Rapture(7)

George sighed. “Do you want me to hire someone else?”

Grace hesitated.

“What is he saying?” her mother asked.

“He’s asking if I want him to hire someone else.”

“Yes,” her mother said immediately. “Tell him to fire her and hire someone else. There have to be plenty of competent straight PR consultants in this town.”

Grace nibbled her lower lip until her mother’s disapproving stare made her stop.

“Grace?” George asked. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to—?”

Grace made a split-second decision, for once listening to her gut instead of her mother. “No,” she said. “Sorry for bothering you with this. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up.

Her mother stared at her. “Why didn’t you tell him to fire her?”



Slowly, Grace put her phone away and looked into her mother’s eyes. “Because it’s not right to hire or fire people based on their sexual orientation.”

For a moment, she thought her mother would start ranting and raving again, but Katherine just sighed. “You get that from your father. He was too soft to make it in this business too. Good thing you have me, or people would take advantage.” She got up and gestured for Grace to put a couple of bills on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”





CHAPTER 4

Lauren had been going nonstop since she’d arrived at work, coffee in hand, shortly before eight o’clock. She’d checked HootSuite and skimmed various blogs, websites, magazines, and newspapers. Then, satisfied that none of her clients had gotten into trouble overnight, she’d settled down to answer e-mails and return phone calls.

Now she was clicking back and forth between a press release that one of the interns had written and that needed to be checked, the Twitter strategy for one of the sports stars she represented, and an e-mail marketing campaign for Grace Durand’s new movie.

“Lauren?”

She looked up from her computer screen.

Marlene stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “I need to have a word with you.”

“Sure.” Lauren saved what she’d been working on.

When Marlene entered and firmly closed the door behind her, Lauren began to suspect that nothing good would be coming. Marlene settled her petite frame into the visitor’s chair and regarded Lauren as a mother would her wayward child. “I really don’t understand it. You’re a good publicist. Scratch that. You’re a great publicist.”

Lauren knew better than to thank her for the compliment, sensing that there was something else coming.



“How on earth did you manage to have your client fire you so fast?” Marlene asked with a shake of her head.

Lauren’s first thought was that K-Cee had dropped her as his publicist after her candid words to him. Well, good riddance. She wasn’t exactly sad to see him go. “He just didn’t like it that I called him on the carpet for his self-destructive behavior; that’s all.”

Marlene put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not talking about K-Cee. I’m talking about Grace Durand.”

Stunned, Lauren sank against the back of her chair. She hadn’t seen this coming. After talking to Grace alone in the conference room, she’d thought they were on the same page about how to handle the situation and that Grace was willing to trust her and follow her lead. Apparently not. “Grace fired me?”

“Yes. Well, her mother did.” Marlene leaned back. “Maybe she was afraid that it would turn out like the Tabby Jones debacle.”

If she never, ever heard that name again, it would be too soon. Lauren gritted her teeth. “This doesn’t have anything to do with…that.”

“Her mother implied that—”

“Whatever she said is bullshit!”

Marlene’s gray eyes narrowed to slivers of rock. “I beg your pardon.”

Lauren rubbed her face. Normally, she had much better control than this, but the news that Grace—or rather Mrs. Duvenbeck—had fired her really rattled her. “Sorry. But you can’t take whatever she said seriously. I bet she’s just pouting because I practically kicked her out of the meeting.”



“You did what?”

“It was like trying to have a conversation with a three-year-old while her controlling mother is hovering,” Lauren said. “I needed to talk to Grace without her mother interrupting every two seconds. Grace is my client, not her mother.”

Marlene slapped one palm down on the desk, making Lauren’s mug rattle. “Your client is whoever I say it is. Losing this account is not an option. Go and apologize. Do whatever it takes to get them to change their mind.”

Lauren had to unclamp her teeth before she could speak. “Okay,” she finally got out.

