Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) Read online

  PROSECCO & PAPARAZZI

  BOOK ONE, THE PASSPORT SERIES

  CELIA KENNEDY

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2015

  COPYRIGHT 2011, 2015 CELIA KENNEDY

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions

  should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design by Michelle Fairbanks

  Edited by Kathryn Galan

  Previously self-published as Charlotte's Restrained, The Accidental Stalker, 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-5137-0166-0

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-5137-0188-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015913666

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  A Tasty Cocktail to Drink Along

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bonus Content

  Cognac and Couture

  About the Author

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  Acknowledgments

  When I was writing Prosecco and Paparazzi, my children asked me repeatedly to whom I was going to dedicate my book. My answer was, “Myself! I did all the hard work.” Initially they looked shocked, but, when the surprise wore off, they had a good laugh. The truth of the matter is that there are many people to thank, most of them unknowing contributors.

  First, my family, because they are ultimately important. They make you laugh, make you think, they are the people who you develop your emotional bank with. From that, all things are possible.

  I want to thank my lovely husband, Paul, who dreams with me. I was going to say he is my ballast, but the dictionary defines ballast as “a heavy substance placed in such a way as to improve stability and control.” While he provides stability, he makes me weightless and gives me wings.

  To Claire and Shane, in addition to my loving you for exactly who you are, you inspire me by watching you try to do new things on a daily basis. I would not have tapped into the gift almost all children possess and most adults forget: the unwavering belief that trying to do new things is normal.

  Then, my friends who talked me off the ledge: Thea, Lisa, Marie, Victoria, Carol, and the Crusher Ladies. I am blessed a thousand times over.

  To the authors extraordinaire at Chick Lit Chat and Author’s Cave—you are indispensable. I would particularly like to thank authors Kathryn Biel, Gina Henning, Whitney Dineen, Maggie Le Page, and Tess Woods. Alongside being brilliant authors, you are fabulous friends. Thank you for a most fruitful and hilarious summer afternoon. I am in your debt.

  I would also like to thank my dream team at Booktrope. Samantha March, Brenda Kissko, Kathryn Galán and Michelle Fairbanks: I am forever indebted for your support, guidance, and hard work. Thank you also to Jennifer Gilbert for bringing me into the fold.

  As Always,

  Thanks for reading!

  Celia Kennedy

  www.celiakennedy.weebly.com

  A Tasty Cocktail to Drink Along

  Lemon and Elderflower Fizz

  Ingredients

  75 ml gin

  Juice ½ lemon

  2 t. caster sugar

  50 ml elderflower cordial

  750 ml bottle prosecco

  4 T. lemon sorbet

  To decorate

  2 T. caster sugar

  Juice and strips of zest from ½ lemon

  Method

  To decorate the glasses with a sugar rim, tip the sugar onto a flat plate and the lemon juice into a bowl. Dip the rim of each glass in the juice then twist on the plate of sugar to stick.

  Put the gin, lemon juice, sugar, and elderflower cordial into a large jug. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Add the prosecco then the sorbet, and give it a good stir.

  Pour into the prepared glasses and pop in a few strips of lemon zest.

  This is my favorite prosecco cocktail… but, I’ve been known to enjoy an ice cold glass of the lively sparkling wine all by itself!—Celia

  Recipe from: http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/lemon-elderflower-fizz

  Chapter One

  May 2012

  “DES BANNERMAN’S LAWYERS are on the phone!” Taylor, my roommate, held the phone out to me so I could read the Caller ID and see their names myself. “Do I need to remind you how much we have riding on this week? We do not need this! Not now!” She punctuated her thoughts by stabbing the air with her index finger.

  Trying to remain calm, I decided that answering the phone call from Mead, Jameson, and Kelly was not the best course of action. There was only one thing to do. Call the King of Romantic Comedies himself and ask what was happening.

  I tapped my teeth with a freshly manicured fingertip. For the trillionth time I wondered what had been misinterpreted so gigantically.

  Heading down the short hallway toward the bathroom, I called over my shoulder, “I’m going to take a shower.” A preemptive strike to alleviate my soon-to-be-overwhelming headache.

  “What? How can you take a shower?” Taylor squawked as she looked around the apartment wildly. “Shouldn’t you finish packing and get the hell out of here?”

  “Listen, I’m going to take a shower and think of a way to get ahold of him. Then everything will be fine! Remember, Gemma promised,” I said, wanting to allay her fears as well as my own.

  It was simple enough, I thought as I washed my hair. The day before, I’d seen Des having lunch at The Volstead, a midtown bar. As I was leaving, there had been no option but to walk past his table, so I’d taken a deep breath and stopped to say hello. We’d exchanged stilted pleasantries and, when the short conversation came to an end, I’d said goodbye and left.

