The Manhattanites: Unscrupulous Part 13

Her a.s.sistant shook her head in embarra.s.sment.

Taddy hoped her questions would motivate Kiki to socialize and create new pals. Her a.s.sistant worked as hard as Taddy-which wasn't good. Ever since she'd made the no-man-f.u.c.king-for-a-year agreement with Lex and Vive last December, she felt miserable. Rich? Without question. But wealth did not equate to joy. "I'm your friend, Kiki." She handed her a.s.sistant another tissue after noticing tears pour.

"Thank you."

"Monsieur Jerome du Tautou has you and DJ Dejon seeing films at the Grand Theatre Lumiere. The screenings are within walking distance of your hotel. These films compete for the Palme d'Or." She feared Kiki might get confused. There were hundreds of production companies promoting their films this year. Some not even a.s.sociated with the official program. It would be easy to get them mixed up. "Stick to the schedule he's put together for you."

"Yes ma'am."

She pulled out a folder on Cannes she'd created for Kiki's trip. "Here are the details. I've included my Amex card with you on the account giving you spending money." Taddy reflected on the trips she'd enjoyed over the years-Frankfurt, Singapore, Oslo, Geneve, Zurich-the list went on and on. Three pa.s.sport books later, not once had anyone paid her way for anything-ever. It felt good to do it for Kiki as she didn't expect much from anyone.

"Yes ma'am, thank you." She took the folder. "I've never stayed at a Warner Truman property. I feel important."

"You are special, Kiki!"

"I mean famous. I'm so excited." Her a.s.sistant's innocent smile graced her features.

Glancing out the window at Truman Times Square, she confirmed, "His hotels are wonderful." They are overpriced. But the vajazzle spa service and private clubs are worth every penny. Her mind hadn't tripped on St. Barth's in a while. As hard as it'd been, she'd pushed Big Daddy far from her mind. No smart woman obsessed over someone else's boyfriend, fiance or husband.

"Jose helped me cart over some accessory items from your penthouse. You mentioned I could take whatever caught my attention." Kiki pulled the box from the far side of Taddy's desk up. The one she'd come in with. She placed it on the chair next to Taddy. Tearing the lid off, she took out a bronze handbag.

Taddy thought she'd lost the Judith Leiber Aurelie croc clutch. I haven't seen you since...my Candy Land trip at Prive Extreme with Garner. She sat back in her seat, allowing her neck to fall against the headrest, enjoying Kiki's enthusiasm over her trip. This could very well be her a.s.sistant's happiest weekend.

Kiki held the purse in her hands. "Dima found this in your Louis Vuitton suitcase. It's covered in dirt, but I'm drawn to it." She set the Judith Leiber bag on her desk. "I'm not sure it'll go with my dresses but I love it, you have the nicest things..."

Tuned out, not listening to Kiki, Taddy was staring at the bag as if someone had dropped a fat, thick, veiny c.o.c.k in her face. Big Daddy's smile, his chest and hands, his tongue and those words came to mind. There was no man similar to him. She remembered his words, "You'd like the champagne's body to sparkle, sense initial firmness as it fills your mouth and experience a cream rush as you swallow." As Taddy pressed her fingers to her temples, she rubbed them while staring forward. Kiki talked on and on. She shook her head. It's l.u.s.t, Taddy Brill. You're a h.o.r.n.y woman. Move on with it already. Taddy opened her desk's top drawer and withdrew a pack of Nat Sherman Fantasia cigarettes. She'd quit many months ago but kept them on standby for times like this.

"Miss Brill, what are you doing?" Kiki reached, but failed to grab the cigarette from Taddy's grip. "I'm supposed to call Blake's office if you start smoking at your desk again."

The cellophane wrapper came off the pack with one rip. She tapped the box and struck the filters' end against her left palm-one-two-three. Flipping the lid open, she smelled the dry tobacco, admiring the many wrappings' colors.

