Free A First Date with Death by Diana Orgain Page A

face. “Whatever?”
    “Sorry, I’m just not feeling it, Kyle.”
    He swirled my chair so I could see my reflection in the mirror. “Come on, girl. Look at your face. I’ve made you stunning! Well, even more stunning than you normally are. Smile! You got a squad of hunks who wag their tongues every time you walk into the room.”
    I looked into his eyes through the glass. “I’m spooked.”
    Kyle shook a finger at me. “I won’t talk negative.
No, ne, nyet, nein
.” He fixed a glare at me in the mirror. “You shouldn’t, either.”
    “He was in my dressing room, Kyle! Do you know if anyone else went in there?”
    “Oh, honey, don’t you know all good stylists have a mantra for success?”
    “And what is that?” I asked.
    “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”
    “Come on, this is a serious matter. If you saw something, you have to tell me.”
    “I just told you I didn’t see anything.”
    “You’re infuriating, you realize that, don’t you?” I said.
    He cupped a hand around his ear. “What?” he asked. “You prefer the gold gown?” He flung it at me, saying, “Me, too.”
    •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •   •
    W hen I stepped back into the mansion, candles were glowing from every corner and rose petals were strewn around the furniture, creating the ultimate romantic illusion for our TV viewers. The scent of the roses was cloying and I was almost able to ignore the crew members busily darting about, duct taping cords to the floor and adjusting lighting.
    Except for the fact that I was shaking.
    How were the producers going to explain Pietro’s absence?
    Harris Carlson was already in the room, primping and preening as he stood waiting for me.
    “I discussed the situation with Cheryl,” Harris said. “We’re going to be up-front with the audience about Pietro. His suicide is already on some of the news channels—”
    “We don’t know that it—”
    He held up a hand to quiet me. “I’m following marching orders.” The look he gave indicated I’d be smart to follow the same orders.
    Cheryl sauntered into the room. “All set?” she asked, then a strange expression crossed her face. “What’s that smell?”
    “We got an active leak. I’ve called a plumber,” one of the techs who was working on a light answered.
    Cheryl scrunched up her nose, but didn’t say any more about it. She stepped toward Harris and me. “All right. We got Harris to give the audience a brief rundown about Pietro. So you don’t need to address that, Georgia. Just give us a quick recap about your dates and how torn you are to have to choose between all these great catches,
capisci
?”
    Yeah. I
capisco
, all right.
    She was closely guarding how the information about Pietro was released and she wanted to be sure I had nothing to do with it. She gave a whole new meaning to
public information officer
, and I’d already proved I couldn’t do that job.
    Cheryl stepped away from us and called, “Action.”
    Harris proceeded to ask me about the rock-climbing date. I gave a lame answer, something to the effect of, “It went about as well as could be expected.”
    Then one by one the men came into the room. They were dressed in formal wear, each looking more handsome than should be legal.
    I was to call the men’s names and ask if they would accept a glass of champagne. If I offered a man a glass and he accepted, he would remain on the show. I called out to Paul, Ty, Edward, Scott, Nathan, Richard, and Derek and handed each a glass of champagne. When the seven flutes were handed out, Mitch and Bruce were left standing with their hands folded in front of them.
    What should have taken a few minutes to film seemed to take forever. Cheryl kept interrupting us and readjusting the camera angles. Then she’d instruct the men to look either overly confident, charming, or distressed. The distressed look seemed to be the easiest for the guys to master because they all looked