Free One of Those Malibu Nights by Elizabeth Adler Page B

it’s okay every now and then,” the stylist agreed, albeit reluctantly, as she took another guilty slice.
    The others crowded round now, all except the bodyguard, who stood stoically, arms folded, next to the large leather boxes holding several million dollars’ worth of jewels.
    Allie inspected the rack of gowns, all special, all beautiful and all meant for a grand entrance under lights, a photo opportunity for the magazines and television cameras.
“Allie Ray adorable in Valentino and Chopard diamonds at the Cannes Festival,”
they would say, as she did her job and smiled and waved and stopped to talk to the guy from
Access Hollywood
and the woman from
Entertainment Tonight
, as well as the French TV host, who she always surprised with her ability to speak a little of his language.
    “Not fluently,” she’d protested, when he’d complimented her last year. “Only enough to get by.” It was the compliment that had pleased her the most, though.
    She washed the chocolate cake from her fingers and began to try on more gowns, swishing their heavy trains and slinking her thighs together, wondering whether she couldeven walk. Bored, while they pinned and fussed, she glanced out of the window, thinking of Lev, outside in the black Mustang and probably bored out of his skull too.
    What, she wondered, did he do all day to keep himself occupied?
    She called him now. “What’re you doing?” she murmured into her BlackBerry.
    “Isometric exercises,” he said, and she heard the smile in his deep rumbling voice. He was the only man she knew whose voice matched his physique.
    “I’ll bet you’re reading the racing form,” she countered, having already divined his weakness for the ponies.
    “Possibly.”
    She grinned. “I’m sending you down a little snack. Homemade chocolate cake. You’ve never tasted better.”
    “I don’t eat cake.”
    “Today, you’re Marie Antoinette,” she said, and heard him laugh again.
    Pushing the gown pinner away, Allie went to the table and cut him a slab. Wrapping it in a napkin, she handed it to Ampara and told her to deliver it to the paparazzo in the black Mustang. The others stared at her as though she had gone mad.
    She said, “And the hell with these gowns. I’m not wearing any one of them.”
    There were gasps of horror. “But Allie,” the stylistprotested. “These are gorgeous, they’re perfect for Cannes. They’re the latest, right off the runway.”
    “I’ll make my own choices from now on,” Allie said firmly. “And that goes for the jewels too,” she added. “I won’t need any.”
    “But, Allie …” The stylist was in a panic now. She had to report back to the producers, the director. The hairdresser and makeup girl waited silently, uncertain of what was expected of them.
    “Don’t worry,” Allie said, giving them that sunny grin. “It’ll be all right on the night.” The plan that had been formulating in her mind began to loom as a reality and suddenly she felt light-years better.
    Thanking the stylist and her entourage, she sent the team on their way, still protesting her decision.
    Allie knew that most women would have died for the choices she had been offered that day. And of course she was aware of her responsibility. She would do her job. But she had her new plan in mind. She had still to figure it out, but she was about to become a different woman and it had nothing to do with the public. She wondered if she should share her plans with Mac Reilly. But Mac was in Rome and anyhow her future was not his business. Only her present.
    Worried, she stared out the window. Beyond the thick greenery and the high wall, Lev, or one of his henchmen, kept guard. She was safe now. Wasn’t she?
    Her thoughts turned to Ron. In her heart she didn’t want to believe he was tailing her, but if he was not, that meant it must be the stalker. There had been more of those letters, the last one smeared, the unknown writer said, with his tears. “Next time it will