Page 130 of Bishop's Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The fabric was too red, the waist was too tight, and the V-neck dropped way too low between her breasts. Ella couldn’t stop cringing at the mirror in the hotel room suite, and Tara couldn’t stop beaming. The Capri Awards were tonight and packed serious star power. A little bit of Hollywood, the who’s who of television, and Tara was in her element.

“What is with your face? You’re never this blotchy.” Tara grabbed powder that the makeup artist had left. “She had to airbrush you to hell and back. You do know that, right?”

“Obviously, I know that.” Ella tried not to sound as though she had cried all night while sucking down mint tea to counteract the effects of love-torn devastation.

Tara and the makeup girl had spent an easy ten minutes analyzing her puffy, bloodshot eyes before coming up with acourse of action. Who knew makeup needed such things?

Tara pressed her hands together and rubbed them back and forth, sizing up Ella. “Everything about this dress is perfect. Do you know how hard it was to get this thing? It’s going to photograph perfectly. Your curves are va-va-voom—”

“I hate—”

“Blah, blah, blah. I get it, I get it. But the boho chic does nothing for you in the big leagues. Black tie, not beach-and-bonfire. Trust me, this is the look you need.”

“I trust you.” But did she? Should Tara have been the voice of reason and reminded her to stay on point with Bishop’s rules?No. Tara had never been the voice of reason, and Ella was responsible for her own decisions on whether to post live or not. Plus, Tara knew clothes and red carpets.

“Of course you do. This is what you pay me to do. You’ll easily be on every best-dressed list. This isMalia Sava.”

Designers were not her thing. “Wheeeee…”

“Your stories get more coverage ifyouget more coverage.” Tara repeated the mantra that Ella had come to know during award-show season. “Think about how this dress will look when you’re holding a Capri.”

A mantle full of awards didn’t get Ella that excited. “I can get coverage without my boobs being on display.”

“Ehhh. I don’t know.” Tara put her hands on her hips as though she were scolding Ella. “You’ve got some killer tits, and there’s nothing I like more than a dress that sayscover me.”

Ella knew she didn’t mean that in the literal sense. She meant press coverage. “Understood.”

The door opened, and in walked Bishop, ripping into a piece of beef jerky.That asshole. Ella swallowed a gag. Gone was the fresh heartache that made her want to cry again. That was how he walked in here? Screw him. His message was sent to her loud and clear. She’d cried all night for no reason. Clearly, she had fallen in love with a jackass.

Tara continued her lecture. “It’s sexy. Sex sells. I sell you. See how that works?”

Bishop stopped, mid-rip into the jerky. That face said it all. The dress wassexy. Soon as he kicked back into gear, he managed to look everywhere around the room and also straight at her simultaneously.

Served him right, and suddenly Ellalovedthis dress. The jerky still made her want to puke, but she would own it if it made him act like that—and she hoped it hurt. Oh God, now the tears wanted to come back.No. Ella wouldn’t let that happen again, and she sucked down a long breath.

“Monkey suit looks good on you,” Tara said without turning. “What is going on with you, Ella? More powder…”

Tara was right about the blotchy spots on her cheeks and about Bishop in a tux. Locke wore his well too. Both men were big, broad, and built to wear custom-tailored fits. Battling head to head with half the people walking the rope line and red carpet tonight, Locke and Bishop would easily blow the competition away. And she would have to ignore it all.Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“What do you think?” Tara nonchalantly asked Bishop. “On a scale from one to can’t-keep-your-hands-off-her, where’s our girl land?”

Ella gasped. “Tara!”

Bishop cleared his throat, walked straight into the hotel room’s kitchenette, and got a glass of water as she stared a hole into her publicist’s face.

“Don’t say that,” Ella whispered, feeling embarrassed heat spring all the way to the top of her ears.

Tara grumbled. “See, that proves my point. Red-blooded male. You’re hot, but this dress makes you on fire.”

“You have no idea. That look has nothing to do with the dress.” The blotchiness was back tenfold, and as Tara reached for the makeup again, Ella didn’t think this night could get much worse.

Bishop had been in the room for all of one minute, and she was dying inside as much as she wanted to walk over and throw herself into his arms—to explain and to punch him in the chest. But instead, she took Tara’s offered hand and slipped into the heels that awaited her.

“Perfect,” Tara crooned. “Now those shoes turn your butt into a booty.”

Bishop choked on his water and slammed the glass into the sink. Ella remained as silent as the wind rolling off a bay.

---