Part 14 (2/2)

Her cell phone chimed an unfamiliar number. Acquainted with the area code, Cannes, France, she a.s.sumed Kiki was calling. For a second, she imagined Kiki's second day in the French Riviera. Eager to see if she'd reveal some romantic tidbits from the night she'd shared with DJ Dejon, she answered.

”Kiki, darling, are you dancing at Nikki Beach with your lover?”

”Nooo,” Kiki whimpered.

”You'd be proud. I'm not at the office. I'm getting-”

”Miss Brill?” Kiki interrupted with an edge in her voice Taddy hadn't heard from her before. ”I've been...arrested.”

”ARRESTED?” she screamed. Kiki had to be kidding. But her a.s.sistant had never had much of a sense of humor.

”I'm serious! Please bail me out... Can you come get me?”

”Are you hurt? Are you okay?” Her pulse raced, undoing the last two hours of relaxation. Setting the tea mug on the table next to her, she leaned forward-lost.

Mr. Lee continued painting her toes furiously.

For a second, she tried to fill in the blanks with what went on. How? Why?

”I'm not hurt, just shaken up. Officers here grip people's shoulders better than you do.” She sounded as if she was trying to laugh, but cried, ”A Cannes policeman is telling me to hang up now. I'm at the Gra.s.se Avenue station. Please come.”

”I'll be on the next flight-”

Click.

Taddy called Pierre de Verges, a Parisian lawyer she had retained to navigate her company through their global expansion. Pierre offered to contact the authorities and ring her with answers. Drying her feet, she cancelled the remaining treatments, paid the bill, ran home and packed. After leaving a message for Blake's a.s.sistant, Duckie Capri, she was off to France. The Neve Adele account and Candy Land Ball planning was in his hands now.

No flights were available to France. She could only fly standby. Taddy offered an older gentleman two thousand dollars to give up his seat on an overnight flight going to Antibes. It was a resort town nearby. He'd accepted the bribe and took a later flight.

As the Air France jet's door closed and flight attendants made final announcements for pa.s.sengers to turn off their electronic devices, she received the much-antic.i.p.ated call from Pierre. Leaning forward in her middle seat in coach, back by the bathroom, she ducked her head between the three hundred-plus pa.s.sengers and answered the call.

Pierre said Taddy could have a European bail bondsman post funds to release Kiki but Taddy's appearance and signature were required due to her name being the primary holder of the credit card processed to pay the hotel room's incidentals. According to the Commissaire de Police de Cannes, Kiki was hanging out at a casino inside Hotel du France. She'd recognized Manuel Coq de la Grande from a p.o.r.no taken from Taddy's apartment. When she'd introduced herself, Manuel Coq de la Grande had asked if they could use her hotel room to shoot a live-stream p.o.r.n feed while at the Cannes Film Festival.

Kiki, being curious, had granted them access to her room.

It didn't look good for Kiki.

The wheels on the Boeing 767 went up, and they jetted down the runway. Squashed in economy, Taddy gazed out over the other people's heads. She caught Manhattan's skyline out the right window. Seeing the Empire State Building, which always gave her peace, she reflected on what had gone wrong.

She reminded herself how impressionable Kiki was and, as her boss and friend, she'd failed her. Taddy wondered if this was karma biting her in the a.s.s for blackmailing Monsieur Jerome. Her intention was to see Kiki fall in love with DJ Dejon but that had backfired.

Why did women always go to the ends of the earth for love?

With 1.6 million residents on the island of Manhattan and a total of 8.2 million including the boroughs, why would someone as wonderful as Kiki have to go four thousand miles to find love? Or any woman for that matter?

Part Three.

French Riviera, Here Comes Taddy Brill.

”I knew I was in love when I couldn't fall asleep because she was lying next to me.”

-Warner Truman, CEO of Truman Enterprises.

Chapter Twelve.

Two Percent of the Women in the World.

May 19.

Commissariat de Police, Cannes, France.

At the Cannes police station, Warner had declined all press interviews. That left the media antic.i.p.ating a statement from him even more. The reporters waited outside.

Inside, he stood holding his cell phone. A text message from Sheldon, who was partying in Ibiza, read, ”Yo, bro, ur hotel is creamed on TV. Hook me up w/ Caramel.”

a.s.shole. He typed back, ”f.u.c.k off, Shel.”

Sheldon immediately texted back, ”Rock-on w/ ur hard-on dude!”

Thick in scandal, Warner had arrived in Cannes only twenty-four hours ago, and Hotel du France, his elite property, was the news headline. Warner didn't have a problem with p.o.r.n. And this could've stayed under wraps with no one the wiser. What set him off? It had all been captured on the major TV stations around the world. His Hotel du France's sign and logo had been broadcast right behind the adult actors while they sucked, jacked, screwed and came all over the spectators below. The news this morning had coined the property ”Hotel du a.n.a.l”, with the catchphrase ”You'll get a load full at Hotel du France”. He'd placed Kip Von Scott on an unpaid leave and had stepped in as acting general manager until his relief arrived from Ma.r.s.eille. He'd have to sell Hotel du France at the end of the season or rebrand the property under a new name. The hotel video, combined with the fact that he hosted Prix du Cinema Pour Adultes, had nailed his grave shut. Any hopes for his luxury hotel to be taken as a five-star property on the French Riviera had just died.

He filed the papers against who'd started the drama, the American. ”Here's my signature for the trespa.s.sing charge.” Warner stood at the counter, returning the doc.u.ments.

”Monsieur Truman, your signature confirms Hotel du France will file charges against Mademoiselle Izatt.” The officer stamped the papers and placed them atop a large claim file. Warner had worked too hard to build his empire to have it ruined over something so cra.s.s.

”Oui, correct.” He smiled, confident that he'd made the right decision. Someone needed to be made an example of.

”Take a seat in the waiting area. We'll call you up once the paperwork has been processed.” The policeman pointed to an alcove area in the middle to sit.

”Merci.” He walked over, poured himself a gla.s.s of water and sat on the bench, closing his eyes to rest. I will never come back to Cannes as long as I live. We're ruined.

A racket at the front from someone struggling to get through the reporters and paparazzi, who'd tried to get Warner's attention when he arrived, caused him to look over.

”I'm here for Kiki.”

That voice. Her voice! Red's voice?

”Over there, mademoiselle,” an officer responded from the front reception area.

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