Take Hold of Me Page 2

  I reach for my water bottle. Who am I kidding? Time is an excuse. The man I am interested in has ignored my texts that let him know I have permanently moved to LA—his town.

  Before my brain wanders down the rabbit hole named Wills, Stacy comes back into the room accompanied by Lloyd Price, the owner of the Agency. He reminds me of Chewbacca—tall and hairy. Unlike Chewbacca, though, his demeanor sets my teeth on edge. Throughout the years, I have dealt with Monsieur Price a few times, though I have managed to avoid too much interaction with him. My blood races. What does his appearance mean?

  I push my chair back to stand, but he motions for me to remain seated and offers his hand. After shaking it, I readjust my body in my chair while Stacy takes her seat behind the pile of papers she left behind when the call came in from Ratatat. She drops her yellow notepad on top of the documents, her face unreadable. Monsieur Price sits between us, equally poker-faced.

  I tamp down the zings of electricity racing through my bloodstream. I hope I landed this gig. However, having worked my way up in this industry, I am no stranger to its whims. “Did Ratatat make a decision?” I ask, my mouth as dry as a day-old baguette.

  Stacy focuses on the notes in her pad. She taps her pen on it, causing my free leg to bounce in time. A satisfied smile breaks across both of their faces and I collapse back into my seat with relief.

  “They very wisely agreed with me and selected the model who is guaranteed to sell copies. You’ll be in Miami in a few weeks for the shoot.”

  “Well done, Stacy,” Monsieur Price says. She smiles at him in shared success.

  I play with a lock of hair as I expel all the breath in my lungs, my body lightening. I knew the Agency would come through. “Merci. I will do a good job for them.” Until now, jobs came in faster than Stacy could accept them. This is familiar territory.

  Monsieur Price winks at me and, without turning his head, extends his overly-large hand to Stacy, who places her small one in his. He squeezes her hand while addressing me. “Emilie, Beautiful, Stacy here is going out on maternity leave next week. Since I somehow haven’t had the pleasure of spending time with you, I’m going to personally oversee your career while she’s out.”

  Without letting go of Stacy’s hand, he reaches out to me. My stomach clenches but I raise my chin, offering my practiced smile. I respond to his unspoken command and place my hand in his but do not meet his eyes. His thumb rakes over mine. It takes all my reserves not to yank my hand away. Something about him is unsettling.

  Stacy is the first to break the line, resting her freed hand on her belly. When he releases mine, I take another sip of water to cool the figurative ants racing through my veins.

  Stacy restarts the meeting. “We’re going to begin executing what we’ve dubbed ‘Emilie’s High-Profile Plan’ in two days.”

  “High-Profile” is Stacy-speak for more paparazzi. Great. After Wills was shot in front of me by Cole’s crazy stalker, unexpectedly meeting cameras became nearly paralyzing. My therapist helped me through the worst of it. Employing her strategy will test how well I succeeded.

  She turns to me. “On Thursday, you’ll go to the grand opening event for that club on Mulholland, with your new bodyguard in tow.”

  “Have you lined up anyone yet?” Monsieur Price asks, eliciting a shake of Stacy’s head.

  Bodyguard. Heat tingles at my neck and ears, and I am right back down the rabbit hole. I know who I want protecting my body. Exploring it, too. With piercing blue eyes that see way more than my model exterior. Even though he has not returned any of my texts, this may be my way back in.

  Tucking my hair behind my ear, I say, “I know someone who would be perfect for the job. Wills Sumner. You remember, he was Cole Manchester’s bodyguard.” I check to make sure they are paying attention to me. “Although, I am uncertain whether he is still in the industry after—. Anyway, I will send you his information.” I pull out my phone.

  Simultaneously with my pressing “forward,” Monsieur Price’s authoritative voice states, “Don’t worry about it, Beautiful. We have an agency that we use.”

  Visions of Wills protecting me dissipate like the Oh-Snap! lingerie contract. Sighing, I defer to the professionals. As always.