  Technically, I did violate the restraining order by coming within five hundred feet of him. Technically, I did violate the restraining order by talking to him. But he hadn’t seemed any more frightened or perturbed than the last several times our paths had crossed.

  I stood under the hottest water my skin could stand for a full five minutes, the scent of lavender body wash floating in the mist, before I suddenly remembered something Gemma had said that made me regret not answering the phone.

  Pulling back the shower curtain and reaching for a towel to wrap around my hair, I called out to Taylor, “Did they call again
?”

  “No, you still have a chance to get out of here before the police arrive!” she yelled anxiously from the living room.

  I muttered to myself, “If I haven’t been arrested yet, I doubt today is the day,” then rushed through my routine of lotions, potions, spritzes, and sprays.

  My earlier bravado had been replaced with total confusion.

  While I was rooting around the closet for clothes, Taylor entered the room, emitting an aura of panic. Sitting on the foot of my bed, she patted it. “Charlotte, come sit down. We really need to talk about your situation with Des Bannerman.”

  With more confidence than I felt, I said, “Hang on a second. I know it’s bad timing, and, if your mother finds out, we could both get fired or worse! But listen, while I was in the shower, I remembered something Gemma said when I was in London. I need to get ahold of her. She might know what’s going on. But first, I need to get dressed, find her phone number, and then just maybe I’ll get to the bottom of all of this so I can get my life back!”

  She remained silent throughout my declaration, but her blue eyes expressed all her uncertainty. “Charlotte, you’ve finally lost it.”

  Twenty minutes later, and after a thorough search of my briefcase, I found Gemma’s business card, sat on the edge of the sofa that dominated our living room, and dialed her number. While listening to the ring of the telephone, I gnawed my knuckle.

  I was startled when a voice on the other end of the phone said, “Creative Artists Agency, Mr. Allen’s office. How may I direct your call?”

  “Yes, I was given Mr. Allen’s phone number by Gemma Newley. My name is Charlotte Young of Faith Clarkson International. If possible, I would like to speak with her.”

  “Just one moment, please.” Silence filled the airwaves. No elevator music, just silence.

  I knew from Gemma that Mr. Allen also represented Des Bannerman. The silence abruptly ended when the same woman’s voice said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Allen is unavailable. May I direct your call elsewhere or take a message?”

  Through misdirection, exaggeration, and name-dropping, I somehow managed to bungle my way into obtaining the phone number for Des Bannerman’s personal assistant. Feeling very excited, I could see the finish line when my call was put through to her.

  Taylor, who had been pacing the carpet while I bluffed my way through the maze, motioned for me to hang up. I turned my back on her so that her panic wouldn’t escalate the fear I already felt. Just as I was about to give up, a very squeaky, high-pitched voice answered the telephone. “Ms. Smith answering for Mr. Bannerman.”

  My thoughts scattered, and the clarity I’d had earlier evaporated. As I felt all the things I wanted to say to him bubble up inside me, I panicked. “Ms. Taylor Clarkson on the line, one minute please.”

  I thrust the phone at Taylor and hoped with all my heart that she would take mercy on me. “What do you want me to say?” she hissed, her hand covering the phone.

  My brain whirred, wondering what the best option might be. “Mention the party tonight. Let her know there’s a private showing of The Block by Romare Bearden at the Met beforehand. Faith Clarkson will send a car. Go!”

  Speaking quickly into the phone, Taylor calmly stated, “This is Taylor Clarkson of Faith Clarkson International speaking…”

  When I first met Taylor, I couldn’t imagine that we’d have anything in common. First of all, she came from a very wealthy family, each generation having added to the coffers already overflowing with gold. Really successful people—you know the sort, the kind that “summer in the Hamptons.” She always wore designer clothes and had the latest trendy accessories mixed in with family heirlooms. Second, and most importantly, she was the daughter of the owner of the PR company that I worked for, Faith Clarkson International.

  We became roommates out of necessity. We met my first day on the job. She was just ahead of me in line, waiting to order a bagel and Diet Coke from a street vendor. She told me that, after grad school, she had been determined to stand on her own two feet and not use the family name as a stepping-stone. She took my ribbing over her taking a job at the family’s business in stride. “Well, I’m not stupid,” she’d said with a smile.

