Free California Dreaming by Zoey Dean Page A

everything they reported before they knew it. Still, having them there could only be a good thing.
    “Hi, there,” she purred, striking a pose with her left foot thrust forward.
    “Hey. I'm Dashiell McCarthy.” The reporter held a microphone close to Cammie's face. “Call me Dash. Your club opened last night and it's the hottest thing in town tonight. Did you know that the police are keeping spectators a block away so they don't disrupt traffic? How many people can your place hold? And how many do you expect to turn away?”
    “How high can you count?” Cammie raised an eyebrow coyly.
    Caught off guard by her boldness, Dash laughed and then moved on to his next question. “Why do you think your club is so successful?”
    Cammie shrugged lightly. “Because it has the best of everything. We've got the best celebrity DJs. The best bartenders. The best mix. The best guest list. And the décor will be constantly changing, so anyone who can actually get in will never get tired of it. Everyone wants the best, right?”
    Cammie stopped talking when she saw Ben step outside. He was dressed simply, in a pair of black True Religion jeans and a long-sleeved black button-down Calvin Klein shirt. He looked around, then saw her and beckoned.
    “I have to go,” Cammie told Dash as she smoothed her hair behind one shell-like ear.
    “Just one more question,” the reporter asked. “Everyone will want to know. Who are the hottest designers for clubwear right now? Whose clothes are you seeing the most of?”
    “Martin Rittenhouse,” Cammie replied, thinking fast. The rising young designer who created everything from high fashion to sportswear. Cammie had modeled for him at his LACMA show to benefit the New Visions program. “No doubt about it. Did you know he's launching a new line for petites? It's so hot. He's calling it Petite Couture by Rittenhouse, but what he's going to call it when it hits the runway is—”
    She stopped for a brief moment. What would be a great name? Martin, petite, Rittenhouse, petite, Martin …
    “Martinette. The face of Martinette is an amazing new model named Champagne. You heard it from me first. But you didn't hear it from me last.”
    Cammie nearly hugged herself. Damn, she was good. She had come up with that on the spot.
    She gave Dash one last smoldering look just for practice, then moved off, as photographers continued to snap photos and other reporters called out questions. She smiled at her own quick thinking. She was Champagne's manager. They'd met when Cammie had helped out at a charity fashion show earlier in the summer.
    When her interview aired on
ET
, there'd be buzz about Champagne even before anyone even saw her face. So what if Martin Rittenhouse hadn't officially named his new clothing line Martinette? It was a great fucking name. So what if the designer had merely verbally promised to feature Champagne in his fashion shows, and not yet said a word about making her the new face of Martinette—or whatever he decided to call it? When
ET
reported it, it would be a fait accompli. Just let Rittenhouse try to deny it.
    It was a move worthy of her father, Clark Sheppard, the toughest agent in Hollywood. How many times had she heard it from him? Sell the sizzle, not the steak.
    Cammie made her way to where Ben was waiting for her inside the front door. He smelled faintly of Acqua di Parma aftershave. “You ready for night two?”
    They walked through the club together. Cammie still got a thrill every time she looked around
their
space. Playing on the fact that the club had once been an auto-body shop, antique car signage and license plates from around the world dotted the walls and ceiling, and interior upholstering from cars formed seating areas. An enormous slot-car track ran along the interior walls, and partiers could take their turns racing against their friends. Lights changed color and in turn changed the mood on the dance floor: sultry red, flirtatious pink, cool blue. They