Unforgettable: Book Two (A Hollywood Love Story #2)(22)

The clip fades to black and the audience applauds madly.

Letterman: “Whoa! That was intense. Do we have any more surprises to look forward to?”

Brandon grins fiendishly. “Yes. The season finale is going to end with a mind-blowing twist.”

Letterman: “Since I read you’re writing it, can you give us a hint?”

Brandon: “My lips are sealed.”

Even I don’t know what it is. He’s been very secretive about it.

Letterman: “One last thing before time runs out. What are you two lovebirds doing for Valentine’s Day?”

I don’t recall seeing that question on the list his publicist prepared. My stomach knots up with anticipation. I totally forgot it was Valentine’s weekend.

Katrina lights up. “Oh, Dave, I’m so glad you asked. Brandon is taking me to Paris for the three-day weekend! And Gucci too. Right, baby boy?”

What! He never mentioned that to me. He’s taking her to Paris? The City of Love? My fingers fly off my clit while my heart tumbles as if it’s been shoved off the Arc de Triomphe. A sharp pain hits me in the pit of my stomach.

I’ve had enough. I hit the remote. I make one call and thank God there’s another man who loves me. I turn out the lights. And will myself to sleep before a volcano of tears erupts.





Brandon


I’ve been texting, calling, and emailing Zoey every five minutes since the Letterman taping ended. She’s back to pissing me off and MIA. Maybe Scott’s right. I should just fire her sorry ass.

“Darling, can you please put the damn phone away,” snips Katrina, nursing a glass of Cristal while I down a vodka martini. We’re seated facing each other at a candlelit table at Cipriani, the popular downtown eatery. Gucci is on Katrina’s lap, his paws on the table. While the bustling restaurant is studded with supermodels and some stars including De Niro and Pacino, all eyes are on us. Bratrina.


“I can’t,” I growl back at her. “I have an emergency.” She knows nothing about the latest developments in my life. Pete insisted that neither Zoey nor I talk to anyone about his investigation into my hit and run and her mother’s murder.

“Forget your emergency. Let’s talk about Paris.”

My blood runs cold. “How the hell could you spring that on me on Letterman?”

She smiles defiantly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.”

She takes another sip of her champagne. “You could show some appreciation. It’s going to be divine. I’ve booked us the Presidential suite at the Crillon. Mommy says it’s so much better than the overrated Ritz.”

On my credit card, I assume. “And how are we getting there?”

“Darling, why of course, by our own private jet. We can’t fly commercial with peons. We’re royalty.”

I assume she flew to New York on a private plane too, but truthfully, I really don’t want to know. I must be at least a hundred grand in the hole, and that’s just for starters because I have no idea how much she’s spent shopping here.

A young, suave waiter comes by and hands us menus.

“Katrina, take a look and order me another martini. Shaken, not stirred. I’ll be right back.”

She shoots me a dirty look as I dart off with my phone to the men’s room.

As soon as I enter, I try to get in touch with Zoey every which way I can. Goddamnit. Nada. I hear a toilet flush, and a dark thought besieges me.

Shit. Maybe something happened to her. With her concussion, she could have gotten dizzy and fainted…and hit her head. Or maybe she went for a swim all by herself and had some kind of spell…and drowned. And the worst thing imaginable…Donatelli showed up! My inner panic button goes off. Frantically, I search my wallet for her father’s business card. Fuck. I can’t find it. I’ve got to get home. I dash out of the men’s room.

“Brandon, what’s the matter?” asks Katrina as I breathlessly round our table.

“Katrina, I’m sick. I think I caught that stomach bug that’s been going around.”

“Puh-lease. You were fine two minutes ago.”

“Well, now I’m not. I’ve got major diarrhea.”

“Ugh!” She scrunches her face in disgust at my last word.

“I don’t think I should go to Paris. Or be on a private plane with you. I’ve read it’s highly contagious.” I grip my stomach and feign pain.

“Jesus, Brandon. Absolutely. I mean, if I came down with it, I’d miss out on three days of major shopping. I have personal shoppers lined up at every store on Rue Saint Honoré from Chanel to Hermès. They’re expecting me.”

I intensify my pained expression and let out a moan. I’m such a good actor. But truthfully, she doesn’t seem to give a damn about me. And you know what, the feeling is mutual. If I had real balls like Kurt Kussler, the character I play, I should have broken up with her on Letterman in front of a gazillion viewers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that to my publicist or the network. Or my fans.

“Listen, Katrina, don’t cancel the trip on account of me. You should go. Use my credit card and have fun.”

Pursing her billowy lips, which look bigger than ever, she shoots me a surprised look. “Darling, what possessed you to think I would cancel our trip? Gucci and I will have a perfectly good time without you, right baby boy?”