  She’d found a great apartment but couldn’t afford it on her salary. I’d immediately asked what the rent was and, later that day, gave her my half of the deposit. That was five years ago. We were still roommates but more due to friendship than finances…

  “…Fabulous! We’ll send a car to drive Mr. Bannerman to the private showing at the Metropolitan and then escort him to the London NYC opening we’re hosting for Gordon Ramsey.” There was a brief pause where she nodded her head. In her sycophant professional voice, she ended the conversation, “I’ll send an email with the details. Thank you so much!”

  While she dazzled Ms. Smith with the details, all I could think was, Taylor was brilliant! Better than brilliant. She’d changed the situation from one where I’d possibly be arrested and lose my job into a coup for the company, instead. I doubted that even Carl Lewis was that fast on his feet.

  Before my eyes, the cordless phone landed in its cradle, and Taylor collapsed on a straight-back chair in a gooey heap. Taking advantage of her vulnerable state, I begged for the details. “What did Ms. Smith say? Is he going to be there?”

  “Charlotte, do you have any idea what just happened? I just lied to Des Bannerman’s secretary so that you can meet him in front of some obscure painting that no one has ever heard of! My mother is going to fire you and disown me. And may I ask how exactly we’re going to set up a private viewing for later today without her finding out?”

  I changed tactics quickly. “First of all, you were fabulous! Don’t worry about the rest, I’ll handle it. What I need to know is, is he going to meet me at the Met or not?”

  “I’m emailing her the specifics. She said that she’d ask him once he’s available. She’ll call me this afternoon at some point. You’re just going to have to wait. I really can’t believe what I just did.” Taylor’s voice cycled through a wide range of emotions, while her French-tipped fingers twiddled with her Christian Louboutin ankle strap.

  Taking me by the hand, she dragged me to the sofa. “Look, Charlotte, this could either be the best thing for both of us or the worst. You cannot mess this up! If we do this right, you just might not go to prison, and I might be able to find a way to convince my mother that I’m more than her daughter.”

  I barely listened to her. My real focus was on the relatively immediate possibility that I might move out from under the cloud I’d been living under since I’d met Des Bannerman last winter.

  Taylor must have seen my eyes glaze over, because, the next thing I knew, she demanded, “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Okay, it’s 9:30. We have to figure out what you’re going to say and what you’re not going to say,” she said anxiously. The crease between her eyebrows marred her otherwise flawless skin.

  “Yes, but who’s going to help you?”

  Craziness, or the perception of it, feels contagious. A person innocently gets in a pickle and then, forever after, when something odd happens, people get a look in their eyes that tells you they’re wondering Is there any truth to that rumor?

  Unfortunately for me, photos and misunderstood quotes were what had given me trouble.

  ***

  Finally making it to work, I found myself sitting in my office, trying to look busy, which I was, if you considered reading Page Six articles about Des Bannerman to be a professional task.

  There were some photos of him at various New York City events. The camera loved his blue-eyes, dimpled chin, and thick brown hair. I stared at his pictures, trying to find flaws. To my regret, there weren’t any faults to be found, from his square jaw to his sculpted body. One didn’t have to look hard to see the muscle beneath his form-fitting garments. Fortunately, the women in the photos whom he towered over didn’t resemble his ex-girlfriend, Brynn Roberts, whic
h left me hopeful. While I couldn’t say that it was her who had convinced Des to enlist the help of his lawyers, I was completely convinced that she hadn’t taken a liking to me.

  My office door whipped open, and Taylor rushed in. I’d never seen her look so stressed, so I powered down my computer screen. If she saw what I’d been reading, she’d have gone ballistic.

  “Have you been writing down what you’re going to say to him? Did you include all the things we talked about earlier?” she asked at the same time as I asked, “Has Ms. Smith called?”

  “No,” we answered simultaneously. We both sighed.

  On our way to work, Taylor had given me a list of topics that she wanted me to discuss with Des, primarily the many services Faith Clarkson International could provide. I led her to believe that I was more than willing to give the business pitch. However, what Taylor had yet to fully understand was that Des and I were way past idle conversations about a business relationship. We had a personal relationship of sorts, and he’d be even more confused if I tried to pull off some sort of pitch.

  Initially, she’d wanted to meet with him; I was to casually join them later. Eventually, I’d managed to convince her that I should meet with Des on my own. All it took was mentioning that she could be charged for assisting me in violating the restraining order. After all, the phone call did come from our apartment, and if it came down to it, she could always claim innocence. She’d come to the conclusion that it would be best for me to meet him alone.

  “Taylor, have faith. I know that it’s best to be as professional as possible,” I said, my voice ringing with optimism.

  Taylor looked anxious. “I know. I’m just worried.”

  While scrounging through my desk drawer for a much-needed breath mint, I avoided lying. “I know things look bad. It will all work out. Gemma promised.”