On the Avenue by Antonio Pagliarulo Read Free Book Online

whenhe stepped out of a limousine and strutted down the red carpet. They went even
crazier
when they spotted him doing everyday things—driving to the gym, shopping at the grocery store, playing with his dog on the beach in front of his Malibu mansion. Getting used to the continuous adoration had been easy, but being photographed a dozen times a day was another story. That was the downside of fame: you couldn't scratch your ass without it making the tabloids.
    Now he glanced up and saw the Pierre's well-lit entrance a few steps away. Relief flooded him. He feigned a smile as the doorman, a middle-aged man in a blue suit and top hat, perked up with visible admiration.
    “Mr. Bleu,” the man said quietly, reaching for the door and holding it open. “Welcome back to the Pierre. Is there anything I can help you with this evening?”
    “No, thanks,” Jeremy replied tersely. “I'm fine.” He stepped into the stately lobby but didn't make eye contact with the front-desk staff. He walked straight to the elevators and jumped into the first empty one. As he rode up to the penthouse suite, he felt his anxiety level kick up a few notches. This was a nightmare. A total fucking nightmare. Once the news broke that he had been at the gala, people would start asking questions. How was he going to handle that?What impact would the impending scandal have on his career?
    The elevator doors yawned open and Jeremy stepped into the privacy of the penthouse parlor. He fished the key from his blazer pocket. He jammed it into the lock, turned it, and slammed the door behind him. He stood for a moment in the darkness, staring out the large windows that overlooked Central Park and the blazing lights of the West Side. The view was spectacular. It had always managed to calm him in the past, but now he felt edgy and totally freaked. He couldn't look down at the grandeur of Fifth Avenue without imagining cop cars, sirens, and crowds of reporters closing in for the kill.
    Peeling off his blazer, he went for the bar in the far corner of the room and reached for the bottle of Grey Goose. He grabbed a martini glass. He poured the vodka almost to the rim and then spiked it with a shot of Midori. Then he downed most of it in a single gulp, wincing as the beverage seared his throat. It had been a long time since he'd had a good, stiff drink. Maybe that was what he needed—a few hours of highflying euphoria to ease his nerves. But even as the first mouthful of alcohol settled on his empty stomach, he knew getting blitzed wasn't going to accomplish anything. In the morning his hangover would be just another obstacle, and he'd still have to face the fact that Zahara Bell was dead.
    Not just dead,
he thought.
Murdered.
    He closed his eyes against the vision that rose before him, the vision of Zahara's twisted—but very well-clothed—body lying on that coatroom floor, the thick scarf cinched around her neck. It made him want to hurl. He had never in his life been
that close
to an actual crime scene.
    Especially not one with personal ties.
    He had met Zahara Bell the year before in Milan at the Prada men's show. Jeremy had been escorted to the front row, and ten minutes later Zahara had settled herself in right beside him. She was pretty hot for a woman her age. She'd been dressed immaculately in a tight black miniskirt and leather blazer, and Jeremy had noticed her legs right away: smooth, tanned, and perfectly toned. Her sexy stilettos had sent his equipment into a frenzy. She was in her forties and old enough to be his mother, but that hadn't mattered a bit. For most of the show, Jeremy had watched her from the corner of his eye, making small talk and drinking in the sweet scent of her perfume. A week later, in one of her customarily controversial
Catwalk
magazine interviews, Zahara had referred to Jeremy as “devilishly delicious.” The description pleased him. Since then, he had seen her on several occasions, and they had always flirted with each other