So he had seen the crowd descend on me, after all. I nodded, still afraid to speak while Grant was staring at me.
Grant motioned toward the dance floor without taking his eyes from me. "Let’s dance—that’s what we’re getting paid for. Then I want to talk to you.”
"Okay.”
He took hold of my arm and I walked beside him, breathing deeply. I wanted to say something; I felt like I should, but somehow having three bodyguards trailing us made small talk impossible.
If Grant knew I was a fake, it didn't seem like he would expose me right now. But what did he want to talk about later? That didn’t seem to be the kind of thing you said to someone you’d never met. I found it hard to think clearly about any of this, since my mind was mostly concentrating on the fact that Grant Delray was touching my arm.
We walked to a raised pedestal on the dance floor and as we did, the DJ changed the song that had been playing to one of Grant’s. People noticed us and sang along. Grant danced—and not your average guy dancing, he danced as though performing on stage. He was all muscle and rhythm, movement and glide. I watched him so intently I nearly forgot to dance myself. I tried; my feet kept moving to the beat, but I looked pitiful next to him. Which meant maybe Jacqueline had a point after all and I should listen to her better.
Grant didn’t look at me while he danced. But every once in a while, his gaze would connect with mine and then I’d quickly glance away so he wouldn’t see me staring. Kari wouldn’t gape at him like some groupie. Even if he did have deep blue eyes, a square jaw, and touchable brown hair with golden highlights.
People snapped pictures of us with their cell phones, and even though it was too dark on the dance floor for them to turn out, I really wished I could ask someone to forward a picture to me. Whether he knew I was a fake or not, I so wanted a souvenir of this moment.
The dance finally ended, and the people around us clapped. Grant took hold of my arm with one hand and waved at the crowd with the other, then led me off the platform.
To tell you the truth, I’d completely forgotten about Stefano until I saw him glaring at us from the corner of the dance floor. He walked up to me and thrust his hand in the air between us. "You left your sprinklers running, eh? The next time you want to get rid of a guy, tell him the truth.” Then he turned around and stalked away.
Grant raised his eyebrows. "Is that where you were going—to turn your sprinklers off? When did you start doing your own yard work?”
I didn’t answer, just looked at Stefano's back retreating into the crowd. I should go after him. Only I couldn’t. Not when Grant Delray wanted to talk to me. I had to find out what he wanted, didn't I?
"So you really were ditching him?" Grant asked.
I didn’t know how to answer. Saying "No, I wanted to be with you instead” sounded borderline starstruck, which Kari wouldn’t be, even if I was.
When I didn’t go after Stefano, Grant laughed under his breath, then took hold of my hand again and pulled me toward the back of the club.
"You could have least told him 'I left something on the stove.' That’s nearly believable."
He spoke to me so casually, like he knew Kari. Maybe he hadn’t realized I was a fake in the low lighting of the club, but we were heading toward a back door with a sign that read employees only. Would his tone of voice change then? A bouncer stood by the wall, surveying the crowd. When he saw us and our entourage of bodyguards he said, “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Delray, Miss Kingsley?”
“We need a place to talk alone for a few minutes."
The bouncer stepped aside—just like that—and let us by. Grant opened the door and we walked into a supply room, leaving the bodyguards outside. He hit the light switch and I blinked, adjusting my eyes to the harsh white glare. I was afraid to turn and face him, so I stared at boxes stacked against the wall labeled “napkins, cups, straws”.
"I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Grant said tightly. “I shouldn’t feel obligated after what you've done.”
He knew then. He knew I was a fake. I turned to him, trying to think of the right words to plead my case. I had considered the fact that I might not be able to pull this charade off. I had even thought out justifications for my position when I got caught, but I had never once thought I'd be busted by Grant Delray in a supply closet.
Before I could say anything, he went on. "I guess I'm telling you this because, despite everything, I hate it when people make a profit trashing celebrities, and this time I feel partially responsible. So I'm giving you fair warning. You know I helped Lorna Beck get a job?”
"What?” I asked.
"Lorna Beck. I got her a job working for my agent. She's his personal assistant now.”
"Oh.” Maybe he didn’t know who I was. That was good news, except that I had no idea what he was talking about.
"She’s a good assistant—has a photographic memory. You might not have realized that about her."
I smiled. It seemed like I should. After all, he got someone a job, and she was good at it. "That’s great," I said.
His eyebrows drew together at my words, and he scanned my face to see if I was serious. "You think that's great?” Which meant I'd given the wrong reaction, but I didn’t know why. I swallowed hard. "I mean, I'm glad your agent likes Lorna...’’ That seemed like a safe statement.
More doubt shadowed his face. He took a step closer, examining my expression. "You’re serious.” This seemed to surprise him. "You don't hold any bad feelings for her?”
I shrugged. "Why should I?" And I wasn't being rhetorical. I really wanted to know.
"Well, you're the one who fired her. Remember that entire bit about 'you’ll never work in this business again’?"
Oh. Kari had fired Lorna. That was an important detail, but how was I supposed to react now?
Right there staring at the paper towel box, I decided that as long as I was being Kari, she could be gracious about her ex-employees. I nodded sadly. "Right, well, sometimes in the heat of the moment, we all say things we don’t mean, and I'm sorry about that. Really. I'm happy she's got a good job now.”
"Uh-huh." He watched me, still not convinced.
"Tell her I said hi the next time you see her."
He folded his arms and regarded me silently.
It was easy to smile back at him because I was Kari and she was important enough to hold his attention. For the first time since I'd become her, I really relished her status. I was looking at Grant Delray, and he was staring back at me with deep blue eyes. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?’’
He shook his head. "No. I thought you should know she's writing a tell-all book about you.”
"What?” I took a step backward. "What is she saying about me?”
“That you're a gambling addict, for one thing.”
"I am not." The denial came out before I could fully process that he meant Kari. I had no idea if she was or not.
"Lorna says you owe half a million dollars to casinos, and she’s seen the documentation herself—dates, amounts. She's got photographic recall." He said this as a challenge. He expected me to deny it or explain it away. I couldn't do either.
"She's an ex-employee with an ax to grind," I said, perhaps more to myself than to Grant. I didn’t want the claim to be true, even if it did make sense, and maybe it did. Kari had brought me in to make money. Why would she take the risk unless she needed the money fast? I hated the thought of being used that way—to pay off casinos.
I didn't want to hear any more bad things about Kari—my sister—and yet I had to ask. "What else is Lorna saying?"