Then: “Stop fidgeting with your hair! It makes you look nervous.”
“Never saylikemore than once in a sentence. You sound like a Valley girl.”
By the time he’s done, my head is spinning. This is method acting without the method.
“One last thing,” Milo says, handing me a phone. “Your new device. All communications will be monitored by the PR team. Don’t post anything without approval.”
“You’re giving me a burner phone?”
“It’s big-budget PR campaign, honey.” He looks at a text message. “Antoine’s limousine is pulling up now. Study the material and smile pretty as you answer reporter questions, and you’ll be all set.”
I just look at him.
“If you want us to write your check,” he adds with a wink, “you’ll master it quickly.”
"Speaking of money, let's talk practicalities," I say. First I make sure the sum will be deposited before I get on the plane.
"And speaking of air travel," I say, summoning my courage. "I want an open return ticket on a commercial flight."
"Why? You're flying on a private jet! Total luxury."
"I want to know I have a way of coming home if things...get out of hand."
"They won't," says Milo. "But if it makes you feel more comfortable, I'll see what I can do. Now, let's get you to Antoine."
As I follow him to the elevator, I wonder what Hilary would say about this. Probably that I’m selling out. But then again, she’d also say cold hard cash is cold hard cash.
And at least I’ll have a great story to tell—if I’m allowed to tell it.
CHAPTER 21
BIX
The limousine waiting outside Sterling Records gleams as the smartly uniformed chauffeur opens the door. “Ms. Bismark?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. LaRue is expecting you.”
As I enter the limousine, I inhale the scent of dark cologne curling through the cool air.
The mysterious Antoine is angled toward the window, long, elegant fingers clasped around a matte-black cane, a trendy fashion accessory made popular by the recent dandy look at the Met Gala.
“You’re one minute late,” he says, turning his head enough for me to catch the full effect: ebony skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a gaze that travels over me with unhurried intention.
“But I forgive you. Style should always enter fashionably.”
“Thanks. Chalk it up to having just walked out of my old life and into this one.”
He smiles faintly, like someone suppressing a secret. “Milo said you had bite.”
“And you’re here to declaw me?”
“Oh no. Just polish the teeth.”
We ride in silence until the limousine turns on to a quieter stretch of Park Avenue.
“Tell me, what do you think a woman in love with a rock star wears to brunch in Saint-Tropez?”
