My first thought was a balloon bouquet… until the FTD florist in Syracuse told me they didn't recommend balloons for kids- choking hazard, apparently. So I went with stuffed animals. Rabbits. Perfect.
I spent the rest of the afternoon following my schedule and using the spare time to poke around the house and meet the crew. To my disappointment, I didn't bump into Bradford Grady.
Grady was a bona fide star with a wildly popular show exploring haunted European locales. That was where the money was: television. Right now, I had a prime monthly spot on The Keni Bales Show and I was a regular guest on Knight at Night. But my own show? That was the dream. Always had been… even though I personally preferred a stage to a soundstage. With Keni's show skyrocketing in the ratings, now the second hottest daytime talk show in America, I had two offers-one from a major network, the other an up-and-coming netlet.
Whether those offers turned into an actual time slot depended largely on how I performed on this show. Spending a week learning from a master wouldn't hurt.
AT NINE, I was in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting ready for the welcome party and making sure my new dress fit as it should, not wrinkling or sagging unbecomingly as I moved. And, let's be honest, making sure I didn't wrinkle or sag in it. It was a daring choice for a woman my age-a Valentino silk peekaboo dress. It wasn't from this year's collection, but I'm not above shopping the sales rack.
The dress had come in deep golden yellow or black. I'd picked the yellow. Silk straps left my shoulders bare. The ruffled hem brushed my knees. Slits in the deep-cut shirred bodice showed off generous swatches of skin. Not something you'd wear if your triceps sagged or your thighs were dimpled with cellulite.
I was proud of my body. I worked damn hard for it. Paid for it, some said, the whispers growing louder with each passing year. But I hadn't had any work done and I didn't plan to, yet sometimes I suspected my resolve wouldn't outlast the first significant wrinkle or sag. Getting my own TV show wouldn't make it any easier to resist.
A rap at the door. "Ms. Vegas?"
I shook off thoughts of television and plastic surgery and gave my reflection one last mirror check. Then I was ready for my close-up.
THE WELCOME party for Death of Innocence was being held in the basement. An odd location, especially for a warm, dry fall night, but I'd heard the neighbors hadn't been thrilled with having a TV show moving in next door. Getting the permit couldn't have been easy. Palms probably had to be greased, favors pulled in and concessions made, including no outdoor parties.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I pulled back to let my escort-one of the security team-lead the way, and give me time to see what I was walking into.
The basement was one huge room and held only a collection of high, small tables for setting down drinks. A waiter who barely looked old enough to serve was making the rounds with champagne, flashing a camera-ready smile, unaware that no one here was in a position to give him his big Hollywood break.
The producer, Todd Simon, wasn't coming. He was on location in Amsterdam after filming Red Light District-a controversial but much anticipated new reality show-and was supposed to have returned by now, but had been delayed. Can't say I was thrilled about that. When I'd first signed onto the show, the producer had been a real sweetheart who was also a fan, and had seemed committed to approaching the special with just the right balance of showmanship and solemnity. Then, less than a month ago, I got a fax from the studio. The producer and his entire team had been replaced by Todd Simon, a guy best known for beer commercials.
I'd done my best to meet with Simon and his team, but it never happened. When I'd lived in L.A. I'd have tracked them down myself. Not so easy now that my condo was in Chicago and I'd spent the last two months on my live-show circuit. I hated going in blind, but my future in television was riding on this show. I'd make it work.
There were fewer than a dozen people in the room. There, chatting up the model who'd be playing Marilyn in the dramatized death scene, was Bradford Grady. Not much older than me, if the tabloids were right, yet his dark hair was streaked with silver, giving him the air of a distinguished gentleman. The old Hollywood double standard.
The waiter hurried over to offer me a glass.
"Thank you-" I checked his name tag. " Jordan."
I smiled and he blinked, bedazzled. My smile grew. When I looked up, Grady was heading my way, his gaze sliding over me as he walked.
"Ms. Vegas," he said. "This is such a pleasure."
He took my hand and kissed it. No one snickered. Amazing what the British can get away with.
"Jaime, please, and the pleasure's mine. At the risk of gushing, I'm such a fan. I bought your first season on DVD just last week, when it finally came stateside."
Actually, I'd ordered all three seasons from the U.K. when I realized I'd be working with him. Can't pull a convincing fan-girl if you haven't studied the material.
Claudia appeared from nowhere. "Mr. Grady, Dr. Robson wanted to speak to-"
He cut her off with a "go away" flutter of his fingers. Claudia glared at me.
"She's right," I said. "You have people to meet and I don't want to monopolize you. What do you say we do the rounds together, save everyone from having to introduce themselves twice?"
He gave me his arm and let Claudia escort us over to Dr. Robson, a parapsychologist the show had hired as an expert. As I asked about Dr. Robson's studies in electronic voice phenomena-more homework-Grady's hand slid to my lower back then began inching down. When Bruce Wang, a specialist in ghost photography, approached, I used the excuse to slide from Grady's grasp and shake Wang's hand. It's a balancing act-being flirtatious enough to flatter without arousing expectations.
As we chatted, talk turned to speculation over Starr Phillips's mystery replacement. Robson had heard a rumor that it was Buck Locke. I prayed he was wrong. Last time I'd met the abrasive TV spiritualist, he'd offered to teach me the secret of tantric magic-sex magic-to enhance my link with the afterlife, and I'd made the unfortunate mistake of laughing. Worse yet, I'd done so as he'd stood in my hotel room doorway, wearing only a robe, which he'd let hang open to display the full "extent" of his offer.
We were still naming names when a murmur rippled through the room. I followed it to the door. In walked two men in shades, like FBI agents from a B movie. Between them stood a tiny, ephemerally beautiful girl in a silver dress. She had long blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and blue saucer eyes-far bluer than anything nature could produce.
Her gaze went straight to me, and she clapped her hands together, giving a kittenish mew of delight. She floated over, chiffon scarf streaming behind.
"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."
A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.
"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be…?"
"Angelique… but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."
"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."
"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."
I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."
Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.