Marlene shoved the chair back and stood. When she reached the door, she turned back around. “I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you, but… This account is your chance to prove yourself. Use it.”

When the door closed behind Marlene, Lauren picked up a pen and hurled it across the room. On days like this, she remembered why she had never wanted to be a celebrity publicist. After attending Boston University—a university as far away as possible from her producer mother, her director father, and Hollywood in general—she had worked in the marketing department of a nonprofit organization. Right now, she wished she’d stayed there instead of switching to a more exciting job. Her life might have been a lot less interesting, but at least then she wouldn’t have to apologize to a spoiled actress and her arrogant mother for a perceived wrongdoing she didn’t even understand.





Lauren steered her Honda Civic along the narrow roads zigzagging through the Hollywood Hills. One glance into the red file with Grace’s name on it had shown her that, of course, Grace owned the mandatory multi-million-dollar mansion in Laurel Canyon. Lauren’s navigation system led her to the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. It had been a relatively short drive, just minutes from Sunset Boulevard, yet up here everything felt peaceful and secluded. Grace’s house, a Spanish-style residence, was set back from the street, surrounded by massive stone walls.

Lauren stopped the car in front of a wrought-iron gate, letting the engine idle, and peered through the iron bars to the circular driveway beyond. The security camera mounted on the left side of the gate was outfitted with a motion sensor; it rotated toward her. She lowered her window and pressed the call button on the speaker to her left.

For a minute or two, nothing happened; then the speaker crackled.



She’d expected to be greeted by an employee, but it was Grace’s unmistakable, slightly husky voice that came through the speaker. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

Lauren looked into the camera right above the call button and held her CT Publicity ID card up to the camera’s lens. “Lauren Pearce.”

The electronic gate swung open.

She closed the window and drove through. The gate clanged shut behind her, making her feel as if she were trapped in this uncomfortable situation with no way out. Gravel crunched under her tires as she steered the car along the driveway, flanked by palms and tall cypress trees. Lauren parked in front of the mansion and climbed the stone steps toward the massive front door. More security cameras peered down on her, making her stand ramrod straight as she waited to be let in.

After a moment, the door was opened, and Lauren stepped into a large foyer with high ceilings.

Once again, it wasn’t an employee who greeted her but Grace Durand herself. She had obviously been exercising before Lauren arrived. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail, highlighting her sculpted cheekbones. A few blonde tendrils had escaped and were now clinging to her flushed face. A damp, white tank top clung to her chest, and a pair of red running shorts showed off her long, shapely legs. When she reached up to pull out her ponytail, the tank top slid up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of her flat belly. She shook her head, and her hair streamed down to her shoulders like a golden waterfall.



Jesus Christ. Lauren instantly understood why Playboy had offered Grace a six-figure sum for an in-the-nude photo spread. As her publicist, she was, of course, glad that Grace had refused. Nude photos didn’t fit Grace’s squeaky-clean girl-next-door image.

“Come on in,” Grace said while she put her ponytail up again.

Dry-mouthed, Lauren followed her, keeping her gaze fixed on Grace’s no-name running shoes.

No housekeeper or other staff showed up as Grace led her through the hall that opened into a spacious living room looking like a showpiece out of Architectural Digest more than a comfortable place to relax. The coffee table next to the white leather couch was a glass-and-chrome contraption that seemed to be held up by some gravity-defying magic. Abstract paintings hung in perfect alignment on the walls, but Lauren realized that there was no sign of a TV anywhere. Interesting choice for an actress. Well, maybe there was a media room somewhere in the mansion.

Lauren took in the cobalt-blue armchair, white rugs, and silver lamps, and she couldn’t imagine living here. Not even the brick fireplace could lend this sleek, modern room a hint of warmth.

A spiral staircase led upstairs, but everything was quiet there too. Grace’s husband was nowhere to be seen, and not even a personal assistant was hanging around. As far as she knew, she was completely alone with Grace Durand.