  Stacy clears her throat, pulling my attention back to her. “I know we’ve been over this before, but let’s run through your upcoming calendar for Lloyd’s benefit. Plus, there have been a few changes, and I want to make sure you’re both up to speed.”

  A shot of adrenaline zings though my body. “Oui.”

  “As I mentioned, you have the club opening on Thursday. Then, Sunday you’re off to Rio for the Swimsuit Annual photoshoot. The following week, you’re back here in LA filming the commercial for UC Cosmetics as an expansion of your role as their print spokesmodel.”

  I hold her gaze. “I am so excited for that one. To prepare, I have been rehearsing the script every night.”

  I also have been working on making my French accent less pronounced. But not too much. A while ago, Wills told me—with his American twang—“Don’t ever lose your accent, Ems. It’s sexy.” Maybe my sexy accent will be enough to convince him to get together with me? If he would ever answer his phone for me to test this strategy, that is. It is not like we ended things on a bad note. Truth is we never got started before work took me away. And then…

  Unaware of my inner turmoil, Monsieur Price adds, “Great. You’re going to do really well. Once other TV ad execs get wind of your work ethic and talent, your career will probably veer in that direction. It’s a natural progression. We’ve transitioned many models this way.”

  My ears prick. I tilt my head as the word transitioned plays on repeat. Stopping a frown from forming for fear of wrinkles, I ask, “I still will be doing runways and magazine shoots, correct?”

  Stacy rubs her extended belly. “Of course you will. But it’s great to expand your horizons and move into new mediums.” She smiles like there is nothing to worry about and taps her pen on her notepad. “And here’s my big surprise. I snagged you a movie cameo.”

  I run a shaky hand over my hair. This new information certainly lessens the stress of transitioning. And Geonna. “I am going to be in a movie? Ooh la la.” I take a big swig of water.

  She leans back in her chair. “Yes. Now, it’s a small role, and you’ll be playing yourself. That said, it’s like the commercial. You’ll still need to impress these people, of course. But when you do, others in the movie industry will want to work with you as well.”

  “You said a cameo, right? I will not have too many lines to memorize then?”

  She nods. “I haven’t seen the script yet, but I was told some of your lines will be in French.”

  I exhale through my mouth and crack my first real smile of our meeting. I can do this. I will impress. “Oui. I can do French.”

  Monsieur Price chuckles, a feral smile overtaking his face. “I think you might be able to pull that off, Beautiful.”

  Stifling my urge to recoil, I turn my attention back to Stacy. She continues, “I haven’t nailed down a date for that one, but Lloyd will let you know. Other than that, you’ll be in Hawaii for a photoshoot for Fashion Monthly Magazine later in the month. You’re on the cover. Then you’ll be in England for London Fashion Week in September and in Spain for another shoot . Following that, there’s Venice ….”

  As Stacy rattles off more bookings, my nerves settle. I readjust my posture and take another swallow of water. The Agency wants me to stay in demand as much as I do. How long was Lizzie on top? At least fifteen years. And she still snags gigs.

  And now I am getting a bodyguard. An image of Wills pops into my head. When Stacy stops talking, I cannot keep myself from asking, “So, do you really think hiring a bodyguard is necessary?”

  Monsieur Price’s lips curl upward. “Out here in LA, you’re a nobody until you have a guard following you. Then, you’re in demand twice as much.”

  Nodding, Stacy adds, “Remember all the media attention you re
ceived when Cole Manchester’s PR firm created publicity dates for you two? You never were seen without his bodyguards.”

  “Oui.” As if I ever could forget—that was when I met Wills.

  Before my thoughts veer off-track again, Monsieur Price takes over the meeting. “Now, we all know you don’t have any threats against you. But by having a bodyguard, you’ll demonstrate to the industry how hot of a commodity you are. Illusion breeds reality. So, you better keep your calendar open for more movie premieres, award shows, charity events, those sorts of appearances. I plan on boosting your profile so high that companies won’t even remember another model’s name.”

