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Fleur had made the decision to expand the clients of her “caviar agency” beyond musicians and actors to include a select group of writers, maybe even artists—whoever she thought had the potential to rise to the top. She’d already signed Rough Harbor, the rock group Simon Kale was founding, and she’d stolen Olivia Creighton out from under Bud Sharpe’s greedy fingers. Then there was Kissy. All three offered the earnings potential she was looking for, but three clients weren’t enough to keep her aloft after her start-up money ran out.
She slipped her sunglasses on top of her head and thought about Kissy. Other than a hypnotically restrained performance as Irena in a workshop production of The Cherry Orchard and a one-liner Fleur had gotten her on a CBS soap opera, nothing much had happened for her since Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and Kissy had stopped going to auditions again. Recently too many men had been passing through her bedroom door, each one a little more muscle-bound and a little stupider than the last. Kissy needed a showcase, and Fleur hadn’t figured out how to find one for her, which wasn’t the best omen for someone who only had until spring to prove herself.
Through the glass doors, she spotted Charlie Kincannon, their host for the weekend. Charlie had backed Kissy’s workshop production of The Cherry Orchard, which was how Fleur had met him. It was painfully obvious that he’d fallen for Kissy, but since he was smart, sensitive, and successful, Kissy was ignoring him. She preferred beefcake losers.
The patio doors slid open behind her, and Kissy stepped out onto the deck. She’d dressed for the party in a one-piece pink and blue candy-striped romper, big silver heart-shaped earrings, and flat-soled pink sandals with beaded straps across her toes. She looked like a seven-year-old with breasts. “It’s g
etting late, Fleurinda, and what’s-his-name’s guests are starting to show up. Aren’t you going to change your clothes?” She took a sip of her piña colada from a lipstick-tipped straw.
“In a minute.” The white shorts Fleur had pulled over her black tank suit had a mustard stain on the front, and her hair was stiff from salt water. Since Charlie Kincannon had backed several off-Broadway plays, she hoped to make some contacts at tonight’s party, and she needed to look decent. First, though, she reached for Kissy’s piña colada and took a sip. “I wish you’d stop calling him what’s-his-name. Charlie Kincannon is a very nice man, not to mention rich.”
Kissy wrinkled her nose. “Then you date him.”
“I just might. I like him, Kissy. I really do. He’s the first man you’ve hung around with who doesn’t eat bananas and gaze longingly at the Empire State Building.”
“Cute. I give him to you with my blessings.” Kissy reclaimed her piña colada. “He reminds me of a Baptist minister I used to know. He wanted to save me, but he was afraid I wouldn’t put out if he did.”
“You’re not ‘putting out’ for Charlie Kincannon. If you have such an overpowering need to play the sexpot, do it onstage, where you can make us both some money.”
“Spoken like a true bloodsucker. You’re going to make a great agent. By the way, did you notice those guys on the beach this afternoon tripping over themselves trying to catch your attention?”
“The one with the sippy cup or the kid with the Star Wars light saber?” If she listened to Kissy, she’d believe every man in the world wanted her. She brushed the sand from her legs and headed inside. “I’d better get in the shower.”
“Put something decent on. Never mind. I’m wasting my breath.”
“I’m a business tycoon now. I have to look serious.”
“That stupid black dress you brought makes you look dead, not serious.”
Fleur ignored her and headed inside. The house had angular ceilings, slate floors, and minimalist Japanese furniture. She spotted the owner sitting on a sand-colored couch, staring mournfully into what looked like a double shot of bourbon. “Could I talk to you for a minute, Fleur?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He pushed aside his copy of Rabbit Redux so she could sit next to him. Charlie Kincannon reminded her of a character Dustin Hoffman might play—the kind of man who, despite all his money, manages to look a little out of step with the rest of the world. He had short dark hair and pleasant, slightly irregular features, with a set of serious brown eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He swirled the liquor in his glass. “It embarrasses me to sound like an adolescent, but how do you assess my chances with Kissy?”
She hedged. “It’s sort of hard to tell.”
“In other words, no chance at all.”
He looked so sad and sweet that her heart went out to him. “It isn’t your fault. Kissy’s a little self-destructive right now, and that means she’s doing an even worse job than normal of seeing men as people.”
He thought it over, his brown eyes growing even more serious. “Our situation is an interesting role reversal for me. I’m used to women being the aggressors. I know I’m not a sex object, but they usually overlook that because I’m rich.”
Fleur smiled and liked him even more. Still, she had a friend to protect. “Exactly what do you want from her?”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Do you want a real relationship or is this just about sex?”
“Of course I want a real relationship. I can get sex anywhere.”
He looked so offended she was satisfied. She thought it over. “I don’t know if it will work or not, but except for Simon, you’re the only man who’s figured out how intelligent Kissy is. Maybe you’d catch her attention if you ignored her body and concentrated on her brain.”
He gave her a reproachful look. “I don’t mean to sound like a chauvinist, but it’s difficult to ignore Kissy’s body, especially for someone like myself who has such a strong sex drive.”
