“There’s a five o’clock Air France to Paris, connecting flight to Bucharest at seven a.m. That gets in at ten a.m., and from there, we’ve been shuttling everyone on a helicopter to Brasov. It’s about an hour. Otherwise, for the folks who don’t like flying on a thirty-year-old Russian chopper, there’s the train. But that takes about four hours.”
“Book the helicopter and tell my car to meet me in front of the restaurant in two minutes, then call Air France and arrange for someone from Special Services to meet me at the curb.” She checked her watch. It was nearly two o’clock. “I won’t be able to get to the airport until at least four.”
“Right, boss,” Josh said insolently, and hung up.
“Romania?” Victory asked as Wendy hurried to the table.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a five o’clock flight to Paris . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. You’ve got to work. Just go,” Victory urged. “I’ll get the check. Call me from Romania . . .”
“I love you,” Wendy said, giving Victory a quick, tight hug. If only Shane could be as understanding as her girlfriends, she thought, grabbing her bag and hurrying out the door.
Victory got up and strolled over to Lyne’s booth. The fact that Lyne was having lunch with George Paxton presented an interesting opportunity to do a little investigating on Wendy’s behalf, which was too tempting to ignore. The story of how George Paxton had tried to buy Parador four years ago and was outbid by Splatch-Verner was well known, but what wasn’t general information was how George’s supposed “best friend,” Selden Rose, had gone behind George’s back to engineer the deal, thinking that he would get Parador for himself. It hadn’t worked out that way—Victor Matrick, the CEO of Splatch-Verner and Selden’s boss, had gotten wind of Selden’s double-dealing, and while he was happy to acquire Parador, Victor abhorred disloyalty, and figured that if Selden could do in his best friend, he’d eventually try to do in Victor himself. And so, as a little reminder to Selden not to try such tactics at home, Victor had brought in an outsider to run Parador—Wendy. Nico had somehow gotten this information out of Victor Matrick himself, when she and Seymour had taken a secret trip to Victor’s house in St. Barts, and had naturally told Wendy and Victory. And while George and Selden had supposedly made up (obviously they felt that all was fair in love and business), it was possible that the whole Parador incident was still a source of irritation to George. After all his wheeling and dealing, neither he nor Selden had gotten Parador—and on top of that, they’d been trumped by a woman.
“Hiya kiddo,” Lyne said, pulling Victory down for a kiss.
“Enjoying your lunch?” she asked.
“Always do,” Lyne said. “But not as much as George enjoys his. George is getting fat, isn’t he?”
“Now, come on . . .” George Paxton said, in a voice that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a pit.
“Who were you having lunch with?” Lyne asked, playing right into her hands.
“Wendy Healy,” she said nonchalantly, looking innocently at George Paxton and wondering how he was going to react to this information. “The head of Parador?”
George gave Victory what she imagined was his best poker face. So it did still bother him, she thought gleefully, which might turn out to be a useful piece of information at some point.
“You know Wendy Healy, don’t you, George?” Lyne Bennett asked casually, exchanging a quick conspiratorial look with Victory. Lyne, she thought, was probably enjoying this as much as she was, because it gave him an opportunity to give George, who was the richer of the two men by several hundred million, a little dig.
“Oh yeah,” George Paxton nodded, as if he’d decided to recognize Wendy’s name after all. “How is Wendy doing?”
“She’s doing great,” Victory said, with the kind of firm enthusiasm that indicates there is no other possibility. “The word is that Parador is going to have several Oscar nominations this year.” She hadn’t, in fact, heard any such information, but in these kinds of situations with these kinds of men it was necessary to paint the rosiest picture possible. And besides, Wendy had said that they probably would get some Oscar nominations, which was close enough to the truth. Plus, it was worth it just to see the startled look on George Paxton’s face. Obviously he’d been hoping Wendy would fail.
“Well, tell her I said ‘hi,’ ” George said.
“I sure will,” Victory said nicely. And then, sensing that she had done as much as she could with the situation, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Chapter 8
WENDY COLLAPSED ONTO HER SEAT IN FIRST CLASS, her heart still racing from the run down the Jetway. She looked at her watch. There were still a good ten minutes before take-off. Even though she kept telling herself that the plane wouldn’t leave without her as she ran through the airport, another voice kept asking What if it does? What if it does? over and over again like a mocking, six-year-old child. If it does, I’m fucked, she yelled back at the voice. It meant that she wouldn’t get to the location until tomorrow night, and that was just too late . . .
At least Josh hadn’t screwed up on the special services person, she thought, taking a deep breath. The special services person was a very sweet lady who never lost her cool, not even when she could see that Wendy was about to lose it with the customs official who had to stamp her passport. He kept flipping through the pages like he was looking for criminal evidence. “You travel a lot,” he said. “What’s the nature of your journey?” For a moment she stared at him blankly, wondering if it were possible to explain to him that an A-list director was deliberately killing her $125 million movie, and would probably end up finishing her career as well. But she guessed this might be going a little too far. “I’m a movie executive,” she said coldly.
Movies! Christ, it was the magic word. Instead of being insulted, the guy’s attitude suddenly changed. “Oh yeah?” he asked eagerly. “Do you know Tanner Cole?”
Wendy gave him a tight smile. “He tried to make out with me on my thirty-ninth birthday in a closet,” she considered saying, which was the truth, but instead she murmured, “He’s one of my best friends.”
And then she and the special services lady (she never did get her name) got into one of those motorized airport golf cart things, and drove at what felt like about two miles an hour to the gate. Wendy thought about asking if they could go faster, but somehow that seemed just a little too rude, even for her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help herself from looking at her watch every thirty seconds, in between leaning over the side of the cart and waving at people to get out of the way.
“Champagne, Ms. Healy?” the flight attendant asked.
Wendy glanced up, startled, suddenly aware of how she must look. She was panting like a dog, her hair had come half out of its scrunchy, and her glasses were literally hanging off her face. She had to get a new pair one of these days, she reminded herself, pushing them up onto the bridge of her nose.
“You look like you could use some,” the attendant said, as if they were both in on the joke.
Wendy smiled up at her, suddenly grateful for what felt like, compared to the rest of her day, an enormous act of kindness. “That would be so nice . . .”