"It's against the law to smoke indoors. We could get fined."

She put the filtered tip to her mouth, held up the sterling silver lighter, pressed down on the butane switch and with a spark inhaled a hit. For a few seconds she closed her eyes. Her mind escaped more toward Big Daddy, replaying his words. "Look at you coming, Red, you're beautiful, let your body go, baby. I have you." The smoke burned intensely as it came out both nostrils.

Kiki jumped in front of her face.

"I own the building, Kiki, please." She exhaled another puff and spoke in a husky voice. "Can't I have one vice in this world? Everyone else does."

"I don't."

"Good point." Taddy couldn't argue with her on that one.

"Go to Exhale Bliss Spa for a facial if you're stressed."

"No."

"Gilad's Pilates?"

"Screw Pilates." Her body needed more than just a conditioning workout. "I'd rather take a BDSM cla.s.s at the Dupree Club."

From the look on Kiki's face, she didn't care for what they'd watched on Queen d.i.c.k's video.

"Or you could grab your Fendi and head down to the rifle range, shoot some rounds."

"Love that idea." It had been awhile since Taddy had fired her gun at Lipstick & Lead's Rifle Range.

In a flash Kiki s.n.a.t.c.hed the cigarette pack and slipped it into her pocket. She beamed with obvious accomplishment that she'd stopped her boss from smoking again.

"Give me a hug goodbye and get your beautiful b.u.t.t to the airport. You can't be late for takeoff." She smiled at Kiki. "We'll figure out your accessories when you get back."

"Hugs aren't allowed. That's what it says in the handbook," her a.s.sistant cautioned as if being tested.

"We're friends, aren't we?" She extended her hands out to put Kiki's worry at ease and gave her a.s.sistant a hug. Sensing Kiki's body shake, she whispered in her a.s.sistant's ear, "Have fun, darling." Taddy slipped her hand into Kiki's pocket and took back the cigarettes without her noticing.

Kiki picked the trip folder up from her desk, took a sip of water, lingering perhaps to ensure her boss was okay. Taddy smiled at her. "I'll be fine, honey. I need a day off. I promise, tomorrow I'll go get a facial uptown, shoot some rounds downtown, whip someone in a sling in midtown and won't come into the office."

"Don't forget, you have a nine a.m. fitting for your Candy Land Ball costume."

"Yes. Long live Princess Lolly." Taddy was starting to feel better just thinking about her party.

After Kiki closed her office door, Taddy took one final puff and then extinguished the cigarette in the Waterford crystal bowl her Aunt m.u.f.fie had given her for Christmas. She reached over and grabbed the clutch and opened it. I forgot what the h.e.l.l is in here. I never... She remembered returning to the villa after she walked Garner home from Prive Extreme. Up late, Lex had sketched her dress designs, a late-night de-stressor from all the s.h.i.t Birdie had put her through. Vive had come in at the same time. They'd discussed in detail their goals for the year ahead, including the pact to focus on their careers and not give men time they didn't deserve.

Opening the clutch, she pulled out the Baden Cosmetics Utah Virgin lipstick. I wondered where this shade went. A hairbrush and some cash fell out. Oh my G.o.d. She picked at a few loose vajazzle gems and admired their brilliance. I felt s.e.xy. The look on Garner's face when he pulled his hands out from under the table was too funny. Taddy couldn't give Kiki a messy bag. Not one with all this c.r.a.p in it. She reached over and grabbed a sheet of copy paper from the printer off her desk. With a flick of her wrists, she emptied the sparkles out onto the paper. Amber gla.s.s bits clumped in dried blood toppled onto the paper. A business card fell out.

Warner Truman's name was printed on one side. She turned it over to read his contact information on the other and remembered his final words. "I put my card in your-" She'd cut him off.

