Their exotic island idyll is only the beginning…

Who’s the real Saturday Knight? Is she the tempestuous, in-your-face star of Divorced Divas, the small screen’s hottest reality series? Or is she the sultry, au naturel temptress Brandon Gilliam meets in Jamaica? It isn’t long before the New York director and the woman known off set as Ayana are sharing a passionate interlude that he never wants to end.

Back in the city, Ayana gets a reality check—when her sexy isle lover turns back into the no-nonsense director on her show. If the secret about her romantic interlude with Brandon gets out, it could ruin her career as the single vamp fans love to hate. There are people who depend on Ayana and the financial gains earned through her TV persona. Is she willing to risk everything for a seductive fantasy, or could what she shares with Brandon be the truest bliss of all?

“Oh, my God, are you all right?” asked a handsome man, straddling a bright orange Jet Ski. “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t see you. What are you doing floating all the way out here by yourself?”

Ayana glanced around the vast body of water and didn’t see the beach. She had drifted out farther than anticipated. “I hadn’t planned on floating this far—guess the waves carried me away,” she said, treading water.

He reached out his hand to her. “Get on. I’ll take you back to shore, so you don’t have to swim so far.”

She brushed her hair out of her face, rubbed the salt water out of her eyes and looked up into his face. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Behind a pair of dark aviator shades was Brandon. “Uh…sure.” She took hold of his hand, climbed out of the water and settled on the back of the Jet Ski. Ayana wrapped her arms around his bare chest and held on tight as he sped off.

“Where are you staying?” he yelled.

With the Jet Ski creating a cascade of waves and the roar of the motor, she could barely hear him. “What’d you say?”

“I said where are you staying?” he asked more loudly.

“Just keep straight,” she responded, finally hearing him.

He doesn’t know it’s me.

VELVET CARTER

is not just the name of a luxurious fabric, but it’s also the name of one of the world’s leading writers of “exotica.” She’s a prolific novelist, who paints pictures with her words. Velvet has her finger on the pulse and knows how to make your heart race with her tantalizing stories filled with romance and seduction. Her novels have been translated into German, and released in London to critical acclaim. Velvet uses the world as her muse, traveling the globe for provocative inspiration.

Blissfully Yours

Velvet Carter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’d like to thank you for purchasing Blissfully Yours, my first of many novels under the Harlequin Kimani imprint. I had an absolute ball writing Blissfully Yours. The characters I created seemed more like close friends than fictional people….

You might notice a piece of yourself in Ayana, who is multifaceted, resourceful and fiercely independent. Brandon is such a strong yet sweet man that I wanted to immerse myself in the novel and date him! Since that wasn’t possible, I left the dating to Ayana, who does a fantastic job of showing Brandon around her native island of Jamaica. They party on the beach, have romantic picnics in the Blue Mountains and make love with the sounds of the ocean as a soundtrack. I hope that Blissfully Yours transports you to a romantic state of relaxation.

Velvet

To those who found bliss when they least expected,

and to those who are still joyfully looking!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 1

Ayana awoke to a gentle breeze flowing through the screened French doors of her parents’ Jamaican hillside home. The delicious smell of ackee and saltfish tickled her nose as she stirred underneath the white cotton sheet. She yawned wide and stretched her long limbs before climbing out of bed. Today was her last full day in Negril and she planned to make the most of her time before heading back to her hectic New York life.

She showered and dressed in cutoff blue jean shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. Ana—as she was known in Jamaica—pulled her long raven hair into a ponytail before trotting down the small back staircase that led to the kitchen.

“Hmm, something sure smells good,” Ana said to her mother, who was laboring over the stove.

“I made ya favorite—ackee and saltfish, callaloo and johnnycakes,” her mother answered in a thick Jamaican accent.

Ayana looked at the plate of food that her mother had dished up. “Ma, I can’t eat all of that.” Having lived in New York for more than ten years, Ayana had adjusted her eating habits and now ate mostly salads, fish and very few carbs.

“Ya too skinny, gurl. Gotta fatten ya up.” Mrs. Tosh was a traditional Jamaican mother who believed in eating heartily at every meal.

“I’m not skinny, Ma. I still have plenty of thighs and a butt,” she said, looking over her shoulder at her full rear end.

“Yeah, ya are. Don’t argue wit me, gurl. Sit down and eat.”

Ayana didn’t say another word. There was no use in debating. Her domineering mother always got the last word, so Ayana sat at the wooden kitchen table and ate every morsel. She then polished off her mega breakfast with a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. She had to admit that eating some of her favorite childhood dishes felt good and satisfying.

“Ma, do you wanna go with me over to New Beginnings?” New Beginnings was a local women’s and children’s shelter that Ayana helped support with generous donations of her time and money.

“Me got no time to go to the shelter today. Got too much housework to do,” she said, taking Ayana’s plate and rinsing it off.

“Ma, I bought you a dishwasher so you wouldn’t have to stand there and hand wash every dish. Where is the dishwasher, anyway?”

“Why ya waste ya money?”

Ayana just shook her head. She never stopped trying to spoil her parents, but they were simple people and didn’t want the modern gifts she bought. “I don’t consider buying my parents gifts a waste of money. Ma, you and Dad struggled for so long. Now that I’m in a position to make your lives a little easier, that’s what I’m going to do.” Ayana had her own stubborn streak, a trait she’d inherited from her mother.

“Go on, gurl.” Her mother waved her away and continued washing dishes.

Ayana kissed her mother goodbye, went to the living room, grabbed her sunglasses and keys off the parson’s table near the front door and left. She hopped on her canary-yellow Vespa and took off down the winding road. The lush hillside, dotted with hibiscus and white bougainvillea, whizzed by. Ayana loved jetting around Negril on her scooter. She had driven one ever since she was a teenager. The open air was refreshing and helped to clear her mind. This was where she’d fled to two years ago after her nasty, well-publicized divorce. Ayana thought back to that time.

* * *

“If you walk out on me, you’re not getting one red cent!” Those were the last words her ex-husband, millionaire Benjamin Lewis, the founder and CEO of BL Industries, had said as Ayana left their sprawling Long Island mansion. The estate was set on three manicured acres, complete with a pool, tennis court and guest house.

Although Benjamin ran one of the world’s leading electronic manufacturing companies, making millions in the process, he was a tightwad. After three years of marriage, Ayana had become sick and tired of adhering to his strict budget. He had given her a weekly allowance of two hundred dollars, much less than she had made when she was his secretary. He only increased her allowance when he wanted her to buy expensive outfits for their black-tie affairs. Benjamin loved parading her around. To him she had been nothing more than a trophy wife.

Ayana had become tired of being treated like one of his prized possessions. She couldn’t take any more of his selfish ways and filed for divorce, citing cruel and unusual punishment. While the proceedings wore on, Ayana had spent her days in a tiny studio apartment on the Lower East Side, sparsely furnished with a futon, throw rug and nine-inch television.

A few days after she’d moved there, the phone rang, startling her out of her sleep. She’d reached for the cell and pressed Talk. “Hello?”

