Lethally Blonde Read online

  Emma doesn’t see the other woman coming for her, but I do. I don’t really have any time to think. I just reach out, grab her long, black hair in one hand and yank her backward, hard, into the frame of the metal bathroom stall. Emma springs forward, retrieves the gun from its resting place under a sink and stands up, covering both women with the weapon.

  Emma Bosworth has never held a gun in her life, at least as far as I know. Her family is Quaker. They don’t believe in it. Yet here’s my Emma holding the little silver gun and looking positively violent!

  She reaches her free hand into her pocket, pulls out a tiny cell phone, hands it to me and says, “Hit one on the speed dial.”

  So of course I do. A woman answers and says, “Emma?” in a voice I don’t recognize.

  I look at Emma who says, “Tell her that I need a pickup in the ladies’ room.”

  Now I know the world has turned upside down because Emma Bosworth would never be doing these sorts of things. But I do as I’m told and the woman on the other end says, “Right.” But she never asks where we are or what’s going on. She just hangs up.

  “What about the one guarding the door?” I ask Emma.

  Emma looks a little uncertain and appears to be mulling over her options. While I, on the other hand, am completely undone and wish like hell for another Bemelmans Cosmo to settle my nerves. Of course the bathroom door just has to open then, and as I’m standing right by it, I am the one who must deal with the problem.

  I grab her arm and pull her forward into the room before she can say or do anything. Emma lifts the gun just slightly so the newcomer can see that someone will surely die if she doesn’t behave and says, “Search her.”

  “Emma,” I say, starting to do just as I’m told. “Are you a cop?”

  Before she can answer me the door to the ladies’ room opens again and the room fills with three very burly men in black camou outfits. The music outside stops and a voice says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain exactly where you are. The Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people are only here to perform a routine check for underage patrons. I’m sure no one has a thing to worry about.”

  Mass panic ensues as nine out of ten patrons begin emptying their pockets of illegal substances and I realize that this is far more than the ATF riding to the rescue. Emma is handing over her prisoners and quietly issuing orders. When she turns to me again, she smiles and takes my arm.

  “There’s a car waiting for us in the alley,” she says.

  She reaches for my elbow, but I step back out of her reach. “Emma, who are you and what exactly is going on?”

  Emma’s lips compress into a flat obstinate line, no longer smiling. “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “No,” I say and shake my head. “Tell me now.”

  Emma shakes her head. “I can’t explain it here, Bug. Come on.”

  I take another step backward. “I don’t think I know you, Emma. Guns? Men in black? ATF? What is all this?”

  Emma’s features soften. “Bug, honey, I’m still me. I’m just helping with something very important and I’m not allowed to say, at least not here. Trust me, Bug. I’m not a bad guy. I’ll take you to meet my boss. You’ll see. You’ll love her.”

  It is the pleading look in her eyes that makes me relent and follow her out the back exit of the Canal Room and into the waiting limo, but I promise myself that I’ll never again agree to let my poor baby, Marlena, have a silk wrap without mommy.

  “You’ll love Renee,” Emma says as the car pulls out of the alley and accelerates. “But do me a favor, Bug, don’t ask any questions. When Renee’s ready, she’ll tell you about us, but until she is, it’s just better if you let it go.”

  Let it go? Forget women holding guns on Emma and people in black camou outfits swarming the Canal Room like ninjas? Let it go? But Emma has that look in her eyes again, and so I figure I’ll let it go, for now.

  “Oh,” I say, digging into the pocket of my shrug again, “here.” I hand Emma Ray’s wallet. “I don’t know if this’ll help or not, but I can’t keep it.”

  Emma’s eyes widen. “How did you…”

  I grin. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine,” I say, and lean back into the soft cushions of the limousine.

  Emma chuckles. “All right, Bug, have it your way!”

  We are silent for the rest of the ride, silent as the limo pulls into an underground garage and silent as Emma leads me into an elevator to meet her friend, Renee.

