Besides, Bobbo’s decision had been made. This meeting would be pure Bobbo—making the losers in this little-contest-that-wasn’t feel good about themselves, possibly offering them token rewards. Bobbo hated nothing on this earth exceptbeinghated, and he seldom was, even by his former lovers. She could attest tothat. How could you hate a man who made you feel good about yourself just being around him?
Just the Ass Blaster.
The thought drifted through her as she spritzed her cleavage with a final spray of Ellen Tracy’s new fragrance. Bobbo loved scent, the more, the better. If something happened, and this spokesmodel job didn’t come through the way she hoped, he’d sure as hell better give her the Ass Blaster. Damned luck that it had to be an ass machine, though, instead of an Ab Blaster or a Thigh Blaster. She had killer abs and thighs. Still, she could pull it off—give that Marilyn Monroe smile, stroke the machine, say only a few words, maybe just, “Ass Blaster. I love, love, love it.”
Rochelle got out of the car and shivered as the tingling breeze hit her exposed midriff. The hell with her hair. Bobbo wouldn’t be looking at it, anyway. She pulled on her baseball cap and adjusted her gold bikini chain right below her exposed navel, above the top of the drawstring salsa pants, a gift from Jesse in his ongoing quest to keep her looking young. Little distractions, like the chain and matching anklet, just might divert attention from her ass.
She’d taken only a couple of steps when a familiar black sedan rounded the curve. Princess Gabby and Tania Marie waved from the back seat. Rochelle stopped and crossed the landscaped dividers, waiting for the car to return from the other direction.
Princess Gabby’s bald, cute driver was behind the wheel. He slid out and opened the back door, and Rochelle squeezed inside.
“What happened?”
Tania Marie’s thighs almost nudged her out the door. She might be thinner, but not thin enough, at least not yet. “A change of plans. We’re meeting them a few miles north of here.”
“Good thing I saw you, then. I would have been left clueless.”
“Mr. Warren’s office didn’t call you?”
“No, and it’s damned thoughtless if you ask me.”
“They didn’t call me, either,” Princess Gabby said from the other side of the mountain of flesh that separated them. “I wouldn’t have known about the change if Tania Marie hadn’t told me.”
Rochelle tried to get it straight, narrowing in on Tania Marie. “There was a change in plans, but you were the only one who was notified?”
Her cheeks flushed. The girl did have creamy skin, absolutely flawless. And her blush was more vibrant than anything in a compact. She flashed that sweet, little-girl smile and tried to look perky.
“I’ve probably been eliminated, and they don’t want me there for the final announcement, some half-assed attempt to save my pride, as if I have any left.”
“Don’t put yourself down, dear,” Princess Gabby said. “It’s just a mix-up on the administrative end. We’re all supposed to be there, aren’t we, Rochelle?”
“We must be. There were nothing but seagulls on that damned boat.”
“It’s too weird.” Tania Marie appeared to shift her weight in the seat. “I’d better phone Ellen back and find out what’s going on.”
“Good idea.”
Rochelle kept her voice low and husky. Inside, she was screaming.
Jesse had demanded to come along for the announcement, and Rochelle had refused because she wanted him at home with Megan, and, okay, because she didn’t want him sniffing around Princess Gabby. She thought Bobbo would be easy to handle. Wrong. He was betraying her—again. First, almost eight years ago, he’d dumped her and taken Julie for his confidante, madeher a rich, respected woman, a woman who wouldn’t lose her career once she committed the sin of aging.
Julie with the perfect body, the perfect ass.
Now Bobbo was trying to pull something with Tania Marie, an innocent kid, in spite of her bad press and poor decisions.
“Where are we supposed to be going, anyway?” Christopher, the driver, asked from the front seat.
Tania Marie looked up from her overstuffed bag. “Place called Los Olivos. I’ve never been there. Have you?”
Lucas
He was the one who had to identify the body. Bobby W had insisted he could do it, but Lucas didn’t want to push him any closer to the edge than the news already had.
She had been weighted down, Keith Ota, the coroner, had explained. They’d scheduled an autopsy.
“Did Julie Larimore wear a necklace?” Ota asked.
“The Killer Body pendant,” Lucas said. “She almost always wore it. Mr. Warren had it designed to replicate her figure.”