“You are still asleep? It’s eleven-thirty,” Reese, Ayana’s best friend, had said.

“What’s up?”

“You need to get out of that apartment. It’s a beautiful sunny day, so let’s go to lunch at that new restaurant in the Village.”

“I don’t have money to waste on lunch. All my cash is going toward attorney fees.”

“What happened to all that jewelry Ben gave you?”

“I have a few pieces here. But the rest is in my safe-deposit box. Why do you ask?”

“You need money, right?”

“Of course I need money. You of all people know how stingy Ben was,” Ayana had said, sounding irritated.

“Instead of sounding like a wounded victim, you should sell some of that ice.”

“I’m not selling my jewelry. That’s the one thing Ben did right. He may have been a frugal SOB as far as giving me cash, but he didn’t hesitate giving Tiffany, Cartier and Harry Winston his plastic. He loved telling his business associates how much he spent on my jewelry. It was like a competition to see which man could spend the most on their wives.”

“Girl, you have a fortune sitting in the bank collecting dust.”

“Like I said before—I’m not selling anything. I like my jewelry.”

“Have you ever heard of paste?”

“No. What’s paste?”

“Basically, paste is leaded glass made to look like diamonds and colored stones. I know a place where you can take your jewelry, have it copied and then sell the originals.” Reese had once worked in the Diamond District as a sales clerk, and she still had connections on Forty-Seventh Street.

“I don’t know, Reese. This jewelry is the only thing of value I have left. If I sell it, then what?”

“You’ll be able to pay your bills and not have to wait for the divorce settlement to get some much-needed cash.”

Ayana had digested her friend’s words. Reese made perfect sense. Ayana thought about the five-carat diamond engagement ring, set in platinum and sitting in the safe-deposit box. The ring that she had once treasured and wore with pride had little meaning now that her marriage was over. “I guess you do have a good point.”

“I have an excellent point. Besides, you’ll still have the same jewelry designs to wear—they just won’t be the real thing. This jeweler is so good that no one will be able to tell the difference.”

“Okay. I could actually sell my wedding set and a few other pieces. That should hold me over until the divorce is final.”

That afternoon, Ayana had gone to the bank and taken her five-carat engagement ring, diamond-encrusted wedding band and sapphire necklace out of the safe-deposit box, then met Reese at the jeweler’s shop on Forty-Seventh Street. A week later, she’d picked up the pastes and couldn’t believe how authentic the pieces looked. She’d sold the originals, making enough money to sustain herself for the duration of the proceedings.

* * *

“Ana! Ana!” yelled the children from the shelter when they saw the yellow scooter pull into the yard.

New Beginnings was near and dear to Ayana’s heart. The small, privately run shelter relied on donations from generous patrons, and Ayana was at the top of that list. She didn’t have any children of her own and considered the kids at the shelter her babies.

“Hey, guys! What’s happening?” Ayana hopped off the scooter, gathered as many children into her arms as she could hold and gave them all a huge hug.

“Now, now, chilrin, leave Ms. Lewis be. Go now and do yo work,” Marigold, the shelter’s administrator, said as she came into the yard waving her hands and shooing the children away.

“Did you get the shipment yet?”

“All dose big boxes come, and me didn’t know what to do wit all dose clothes.” She smiled. “We thank ya.”

“You’re welcome. It was no problem. All I did was collect clothes from friends of mine who were purging their closets.”

“Ya do more than send clothes. Ya send checks too, and dey help keep dis place going.”

Ayana looked a bit embarrassed; she didn’t like when Marigold praised her for helping. The shelter needed assistance, and she was just glad that she was now in a position to help.

“And dat stuff you send look brand-new. Some of dem tings still had da tags on ’em.”

“Yeah, I know. I only select clothes that are gently worn, if not new. Did you see the note attached to that blue dress? It’s for you.”

“I saw it, but dat dress is too fancy fo me.”

“It’s only a sundress.”

“Yeah, a sundress by Ralph, uh...uh...”

“Lauren. Ralph Lauren.”

“Where me gonna wear some designer dress to? After me husband die, I don’t go out much.”

“Well, you never know what life has in store. Maybe you’ll get invited to a party or asked out on a date. It’s always good to have a go-to dress in your closet.”

“I no want no date. James was de love of me life and after he die, a piece of me died too.”

“Marigold, you’re still a good-looking woman, and I’m sure James wouldn’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.” Ayana sympathized with her friend but always tried to be encouraging.

“James did tell me not to pine away for him for too long,” she said with a sorrowful look in her eyes.

“See what I mean. James wouldn’t want you spending every night home alone.”

“Okay, okay, me keep Mista Lauren. Ya wanna come in fo some lunch? Me make kingfish stew and coco bread.”

“No, thanks. I already ate. I have to go back home and pack. I just came by to see if you got the clothes and to see you and the kids.”

“We hate to see ya go.” Marigold gave Ayana a warm hug.

“I hate to go, but duty calls.”

The truth was, Ayana wasn’t looking forward to returning to New York, but her hiatus was over. The reality show that she starred in was resuming filming in a few days. She had spent two glorious months in Jamaica, eating her mother’s home cooking, taking long walks on the beach and meditating at her favorite place high in the Blue Mountains. The serenity and beauty of the island, and being surrounded by people who loved her, had rejuvenated her soul. Now Ayana was ready to resume her hot-blooded persona and tackle another season of Divorced Divas.

Chapter 2

“We’ll be starting our descent in the New York area shortly, so please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”

Ayana heard the flight attendant’s announcement through the lavatory door. She looked in the mirror and was satisfied with her transformation. Gone was the girlish ponytail, replaced by a long, flowing, platinum-blond lace-front wig. She’d traded in her island uniform of cutoff blue jean shorts, sleeveless T-shirt and flip-flops for a sexy black-and-white Tom Ford pencil skirt that hugged her full hips. The matching chiffon blouse with blouson sleeves was secured around her slim waist with a wide black leather belt dotted with silver studs. Black-and-white layered necklaces and a pair of five-inch strappy platforms completed the high-maintenance look. She applied a double coat of ruby-red lipstick to her perfectly made-up face to add a pop of color. Ayana gathered her belongings and put them back in her Prada tote. She exited the lavatory and returned to her seat in first class.

“Would you like anything else before we land?” asked the attendant.

“I’ll have a glass of champagne. Actually, make it two.”

After the attendant brought the drinks, Ayana drank the two flutes of bubbly and readied herself for any photographers or reporters who might be waiting for her once she deplaned. Divorced Divas led in the ratings due to Ayana’s prima-donna persona. The gossip rags were always trying to get dirt on Saturday Knight—Ayana’s name on the show—and stalked her on a regular basis. The latest story going around town was that Ayana was the reason Erick Kastell—her love interest on the show—had fled the country.

“Welcome to New York, and thanks for flying with us today. You are now free to use your cell phones,” the pilot announced once they’d landed.

As the plane taxied to the gate, Ayana called Reese. “Hey, girl, we just landed. Where are you?”

