truth was, Brianna thought sex was overrated. Her orgasms had always been few and far between, so she’d often chosen working in her home office over making love to her husband. But there was something about the stranger with the dark, smoldering gaze and thick lips that gave her butterflies. Hot flashes. A dizzying, intoxicating rush.
His stylish designer eyeglasses, blinding white smile and perfect posture gave him a studious, mature look, but Brianna suspected he was in his early thirties. He carried himself with importance, like someone who lunched with Trump, golfed with Tiger and partied with Kanye. And as he made his way through the auditorium, the buzz grew to a fevered pitch. One by one, jaws dropped and lips curled into dreamy smiles.
The stranger sat down in the front row beside a French pop star who had a penchant for dating bad boys, wearing see-through clothes and making sex tapes. He greeted his date with a kiss on each cheek, then cast a glance around the packed auditorium. That’s when he caught Brianna staring at him. Their eyes met across the runway, and for one nerve-wracking minute they gazed intently at each other.
Brianna felt faint, spent, as if she were in a Zumba class.
A tingly sensation spread through her body. The man had to be an actor, someone über famous who partied with the royals and smiled down from billboards in the heart of the city. He had that look, that vibe, an aura that instantly drew people in. All around the room, women were making eyes at him, but he seemed oblivious to the stir he caused. His gaze was on her, slowly moving from her eyes to her lips.
Brianna felt her cheeks flush and knew her face was bright red. The color of her passion, the shade of her desire. The stranger watched her in a way that aroused her. Instead of glancing away, Brianna appraised him right back, from head to toe. There was something magnetic about him, something so compelling, she felt an instant and immediate connection to him. Brianna knew the notion was outrageous, so far out in left field that even her single, man-hungry girlfriends would call her crazy, but she couldn’t change the way she felt.
“The Hamiltons have money and wealth and fame, but they’re still a hot mess!”
Brianna sat up ramrod straight. Squinting, her head inclined to the right, she listened to what the women seated behind her were saying. They sounded young, like a couple of Valley girls straight out of San Fernando, California, and their vocabulary was so limited Brianna wondered if they’d finished elementary school.
“My boyfriend’s brother hooked up with Bailey Hamilton at Diddy’s White Party last year, and he said they spent hours doing coke and each other.”
“Yuck,” another woman said, her tone loud and nasally. “I’ve met your boyfriend’s brother and I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Models are so screwed up in the head.”
“And she’s a Hamilton.”
The women giggled like tween girls watching Nickelodeon.
“Authentic fashions my ass.” More high-pitched laughter. “Roger Hamilton needs to change his company slogan because there’s nothing real or authentic about his family. They’re all a bunch of fakes, and their relatives in Philadelphia are, like, ten times worse.”
For a moment, Brianna forgot who and where she was. Whipping around, she shot the blonde women an evil glare. But instead of looking ashamed or bolting from their plush second-row seats, the twosome rolled their eyes to the ceiling.
“Look who it is,” quipped the woman with the short, curly hair. “It’s Brianna Hamilton, the only one left in her family who isn’t strung out on drugs or in rehab.”
“Everything you just said about my sister is a lie,” Brianna said, raising her voice above the music. “Bailey’s never, ever done drugs.”
“Then why did the police find her stoned out of her mind at Lincoln Center?”
Brianna ignored the question. She didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with dumb and dumber, but she refused to sit back and let them bash her kid sister. “You don’t know anything about me or my family—”
“Oh, yes, I do,” snapped the blonde with the hazel eyes. “I’m a gossip blogger for Celebrity Scoop, so I know what happens to the rich and famous even before it happens.” Wearing a smug smile, she propped her hands on her hips. “Face it, Bri-Bri, your family’s so dysfunctional they make the Jacksons look normal!”
Brianna wanted to grab her purse and leave the Carrousel du Louvre, but how would it look if she stormed out of the Fendi fashion show before it ended? No, she’d just have to stick it out for the rest of the night. She was in Paris to represent her family business—not to get into a screaming match with a pair of gossips.
“How is Bailey doing in rehab?” A big fat smirk sat on the woman’s thin peach lips as she flipped her hair over her shoulder for the umpteenth time. “Is she finally getting the help she so desperately deserves, or is she so doped up on meds she has no idea where she is?”
Rage consumed Brianna. She imagined herself jumping over her satin-draped seat and punching Malibu Barbie and her ditzy sidekick in the face. Brianna wanted to defend Bailey and her family name but knew that acting a fool inside the Carrousel du Louvre with the whole world watching would only create more bad press, and that was the last thing her family needed. So Brianna turned back around in her seat. I could use a drink, she thought, signaling to an approaching waiter and then snatching a flute off his silver tray.
Brianna hoped the champagne would help calm the fire raging within her. The stranger, sitting directly across from her on the opposite side of the runway, raised his flute in greeting, but Brianna couldn’t even muster a smile. She felt defeated, beaten down, and her heart ached for Bailey.
People were cruel and seemed to derive great pleasure from kicking her family while they were down, but something told Brianna things were going to get a hell of a lot worse before they got better.
Behind her, the blondes continued their verbal assault. I wish I could give them a New York beat down, but since I don’t want to see my mug shot on TMZ, I’m going to keep my butt in this seat even if it kills me.
And when one of the women called Brianna a pampered princess with no talent, Brianna began to think that it just might.
Chapter 2
As Brianna slipped through the private entrance at Bar 8, an exclusive hotspot that happened to be on the ground floor of her hotel, she felt the stress of the past two hours fade away. She could have gone upstairs to her cozy three-bedroom suite and ordered room service, but the night was still young, and she didn’t feel like being alone.
She took a seat at the circular marble bar. The sophisticated ambiance and hushed lighting made it easy for Brianna to forget the outside world. The sleek, wood walls were inlaid with crystals, creating the illusion of raindrops. Couples sat at glass tables, enjoying obscenely expensive bottles of wine, and the sound of laughter and foreign languages sweetened the air. Everyone at the bar had their eyes glued to the soccer game on the flat-screen above the bar, and their loud, boisterous cheers created a festive mood.
“Madame, what can I get you?” the waiter asked in his thick Russian accent.
“Pinot grigio ’95, please.”
As Brianna looked at the menu, memories filled her mind. The last time she’d been at this trendy spot, Bailey had attracted the attention of everyone inside the bar, and soon their quiet dinner for two had turned into an impromptu party for twenty. Patrons snapped pictures of Bailey, begged for her autograph and chatted her up about her photo shoot that morning at the Eiffel Tower. By the time they’d left the bar, the sun was peeking over the horizon and the paparazzi were staked out in the lobby, waiting to snap the perfect shot of the model on the brink of superstardom.
It’s hard to believe that was six months ago, Brianna thought, taking the glass the bartender offered and tasting her wine. My family has always been the toast of the town,