  Under the table, my right foot lifts and I pivot my heel back and forth. “This will work. I will do whatever you say to fight for my bookings.” Something new for me. This could be exciting—especially if I can get Wills involved. As Maman says, nothing worth having comes easy.

  Tapping her pen on the table, Stacy says, “I know you will, Emilie. You always do, which is why I’ve loved working with you. And so does everyone in the modeling industry.”

  I push my shoulders back. Her confidence that those five lost bookings were merely a blip reinforces my desire to up my game.

  “Now, do you have anything for me?” Stacy asks, dropping her pen on her notepad.

  I am about to shake my head when I remember the party. “Oui. I have the bridal shower for Rose Morgan—Cole’s fiancée—in Las Vegas a week from this Sunday. That is the only date I need to block out.”

  “Mark that down,” Monsieur Price says to Stacy, who retrieves her pen and scribbles in her notepad. It is weird to see her taking orders from anyone as, usually, she is the one doling them out. And when she does, people listen. I guess I will have to get used to the new order.

  “Merci.” Come to think about it, though, I do not recall a single blocked date ever preventing Stacy from scheduling a gig. “I have to be at the shower. I am helping to plan it.” My chest puffs up—this is the first time I have ever been asked to be involved in, let alone help plan, such a party.

  She points her pen to the bottom of her notepad, nodding her head once. “Got it right here.”

  “Très bon.” I bring the bottle of water to my lips.

  “There’s just one more thing we need to discuss.” Monsieur Price locks eyes with Stacy, who reaches under her notepad and passes me a stapled document. He continues, “It’s contract renewal time. Of course, Price Modeling Agency is thrilled to have you on our roster and we’re looking forward to representing you for many years to come. This renewal has the same terms as your prior contracts—no new clauses. I just need you to sign it in three places, where you see the sticky notes.”

  I lean down to grab the handles of my oversized Burberry tote I was given after a recent shoot for the house. Placing it on my lap, I reach inside to search for a pen. But something stops me from signing immediately like I have always done with blind trust in the past, and I accept the paperwork with a smile. “When does this have to be signed?”

  Monsieur Price’s eyes narrow and return to their normal size with such rapidity that I could have almost imagined his reaction. “Not until the end of next month. No rush.”

  “I will have it signed before then. I just want to spend some time going over it. With a bottle of champagne,” I throw the last part in to absolve any perceived suspicions about my commitment to the Agency.

  “Let me know if you have any questions,” he says, his smile tight.

  “Sore thing.” I pause and mentally review the phrase. “I mean, sure thing.”

  He chuckles at my faux pas and they both stand. I place the document into my tote and take a final swallow from my water bottle. Empty, I toss it into a recycling bin. And miss. Walking over to the bottle on the floor, I pick it up and place it into the receptacle. It sits right under Lizzie’s photo.

  Now that the Agency is righting my career, I have some unfinished business to tend to with a certain blond bodyguard. Who challenged me to go beneath the superficial.

  Wills better be ready.

  3

  Wills

  My first hire at Complete, Zak Codey, sits next to me in an LA sports bar. Flat-screen TVs on mute hang on the walls in the bar area, all set to different stations, mostly baseball games. Country music plays over the speaker system, to which the waitresses shimmy as they take and deliver orders. After one stops by our table to drop off our beers, Zak’s eyes follow her until she’s swallowed up by the crowd.

  I brought him up to speed about today’s closing, including the thirty-day delay. Tracing the label on my beer, I ask, “You’re sure you still want to join me?”

  “Hell yeah. I’m ready for a new challenge. Being your right-hand at the gym as well as having personal training clients certainly will fit the bill. Especially if my clients need as much help as you did.”

  My hand closes around the beer bottle. “I can still rethink your job offer.”

  He laughs and punches me on the arm. “C’mon. You needed me to whip you into shape and you know it.”

  “You forget I was a personal trainer myself before becoming a bodyguard.”

  “And going soft.”

  “Soft my ass.”

