Saving Face (A Glamorous Life Novel Book 3)

By Marley Gibson

Sophia “Phia” Lopez has lived a sheltered and over-protected life. First, growing up under the strict rule of her Cuban father in Miami, and then living with her equally stern brother in San Diego. At almost twenty-five, she feels like the world is passing her by.

And then, a chance of a lifetime! Phia is chosen to be the personal assistant and traveling companion for famous Hollywood actress, Loréal De Winter, who is sailing incognito aboard the luxury cruise ship The Viceroy following extensive plastic surgery. Not only will Phia, an aspiring actress, have the opportunity to learn from a true legend, but she’ll also be able to finally live life and all it has to offer on her terms - not under the watchful eyes of her brother and father. She plans to do plenty of dancing, drinking, and flirting.

The moment she steps aboard, she catches the eye of the sexy ship’s photographer, Evan Gregory, who is more than willing to match her flirt-for-flirt during their eighteen day cruise. The two spend a magical day on the beach in Cabo San Lucas, enjoy a heated night at the disco, and explore their mutual attraction to each other that leaves Phia’s head spinning.

But Phia’s also got her work cut out for her. Not only is Loréal on a cocktail of pills washed down by an assortment of liquors and wines, but she’s only too happy to share her life lessons and plenty of Hollywood dirt with Phia on a daily basis.

To make matters worse, Loréal’s ex-husband has hired undercover paparazzi on board the ship, attempting to snap embarrassing photos of the still-healing silver screen star that could end her big comeback. Will Loréal manage to give the paparazzi the slip or will she be exposed? Will Phia choose her loyalty to Loréal or her feelings for Evan? And, in the end, will everyone be able to save face?

Warning: contains adult situations and language, drug and alcohol references and sexual situations. 18+

This is the third book in the A Glamorous Life series consisting of: You Had Me at Merlot (Book 1), Head Over High Heels (Book 2), and All's Fair (Book 4 - coming soon!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cardinal Rules Press
• Release date: Jan 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311222923

Marley Gibson

MARLEY GIBSON is the author of all of the Ghost Huntress books, and co-wrote The Other Side with Patrick Burns and Dave Schrader. She lives in Savannah, GA, and can be found online at www.marleygibson.com or at her blog, www.booksboysbuzz.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Jesus Christ, I’m really doing this.

I breathe in the sea air letting the saltiness fill me with exhilaration for a new start and something I’ve never had. Freedom to do what I want.

Me... Sophia Lopez... I’m getting an extreme life makeover.

I shield my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sunshine bouncing off the office buildings that frame the magnificent view from the Unified Port of San Diego. I’ve been at a loss for words ever since I stepped foot onto the twenty story, eight hundred and fifty-ton mega cruise ship docked at the end of the terminal.

This will be my home for the next two and a half weeks. My escape from my sheltered existence. My opportunity to experience the tastes, sounds, and senses of a world I’ve only read about in books, on detailed websites, or in the movies I so love.

A sea bird floats by on the silent wind and glances at me as if to say bon voyage.

If he only knew.

A week ago, I was called into the office of G. Gulliver Delahunt the Third. He’s the CEO of Majesty Cruise Lines where I work as a lowly customer service representative, answering phone calls, fielding Twitter comments, and, most of all, logging irrational complaints. Out of all the Majesty employees, he chose me to accompany a well-known Hollywood diva traveling incognito on this eighteen-day journey through the Panama Canal, acting as her personal assistant, catering to her every need, and keeping any paparazzi away from her.

Why?

Because screen legend Loréal De Winter is recovering from some pretty extensive plastic surgery and needed to get out of Los Angeles to heal in private.

Why me?

Probably because I’m known in the office as the person most likely not to take shit off troublesome customers. That, and apparently her former assistant, Xack, sold his personal story to one of those tabloid television shows, talking about how old, flabby, and bitchy she was to everyone in her life. That left the door wide open for a personal assistant and travel companion.

Lucky me... I think.

Since you studied to be in the theater,—G. Gulliver Delahunt pronounced it like theee-ate-her—You know how to deal with those creative types.

The CEO also told me I had something called gumption, which I later Googled. It means shrewd or spirited initiative and resourcefulness. I suppose it’s a compliment.