  “You’re just going to love Renee,” Emma gushes again. “We all do.”

  When I first meet Renee I think she must’ve watched one too many action-adventure movies. I mean, I know she commands troops of people in black who swoop down to rescue her friends from terrible trouble just in the knick of time, but does she really have to be so incredibly rigid? Don’t get me wrong. When I get old like her I want to be powerful enough to have two of my friends saved with just one tiny phone call, but I will not lose sight of my femininity.

  Renee doesn’t look like a man or anything but she’s just so formal. I meet her at 3:00 a.m. and she’s wearing a Chanel suit and three-inch Ferragamo pumps. Not one auburn hair is out of place. Her makeup is understated and flawless. To make matters worse, she greets me like I’m in a receiving line at the British embassy or something. She’s cold, stern and impossibly remote. You’d think she was the Queen of England greeting a commoner.

  I look around the room and I realize she’s got money, but still, she’s not in my financial tier. I try to take some comfort in this. At least I know I’ll always be richer than she is, but then, I’ll always be richer than almost anyone on the planet. After a point, money is just money. But command, now that’s an aphrodisiac. Renee acts as if she is accustomed to the mantle of power; that is what’s making me so uncomfortable.

  Renee lives in a brownstone and while it is nice, it’s no penthouse. And, studying her closely, I’m almost certain there’s been work done. I mean, what woman in her forties hasn’t had something altered? I just can’t put my finger on who did her. It looks so natural. Her hair is strikingly auburn. Her complexion fair and unblemished. She’s thin, but not anorexic. It’s so unfair!

  I sit in a wingback chair in Renee’s parlor, listening as Renee and Emma talk and wonder why Emma adores Renee. She is about as easy to be around as a porcupine. Still, I haven’t been here two hours and Renee has somehow managed to get me to tell her things almost no one knows. I don’t mean just the stuff you read in magazines or tabloids, I mean everything. She does it so skillfully that I barely realize she’s interrogating me while managing not to give away one piece of her own personal information. I’ve been studying clinical psychology for four years and I still can’t do that!

  When Renee goes in for the big finish with me she is so good I don’t even see it coming.

  “So,” she says in her clipped, polished voice, “your wealthy stepfather married your mother when you were a toddler. You have never wanted for anything, never worked, never needed and certainly never bothered to exert yourself in any fashion. I suppose you must be wondering who on this planet would miss you if you suddenly disappeared. I mean, if things had somehow gone tragically awry this evening.”

  We are drinking this amazing white Bordeaux and I admit I’m feeling it. So at first I think she is still speaking to Emma, only she has turned her head in my direction and is still talking.

  “No one would miss the ‘It’ girl,” she says. “They would be replaced by the next hot rich thing.”

  A cold chill sobers me as her words echo in my head. I mean, who would miss me? Paparazzi? My ferret? Emma? Who would remember me for anything but my money? What would my obituary say in True Style magazine? Big, fat tears well up in my eyes and I look around for help from Emma, only she has mysteriously vanished. When did she leave the room?

  “Emma will miss me,” I say, but I sound uncertain, even to myself.

  Renee smiles. “Of course she will…for a while. Emma is such a dear
girl. I’m sure she’d compose a piece about you—she’s such a fabulous pianist. Her life will roll along and eventually, she’ll hardly remember to think of you. She won’t mean anything by it, but that’s just how she is.”

  Renee sips her wine and stares at the flames dancing in the fireplace while I just sit there like a lump. I am twenty-four, beautiful, smart, incredibly wealthy and, for all intents and purposes, useless. What am I going to do, endow a building? I swallow, hard, and feel tears threaten to turn into sobs of regret.

  “I’m young,” I struggle to say at last. “I have lots of time to create a legacy.”

  Renee turns away from the fire and raises one imperious eyebrow. “Do you? One never knows. Your jet could crash tomorrow. You could wake up with a brain tumor. Does one ever really know how much time one has?”

  I chug the last half glass of wine and realize that I am completely sober.