The card listed three numbers-office, mobile and a.s.sistant. Taddy would try his New York office and see if his voice was on the greeting. He couldn't be working this late. Garner spoke in a deep, heart-racing, thigh-clenching voice. She'd be sure to recognize him if she heard it again. Picking up her desk phone, she dialed the "212" number on the card. She pressed the nine key on her keypad a little longer than she did the other numbers to be sure she wanted to do this. Releasing the final digit, she heard a buzz. On the second ring, his greeting picked up.

"This is Warner Truman. I'm out of the country for business. Please call my cell or ring my executive a.s.sistant by hitting one on your phone. Have a great day."

Taddy slammed the phone down before it beeped to leave a message. His voice. It's him. What a pig. Garner is Warner. That made sense. The crowd at Prive Extreme had worshiped him. They'd sat alone, behind a velvet rope and VIP curtain. He'd owned the club and the hotels all along. The second she'd touched him, he'd felt influential. Warner Truman and Big Daddy were the same man.

I never meet men with any expectations other than having a good time. Then I'm never disappointed. It was her motto, and she forced herself to remember the mantra. The second she'd looked into Garner's eyes that kept changing colors and felt him put his arms around her, she'd felt at home. For the first time in she couldn't remember how long, she'd touched the most amazing man she'd ever met.

Ripping the card up, she dumped the shreds into her wastebasket. She placed the bronze purse back into the box and walked it over to Kiki's workstation. Then she went back to work. Warner Truman, you are a douche bag.

Chapter Eleven.

The Infamous o.r.g.a.s.mic Pedicure Chair May 18 Cannes, France "A riot is ahead." The driver attempted to turn the corner from Rue Pasteur onto La Promenade de la Croisette but failed. "Monsieur, we are stuck."

"What the h.e.l.l...?" Warner sat straight up in the limo's backseat.

Moments ago, he'd flown in to Aeroport Nice Cote d'Azur from a Tokyo business trip. Even on his private plane, the eleven-hour flight had left him crippled with jetlag.

Star-f.u.c.kers in the street blocked cars from going anywhere; they seemed to be chasing a celebrity.

"What's going on?" Warner asked the chauffer who'd released his hands from the steering wheel. People had come from all over Cannes to stand at Hotel du France's entrance. He slid a piece of sugarless gum into his mouth and chewed, hoping it would wake him. I smell trouble.

Before the season started, he'd instructed management to book production crew for the film festival, no party animals. Truman Enterprises' strategy for making money during the summer in Cannes came from remaining off the celebrity radar. Hotel du France catered to behind-the-scenes industry folks. If they were to host any starlets, they would be the low-drama Julia Roberts or George Clooney types. Not the young partying Lindsey or Mischa, troublemakers who'd alert paparazzi to their every move prior to making one. He rolled the car's window down as the driver inched closer.

"Gimme your meat, baby!" a woman's voice screamed from the balcony above his car. "Oui, oui, oui, Manuel, f.u.c.k me harder."

Manuel?

"You magnifique s.l.u.t, Caramel!" a man shouted huskily.

Caramel?

Warner stuck his head out the window, glaring up at where the voices came from, at what everyone else in the street gawked over.

Against the sun's bright rays, two famous p.o.r.n stars, whom he'd seen in several movies, f.u.c.ked on his presidential suite balcony. Their names? Manuel Coq de la Grande and Caramel Swallows.

Caramel Swallows, who'd been nicknamed the p.o.r.n Queen, had a number-one-selling online video. It translated in English as Cream Caramel over the Causeway, and had grossed over thirty-five million dollars in digital downloads. With her own reality show t.i.tled Her p.o.r.n Life, cameras tracked Caramel for months, catching her every move. And at the Cannes Film Festival, it appeared to be Manuel.

"You want me, Caramel?" Manuel stabbed his stiff rod in her a.s.s. He held on to her hips as the woman's face twisted with erotic pleasure.

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled so fast Warner couldn't tell one nipple from the other. Caramel's long black hair flew wild in the humid Mediterranean air, and her body shook as Manuel's thrusts increased.