The challenge wasn’t accepting the assignment. It was getting out from under my brother’s watchful eye and stringent rules. Since moving out to San Diego from Miami to attend UC San Diego six years ago, I’ve been living under Ricardo’s dictatorial decree. It’s not a cloistered life I lead living with my brother, his wife, and their two girls, but it’s as close to a nunnery as I can imagine. Even the involuntary vow of celibacy part, too. My family’s strong Cuban tradition dictates that a single girl cannot live without her parents or an older family member until she’s married. Cut to me letting out a big sigh at the outdatedness of my papi.

Up until this morning, when I boarded Majesty’s newest ship, The Viceroy, my life has been staid, predictable, routine... boring. No all-night drinking binges in college. No frat parties or tailgating. No slumber parties in the dorm with the girls or sneaking out late with boys. No hitting the strip of Garnet Avenue or downing Dogarittas from Moondoggies on PB—local slang for Pacific Beach—like a normal UC San Diego student. For me, it was straight to class and then back to the fortress of Casa Lopez high on the cliffs of La Jolla. Sure, I tried to sneak out a couple of times, but to what end? It’s like Ricardo has the senses of a bloodhound and always knew what I was up. I quit even trying. Now that I’ve been working for Majesty, it’s straight to work during the day and babysitting my nieces at night.

But since Ricardo’s been tied up with his duties as a resident at Kaiser Hospital, I’m able to slip away from the homestead to spread my wings and soar from the nest and other clichéd metaphors like that. Oh sure, Ricardo thinks I’m flying home to Miami for a seminar at Majesty’s east coast headquarters and staying with my sister, Fernanda, but what he doesn’t know is that I packed my belongings, took a cab here to the port, and am awaiting my date with destiny.

One that centers on the Hollywood diva I’ve admired for so long. I’m going to be her sole companion on this trip. To the tune of a fifty thousand dollar bonus.

Holy Mother of… everything!

It’s not the money, though. Sure, that’s amazing. But, more so, it’s the chance to experience life to the fullest. That’s all the riches I need. Okay, the dinero doesn’t suck.

What’s best for me is to explore this cruise for all it’s worth and do it at the right hand of Loréal De Winter Almighty. Imagine what I can learn from her?

Maybe we’ll bond. Maybe we’ll become best friends. Maybe she’ll think I’m so cool that she’ll want to take me back to Hollywood with her.

Maybe I need massive medication for my obvious delusions.

I gaze out at the water surrounding me and smile in spite of my pointless thoughts. Sea gulls continue to dip around me as I stand against the railing. I stretch my arms and soak up the atmosphere.

So this is what freedom feels like.

Just beyond the waterway is the open ocean. Mine to explore.

This is the chance of a lifetime. The opportunity to fly on my own. The occasion to rub elbows with Hollywood royalty. The prospect of finding something big out there that only I can do.

And somewhere out there now, in America’s Finest City, is Loréal De Winter, my ultimate idol, making her way to the VIP entrance of The Viceroy, set to sail at eight p.m. sharp.

My musings are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.

You must be Sophia Lopez, a female voice says. I’m Anna Fawcett, cruise director. Mr. Delahunt informed me that you’d be joining us on staff for this sailing. The petite platinum blonde stretches out a perfectly manicured, snow-white hand and secures my darker one in a complete cold fish handshake. Eww! It’s clear from the look in her eyes and the plastered-on grin that she isn’t pleased with my presence. I’m here to help out however is necessary, she says.

I bet you are.

I really have to watch my attitude. I’m not dealing with my opinionated brother or someone complaining that it rained during their cruise, so I don’t need to be defensive every time I meet someone. However, something about the woman standing before me says Beware of Dog and it seems like Ms. Fawcett is foraging for information on the ship’s VIP guest.

Everything’s under control, I say calmly.

The Royal Buckingham suite is ready for Ms. Mulkieran. Here is your all-access pass. Anna hands over a key card on a chain. This will allow you entrance throughout the ship, save the bridge. That’s only accessible by the captain and his crew.