  “I’m taking courses in clinical psychology at the New School,” I say, and give away the one secret I have left. Against my parents’ wishes and without their knowledge, I am going to graduate school. Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to justify my worth to this woman? “I am a semester away from getting my master’s, and,” I add, “I’ve almost completed analysis.”

  “So, you want to be a psychologist, do you?”

  “Yes, an analyst.”

  “And have a private practice or work in a clinic?”

  I don’t see Renee closing in for the kill until it’s too late.

  “Oh, private practice, that way I can set my own hours.”

  Renee nods and smiles her Cheshire cat smile. “So, you’ll give up your travels, I suppose. After all, most analysands do require thrice weekly therapy.”

  I swallow hard. Well, I most certainly am not going to do any such thing, but how can I tell her that? And no way was I going to work in a clinic! But if I say any of this, Renee will see me as I’m beginning to see myself, only Renee and I are both wrong about me. I am a good person, aren’t I, even if I don’t have much to show for it?

  When I don’t answer, Renee says, “You’re young. You have energy. You know, I run a foundation with women just like yourself.”

  Oh, a foundation—now that was easy. Why didn’t Emma tell me Renee ran a foundation? Did she do this in addition to whatever it was she did that involved those commando types? Was she in law enforcement or something?

  Maybe Renee will tell all if I express an interest in her charity. All you need to have to join a foundation is money. I can so do that.

  “I would adore joining your foundation,” I gush. But inside, I am secretly disappointed. I suddenly want to join whatever it is that gives you strong, virile men in black SWAT costumes for backup. I want to shoot a gun and flip people over my hip, like Emma did with the Italian woman. It might be fun. I need a thrill in my life. When is Renee going to realize that I am trustworthy and let me in on the real deal?

  Renee leans back in her wingchair and seems to study me for a moment before she smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “The Gotham Roses are a very prestigious group of women. I would guess Emma hasn’t spoken much about her work with them, has she?”

  I shake my head, genuinely puzzled. She hasn’t, and I thought we shared everything!

  Renee moves forward in her seat and regards me with a very serious expression. “Porsche, Emma vouched for you. She says you can keep a secret and are not as bubbleheaded as your press exploits might lead one to believe.”

  I start to protest, but something in her eyes stops me.

  “Porsche, I would like to tell you about the Gotham Roses, but before I do, I must know that you understand that what I am about to tell you is highly confidential. Lives hang in the balance based on my ability to pick and choose whom I confide in. Would I be making a mistake to tell you about the Roses?”

  I have no idea what the woman is talking about but I do know one thing—Porsche Rothschild can carry a secret to the grave. I know things about my friends and their families that would ruin them if I told. Nothing, no amount of liquor or persuasion, has ever gotten one detail past my sealed lips!

  “I assure you, I can keep a confidence,” I say.

  Renee’s expression doesn’t relax.

  “Porsche, if you decide to proceed with this conversation, I will need to tell you something.”

  I nod, as if she’s making sense to me and long for another sip of wine. Somehow I know that this would be the wrong thing to do.

  “Porsche, believe me, if I were to learn that one word of what we discuss tonight becomes public knowledge, I could bring forces to bear that would ruin your family and end all possibility of you ever becoming a psychologist. Do you understand me?”

  I can hardly believe what I am hearing. Ruin my family? Who the hell is this woman? I know better, but still a frisson of fear ignites deep inside my chest. Do I really want to hear what she has to say?

  I swallow, hard. “You have my word,” I promise.

  Renee nods, reaches into a small wooden box that sits on the end table beside her and withdraws a small, handheld tape recorder.

  “I’ll need to make a record of this,” she says, and clicks on the tiny machine. “Discussion with Porsche Dewitt Rothschild.”

  “You know my middle name?”

  Renee stops and smiles. “It’s not exactly a state secret, Porsche. But, yes, before speaking with you, I had a thorough background investigation completed. As I said, Emma placed your name before me for consideration some months ago. We just didn’t have need of your talents until recently.”