  “Not to mention your flabby biceps and sad abs,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I had a lot of fun when Cole brought you with him the first time. With both of you.”

  I remember how I tried not to let either of them see how much that session took out of me. It was, after all, my first day guarding Cole. I had to make a good show of it in front of my new client and his personal trainer. Chuckling while I shake my head, I say, “I thought I was going to die. Was sore for a week.”

  “Good times.” He raises his beer to me. “I let you believe you put one over on me, W. But I knew.”

  Zak’s a great personal trainer—I’m lucky he agreed to join me at Complete. “You’re a real dickhead.”

  He snorts. His eyes flick to the screen where the Dodgers are playing the Phillies and he starts screaming, “Whoa! Whoa!”

  I look up in time to see the third and fourth player run home. “Nice.”

  With both of us fixated on the television, an ad for the upcoming season of “Ninja Heroes,” my favorite show that features teams of competitors and military dogs running through crazy obstacle courses, comes on. When that finishes, a commercial rolls for one of the sports-slash-swimsuit-cover magazines. Like I can’t avoid her if I try, there’s Emilie in a bikini on a beach somewhere. My stomach tightens and I plunk my beer on the table.

  Next to me, Zak emits a low whistle. “Damn. She’s looking mighty fine.”

  I slant my eyes toward him, clenching my teeth to prevent myself from responding. Movement on the screen refocuses my attention to the ad, which now flips through some of the pages inside. One shows Emilie playing beach volleyball. Long and lean and blonde, she’s the French equivalent of an All-American wet dream. Shit.

  “And Cole complained about having to do publicity dates with her?”

  Picturing Cole with his hands all over Emilie does nothing to redirect my thoughts, even if it was just for show. To relieve the building pressure, I mentally switch to his real relationship. “By then, he was dating Rose.”

  “Yeah. He’s totally pussy whipped now. Never thought I’d see the day.” Zak takes a sip of his beer. “Although, Rose’s cool. She’s hot and smart.”

  “True.” Good. Steer the conversation away from the blonde bombshell whose face and body have thankfully left the screen.

  “When you worked with Cole, you had to guard Emilie for a while. That must not have sucked.”

  And right back on dangerous ground. “She’s nice.”

  “Man, that chick is smokin’. You can’t tell me you think she’s just ‘nice.’” He makes an exaggerated air quotes motion.

  I can’t go back down this road. Nothing much happened—or will happen—between Emilie and me. Some kisses that she’s probably already forgotten. A few
conversations. Okay, so she visited me in the hospital a couple of times after I was shot in the shoulder, but then her schedule sent her away for months on end. I tamp down the glimmer of electricity running up my spine. No use remembering. “I take it you and Lynda broke up?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s over.” He takes a swig. “Come to think about it, are you still in touch with Emilie? Cole’s out on tour doing his rock star thing, so I can’t hit him up. Care to hook a brother up?”

  My stomach hardens. Zak the player with my Ems? Whoa. Hold on here. She’s not my anything. Still. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hey, it’s not like I’m going to make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. Once she gets a load of the Zak charm, she’ll be a goner. Imagine how she’d look on my arm.”

  He extends his right arm, making a muscle. I picture myself ripping that arm right off his body. What am I thinking? I have no right to feel this way. None. At. All.

  Before I can respond, my cell rings. Grateful for the reprieve, I pull it out of my pocket, only to see Emilie’s face filling the screen. Zak’s nose is all up in my business. “Holy shit, W. You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “I haven’t.”

  It rings again in my hand.

  “Whatever, dude. Answer that call or I will.” He makes a play for my phone.

  With that as an incentive, I swat his hand away and accept her call. “Emilie.” Her name comes out like sandpaper. I clear my throat as Zak snickers behind me and try again. “Hi, Emilie.”

  “Wills, I am so happy you picked me up.”

  The lilt of her French accent grabs me by the balls, while her nearly-there English phrasing brings a smile to my face. Shifting in my seat, I reply, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your text.” Not like I had any intention of ever responding to any of them.