Mulkieran is the name Loréal De Winter is traveling under. Since I’m a fan-girl—and because Delahunt told me—I know Mulkieran is Loréal’s real last name. Born Lori-Allison Mulkieran in Paducah, Kentucky, she took the stage name Loréal De Winter from two sources, according to an interview in Us magazine several years ago. First, upon arriving in Hollywood at the ripe age of sixteen, Lori-Allison had spent the first two hours in a gas station bathroom with a box of L’Oréal Blonde hair dye, coloring her mousy-brown tresses to a standout Marilyn-like shade. Second, the movie on her plane had been an old classic of Hitchcock’s, Rebecca, so Loréal took her new last name from the stunning lead character. Her makeover was complete.

Not really, I think, as the cruise director babbles on about room service, spa treatments and the twenty four-hour concierge. Loréal De Winter is apparently still making herself over today. With some help from a plastic surgeon.

Thanks for your help, Anna, but I know this ship inside out from all the marketing materials I’ve read. I stand tall and suck in my stomach, wanting to appear more mature than my two-dozen years. Anna has at least ten years on me, but I want to show her that this is my gig.

She takes the hint. We all know Mr. Delahunt was very specific with his instructions, so I won’t get in the way.

Yeah, like, Don’t tell anyone anything. No one on this ship, other than me, really knows that this elusive Ms. Mulkieran is actually the Loréal De Winter. It’s a top secret mission. Okay, so I told my sister, Fernanda, about it, but it’s only because she’s covering for my ass in case Ricardo or Papi start looking for me.

I’ll be sure to call on you, if needed. I wrap the beaded cord from Anna around my neck so the access card dangles like a necklace. I’m wearing my blue Majesty uniform with the ridiculous girly scarf around my neck, as per regulations, but I packed shorts, tees, tanks, and my best casual slacks and blouses. I also brought my nicest going-to-Mass dress in case I get to venture out on the ship one night.

Before leaving, Anna turns to me and says, There’s a pre-cruise orientation in the Purser’s lobby if you’d like to join. It’s for customer service reps, cruise director’s staff, photographers, and concierge specialists. It’s not for servers or room stewards.

Anna Fawcett looks me over like I should be part of the housekeeping staff, which I know to be made up primarily of Hispanics, Africans, and Asians. Majesty takes cheap labor where they can get it and sadly the lower paying jobs are often filled by people from Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Caribbean islands. These are folks who work twelve hours on/twelve hours off for nine straight months so they can send what little money they make home to their families.

I toss my long black hair over my shoulder and nod confidently. I’m totally fortunate and I know it. Even though I carp a lot about my family, I’ve always had a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back. And I don’t have to take a minimum wage job spraying Evian on rich snots to make ends meet.

No, I just sold out for the chance to hobnob with a super star.

I shake off the thoughts and move along with the cruise director. Maybe I’ll come for a little bit, I say. But I want to be at the VIP entrance when my guest arrives.

The cruise director ushers me down the hallway into the glass atrium Purser’s lobby. Staff members ranging in age from nineteen to late forties gather around the marbled desk, chatting amongst themselves.

I work my way through the crowd of people dressed in their Majesty uniforms, and prop my elbow on top of the ivory baby grand piano. I gnaw on my thumbnail as my eyes slice over the crowd of personnel from The Viceroy.

I notice the tall, tan guy behind the dive desk who is putting out brochures and information on shore excursions. He certainly looks tasty. Not my type, though. Too muscular. Too blond.

I continue checking out the other guys gathered around. A tall black guy reminds me of supermodel Tyson Beckford, so I smile. I wonder if I have it in me to really flirt with any of these guys. Hell, more than flirt. I’m downright ready to get laid and get it over with.

A virgin out of Catholic high school is one thing. A virgin out of college is depressing. A virgin at nearly twenty-five is simply pathetic. I want to know what the big deal is and what everyone brags about on talk shows and discusses with their girlfriends over complicated cocktails.

No harm indulging in some eye candy while I look after Loréal De Winter. After all, the woman is recovering from major surgery. How difficult will she be to handle? How much will I have to do? Maybe there’ll be time to check out the staff rec room or maybe lie out on deck in my new string bikini or go dancing in the ship’s disco while the diva sleeps her trip away.

Maybe some millionaire will be taken with my dark, exotic looks, I think with a laugh, and will want to sweep me away from my sedated life. Perhaps one of the sexy Latino servers will see me as a woman of mystery and will want to have a torrid affair.

