One Night with a Billionaire - Couverture souple

ONE

If there was a gift Kylie Daniels wished she could gift to the world, it would be the ability to pencil in a great pair of brows. The woman sitting across from her? Her brow game was terrible. She looked as if she’d Sharpied her thin black brows on in the dark while intoxicated and it overwhelmed her narrow face. And what were those little comma things she’d drawn at the end? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

Not that Kylie was an expert on makeup, but . . . well, okay, she was. An expert on makeup, that is. She was a licensed cosmetologist, had worked with several singers and stage productions, and could make even the most heinous pores disappear with the right brushes.

And that was why she was sitting in the office of Dirty Dollar Records this lovely July afternoon, sweltering her large ass off as she waited to be called in for an audition. A friend who styled hair for several celebrities had mentioned a record manager who was looking for a makeup artist who was discreet, inventive, and ready to tour with his client. Through a friend of a friend, Kylie had gotten the job interview and now sat, waiting, and hoped that her own makeup didn’t sweat off by the time she got in there.

No one wanted to hire a fat makeup artist in L.A., but they really, really didn’t want to hire one if she looked like hell. Makeup was Kylie’s calling card, after all. She had to look damn good at all times or people questioned her ability. So instead of going for low-key and demure as one normally would for a job interview, she went all out. Kylie wore a tight navy dress with a square sailor top and clinging black mermaid skirt, along with bright red heels. The entire look was retro, and she’d curled half of her dyed blond hair into two fat sausage rolls that perched atop her head like a forties movie star, letting the rest dance on her shoulders. Her makeup was bold, too. Her brows had been penciled into a sweeping line above eyes that were lined with a deep black eyeliner extended to a dramatic point, and the rest of her eyes highlighted with a bright white to make her cat’s eyes pop. Her lashes had been stacked with fake ones to create a thick fan. She’d gone light on the blush to highlight the porcelain look of her skin and picked a dark, cherry red for her lips. Two cherry earrings and a cherry-decorated necklace completed the ensemble.

It was a little kitschy, but she was interviewing to be the makeup artist for Daphne Petty, and Daphne Petty wasn’t exactly demure herself. Known in music circles for her wild lyrics, her nutty stage costumes, and her party-girl attitude, she looked like she’d be a lot of fun to go on tour with.

Kylie hoped so, anyhow. Anything had to be better than the diva she’d recently toured Asia with. Chanteuse had insisted that her crew wear all white and not speak unless spoken to. Kylie couldn’t wait to get away from that job. She’d gotten the boot when she’d returned to the States because, as it had been explained, Chanteuse didn’t like that Kylie “didn’t take care with her appearance” and she felt it reflected poorly on her to have someone like that in her staff.

AKA, your fat butt embarrasses me. It still stung, but Kylie was doing her best to get over it. After all, she questioned the sanity of someone who had a diamond-encrusted toilet seat that she took with her on tour.

So here Kylie was, unemployed once more and hoping for the best.

“Miss Daniels?” a voice called, and Kylie got to her feet, her old-fashioned circular hatbox suitcase in hand.

She sucked up her nervousness and straightened her clothing as she strode forward, then offered her hand to the frowning man waiting for her. “Kylie Daniels,” she told him, keeping her voice cool and confident despite the look he was giving her. This man was clearly conservative, but hopefully his client wouldn’t be.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, and led her back into the office. “I’m Mr. Powers. Please follow me.”

She hefted her case of cosmetics and trailed after him, biting back her annoyance when he passed by the elevator and headed for the stairs instead. Oh sure, take the fat chick in high heels carrying thirty pounds of makeup up the stairs. She hoped he wouldn’t mind her being a little sweaty when they got to the top, then.

Mr. Powers’s office was on the fourth floor, so by the time they arrived, Kylie was breathless and perspiring. Not the look she wanted for her interview, but too late to do anything about it now. Mr. Powers hadn’t said a thing as he led her upstairs, but pointed her into a conference room and smiled politely.

She entered it, set her case down on the table, and sat down on a chair, waiting. Powers left and returned a minute later with a stack of papers and a pen. “We ask that you please sign these non-disclosure agreements, Miss Daniels, as the label is extremely concerned about public image.”

“Of course,” Kylie murmured, taking the pen. She’d had to sign something similar when she’d worked for the diva Chanteuse. She quickly signed and handed the papers back with a smile. See how accommodating I am?