“In the car, waiting outside of baggage claim.”

“Okay. See you in a few.”

Once the doors opened, Ayana put on a pair of oversize shades, retrieved her carry-on from the overhead bin and strutted down the pedway, into the terminal and out the door.

“Saturday! Saturday Knight! Look this way!” a photographer yelled, snapping pictures as she strolled past.

“Saturday, is it true you’re the reason Moses Michaels left his girlfriend, Lisa?” a reporter shouted.

“Have you read Lisa’s tweets? She’s calling you a home wrecker,” another reporter blurted out.

Ayana didn’t even glance in their direction, though that didn’t stop them from blurting out questions.

“Is it true that you and Moses Michaels are dating?” another reporter shouted.

Moses Michaels was the hot single moderator of the reality-show circuit. He and Saturday had gone out a few times, but it had not lasted.

She kept walking, looking straight ahead as if they weren’t there. She saw Reese’s black Benz and concentrated on making it to the car without acknowledging the annoying paparazzi and reporters.

“Hey, girl, welcome home.” Reese turned to kiss Ayana on the cheek. “Well, it isn’t such a good welcome with the media stalking you and accusing you of breaking up Moses and his girlfriend,” Reese said as Ayana settled into the car.

“Their claims are totally untrue. Moses had broken up with his girlfriend before we’d started to date. Anyway, Moses and I are now just friends. The lies remind me of my nasty divorce,” she said, remembering the highly publicized proceedings.

* * *

During the divorce trial, reporters and photographers had lined the steps of the courthouse, begging for interviews and snapping pictures. Salacious details of their marriage had made interesting headlines. Ayana had been embarrassed to read about their rather unorthodox love life.

Benjamin had leaked photos of Ayana dressed as a dominatrix, beating him with a whip. He’d accused her of dominating him against his will. It had incensed her. The entire bondage and sadomasochism idea had been his. Benjamin had bought her the black latex catsuit, platform boots and whip, and he’d even made her watch an instructional DVD to teach her the nuances of BDSM. Ayana had resisted at first, but Benjamin had insisted. He’d said it was the ultimate thrill to have her beat him. But he’d backpedaled in court, playing the victim. He’d even produced pictures of bruises on his back.

In addition to the accusations of sexual abuse, Benjamin had accused Ayana of spousal abandonment, saying that she spent months in Jamaica. On the stand, Ayana did admit to visiting her parents. However, it was Benjamin who’d insisted that she extend her stay, saying that since they didn’t have children, there was no need for her to rush back home to New York.

His team of highly paid attorneys had earned every dime of their retainer, working overtime to paint a negative picture of Ayana. Her attorney had presented her case, stating to the court that Benjamin willingly withheld funds from her, making her practically lead a destitute life, except for the times when they were out together. Her case was weak in comparison to Benjamin’s. And as the weeks had dragged on, Ayana became worn out. With her funds dwindling and her emotional state deteriorating, Ayana had agreed to settle. Initially, she had been seeking half of the money he’d made while they were together but then realized that Benjamin was willing to fight dirty in order to keep from paying Ayana her share. To put an end to the spectacle and move on with her life, she’d settled for a fraction of the estate, signed the divorce papers and never looked back. Although the proceedings had been emotionally draining, one good thing had come out of the ordeal—a job.

Little did Ayana know that tracking her divorce proceedings was show creator Ed Levine, who had struck gold with his string of reality TV shows. He had been looking to staff Divorced Divas, his latest undertaking about divorced women of millionaires seeking a second chance at love. He had seen Ayana on the news and in the papers and had become taken with her. Ayana was tall, attractive, stylish and well-spoken—all the ingredients of a television star. He’d contacted her attorney and set up a meeting.

However, Ayana had had no interest in exposing her life on camera. Being in the media during the divorce was enough, so she’d turned down the meeting. Ayana’s post-divorce plan was to reenter corporate America. The only problem was her limited experience. Her last job had been as Benjamin’s administrative assistant. She’d dusted off her résumé, made calls and tried to set up interviews to no avail. Her skill set wasn’t the problem; being the former Mrs. Benjamin Lewis was. Apparently, he had put the word out and blacklisted her.

In need of an income, Ayana had asked her attorney to contact the producers. Their initial meeting had gone well, except for one glitch. Ed had wanted Ayana to play the role of the good girl, but he had filled that role after she had turned him down. The only slot left to fill was that of the “diva.” Ayana had been reluctant but was in dire straits and needed money badly, so she’d accepted the role along with the stage name. A year later, Saturday Knight was a household name. Luckily, the show wasn’t broadcasted in Jamaica. Ayana couldn’t stand the thought of her family knowing that she degraded herself on camera for a living. She hated her job but was determined to make it work. Ayana read about reality stars branding themselves, launching clothing, perfume and cosmetics lines and even going on to costar in prime-time network series and movies. Some of them were making millions, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

* * *

“So are you well rested and ready for another season of Divorced Divas?” Reese asked as they drove along the FDR.

“I am rested, but the thought of another unnecessary catfight makes my stomach churn.”

“Girl, what’s up with that? Why do people love to see grown women acting like teenagers, fighting and yelling at each other?”

Ayana hunched her shoulders. “Wish I knew. Seems the more controversy on the show, the higher the ratings.”

“Does the creator of the show even know your true personality? You’re the nicest person anyone could ever meet.”

“Yeah, he knows, but for Ed, it’s all about ratings.”

“Then have a meeting and ask him to change your role so that the viewers can see who you really are.”

“Last season, a director made some show suggestions and he was fired.”

“I thought reality television was all about depicting people in their true form.”

“Reese, the reality is that reality television is a money-making machine. The creators of these shows will go to any length to ensure ratings, even if they have to fudge the truth and stage scenes.”

“What an oxymoron.”

“That’s an understatement. After losing nearly everything in the divorce, my focus is on building a solid financial future so that I won’t have to rely on a man ever again.”

“You may not need a man for money, but what about for sex?”

“Girl, sex is the furthest thing from my mind.”

“When was the last time you had any?”

“Any what?”

“Stop playing. You know what I mean.”

“I haven’t had sex in months.”

“I couldn’t go a week without Joey.”

“Well, consider yourself one of the lucky ones. You and Joey have a happy, healthy relationship.” Reese and her husband, Joey, had met in the Diamond District.

“Yes, we do, but it didn’t happen overnight. In the beginning Joey traveled to South Africa a lot on business, and the distance was hard on our relationship. It’s taken years for us to get to a good place. One day you’ll find your Mr. Right. What about Moses Michaels? You two went out a few times. Maybe he’s the one. He sure is one good-looking man.”

“No, he’s not the one for me. I can’t handle the ladies’-man type. The problem is he’s too good-looking. Women throw themselves at him all the time, and he loves the attention. He told me in no uncertain terms that he was only interested in sex—not a relationship.”

“He said that?” Reese asked, astounded.

“Yep, he sure did.”

