Lethally Blonde. Nancy Bartholomew
Читать онлайн книгу.
he be dead then?”
I close my eyes and shake my head slowly back and forth. “No, idiot, he meant it as a gesture and as a way of saying that our love would transcend our current earthly incarnations and last for all eternity.”
“Oh, man!” Haley sighs. “I want to be loved like that!”
Don’t we all, I thought, and am relieved to see the airport come into view. How had Haley learned about my mission anyway? Was her mother careless? What if this had been a really dangerous assignment? But when I ask Haley about it, she shrugs and smiles coyly.
“I’m not the only sneaky person in the family,” she says. “I have my ways.”
I make a mental note to take this up with Renee upon my return. Perhaps the bond between mother and daughter could be repaired with stricter generational boundaries; at least, that’s the family systems theory. I personally think a good smack is in order.
“Please, please, please get his autograph for me,” Haley begs as I get out of the limo and start for the private concourse. Then, apparently thinking this uncool, she shakes her head vigorously. “No, don’t do that! Bring me a pair of his underwear instead. Used.”
I don’t think this even warrants a response. I leave her there, staring after me and walk away as fast as I can. I breeze past the security checkpoint and to where a private plane waits for me. For once in my life, I’m glad to be leaving New York. L.A. and Jeremy Reins seem like a vacation compared to the rigorous two weeks I’ve had training to be a Gotham Rose.
I toy with the idea of calling my mother, but just as quickly decide not to. She and Victor have been in England for three weeks now and I try to forget the argument we had before they left. Parents just have a hard time letting their adult children lead their own lives. Mama was just mad because I bought a penthouse in the West Village instead of living with them.
The flight is so long! It seems to be taking forever to reach L.A. and maybe that’s just fine with me because I can’t decide if I’m nervous about the next week or just sick of flying.
“Miss Rothschild, we are making our approach to LAX,” Tim, the pilot says over the intercom finally. The stewardess emerges from the cockpit, somewhat disheveled from her attempt at keeping her balance while we pitched and rolled, takes her seat and buckles herself in for the landing.
I look out the window and then over at Marlena in the seat beside me. She’s curled up, sleeping, looking like a tiny snowdrift of white fur except for the itty-bitty black satin eyeshades I had made for her. She likes them. The moment I put them on, she settles down and goes to sleep. Before the eyeshades, I had to sedate her when we traveled. I figured, what a ferret can’t see, a ferret won’t worry about, and I was right.
The runway comes up to smack the plane tires and we land with a little bump that shakes Marlena awake. I reach over and take off her blindfold.
“We’re here, sleepyhead,” I say. Marlena yawns, showing a mouthful of pearly, sharp teeth, and I lean down to kiss her nose. “We’re going to Paradise.”
I gather up Marlena and my purse, and begin making my way to the front of the plane and stop when I see Tim, the pilot, standing by the doorway. This isn’t unusual—in fact, it’s expected—but something about Tim is different, and before I can even consciously figure out what is wrong with the picture, I find myself feeling irritated.
He stifles a yawn, tries to cover it with by smiling, and says, “Hope you had a good flight, Miss Rothschild.”
I feel a tiny frown wrinkle its way across my forehead and try to smile back, but I’m thinking Since when have I been Miss Rothschild to you and not Porsche? And a visual memory cue plays its way across the movie screen inside my head and I see Tim and I clinging to each other and laughing one sweltering hot night on a beach just south of Rio de Janeiro and realize that even months after that mistake of an encounter, I was still Porsche, so what’s changed? And then I notice that the zipper on Tim’s pants is not quite fully zipped and I see the tiniest smear of pink on Tim’s collar. It is the same shade of pink lipstick the new stewardess, Dorothy, is wearing. I feel my face start to color.
I nod to Tim, but it’s frosty. I continue on past him, down the steps toward Dorothy, and I am so intent on my mission that I almost fail to notice three people walking across the tarmac toward the plane, two men and a brunette.
Then I see something else, a brief flash of silver glinting in the sunlight of a bright L.A. afternoon. When I glance in that direction, I see two men driving a baggage cart toward the plane, which would be fine if my Hawker jet were a commercial carrier, but completely out of place now, especially as the cart has the words “Amazon Airlines” emblazoned on the front grill.
I start to turn my head back toward Dorothy, and stop as something distracts me. I squint, narrowing my eyes and trying to force my 20/60 vision to do more with the far-off object I see held in the man’s free hand. A gun? Certainly not. But the cart picks up speed and seems not to notice the three people in its path mere yards away.
I’m on the bottom step when something—instinct—takes over and I shove Marlena into Dorothy’s surprised arms and take off running.
“Look out!” I yell, not sure if I’m warning the three people in harm’s way, or the unaware driver.
I am running faster than I have in years and I have the advantage because I’m closer to my greeting party than the cart is, but it has a motor and I’m wearing Manolo Blahniks with a three-inch heel.
“Look out!” I scream.
The brunette is the only one who hears me. She looks up, sees me running and does a double-take as she sees the baggage cart heading right for her. I am close enough to see the fright in her eyes, to hear the whine of the engine as the maniacal driver stomps on the accelerator and bears down on his waiting victims.
The brunette swings left, stiff arms the man on her right and I see them both fly backward. I launch myself toward the other man and feel my body soar into the path of the oncoming vehicle.
I hit Jeremy Reins midchest, hear the whoosh of breath leaving his body as we fall. I smell hot exhaust fumes and hear the cart’s engine rush past us, missing us by inches, it seems. The cart squeals to a stop, backs up and then the guy turns the cart around. He is actually heading back in our direction. At first I assume he is coming to check on us, but with a shock I realize this is not the case.
“He’s got a camera!” the brunette cries.
A camera? Not a gun, but a camera?
Two other guys come running out from the concourse building onto the gray tarmac—big, burly men wearing suits and carrying guns. They waste no time. They fire and the driver takes off, circles wide and veers away from us, but his passenger just keeps snapping away, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s being shot at! Beneath me, Jeremy Reins is recovering his composure.
“Hel-lo, darling!” he drawls. “Come to Daddy!”
I look down at him and see dark eyes, black, curly long hair, and realize this fool is smirking at me. I am lying directly on top of him and I realize something else at the same time; contrary to popular belief, Jeremy Reins is not only not gay, he is quite happy to meet me.
He brings his hands up, cups my bottom and gives me, Porsche Rothschild, a firm double-handed squeeze! I draw back and am about to slap him, when his eyes darken, his grip tightens, and he says through gritted teeth and a completely phony smile, “Watch it, lovey, the press has its eye on us!”
I plaster an equally fake smile on my face, dart a quick glance to the right through my dark Versace sunglasses and see the swell of photographers lining the upper windows of the concourse. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking, and I am resisting the ridiculous urge to cry—all signs, I’m sure, of my leftover adrenaline rush and the near miss with the baggage cart.
Jeremy pulls me down into a long, slipped-tongue kiss of welcome, which I resist for all I’m worth. “Lovey, now, play along!”