  Talents, what talents?

  “The foundation, the Gotham Roses, operates on two levels,” Renee begins. “On the lower level, we are a group of talented and wealthy women who do good works in the New York area, promoting worthwhile causes for women. But on another highly exclusive and top secret level, we work to help certain government agencies fight crimes perpetrated against, and sometimes by, the very wealthy.”

  Renee watches me, to see if I am following her, and so I nod even if I don’t fully get it yet.

  “Because of our family backgrounds and names, we are sometimes able to gain access to a level of society that regular law enforcement rarely permeates. Because your name is so instantly recognized, Porsche, and because of your reputation as a party girl…” Renee holds up her hand as I begin to protest. “Deserved or not,” she adds, “we have a need for your help.”

  I am thrilled. I am so excited suddenly to be a member of the team that I almost jump out of my seat and kiss the woman, and yet, a little voice inside my head says, Be careful what you ask for!

  “A situation may be arising,” Renee continues, “in which we could use someone with your skills in the psychological arena. I mean, I know you’re by no means a trained psychologist, but you do have a certain understanding of these sorts of issues. And the situation I have in mind requires a certain delicacy and, shall we say, name recognition. We need a very high-profile socialite for this case, an ‘It’ girl, someone everyone knows and watches and yet, doesn’t take seriously.”

  Doesn’t take seriously? Now wait a minute!

  Renee ignores the frown on my face and keeps right on going. “We have a little bit of training that you’ll need to undertake, as a precaution. You probably won’t need it, but it’s always nice to have a few tricks up your sleeve just in case. It will certainly be nowhere near as risky as the situation Emma was involved with, but still, it’s nice to be able to take care of yourself in a pinch.”

  Of course, I had no idea then what Renee was talking about. And here it is, almost two weeks later and I still feel like Renee hasn’t told me everything. However, I’m realizing Emma Bosworth and Renee Dalton-Sinclair had this all mapped out long before I flew in from Paris with Marlena and decided it might be lovely to have my ferret’s nails manicured. Renee’s investigators have done their homework, too. How else could she know so much about me? That I have an almost photographic memory? Or t
hat I grew up thinking Victor Rothschild was my real father, right up until I found my mother’s old marriage certificate saying she’d been married to some man named Lambert Hughes when I was born? How else would she seem to know every secret I’ve ever told that devious Emma if they hadn’t been plotting to get me into Renee’s elite little club?

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask Emma the next afternoon. I am hoping she will think I know more than I actually do and tell me the rest of the story, the real guns-and-ammo part of the story.

  She has the nerve to play dumb. “What?”

  “The Gotham Roses? How could you be involved in something so secret, so dangerous, so…”

  “We try and help others,” Emma began, but I cut her off.

  “Bullshit! Renee says you work with the FBI, the CIA and God knows who else. And this training, my God—self-defense, secret communication devices, and yet you two just keep saying it’s really not dangerous? Renee says it’s more of a psychological assessment than a real mission. What are you guys, superspies?”

  Emma looks at me like I just don’t get it, sighs and shakes her head. “Bug, this is not a game and it’s not all glamour. We are not Charlie’s Angels. Renee works for a woman she calls the Governess on cases that involve the top layer of society that others just don’t have access to because they don’t have the right contacts. We do the training because Renee feels it’s better to be prepared for anything, even if the danger doesn’t materialize.”

  “Oh, Emma, please!” I say. “Next thing you’ll be saying ‘It’s dirty work but somebody’s gotta do it!’”

  Emma nods. “Well, it is. It’s unfortunate that there’s so much crime among the rich and privileged, but that’s the way the world is now. The Governess is not without her enemies, either. There is someone she and Renee call ‘The Duke,’ who is just as determined to bring down the Governess and the Roses as we are to stop his nefarious influence in the top echelon of society. The Gotham Roses are not dilettantes trying on crime-fighting for a hobby.”