“Well...maybe you should have at least tried him on for size. He looks like he’d be a good lover.”

Ayana lightly pushed Reese on the shoulder. “Ohhh, I can’t believe you’re saying that!”

“Why?” She smiled sheepishly.

“Because you are happily married to Joey, that’s why.”

“I’m married, not dead, and you would have to be dead not to notice Moses Michaels.”

“Guess you have a point, and I was soooo tempted to take him up on his offer. I just didn’t want to become another one of his many conquests.”

“I understand that, but did you at least kiss the man?”

“Yes, we kissed.”

“So was he a good kisser?”

“Aren’t you the nosy one?”

“Well...curious minds want to know.”

“Yes, he’s a great kisser. Are you satisfied? Now can we change the subject, please?”

“Okay, okay. Forget about the players of the world. Plenty of men out there want a committed relationship. What about that guy from Switzerland who was on the show?”

“You mean Erick?”

“Yes, that’s him. From the episodes I watched, you two appeared to have mad chemistry.”

“We did. The producers sent us on several romantic dates and we were getting along really well until he had to go back to Switzerland and take care of some issues regarding his work papers to stay in the U.S.”

“That’s too bad. Don’t worry. You’ll find Mr. Right,” Reese reiterated.

“I’m not worried, and I’m not waiting either.” Ayana looked out the window for a moment, digesting her friend’s words. She didn’t want to admit it, since she had talked so much about getting her financial house in order, but she silently hoped for a true love of her own.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that Joey and I are going to South Africa and then we’re heading over to Antwerp, Belgium, for a diamond-buying trip. After our business is done, we’re taking a holiday in Capri. We’ll be gone for at least a month. I’ll call you when we get back.”

“That sounds like a fun trip.”

“It should be. I can’t wait.”

Listening to Reese expound about her overseas trip with her husband, Ayana couldn’t help but be a little jealous. The thought of spending time away with the man you loved was not in Ayana’s near future and that reality saddened her.

Chapter 3

“Man, have you heard from Jaclene?”

“No, not since I moved back.”

Brandon Gilliam was at home talking on the phone with his best friend, Jon. Brandon had recently moved back to New York from California. Luckily, he had sublet his apartment in Tribeca and was able to make a smooth transition without having to search for months for a place to live.

“What happened between you guys? I thought you were in love.”

“I thought so too. Jaclene, the wannabe starlet, was into me when she thought I was going to be a Hollywood director and cast her in a movie. When I wasn’t able to land a major gig, she wasted no time dumping me. Last I heard, she was involved with some studio executive.”

Brandon prided himself on his stellar career. Over the course of ten years at a major television network in New York, he had earned five Emmys for outstanding directing of a newsmagazine show. Brandon’s dream was to parlay his television skills into directing movies. Feeling that he’d done his time at the station, he’d quit, packed up his awards and moved to Hollywood. But breaking into the movie business wasn’t as easy as he had envisioned. The only thing he had to show after being on the West Coast for a year was a failed relationship with a starlet and a list of contacts who would no longer accept his calls. Frustrated and tired of the endless sunshine, as well as the fake people, he’d moved back to New York as soon as his sublease agreement was over.

“Don’t worry. When you become a famous director, your casting couch will have a waiting list of women begging to have sex with you.”

Brandon chuckled. “Man, I’m not interested in women who want to use me to advance their career.”

“Hey, as long as I’m using them back, I don’t have a problem with it. Use my body, just don’t abuse it.” Jon laughed.

“I guess we differ in that way. I want a woman who loves me for me and not for what I can offer professionally.”

“Oh, listen to you sounding like a soap opera. You were always the soft-hearted one of the group.” Jon and Brandon had grown up together in Queens. They, along with three other boys, were a tight-knit bunch. Jon and Brandon were now the only two guys still single with no kids.

“Soft, my ass.”

“Don’t try to sound hard now. Remember that time when we were sixteen and fine-ass Lisa McCoy came crying to you because her boyfriend left her?”

“Yeah, I remember. What about it?”

“She wanted to have sex with you to make her ex jealous. Instead of taking the panties, you talked to her on the phone all night. Now, if that ain’t soft, I don’t know what is.”

“I didn’t want to take advantage of her situation. She was clearly upset over being dumped and needed a friend.”

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. Even at sixteen you had a conscience.”

“All men aren’t dogs like you, my brother.” Brandon was always a one-woman man. He had never dated multiple women at the same time, like most of his friends had.

“I prefer the term ladies’ man.”

“Whatever, Mr. Ladies’ Man. Enough of memory lane. I gotta get off the phone. I have an early call in the morning.”

“That’s right—you start your new gig tomorrow.”

After moving back to New York, Brandon had landed a job right away. However, the position wasn’t on another newsmagazine show. He was the new director of Divorced Divas. Though he wasn’t thrilled about directing a cheesy reality show, after being out of work for a year and exhausting his savings, he had to take what he could get and that was the only show hiring.

“Unfortunately,” Brandon said, sounding disgusted.

“Why do you say that?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be among the working class again, but directing a bunch of catty women isn’t what I call good television. I can’t believe this reality genre is still going strong.”

“Personally, I love reality TV—the cattier the better. Seeing them chicks fling their boobs and fake hair is a turn-on. Those chicks on Divorced Divas are all fine, especially that Saturday Knight. I’d love to get that beautiful body of hers into my bed and show her a few tricks.”

“I’ll bet you would.”

“You gotta hook a brother up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Brandon. I’m serious. Hook me up.”

“I know you’re serious, but I’m not there to make friends or play matchmaker. I’ve seen clips of the show and those chicks are cutthroat, especially Saturday Knight. She’s the worst of them all. If I didn’t need the money, I would’ve turned down the job. The last thing I want to do is spend my day directing a train wreck.”

“Don’t worry. With your smooth-as-butter nature, I’m sure you’ll calm them down when they get out of hand.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going on set tomorrow playing mediator or trying to talk sense into those wildcats. I’m leaving Mr. Nice Guy at home. Tomorrow, I’m Mr. Hard Nose. I refuse to let those chicks run all over me. They’ll never see my, as you say, ‘soft’ side.”

“I can’t believe you pick now to be a hard-ass, when I need you to score a number or two from the divas.”

“The only thing I plan to score are high ratings while I’m working on the show, and, hopefully, once my contract is over after this season, there’ll be an opening back in news.” Brandon had had his agent negotiate a one-season deal in the hopes of him returning to a reputable newsmagazine show like 60 Minutes. He wanted to work on a television show that he could be proud of.

He laughed inwardly. He hadn’t even started the new job, yet he was already planning his exit strategy. Thankfully Divorced Divas only ran half a season, so he wouldn’t be subjected to the lunacy that was reality television for too long.

Chapter 4

Ayana was getting her hair and makeup done in the dressing room she used while taping the show. She looked at her reflection in the huge mirror and barely recognized herself. Her face had three layers of makeup—foundation, powder and blush. Her naturally long eyelashes were glued with two sets of extended lashes, giving her eyes a dramatic look, and her lips were painted a bright glossy orange. Covering Ayana’s real hair was a platinum-blond wig with natural curls that cascaded midway down her back.