Mr. Powers didn’t sit down at one of the eight empty chairs next to her. Instead, he hesitated, then tucked the paperwork under his arm. “Before you meet Miss Petty, you should know a few things.”

“All right.” Kylie clasped her hands in her lap and kept the smile on her face. She was ready for anything they could throw at her after working in Hollywood for a while. The client doesn’t like for her right side to show up in photographs. This client feels the color green offends her chi so doesn’t wear it. Don’t look this client straight in the eye. Always ask this client open-ended questions as she feels that her staff should challenge her. This client is in character at all times, so please play along.

“Miss Petty fired her last makeup artist due to personality conflicts.” He double-checked the signatures on the paperwork and then gazed down at her, though she got the impression he was fidgety. Uncomfortable. Weird. “The label is quite concerned that Miss Petty is happy. You understand this, yes?”

“Of course.” Where was he going with this?

“However, the label also likes to maintain Miss Petty’s image. In fact, we are concerned with that above all things. Miss Petty’s image must be maintained. That is where you come in.”

“O-okay?” What was the answer he was looking for?

“In short, people pay lots of money to see a vibrant, beautiful Daphne Petty on tour. I expect you to do your part, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated. This entire conversation was bewildering.

“Which is not to say that Miss Petty has the liberty of firing you. That will be at the label’s discretion.”

Ooookay . . . Daphne wasn’t going to be allowed to fire her if they didn’t get along, but the last person was fired because they didn’t get along? It was all very confusing. She kept smiling, though she was starting to feel a little worried. “I think I can handle that?”

“Good. I see you brought your tools with you?”

She patted her bag. “Of course.”

“We would like for you to do Miss Petty’s makeup for her. Think of it as a screen test.”

It wasn’t the strangest request she’d gotten. “That’s fine. Any particular look you’re going for with Miss Petty on this new tour?”

A strange look crossed Mr. Powers’s face. “Healthy. Just healthy will be fine.”

Healthy? “I’m sure I can give her a natural glow.”

“Great.” He gave her a tight little smile. “I’ll let Miss Petty know that you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Kylie murmured, and Mr. Powers left her alone in the conference room. The air was on upstairs—thank goodness—and so it wasn’t quite so hot. Her sticky forehead dried, and as she waited for Daphne Petty, she eyed the posters on the walls of prior tours, the platinum and gold records. This was a big break and a good job, and she crossed her fingers under the table that Daphne wouldn’t have a problem with Kylie’s non-Hollywood-sized butt.

Eventually, though, she got bored. Time ticked away and the clock showed she’d been sitting in the conference room for a full forty-five minutes without someone stopping in. She freshened her own makeup, and then dug through her kit, mentally trying to put together a look for Daphne Petty. From what she remembered, Daphne had bright eyes, so she could highlight those. Eye makeup and lip color would depend on the shade of Daphne’s hair, and from what she’d seen in tabloids, Daphne tended to dye it all kinds of strange colors. Unless she went for a totally nude palette? She dug through her tubes of glosses and shadows, thinking. Of course, if Daphne’s hair was pink again, the colors would have to be really subtle—

Someone crashed into the door behind her, and Kylie jumped in her chair. She spun around, startled. A moment later, the door opened, and someone stumbled in. It was a woman with big round sunglasses that covered most of her face. Her platinum blond hair was cut into a short, messy bob that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in at least a week. She wore an old Ramones T-shirt over a pair of faded capri jeans and wobbled as she stood in the doorway. “You the makeup girl?”

It was Daphne Petty.

Her voice was slurred. Drunk. Lovely. “That’s me.” Kylie stood up and extended her hand. “My name is Kylie Daniels. It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Petty.”

Daphne looked her up and down. “You look like a fat Marilyn Monroe. Or Bettie Page. You know they don’t like big butts here in L.A.,” she mock-whispered. “Careful that my trainer doesn’t see you. He won’t let me eat anything but lettuce.” She dropped into a seat next to Kylie and pulled her sunglasses off, rubbing her face. “All right. I’m here.” She waved a hand in the air. “Make me beautiful.”

Kylie just stared. The once-lovely Daphne Petty was skeletally thin. Track marks lined up one arm and down the other, along with scars at her wrists from cutting. Her skin was blotchy and broken in a few spots, a bright red patch on the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were sunken and her color was extremely unhealthy.

She looked like hell.

And now, Kylie understood all the corporate-speak that Mr. Powers had given her. Daphne couldn’t fire her because she was a mess. And the label didn’t want a “look” for Daphne for her tour. They wanted Kylie to hide Daphne’s ill health. They wanted her to paint her up and make her look normal.