"f.u.c.k CARAMEL. f.u.c.k CARAMEL." The crowd howled, egging them on.

His s.c.r.o.t.u.m rammed her like a sandbag. Sweat came off him, his face focused and possessed, pounding her so hard she'd become quiet.

Panicked, Warner jumped out of the car. "Move! Get out of my way." He pushed through the crowd when they didn't pay any attention to him. Everyone was too busy staring.

"f.u.c.k MANUEL. f.u.c.k MANUEL," tourists chanted. Cameras flashed and video recorders streamed. TV film crews had come out of nowhere to capture the footage.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on?" Warner snagged Hotel du France'svalet manager's attention before he could drive off to park a hotel guest's regal blue Bugatti.

Slouched down in the car's white leather interior, with no place to escape, the attendant's lips twitched, trying to speak. He hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

"Answer me," Warner demanded.

"Prix du Cinema Pour Adultes..."

"No?"

"Oui."

Prix du Cinema Pour Adultes was the largest adult film convention in the world. Held annually alongside the Cannes Film Festival, it wasn't anything like the other award programs taking place that season. Instead, p.o.r.nography actors had received Oscar-style awards at lavish dinners. The extravaganza was always oversold and booked months in advance at a competing hotel, not a Truman Enterprises property.

"Mr. Kip Van Scott booked rooms this week for the adult film awards?" Over the winter he'd promoted Kip to this property from Secrete de St. Barth.

"Correct."

This explained Kip's success. His ability to sell rooms was record breaking. But he never expected this from Kip. The unofficial spin-off of the Cannes Film Festival where adult actors celebrated their work ran as a two-week-long extravaganza, which apparently had hosted itself at Hotel du France.

He stepped back to see the crowd cheering the male actor on as he slid in and out of Caramel's a.s.s.

"I'M COMING!" Caramel's body rocked against Manuel's, ready to shoot off.

"Manuel! Manuel! Manuel!" the crowd repeated as he drove in harder. They loved him.

Pulling out from Caramel, Manuel stepped close to the balcony's edge. He ripped the condom off, throwing it out into the audience.

Oh no, Manuel...

He jacked his donkey d.i.c.k. Manuel's hairy bag hung low. His skin glistened in the sun. The p.o.r.n star shouted down to the onlookers below and asked, "You want it?"

"Oui, oui, oui," the mob cried.

Manuel wouldn't dare...

Spreading his legs wide, he stood on the guardrail.

With cameras flashing, the crowd pressed under the balcony. Even if they wanted to escape, they couldn't.

He spit. He tugged. He twisted his d.i.c.k.

Chanting, the crowd raised their arms. Manuel became a demiG.o.d.

Manuel's erection reached his bellyb.u.t.ton.

A gasp came from the crowd as the front group realized they were going to get it. How could they not have realized this before?

He yanked once-twice-three times.

"He's going to come on us," warned one woman who ate an ice cream cone with one hand and held a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag with the other. Panicked, people squished in one direction then another.

"Yeeeah, bebe!" His gravy shot, misting the onlookers below.

"Merde! You s.h.i.t," one person shouted back. The cheers shrilled into screams. Horror. Did they think it was just for theatrics? Manuel had e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed for his fans. He didn't know any better. They'd gotten what they'd asked for.

People threw their wine and beer bottles at the balcony. They screamed in anger at the p.o.r.n stars. Ducking for cover, Manuel and Caramel fled inside the hotel room. They closed the balcony's doors as bottles smashed the gla.s.s.

Warner took the fire escape two stairs at a time. He hurried up the hotel's east wing and made it to the top step, catching the Cannes Police in the process of breaking the door in.

"Officer, my name is Kiki. Please don't arrest me. I wasn't doing anything wrong," a pet.i.te, busty blonde girl, not a day over eighteen, pleaded.

"Pardon, your name is-what?" The officer grabbed both of her hands behind her back.