“You’re all set,” the makeup artist said, giving Ayana’s face one last swipe of the sable brush.

“Thanks, Denise.”

Ayana rose from her chair and walked to the rack of clothing the wardrobe stylist had selected for the day. She looked at the first outfit and shook her head in disgust. “Do they really expect me to wear this?” she muttered to herself.

As she stood there looking at the neon orange micromini shorts and matching midriff top, Ed Levine, the creator of the show, walked in.

“Hey, Saturday, are you ready for another great season?” Ed waved his chiffon scarf in the air. He was full of enthusiasm and wore a wide grin that spread across his face. Ed had every reason to be happy: Divorced Divas was now the number one reality show in the country.

“Ed, why do I have to wear this whorish-looking getup?” she said, cutting right to the point and ignoring his question.

“Saturday...”

“Can you please call me Ayana when we’re off set?”

He folded his arms and said, “Ayana, when I approached you about doing the show, I pulled no punches. I told you that the nice-girl role was already taken and you were being hired to play the bad, malicious girl.”

“Bad girl, not slut. Look at this trash,” she said, pulling the orange two-piece violently off the rack.

“Why do we have to go through this every season? Last season you complained about the hair and makeup, so we toned it down. Now you’re complaining about the clothes. You should be used to the Saturday Knight persona by now.”

It was Ed himself who had created the outlandish character in the first place. Years ago, before becoming a successful show creator, he’d worked as a female impersonator under the name Saturday Knight. He’d worn heavy makeup, flashy clothes, towering heels and waist-length wigs. When he’d conceived Divorced Divas, he’d jumped at the chance to see his alter ego come to life on camera.

“I’ll never get used to dressing like a slut and acting like a wild banshee.”

“I could always release you from your contract if you’re tired of playing the role. I have a list of divorced wives of millionaires waiting in the wings to take your place. Give me the word, and I’ll tear up your contract and you can walk away, free and clear, before the season starts. No hard feelings. But once we start production, you’ll have to honor your contract and stay for the duration of this season.”

Ayana plopped down on the sofa, tossing the outfit to the side, and exhaled. She wasn’t in a position to quit. She hadn’t amassed enough money to secure her financial future, nor had she made inroads into the licensing business so that she could brand herself. As much as Ayana hated the charade, she hated being poor more. She wasn’t going to leave the show until all of her ducks were lined up. She was determined to make the most out of being on the show, even if that meant portraying herself as a loudmouthed troublemaker. “No, Ed, I don’t want to be released from my contract, but can we come to a compromise?”

“And what might that be?”

“Let me choose my clothes. The stylist isn’t quite getting my look right.”

“I guess you can do that. Just don’t come on set in anything conservative.”

“Thanks. I won’t,” she said with a broad smile spreading across her face.

“Don’t get too happy. I came in here to tell you about the new director.”

“What about him?”

“We didn’t tell him that Saturday Knight is a fake persona. He doesn’t know your real name is Ayana Lewis, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Why is that?”

“We want to maintain a sense of reality, and the less he knows about your real personality, the better he can direct you as a wildcat.”

“So you’re telling me that he doesn’t realize my role on the show is an act?”

“No, he doesn’t. As you know, the rest of the cast doesn’t know either. Remember the confidentiality clause in your contract binding you to keep quiet about your true identity.”

“Of course I remember.”

“So you’ll keep up the act?”

“Yes, but I refuse to be tacky.”

“Deal. On another note, I’ve been introducing the new director to the cast individually before we start shooting. He’s meeting with Trista now and will be in to meet you shortly.”

“No problem.”

As they were talking, in walked the new director. Ayana looked at the handsome man and nearly gasped. He was tall—well over six feet—with broad shoulders and an athlete’s build. His head was shaven, giving off a slight glisten. His eyes were warm, the color of chestnuts, and his skin looked as if it had been dipped in milk chocolate. The white cotton shirt he wore seemed to glow against his dark skin. He was handsome in a rugged urban-cowboy-type way. In fact, he was exactly her type. If they were in another setting, she could envision the two of them sitting down and having a friendly chat over a cup of coffee. However, she had a job to do and wasn’t going to let his good looks distract her.

“Brandon, perfect timing,” Ed said, turning toward the door. “Let me introduce you to Saturday Knight, the show’s hot-blooded diva.”

Ayana took a step backward and went into character. She sucked her lips, put her hand on her hip and rolled her eyes in his direction.

“Hello.” Brandon extended his hand.

Ayana looked down at his hand. “Whatever.”

“Ed, I’ll be on set,” Brandon said, turning his back to Ayana, ignoring her rude behavior and directing his comment to the creator of the show.

“Okay, sounds good.”

Brandon walked out without giving her a second look. Once he was gone, Ed closed the door. “Nice work. You did a damn good job of showing him how nasty you can be.”

“That was nothing. Wait until I get in front of the camera. Then I’m going to really cut up.”

“Perfect. That’s what I want to hear. Divorced Divas is leading in the ratings and I want to keep it that way.”

“Don’t worry, Ed. You can count on me to do my part.”

“See you on set, Ayana.”

When Ed left the room, Ayana closed the door and walked back to the clothing rack. As she was looking for another outfit, she thought about how rude she had been to the new director and began feeling guilty. He didn’t deserve to be disregarded, but as long as she was under contract, she wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize her future.

Ayana changed into a pair of white skinny jeans and a sheer black blouse with a deep V-neck that showcased her ample cleavage. She completed the casual outfit with a pair of four-inch cork platforms. The shoes added to her height, making her a towering figure of six feet.

Ayana left the dressing room, and as she walked down the long hallway, she took a series of deep breaths. With each step, she dreaded the beginning of another season of lies. To make her job tolerable, Ayana tried to find something to focus on. Last season, she’d concentrated on the shelter in Jamaica. The thought of helping the women and children in her homeland had gotten her through the catfights, backstabbing and blind dates gone awry. This season, she hadn’t picked a focal point, until meeting the director. Although she had treated him like dirt on the bottom of her designer shoes, she found him extremely sexy and attractive. Even if she couldn’t have him personally, she could at least fantasize about his muscular body being pressed against hers. That thought alone would sustain her for at least a few episodes.

Chapter 5

I must admit, Jon was right. Saturday Knight is one pretty woman. Her body is made by Frederick’s of Hollywood, but her attitude is made by Freddy Krueger. Her ugly interior totally cancels out her gorgeous exterior, Brandon thought as he walked down the hallway toward the set. The first scene of the day was being shot in a sprawling Central Park West penthouse that the show leased for taping. Brandon was the first on set. He sat in his director’s chair and waited for the ladies—Trista, the Good Girl; Petra, the Russian; Brooke, the Flirt; and Saturday, the Bad Girl—to arrive.

The beginning of the day’s show centered on Saturday’s blind-date follow-up. Last season had ended with her being set up with three seriously wealthy men. Now the audience would find out if she picked one of the three. If not, her search for love would continue.