They didn’t need a cosmetologist—they needed a goddamn magician. Kylie gave Daphne a pitying look. Daphne, whose dilated eyes were glancing around the room but focusing on nothing. A magician, Kylie amended, or a miracle worker. She was neither, but she’d do what she could. She pulled out her airbrushing kit and plugged it in, then handed Daphne a face-cleansing wipe. “Once your face is clean, we’ll begin. Let’s start with a primer, shall we?”

—

An hour later, Daphne Petty’s thin face had been contoured to make her appear more robust. Her sharp cheekbones were disguised, her too-thin nose widened with a bit of shadowing, and then she’d pretty much airbrushed every possible inch of Daphne she could reach. The track marks on her arms were covered. The red spots on her face—dear lord, Kylie hoped they weren’t from meth—were concealed. Her eyes were artfully highlighted and emphasized to bring out their color, and Kylie picked out cheery, warm colors for her eyes and her mouth. When she was finished, she showed Daphne—who’d sat in a dazed high the entire time—the mirror.

At the sight of her face, Daphne had smiled and seemed to notice Kylie again. “Wow. I really like this. You do good work, Fat Marilyn.”

Wow. Was that nickname supposed to be a compliment? Kylie wasn’t sure. She snorted. “Thanks. I try.”

She gave Kylie a shrewd look. “So can I ask why you want this job? Touring is hard and brutal, and I’m going to be a raging bitch pretty much ninety percent of the time.”

“I like traveling,” Kylie lied. “I like seeing new places.”

“Bullshit,” Daphne said. “This is my fourth national tour, and I know the only thing you’re going to see is the back of the tour bus and my greenroom. So why not spit a little truth for me?”

Fair enough. “You’re high profile, and this’ll look good on my résumé.” Not entirely the truth again, but a little more mercenary.

That seemed to make Daphne happy. She touched the side of her nose in an aha moment and then pointed at Kylie. “Now I get you. All right, then,” Daphne said, getting to her feet. She seemed to be coming down off of whatever high she’d been on, and was almost normal. “I suppose I should get that fussy dick Powers and see what he thinks.” She winked at Kylie and gave a toss of her limp platinum hair.

And Kylie found herself smiling. When Daphne was playful like this, it was easy to see why she was so popular.

Daphne opened the door to the conference room and stuck her head out. “Powers, get your ass over here,” she bellowed down the hall, and Kylie winced. But Daphne’s method was effective. A moment later, Mr. Powers appeared in his stuffy little suit and took a look at Daphne. He eyed her critically, and then grabbed her chin and turned her face, checking it from the right and the left.

To Kylie’s surprise, Daphne was docile and stood for the humiliating treatment. When Powers grabbed one of Daphne’s arms and examined it, then peered into Daphne’s eyes, it reminded Kylie of someone purchasing a horse. Kylie couldn’t help but murmur, “Do you want to check her teeth, too?”

Daphne giggled.

Powers looked over at Kylie, his brows drawing together. “Did you do something to her teeth?”

“Inside joke,” Daphne said, and then held her skinny arms wide. “So what do you think?”

Powers looked over at Kylie, then back at Daphne, then back at Kylie again. “You’re hired. Send your salary demands to the personnel office.”

“You and me are gonna be great friends, Fat Marilyn,” Daphne announced, and then pulled out a flask.

Somehow, Fat Marilyn doubts that, Kylie thought to herself, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for Daphne, just a little. She had to be miserable as hell on the inside to be such a mess on the outside.

—

Once Kylie had accepted the offer, she was steered toward the Human Resources offices. There, she’d signed contracts and talked salary and all the nitty-gritty details of her job details that both Mr. Powers and Daphne were too important to go over. To Kylie’s surprise, no one batted an eye at her salary demands, just agreed and set a start date. The money was a sum that made her happy, even if it meant touring for the next four months. The fact that they paid her demand without haggling told her she’d have to earn every last penny, though.

—

Still pleased with her new employment, she packed up her gear and headed back out to the street. Instead of returning to her friend’s apartment, though, she took a cab to the outskirts of L.A., deep into the quiet suburbs. “Wait here,” she told the cab-driver. “I promise I won’t be more than twenty minutes.”

“The meter keeps running,” he told her.

Kylie didn’t have a car, so it wasn’t like she could argue over the price. “F...