Blacklist. Alyson Noel
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was deferential, but her gaze flashed in a way that had Aster wondering if they were sleeping together.
With his good looks, power, and wealth—an LA trifecta of sorts—Ira was considered one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. And though the tabloids were always trying to decode his love life, other than an endless string of rumored conquests that included an impressive number of Victoria’s Secret models, A-list actresses, and a couple of infamous socialites, Ira remained maddeningly elusive—eternally linked to everyone and no one.
Ira’s curt nod gave nothing away. He simply turned to Aster and said, “Why don’t you wait in my office? I’m afraid it’s not much at the moment, but if this runs too long, I can always recruit James to drive you home.”
Aster buried her frown and forced herself to nod goodnaturedly instead. She longed to return to her luxury condo, but she owed Ira. Big-time. And at least he hadn’t brought her to Night for Night. Just because she’d agreed to return to her old job as the club’s promoter didn’t mean she was ready to see it quite yet.
For some, the VIP cabanas in the Riad—the area reserved for Night for Night’s A-list clientele—were considered the height of sought-after nightlife luxury, but for her they served as a painful reminder of the night her life took a turn for the worse, leaving her to wonder if she’d ever be able to view the sexy Moroccan-style surroundings as anything other than the infamous crime scene they were.
Not only had Madison’s blood been discovered on the terrace, but according to the cops, a group of eyewitnesses reported seeing Aster leaving the club with a strange male they’d yet to ID. Unfortunately, Aster still couldn’t remember any of that. Though the fact that she’d been seen leaving should count for something, or at least that was what she thought until her lawyer reminded her that Madison was also seen leaving and yet her blood had ended up both on the terrace and the dress Aster had been wearing. People left places, people returned to places. What they really needed was for Aster to identify where she’d spent the night, but she wasn’t willing to share that just yet.
All Aster knew for sure was that she’d woken the next morning to a wicked hangover in a strange apartment and an empty bed, filled with regret for having wasted her virginity on someone who couldn’t bother to stick around long enough to brew her a cup of coffee.
Later, when a DVD was delivered to her apartment, Aster had gaped in horror at the grainy footage of her stripping and dancing before she quickly turned it off, unable to watch any more. At the time, she thought it the single worst thing that had ever happened to her. But that was before she’d been arrested for first-degree murder.
From the moment she’d joined Ira’s contest, her life had taken a turn for the worse, and yet here she was with both hands out, accepting his help and getting sucked further and further into his debt.
“Hey, you okay?” Ira regarded her with such concern that Aster fiercely shook the thought away and returned to the present. She knew how busy he was, and yet he’d still seen fit to sacrifice the better part of his day in order to help her. All of which made her feel bad for what she was about to say, but she said it anyway. “Trena Moretti?” She narrowed her gaze. “The reporter for the LA Times? The one responsible for the headline ‘Was It Murder?’”
Ira cocked his head, but otherwise gave nothing away.
“This interview isn’t about me, is it?”
He broke into a grin. His sexy grin. His charming grin. His shark grin. Like a Rorschach test, it depended entirely on the perception of whoever was on the receiving end. Aster viewed it as a mix of all three.
“Relax,” he said in a tone that was meant to be reassuring. “It’s a profile piece on me. She’s been trying to nail this down long before that headline.”
Aster’s shoulders sank in relief, leaving her feeling more than a little embarrassed for assuming the worst. Still, it was just a matter of time before word spread that she’d been sprung from jail and every journalist in the world came begging for an exclusive. Should she sit down with Oprah, Diane Sawyer, or Katie Couric? She had no idea, though eventually she’d have to decide.
Ira studied her with a speculative expression as he absently rubbed a thumb against the squared edge of his chin. And just like that, Aster grew tense all over again.
“Though now that you mention it . . .”
She did not like where this was heading. Not. At. All.
“No.” She was already shaking her head long before he could finish the thought. “I’m not ready. I mean, seriously, look at me! My hair is greasy, my face is a crime scene, and even though you’re too polite to mention it, I happen to know how bad I smell, since I haven’t had a proper shower in nearly a week.”
Ira dismissed her excuses with a quick wave of his hand. “All of which makes you even more perfect. Aster, think about it—sure, you’re not looking your best, but who would expect you to? You’re fresh from the can, which makes you vulnerable, authentic, and real.”
“None of which is good when you’re about to be interviewed for the role you played in a celebrity’s murder.”
“On the contrary.” Ira held firm. “You’ll come off as raw, fresh, and completely unrehearsed, which will only work in your favor, since your usual high-end look can be intimidating. Look, last thing I want is to push you into a situation you’re not prepared for, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let her take advantage, I promise you that.”
Aster’s first instinct was to say no. Or rather, hell no—a thousand times no—absolutely, 100 percent no! But she couldn’t bring herself to form the words.
Ira seemed so convinced it would work, and despite his many flaws, Aster greatly admired his numerous achievements in life. Ira came from humble origins, and like most people who’d made the trip west, he’d arrived in LA with a dream. Unlike most people, in just a few years’ time he’d managed to turn that dream into an empire. It was pretty much the opposite of Aster’s story. Having been born and bred in Beverly Hills, a Persian Princess in an extremely wealthy family, she’d had every advantage handed to her, only to make a complete mess of her life and end up in jail at the age of eighteen.
Clearly her instincts couldn’t be trusted. So maybe it was time to let someone else call the shots for a while.
Next thing she knew, he was ushering her into his makeshift office and settling her in front of a fan that provided little relief against the unbearable heat. A few moments later, she heard his voice rising over the din of hammers and saws.
“And when it’s ready, this will be our VIP area,” he said.
Aster took a steadying breath and faced the woman with the gorgeous mane of wild bronze curls. Though they’d never met, Aster recognized Trena immediately. It was Trena who’d convinced the cops to question Ryan Hawthorne, though admittedly, that hadn’t exactly turned out as Aster had hoped. While Aster had no idea what Ryan had told the police, she had no doubt he was solely to blame for turning their attention to her and planting the blood-covered dress that was the most damning piece of evidence being used against her.
If nothing else, his actions proved Ryan was guilty. Why else would he bother setting her up and framing her for the crime unless he had something serious to hide?
Maybe Ira was right. Maybe talking to Trena was exactly what she needed. While she wasn’t sure where Trena stood, it couldn’t hurt to befriend her, or at the very least talk to her. If public opinion was truly ruled by headlines and sound bites, then it would serve Aster well to author a few that might turn the tide in her favor.
Trena had an agenda; everyone did. And while Aster had no idea what it might be, now that Trena was standing before her, giving Aster an appraising look while Ira acted like he hadn’t actually planned the whole thing, she had no choice but to play along and hope it wouldn’t come back to bite her.
“Aster Amirpour, meet Trena Moretti.” Ira presented