands together and grinning like the Mad Hatter. “We have some very exciting entertainment scheduled, and I think you’ll all enjoy it.” On cue, Nelly’s sex romp song “Hot in Here” filled the room, and in walked a dark, sexy, well-built man with chiseled arms, wearing a tailored UPS uniform and carrying a brown box. He had the raw sexual energy that elicited a chemical reaction from the women just by his walking into the room. Every woman, except for Lauren, who was still waiting for an appropriate moment to leave, leaned forward in her chair, eyeing him like a rack of half-price Manolo Blahniks.

  He began his seduction by slowly unbuttoning his shirt, teasing his audience as he revealed a smooth, muscular chest. His eyes were locked on Lauren. She was the the least engaged of the group and the biggest challenge for him, but when she saw those soulful, slanted brown eyes, she couldn’t help being drawn in. As a warm-up to the bride he approached Lauren, dropped his shirt, stood in front her, and begin moving his hips seductively to the music as h
e unzipped his pants. Her breath caught in her throat; she was sure that a blush must have spread across her face like wild kudzu. She was both uncomfortable and, at the same time, more stimulated than she’d been in years. She couldn’t remember the last time the sight of a man’s body had aroused her. Sex with her husband had become perfunctory, and then nearly nonexistent once it became clear to Max that they wouldn’t be making a baby.

  These thoughts were pushed aside as his pants slid past his hips, revealing the impressive imprint of his manhood caught underneath black silk boxers. The women roared their approval. He suddenly turned away, leaving Lauren relieved that he was gone, yet desperate for him to return, which he did after opening the brown box and removing a long, bright red silk scarf, which he slowly trailed around her neck, letting one end slither down her front and between her legs. But he didn’t stop there; he took the scarf and tied her hands behind her back, then began massaging and caressing her neck and shoulders. His touch was so erotic that her breath caught in her throat.

  After scant seconds that seemed to last an eternity, he gently untied her hands, giving her a look that summed up her own thoughts, and withdrew his attention, moving toward the bride for the coup de grâce of his performance, which included a little dirty dancing in the middle of the room as her guests cheered them on. She blushed like a bride would, but was clearly enjoying the attention. When the music stopped, he kissed Stephanie on her cheek, gathered his things, and walked out, looking back over his shoulder at Lauren, who turned away, embarrassed by her own thoughts.

  Minutes later Lauren left the bridal shower, but wasn’t quite ready to return home, so she stopped off at a Starbucks a couple of blocks away for a caramel macchiato, and a chance to be alone with her scandalous thoughts. If she focused hard, Lauren could relive the tingling excitement that she’d felt at the stranger’s touch, and with her eyes closed tightly she could vividly imagine the enticing feel of the silk scarf moving seductively against her skin. She sighed, marveling at just how turned on she had been, pleased that it was even possible.