Caught on Camera

Chapter 19, Part 32

Chapter 19

How to Lose a Guy in Two Days

Breathing heavily, Mickey slammed the bedraggled bouquet onto the hotel reception granite counter. To the busty front desk agent, he barked, "I'm looking for Rachel Lehmann. Give me her room number."

Juanita, according to the nameplate on her pressed silver jacket, raised thin brows at his brusque demand. "She's working."

Mickey straightened. "Working?" Confusion stirred the dread icing his blood. "I'm looking for Rachel Lehmann, a bridesmaid in the wedding yesterday."

"I know who she is." Juanita smirked. "You'll find her on the third floor. Is that the bouquet she lost?"

"What's her room number?"

"The door will be open, sir," she answered cryptically, again with that satisfied twist to her lips.

Mickey snatched up the flowers and jogged to the stairwell.

To his right on the third floor, the west wing corridor was empty. To his left he spied a housekeeping cart. He approached the open door beside it. In the room a willowy blond chambermaid with black-framed glasses stripped sheets off the king bed.

The woman raised her head. It was Rachel in ugly glasses and a baggy uniform. She froze. The color drained from her face. 

"Mickey!"

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted.

"Mickey, please. You'll wake the guests. Come in and close the door."

"I'm a guest. And apparently you're a frigging maid."

Yet, he did as she requested for the sake of privacy. Inside the room he turned, pressed one hand against the closed door and bent his head, his back to her, heaving deep breaths in a vain attempt to bring wild emotions under control. The last thing on earth he expected to encounter was Rachel cleaning a room. What other lies had she told?

"Are you Candy's cousin?" He didn't turn his head.

"No. Mickey--"

He made the logical deduction. Paps had their uses for publicity purposes, but stalking and infiltrating a private event in disguise was a despicable invasion of privacy. "You're paparazzo." He swiveled and spat the label like a swear word.

"No, Mick. I'm not." Her thin frame trembled. She sank onto the bed as if her legs no longer had the strength to support her.

Part of him wanted to believe her, regardless of the evidence in his pocket. He withdrew her phone, activated the screen, and thrust it close to her myopic eyes. "Did you take this photo of Halden?"

Rachel squinted at it. "Yes, but--"

He backed away, horrified, shattered. "That's all I need to know."

She'd betrayed him and his friends. Hot tears stung his eyes. He squeezed them tight. Given his track record with deceitful women, he of all men should've seen through Rachel's lies. He'd imagined himself in love with this unscrupulous fortune hunter. He felt like a fool.

In disgust he tossed the sad bouquet and her smartphone onto the soiled linens bundled on the floor. "Good-bye, Rachel," he choked.

Destroyed, he yanked open the door and marched down the hall, grief throttling his throat, searing pain slicing and dicing his heart.

She ran after him. "Mickey, let me explain."

He ignored her pathetic begging. Oh no, he'd never give her the opportunity to trick him again. The pain ignited fury. "Stay away from me," he raged, heedless of guests behind closed doors lining the hall. "Over my dead body you'll ever work in Hollywood."

***

Rachel impotently watched Mickey slam open the exit door to the stairwell and disappear out of her life.

Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. She did take the photos with the intent to sell them. She was merely a hotel chambermaid. She had lied about being Candy's cousin.

Mickey deserved better.

Hope and heart crushed, shoulders bowed, Rachel returned to her duties.

***

When Halden turned on the water and the shower door slammed in the ensuite bathroom, Candy pushed Mopette off her lap and rolled across the expanse of the bed to snag her smartphone from the night table. Eagerly she tapped on a new text message from Raynald. They'd agreed to limit exchanges in writing or by phone. Hackers exposed much that celebrities preferred to keep private.

His brief message contained only a number: 65 . Sixty-five thousand dollars! Deducting Raynald's fifteen percent commission left her with fifty-five grand. Enough to get the bank off her back and save her business.

Gleeful, she congratulated herself on reaping the profits from her own wedding photos, outsmarting the paparazzi for a change. Raynald negotiated the transaction through an "anonymous source", impossible to trace back to him.

Or more importantly, to her.

Candy eyed the television remote. She longed to view the wedding photos circling the globe.

No, too dangerous. If Halden walked in and noticed their wedding pics on the morning shows, he'd be livid. Her moral husband would erupt like that ancient volcano she'd learned about when researching Greek mythology before "running into" Halden the first time.

Her mouth dried. She'd relied on expert lovemaking skills on many occasions to calm down and distract a lover, but in this instance she feared sex wasn't the solution. Fortunately Halden planned to play a round of golf in a few minutes. That'd keep him occupied and away from screens for a couple of hours.

For extra insurance, she grabbed Halden's smartphone and shoved it between the mattress and box spring, then rolled to the middle of the bed. She assumed a seductive pose, artfully arranging the top sheet around her waist, leaving her breasts bare.

At the end of the bed, Mopette pounced on her toes under the covers. 

"Mopette, come here." Candy patted the mattress at her side. When the pet obeyed, she buried her fingers in soft fur and lifted the dog high.

"What a sweetie," she cooed, waggling Mopette in the air. "My pretty baby. We're going to live in a stunning California beach house with a pool. I'll take you for a walk on the beach every day."

Mopette barked once. "Oh, you don't swim? I'll order a life jacket. No more slushy cold New York winters, darling."

Mopette yipped happily, loving the attention. The gargantuan diamond on Candy's left hand flashed in brilliant sunshine streaming through a window.

Relief stilled the anxiety that had stalked her for weeks. Kudos to Raynald. His brilliant idea to sell his photos meant she hadn't been forced to hock the diamond and replace it with a fake.

She lowered Mopette to the bed. "Lie down, my darling."

One hand absently scratching Mopette's ears, Candy extended her left arm to admire the two rings on her third finger. Mrs. Halden Armstrong. Happiness surged.

The previous summer when her despicable sister lured Sir Timothy into her arms and between the sheets, Gwendy actually did her a favor. Instead of a mere knight, Candy married a prince. A Hollywood prince, that is. She chuckled softly. Next winter while Candy sat front and center at the televised Golden Globes and Oscar Academy Awards, Gwendy would be enduring boring business dinners and stuffy fundraisers in Europe. Good riddance!

Triumphant, Candy pushed Mopette off the bed, relaxed into a seductive pose on fluffy down pillows, and waited for Halden.