Trista was the first to enter the room. She had once been married to a strict CFO of a finance company. He detested tardiness and was always the first to arrive and the first to leave. His mantra was that time was money, so he waited on no one. His punctuality had rubbed off on Trista. They would still be married if he hadn’t gotten caught embezzling millions from the company. After he was sent to prison for ten years, Trista instituted his mantra and didn’t waste any time filing for divorce. She wasn’t going to waste ten whole years waiting around for him.

Brandon looked at the petite redhead with a pixie haircut. She was soft-spoken and had a girlish quality. She looked more befitted for a family with two kids and a dog than a cutthroat reality show. But for contrast, Ed had Trista going on dates with rocker types who wore leather, torn jeans and tattoos—the opposite of her sweet personality.

As Brandon was reading over the show notes one last time, he heard footsteps and commotion coming down the hall in the form of two loud voices.

“I’ma do you a favor, and let you have first pickings over the men that I turn down.”

“I no want you damn leftover!” a voice with a Russian accent bellowed.

“If I didn’t give you my throwbacks, you wouldn’t have any dates at all.”

Brandon turned toward the entry of the living room as the two women marched in. I should have known it was Saturday arguing with someone.

“No true. I have entee man I want,” Petra responded.

Petra Kazakova was a Russian immigrant and former model who’d married the head of a cosmetics conglomerate. The two had divorced when he was caught wearing lipstick in a compromising situation with his business partner. Petra’s dates for the show ran the gamut from European millionaires looking for trophy wives to taxi drivers. The broken English spoken by Petra and her dates often had to be accompanied by subtitles, which Ed loved because he thought it made his show unique.

“You should want some English lessons. It’s not entee.... The word is any. And you also need to learn to pluralize your words,” Saturday spouted.

“And you need lesson on how to be nice person.”

“Nice ain’t never got me nowhere. I prefer to tell it straight with no chaser. I can’t help it if you can’t take the truth.”

“I take truth. You bully. How is that for truth?”

Saturday walked close to Petra and got in her face. “I got your bully.”

Ed watched their exchange from the sideline, where he sat along with the executive producer, Steve. While Ed looked on in admiration at the way Saturday was performing, Steve watched in disgust.

“That Saturday is some piece of work. She should give poor Petra a break,” Steve whispered to Ed.

“She’s perfect just the way she is. Everyone on the show can’t be Mary Poppins, or the show would be a bore,” Ed said, coming to Saturday’s defense.

“Well, I guess you’re right. But at least she could wait until the director says ‘action’ before giving Petra hell.”

“I’m sure this is her way of warming up before we start taping,” Ed said.

Saturday continued to go at Petra, insulting her broken English and pointing her finger in Petra’s face.

“Hey, you two, save the bickering for the camera,” Brandon said, breaking up the spat. He had seen enough.

Petra stomped over to the huge picture window, folded her arms and muttered under her breath.

“What is all this chatter going on? I could hear you two all the way in my room, and the door was shut. This is not a barroom brawl. We’re in an elegant penthouse and should act accordingly,” Brooke said in a chastising voice as she entered the room.

Brooke Windsor had once had it all. Born with a platinum spoon in her pretty mouth and raised on the Upper East Side, her great-grandparents were blue bloods who’d made their fortune in the railroad industry. Rumors had it that she and her ex-husband were first cousins, which wasn’t unusual for people of their stature. What was unusual was for a family with old money to lose their fortune within a generation. And that was exactly what Brooke’s husband did when he invested all of their money with a shifty investment adviser who swindled them in a Ponzi scheme. Distraught over losing his family’s fortune, her husband fled to Europe, leaving his wife to fend for herself. With no marketable skills, Brooke jumped at the chance to star on Divorced Divas. The only problem was that Brooke had an air of superiority and thought she was better than the other divas. Also, in her quest to find her next meal ticket, Brooke flirted with just about any man with earning potential. Brooke, who had grown up with the best of everything, had now lost everything. She still had her family’s name, but that didn’t keep her in designer clothes or pay for lavish vacations. Ed thrust Brooke in the world of athletes when choosing her dates, setting her up with basketball players, football players, hockey players and the like. Most of the guys had no problem being seen on camera with the beautiful Brooke. And she had no problem dating these men earning seven-figure salaries.

“Don’t worry about how loud we are. Worry about finding another cousin to marry,” Saturday shot back.

Brooke rolled her eyes, swung her long blond hair and whipped her slim body around, giving Saturday her back.

“Girls, girls, save all the backbiting for the camera,” Brandon repeated.

Saturday started in again. “First of all, we’re not girls. Second...”

“Second, I’m the director and this is now my show, so when I say save it, I mean save it,” Brandon interrupted her. “I assume everyone has read the show notes for the day, so let’s get started. Saturday, I want you sitting on the sofa next to Trista. You two are discussing Saturday’s latest blind date. When the bell rings, Saturday, I want you to answer the door.”

“Wait a minute—isn’t the maid supposed to answer the door?” Brooke interrupted.

Brandon shot her a look. He turned back to Saturday and continued. “Like I said, when the bell rings, answer the door. Got it? Good.”

Saturday went over and sat beside Trista. Brooke and Petra were seated in the background at a table set for high tea.

Once everyone was in position, Brandon yelled, “Action!”

The set lights came on, and the cameras began rolling. Saturday and Trista starting chatting as if they were best friends. Saturday recalled her past dates, a mix of businessmen, athletes, rockers and Europeans. Ed wanted her dating base to span the range so Saturday could swoop in at any given time and steal a cast member’s date, bringing high drama to the show.

“That guy Anthony you went to dinner with seems nice. Are you excited to see him again?” Trista asked.

“He’s the one who should be excited.”

“And why is that?”

“Hello, have we met? Look at me.” Saturday stood up and twirled around. “Who wouldn’t want to see me again?”

Damn, that chick has no shame, Brandon thought, sitting in his director’s chair and staring at Saturday.

As they were talking, the bell rang. Saturday strutted over to the door, paused and opened it. Standing before her was a portly Italian man who looked as if he had eaten too many meatballs. He was dressed in a navy business suit, wore rectangle glasses and carried a black briefcase. He looked like a public defender heading to court instead of someone standing on the set of a reality show.

“Hey there, how are ya? You’re looking fine as ever,” he said nervously.

“Hello, Anthony,” Saturday answered drily.

“Cut!”

“What? Why’d you yell cut?” Saturday asked. “We just got started.”

“I want you to show some enthusiasm. Act like you’re happy to see him. Take two. Action.”

Saturday leaned in and gave the man a hug with a friendly pat on the back. Obviously there was no chemistry between them. She towered over him and they looked mismatched, like complete opposites.

“Cut!”

“What now?” Saturday rolled her eyes and put her hand on her hip.

“When I said show some enthusiasm I meant give him a hello kiss. Take three. Action.”

Saturday leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

“Cut! Cut!” Brandon was getting frustrated. He walked over and got in Saturday’s face. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you kiss him like he’s your brother?”

