The Secret Heiress by Judith Gould Read Free Book Online Page B

orange-haired woman replied, flapping a hand airily. “You know how it is, Bianca. High drama. Last-minute hysteria. Always.”
    “What kind of mood is Greg in today?” Bianca asked. Greg was a pro—of that there was no question—but he could be very temperamental. He was a perfectionist and expected the same level of participation from everyone involved, from the models to the hair stylists, makeup artists, and clothing stylists, down to the lowliest lighting assistant.
    “No major dramas so far,” Merilee said, “but, like I said, they’re just getting started.”
    “I’d better get in there,” Bianca said. “See you later.” She hurried toward the tall ebonized double doors that led into the first studio, and opened one of them quietly, peeking inside to see what was happening. Perhaps she could sneak in without distracting Greg or any of the models from their work, but it was not to be.
    “Bianca, cara !” Greg gushed. He left his post at a tripod-mounted camera and greeted her at the door, his hair in wild Einsteinian disarray, his eyes bright with energy, his wiry body virtually throbbing with excitement. He came alive on a shoot, putting everything he had into it, then deflated like a balloon afterward. He gave her air kisses in the direction of both cheeks, and she returned them in kind. “You look divine as always, cara .”
    “Oh, thank you, Greg,” she said. “Sorry I’m late, but you know what the damned traffic’s like.”
    He waved her apology away. “Why don’t you sit over there?” he said, pointing to an empty chair to his right. “Do you want something to drink? Hard? Soft?”
    Bianca shook her head. “No, thank you, pussycat,” she said. “I’ll go sit and be a mouse.”
    “If you change your mind, tell Gretchen,” he said, pointing to a blond-haired assistant. “She’ll get it for you.”
    “Thanks.” She patted his shoulder, then headed to the seat he had indicated. She sat down and crossed one long, slender leg over the other. Great expanses of white fabric hung from the ceiling all the way down the wall, then spread out onto the floor for thirty feet or more. Three male models stood in the middle of the white “ground,” awaiting instructions from Greg. She was disappointed to see that Frans wasn’t among them. Glancing around the studio, she didn’t see him among the plethora of assistants and stylists.
    Where could he be? she wondered nervously. Surely he’d come in today. Even if he was sick, she thought, he’d have dragged himself out of bed to get to this shoot. He was one of the hottest new male models in town, but he could ruin his reputation in an instant if word got around that he was late or didn’t show up for scheduled shoots. She began nervously drumming her fingernails on the black alligator Dior handbag in her lap, then forced herself to stop.
    The three models in the shooting area were attired in spring clothing that would be featured in one of the PPHL garment subsidiary’s ad campaigns three months down the road. The outfits were nothing short of stunning, she decided, and not simply because the models were so good-looking. The stylists had done an artful job of dressing them with the clothing that the garment company had provided, and had added a few accessories of their own choosing. Mixing and matching, using a hat here, a pair of boots there, a belt or necklace, and so on.
    Over the roar of the music, she heard Greg’s voice. “Frans! Get your ass out here. Now! ”
    Bianca’s stomach gave a lurch, and she looked toward Greg. His face was red with barely suppressed fury. She knew that it would turn a full-fledged purple before he let go and really lashed out, ruthlessly berating anyone who dared to hold up his shoot, no matter the reason. She hoped to God that Frans wasn’t going to be a problem.
    She had little time to worry about it. From a door that led into another part of the immense studio, Frans sauntered into the room, taking