Rendezvous (Renegades 5)

The text was from Jillian and simply said, I’m back.

Which was a summons. Jillian had been at dinner with a big producer who was passing through on his way to Los Angeles. Normally Brooke would have gone along to take notes, but since her fall from grace, she hadn’t been invited.

She was definitely being punished. But instead of doing what she wanted to do, which was to walk in and quit, Brooke picked up her iPad and her notebook. At the door, she paused and checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her hand down the front of her straight navy skirt. She was back in full business dress, even though it was nine p.m.

Brooke kept her focus on getting from moment to moment. She strode to the end of the hall murmuring, “It’s not a big deal. I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen. By now she’s probably drunk on wine and high on attention.”

Stopping in front of Jillian’s door, she paused, took a steadying breath and knocked.

“Come.” Jillian’s buoyant voice floated through the door and had Brooke raising her brows.

“Okay…” So she wasn’t in a foul mood.

Brooke stepped into the suite and caught the tail end of Jillian’s side of a telephone conversation.

“That sounds heavenly. Lord knows I’m going to need a vacation when this is over.”

Amen. Brooke would get a vacation just by having Jillian take one. She stood in the foyer for a moment while Jillian stared out at the night, pulling off her earrings and laughing at something the person on the other end of the phone was saying. She’d been back in the hotel room for at least a little while, because she’d changed out of her dinner attire and donned her black silk robe. Her colored and frosted hair was down, rolling in a smooth tumble past her shoulders.

A flash of Jillian, dressed like this, wrapped in Keaton’s arms, one of his big hands tangled in her blond hair, the other locked around Jillian’s small waist, assaulted Brooke out of nowhere. An ugly chill shivered through her body, but Brooke refocused on the Impressionist painting dominating the wall in front of her and shook off the insecurity. There was no mistaking how Keaton felt about Jillian now. And Brooke had made her share of less than perfect choices when it came to one-night-stands.

“I know, I know,” Jillian said. “And I agree, Anguilla would be lovely, but I’ve always been partial to Barbados. There’s always Bermuda… Oh, please,” she laughed the words. “It is not the Hamptons of the Caribbean. Okay, okay. We’ll talk soon. Bye-bye.”

Jillian kissed into the phone and Brooke was so grateful her boss was in a good mood, her knees weakened with relief.

When Jillian didn’t immediately launch into a tale about her night or the vacation she’d just planned or start issuing orders, Brooke clicked into work mode and moved to the sofa, perching on the edge of a cushion.

“I’ve printed out your schedule for tomorrow.” Brooke opened her leather portfolio and pulled out a second copy, laying it on the coffee table. Normally, she would have asked about Jillian’s dinner, let the woman preen about whatever she wanted to preen about. But after today, Brooke just wanted to find level professional ground again. “All your spa appointments have been confirmed and Henry has your schedule.”

Jillian turned from the French doors and wandered toward the sofa.

“You have four hours between your last spa appointment, which is your massage, and your first interview. I’ve left a two-hour break between your massage for Jeannette and Percy to get you ready for your photo shoots.”

Brooke paused and checked Jillian’s expression. She stood beside the arm of the sofa with that cool holier-than-thou smirk, one ha

nd absently twirling the tie to her robe. That gave Brooke another sliver of relief. It was Jillian’s norm, and right now, Brooke would take the miserable known to the turbulent unknown in a heartbeat.

“I’ve laid out the periwinkle Vera Wang suit for your five o’clock interview with the Austin American-Statesman,” she went on, returning her gaze to tomorrow’s schedule even though she had it memorized. “The tailored red Donna Karan for your six thirty taping with Access Hollywood and the black sequined Anne Klein for the live cocktail party interview segment at nine.”

She laid the paper on the table and lifted her gaze to Jillian’s. “Jeannette and Percy have cleared their schedules and will be wherever you need them when you need them.”

“Of course they will,” was Jillian’s response. “But your choice of outfits is all wrong.”

Brooke mentally reached for some of the armor she’d let slide off. Jillian had never questioned Brooke’s wardrobe choices before.

“I’ll be wearing the periwinkle to the Access Hollywood taping, because, as you said earlier today, my eyes pop when I wear blue. And there’s certainly no point in wearing something that makes my eyes stand out when I’m interviewing with a newspaper reporter from the American-Statesman. In fact, it really doesn’t matter what I wear to that interview, so I’ll be dressing down. Pull out my favorite jeans and one of my Marc Jacobs sweaters.”

Jeans?

Brooke wasn’t sure which fire to smother first—explaining that the journalist Jillian would be interviewed by was the stepson of a Los Angeles movie production mogul? Or reminding her that the ex-Miss America who’d be sitting in the chair opposite her on the Access Hollywood set always wore some shade of blue for the very same reason? And to knock the girl on her ass, Jillian would have to wear something stunning?

“Oh, well, um…” Brooke started.

But Jillian was done with the conversation and was already strolling toward one of the bedrooms.

“Get ahold of whoever you have to get ahold of at the hotel and tell them I still don’t have the right flavor of Perrier in the refrigerator,” she complained, her voice huffy, as if even having to address it was a ridiculous waste of time. “And if that maid comes in here before ten a.m. again, I’m going to have her fired.”

“Wait, Jillian…” Brooke stood.