“I didn’t kiss him like a brother.”

“You sure didn’t kiss him with any passion.”

“That’s because I don’t feel any passion toward him,” she said as if the man weren’t even standing there.

“Look, the viewers want to see chemistry. Not some lukewarm peck on the lips. Now try it again.” Brandon went back to his director’s chair and yelled, “Take four! Action!” Saturday kissed Anthony again, and again Brandon cut the scene.

“What the hell do you want?” she hissed, rolling her eyes.

Brandon got up, went over to Saturday, took her firmly by the shoulders and gave her a long juicy kiss. He could feel himself responding to her; his crotch was getting heated with every passing second. “That’s what I want,” he said, releasing her before he had a full-blown erection.

Saturday was speechless. “Got it,” she said once she recovered from the surprise kiss.

When Brandon returned to the director’s chair and yelled “action” again, he didn’t have any more problems. She kissed Anthony as if he were her long-lost lover. As Brandon watched the scene play out, he could still feel the warmth of her lips against his. Her lips were soft and he could envision kissing and making love to her all night. His mind momentarily drifted into a fantasy where their naked bodies were intertwined in a heated embrace and their tongues were doing a sensuous, synchronized dance. Brandon shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image. He was there to work, not fantasize. Besides, divas were not his type, and Saturday was beyond your typical diva. After being dumped by an actress, he wanted nothing more to do with the entertainment types. He wanted a down-to-earth woman with traditional family values, and Saturday Knight certainly didn’t fit that description.

Chapter 6

The first day of taping had been long and drawn out. By the time Ayana returned home, she was exhausted. After showering and putting on her favorite pink Hello Kitty pajamas, she climbed into bed. She then pulled the comforter up to her chin and shut her eyes. An hour later, she was still wide-awake, sleep eluding her. Ayana tossed and turned, switching from her left side to the right, in an effort to get comfortable, but it wasn’t working. Ayana sat up and attacked the pillows, punching them with her fist, trying to soften them. Satisfied that she had loosened the down feathers sufficiently, she laid her head back on the creased pillows. The moment she closed her eyes, visions of Brandon appeared. Ayana could see him walking toward her with a sexy strut. Her body’s memory could still feel his strong hands taking hold of her shoulders, pressing her against his body and giving her a sensuous kiss. His lips touching hers had been a welcome surprise. The last thing Ayana expected was to be lip-locking with the new director. She could tell from the way he introduced his lips to hers—purposeful, yet gentle—that he was an experienced lover. He had turned her on with only one brief kiss, and now her body craved more of his touch.

Ayana bolted straight up. “Get that man out of your mind,” she said quietly, underneath her breath, in the darkened room. She inhaled several times, fast at first and then slowly in a Zen-like effort to calm herself. As Ayana was going through the breathing exercises, her cell phone rang. She froze, and her heart started beating fast. Her mind instantly flashed to Brandon. I wonder if that’s him calling? A phone list with all the cast and crew’s home and cell numbers had been passed out before rehearsals began, so it wasn’t unlikely that he could be calling.

She turned over, looked at the nightstand and saw her cell glowing in the dark. As Ayana reached for the phone she glanced down and was disappointed to see Reese’s name on the screen. Ayana didn’t really feel like talking. She wanted to focus on going to sleep, but she knew if she didn’t answer, Reese would only call back in a few minutes. Reese didn’t leave messages; she was a repeat caller, and she hit Redial until she got an answer.

“Hey,” Ayana said without an ounce of enthusiasm in her voice.

“Are you asleep already? It’s only nine o’clock,” Reese said, full of energy.

“No, not really. I’m just lying here.”

“What’s wrong? You sound agitated.”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, now. I know you better than that. Something must have happened on the shoot today if you can’t sleep.” Reese and Ayana had known each other since high school, and they were adept at reading each other, much like an old married couple.

“Well, something out of the ordinary did happen, but it was no big deal.” Ayana was reluctant to tell Reese what had happened because she didn’t want her friend blowing the incident out of proportion, trying to make a love connection like she had done so many times in the past.

“Do tell. I like hearing about the action on the set. It’s like watching the show before it airs. Did you get into another catfight with Petra? Or did Brooke piss you off with her hoity-toity attitude?” Reese knew the antics of each cast member as if she were part of the show.

“No, it had nothing to do with either of them. It’s the new director. He kissed me today.”

“What! Are you kidding? Why did he kiss you?”

“He was demonstrating how I should’ve kissed one of my dates,” Ayana said, as if kissing the director was an everyday occurrence.

“Why do you sound so matter-of-fact about it? Was he a bad kisser?”

Ayana closed her eyes, reminiscing. “On the contrary—the kiss was awesome. I can’t stop thinking about him,” she said, unable to hide her feelings any longer.

“Girl, you sound like you have a crush on him!”

“You see, this is why I didn’t want to say anything. I knew you were going to blow the whole thing up. I’m not in high school, and I don’t have a crush. I was just surprised at his bold demonstration, that’s all.” Ayana had said enough and didn’t want to fully admit how much the kiss had affected her, so much so that Brandon and his lips were on repeat in her mind, playing over and over.

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious. I don’t have time to get involved with anybody, let alone someone I work with. I’m concentrating all of my energy on the next phase of my life. I don’t plan to be on Divorced Divas forever. My focus is on branding myself, not on romance,” she said, redirecting the conversation.

“That’s a good speech, but what’s wrong with having a relationship and working on your career at the same time? I’m working on my gemology certification and taking care of my husband at the same time.”

“Well, that might work for you, but for me romance is often a distraction. Remember when I started working for Benjamin? My plan was to climb the corporate ladder at BL Industries. Instead, I ended up dating and then marrying the boss. Look how that turned out. I don’t plan on making the same mistake twice. I’m not getting any younger, and I need to secure my financial future while I can.”

“My point exactly. You’re not getting younger and you need to find a man so you won’t grow old alone. Don’t get me wrong—I understand your financial concerns, but love is important too. Money won’t hug you around the waist at night and keep you warm.”

Ayana sighed. She was tired and ready to end the conversation. She had heard Reese’s speech on finding true romance more than she could count on two hands. “Love will just have to wait. Look, Reese, I need to get to sleep. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Okay, but maybe you need to give that director a second look. He might be the one.”

Ayana sighed into the phone.

“I’m not preaching. I only want you to be happy like Joey and me.”

“Everybody isn’t as lucky as you guys. Maybe finding a soul mate isn’t in the cards for me.”

“I don’t believe that, and I’m sure you don’t either.”

“Having a significant other would be the icing on the cake, but at this point in my life, I’m not going to hold my breath for my soul mate to come along. I’ll just take the cake and forget about the icing.”

“All I’m saying is just don’t close yourself off to an opportunity that presents itself. You never know when love will come knocking.”

“I hear you, Reese. I hate to cut our conversation short, but I really have to get to sleep. Talk to you later.”

“Okay, good night.”

