Free Spin Control by Holly O'Dell Page A

being swept off her feet by a chiseled
He-Man. While they hugged and gushed how great the
other one looked, my eyes wandered around the room.
Here I was, the PR woman, the one who makes things
happen, cha, cha, cha, and I was all alone. How did this
happen?

    I begrudgingly wandered back into the bar, pretending that I was important, or at least looking for someone important. Then Michael appeared about six inches
from my face.
    "Hi," he smiled. "Having fun?"
    "Sure, until I was left all alone in the VIP room" I
stuck out my lower lip and quivered mockingly.
    "There, there," Michael patted my shoulder. "Devin
ran to get a drink, so I'm just keeping my eye out for
him." He scanned the crowd. "Man, I just cannot relate
to him."
    I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
    "I've tried to make conversation, and his eyes keep
wandering to the next woman who walks past. He
doesn't listen, doesn't have much of an attention span.
He's like a five-year-old"
    "And he wonders why we have to `publicly babysit'
him," I bemoaned. "I was just on my way to the ladies'
room, so I'll send him your way if I see him."
    I made my way through the throes of people crowding the dance floor. At the edge, about 20 feet ahead of
me, I saw Devin grabbing an unsuspecting Miranda by
her waist as she walked by.
    He stood about a foot taller than she, even in her
heels. He leaned over to say something in her ear, and she smiled and dismissed herself. But he wasn't giving
up. He whispered something again in her ear, and she
laughed politely. She looked like she was trying to get
away, but even Miranda Hamilton might have gotten
caught up in Devin Underhill's charisma.

    I frantically looked behind me for Michael, hoping
he might be witnessing this, but he was out of sight. I
started to march over to the pair to pull them apart
when something even more severe caught my eye. Randall Steck, a pencil-necked tabloid photographer privy
to many moments of celebrities behaving badly, was
gearing up to take a shot of Devin and Miranda. Sure, it
was obvious that she didn't want to be here, but the
cameras are unforgiving; it only takes a second or two
of any sort of intimate contact, and poof, you're in tomorrow's rags. This was the last thing I needed to happen. I hustled to Randall and tapped him on the
shoulder. He ignored me. So I stepped in front of his
camera. "Hey, lady, get out of my way!" he sneered.
    "Randall," I said pleadingly.
    He slowly moved his camera to the side and looked
at me quizzically. "Do I know you?"
    "Probably not, but I know you, or at least of you, and
I am begging you not to take this picture."
    "Sure, I'll just close up shop and tell my boss that
some dame told me I couldn't take my photos, so I
just left."
    Dame? Well, at least I wasn't a broad. He set up his
shot again, but I didn't budge. "Look, you need to get
out of my way," he nearly howled.
    I began chewing on my lower lip. Think, Brown, think. Time slowed as my head turned from Devin, who
was on the verge of going in for a kiss with Miranda, to
the photographer. Just as I saw Randall about to make
that fateful click, I stepped behind Devin and Miranda,
squeezed in between them, threw my arms around their
shoulders, and offered my best, broadest grin at the moment the flash lit up the room.

    Randall shook his head in disgust at the missed
photo op and sauntered to another area of the party.
    Devin and Miranda both stepped back. He stared at
me, while she stepped aside. "Care to explain that one,
Kate?" Devin's arms were tightly folded across his chest.
    "Remember that meeting a few days ago where we
talked about this very thing? There was a tabloid photographer over there. So the only thing I could think of
doing was showing up in the picture with you and Miranda since it wouldn't be of any value to the papers
with me in it."
    "So, it bothered you that much that I was dancing
with someone else, huh?" Devin's lips snarled into a