After Ayana ended the call and put the phone back on the nightstand, she thought about Reese’s advice. Although she had made a point of saying that true love wasn’t in her future, Reese was right about finding someone to grow old with. Ayana didn’t want to be alone the rest of her life, but for now, her search would have to wait.

Chapter 7

Barneys New York, the swanky department store on Madison Avenue, was the site of the day’s shoot. The cast was scheduled to come in and comb through the designer racks in search of outfits for their upcoming dates. Viewers loved seeing the ladies buy five-thousand-dollar shoes without blinking an eyelash and adding their names to the waitlist for designer purses that cost as much as a small house in some cities. The producers were adamant about portraying the ritzy world of glitz and glamour, and Barneys, with its multiple floors of designer swag, was the perfect venue.

Brandon was scheduled for a brief meeting with Ed before the cast arrived to discuss blocking for the shoot. The lighting and audio teams had already set up and were waiting patiently for the show to begin. Ed had arrived ahead of Brandon. He was dressed in teal-blue skinny jeans, a yellow silk camp shirt, a pair of pink platform sneakers, a monogrammed Louis Vuitton messenger bag strapped across his chest and his signature chiffon scarf—this one in multicolored shades of teal, yellow and pink. He strutted through the store looking like a designer-clad peacock.

“Hey, Ed, how’s it going?” Brandon said, entering the cordoned-off shoe section the store had reserved for the shoot.

“Other than a little heartburn, I’m good. Guess I shouldn’t have had a second helping of lasagna and tiramisu last night.” His protruding belly was indication of his love for fattening Italian food.

“Why don’t you send the PA to Duane Reade to pick up some Pepto?”

“Good idea.” Ed took his cell phone out of his messenger bag. “Hey, Gabby, can you run to the drugstore and buy a large bottle of Pepto-Bismol? Thanks.”

“Where do you want the first scene to start?” Brandon asked as Ed completed the call.

Ed crossed the room and stood next to a display of designer pumps. “Here is fine. I want the girls to ogle over these beauties.”

“No problem.” Brandon picked up a shoe to inspect it. “Are they serious with these prices?” he asked, holding a red, leather-bottomed pump.

“Those are Louboutins. What do you expect?”

“Lou Who?”

“Christian Louboutin. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him. Everyone is familiar with his signature red bottoms,” Saturday said in a snarky tone as she walked up behind him.

Brandon put the shoe back on the display. “Not everyone is as consumed with material possessions as you ladies seem to be,” he said, looking her dead in the eyes.

For a few moments they stood face-to-face without saying a word. Brandon could feel himself being drawn to her. His eyes scanned her body up and down. She wore a slinky, red, ankle-length dress that fitted her curvaceous body like a second skin. Saturday oozed sensuality, and there was no doubt that he was attracted to her. Brandon shook off the feeling. Although Saturday was beautiful, her personality was offensive and he couldn’t imagine spending his life with such an abrasive woman.

“Whatever.” Saturday twisted her lips, flipped her long wig and turned her back to him. “So, Ed, what’s wrong with you? You look pale as a ghost. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just a little heartburn. Let me sit down until Gabby gets here with the medicine.” He sat in one of the cushy chairs and continued talking. “Now, about today’s shoot, Saturday. I want you and Petra to really go at it. Get in her face and don’t back down until the director says ‘cut.’”

“I don’t have a problem with that, but you need to tell Petra this is your idea. I’m tired of her thinking that I’m always picking on her.”

“I’ll have a chat with her when she gets here.”

As they were talking, Gabby, the production assistant, came in with the pharmacy bag. “Here you go, Ed.”

“Thanks.” He took the medicine out of the bag, opened the bottle and tilted it up to his mouth, guzzling the pink liquid as if it were a refreshing beverage.

“What is that you drink?” Petra asked as she entered the shoe section.

“The word isn’t you, it’s you’re, and it’s drinking, not drink,” Saturday said, ribbing Petra on her broken English.

“I so tired of you teasing about way I talk.”

Saturday started laughing. “You just can’t get your tenses right. Ed, why don’t you get Petra a speech coach?”

“I no need coach. I need you to shut up and leave me alone.” Petra crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

Ed stood up. “Petra, can I speak to you for a minute?”

While Ed and Petra talked near the edge of the room, Brooke and Trista entered the set. Neither woman acknowledged Saturday, but they did glance at her as she sat in a nearby chair holding an iPad in her hands.

“So, Brandon, what’s your story?” Brooke asked, coming closer to him.

“Excuse me?” Brandon asked, taking a step back.

She flipped her golden-blond tresses. “I mean, are you married? Have a girlfriend? Have a boyfriend? What’s your status?” Brooke spoke as if he were required to answer her questions.

“First of all, we’re not friends and my personal life is none of your business, and second, we are all here to do a job, so I suggest you read over today’s notes before we start shooting.”

She moved closer to him, smiled and put her hand on his arm. “Oh, sweetie, I was just trying to make conversation.”

Brandon stepped back, allowing her hand to drop from his arm. “My personal life isn’t up for general conversation,” he said sternly.

Saturday glanced up and smiled, obviously pleased that he had put the snooty flirt in her place.

Brooke huffed, flipped her hair again and strutted away, her charms totally lost on the director. Trista then sat down next to Saturday. “Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m good,” Saturday said without glancing up.

Trista looked over at Saturday’s iPad. “What are you doing? Playing a game?”

Saturday flipped the gadget over. “I don’t like people looking over my shoulder. It’s irritating,” she said, putting the tablet in her purse and standing up.

“Okay, ladies, let’s get started,” Ed announced after his brief meeting with Petra. “Saturday, I want you and Petra over here near the Louboutins, gushing over the shoes and then arguing about who’s going to buy the last pair of silver pumps. Saturday, after about five minutes of verbal sparring, I want you to throw the shoe at Petra, but be careful not to hit her—just make it look deliberate.”

“Why she throw at me? Why I not throw at her?”

“She’ll throw the first shoe, and then you can throw the next one. I want you guys to have a shoe fight.”

This show is such a joke. I can’t wait to get out of here, Brandon thought as he stood there listening to the creator’s stage directions.

“Why not let the action flow organically?” Brandon knew the former director had been fired for being too opinionated. He had been committed to keeping quiet, doing his job, completing the contract and hightailing it back to a major network, but this staging was ridiculous and he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.

“I know you’re the director, but this is my show, and to keep the ratings high, I want to ensure there’s plenty of drama,” Ed responded.

“Don’t you think there’s enough drama between the ladies without you orchestrating it? Isn’t this supposed to be reality television?” Brandon countered.

“What’s with all the questions? When you came on board, you knew what type of show you were going to be working on,” Ed replied, slightly raising his voice.

“Of course I knew what I was signing up for. However, I don’t think forced conflicts are the way to go.”

Saturday watched the exchange in silence. Outwardly she showed no emotion, but inside she was doing somersaults. Brandon was expressing exactly how she felt. Saturday found herself being drawn to him as he stood his ground against Ed.

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