I snort at my musings. At least I have an imagination, I mutter under my breath.

What was that? a male voice asks.

I whip around and feel my cheeks heat up as I nearly bump into the guy’s chest. Oh, nothing... err, just noting the décor. Fascinating.

Smooth going, Phia.

You’re a first timer, he says more than asks.

Does it show?

Well, the staff is grouped into cliques and you’re over here by yourself. A British accent rolls easily from his tongue.

I glance up into the fashionably-stubbled face of the man speaking to me. Man... hardly. Boy. Okay, not a boy, but definitely someone close to my age. Taking inventory, I note full lips, dark, hypnotic eyes, and gel-styled black hair. The Hawaiian print shirt and casual Friday khakis have got to go, though. How did this tourist get on board so early?

He shifts a large camera from his right to left hand and extends the empty one toward me. Evan Gregory. Ship’s photographer. First timer, too. Just got hired two days ago.

Oh, okay... he works here.

I raise an inquisitive eyebrow at the hunky guy and wonder why he chose to speak to me over the redheaded beauty a few feet away.

Upon close inspection, Evan Gregory is quite magnífico. A small mole adorns his left cheek, a beauty mark, really. His black hair stands on end, stylishly messy and looking like he’s just rolled out of bed. The mental image makes my chest burn.

I wipe my hand on my uniform and then offer it in return. Sophia Lopez. But my friends call me Phia.

He smiles, a devilish grin, and captures my hand in his. I’d like to be your friend, Phia, he says boldly.

What a tease!

And that accent. It makes my knees knock together and my stomach roil in excitement just like the last time that my favorite team, the Miami Tarpons, made it to the Super Bowl.

I need as many friends as I can get, I say, glancing around. Looks like a long trip. I’m sure it can get boring and lonely out on the great big ocean.

Evan furrows his brows, a crease appearing between his dark eyes, and he gazes directly into my face. I’m sure we’ll manage just fine, luv. Plenty of onboard activities. Even for staff.

I treat him to a wide grin, wondering if I’m reading his innuendos correctly. I am a bit green at whole boy-girl flirtation thing. I’m hoping to have a lot of free time on my hands.

He places the camera behind me on the piano top and leans in closer. Me too.

I can smell the faint scent of tobacco on his skin, coupled with a spicy, earthy cologne. When was the last time I was this close to the opposite sex? Well, a non-related member of the opposite sex. Not in a long-damn time. I angle toward him, hoping my body language sings out in an I’m-attracted-to-you-and-I-don’t-care-if-you-know-it kind of way.

What did you have in mind? I ask, feeling brave.

His dark lashes lower momentarily, then his eyes sync with mine. I’ve heard about this great place in Cabo San Lucas. Los Arcos. Rock arches where the waters of the Gulf meet the Pacific. Quite gorgeous, I’m told.

Huh? I’m thinking of more carnal experimentations when all this guy wants to do is go rock climbing? Are men really this dense? In movies, they always take the bait. Or do I merely not know what I’m doing? Here I’m envisioning the two of us doing the horizontal hokey-pokey and he’s acting like he wants to sell me an off-shore excursion.

Olvídese de él. Forget about it.

I have to remember why I’m here. For Loréal. To help and protect her. This roguishly handsome British guy will have to wait in the wings for the time being. Or at least until he can come up with a better line than let’s go rock climbing.

Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

We’ll have to see, Evan, I say with a smile. No use telling him to piss off. Definite potential.

Anna, the cruise director, taps on the mahogany front desk and announces the meeting will start in five minutes.

I steal one more glance at Evan Gregory. The loudly-colored staff shirt stretches across his broad shoulders. From what I can make out of his finely-toned ass in those khakis, he looks to have a body for sin. I really need to not stare.

The room starts to come to order for the meeting, so I ask in a hushed tone, So, being the ship’s photographer, I bet you get hit on a lot by the moneyed women onboard.

Seeing how this is my first official cruise, I’ll have to get back to you on that one, he says with a mocking undertone, his voice lifting and dropping as his British accent curls around the words.

You do that. I’ll be around.

I’ll keep my eyes peeled for you, luv.

I like this new me and I like playing the role of temptress. Just so you know, I’m no pushover. I can be a real spit-fire.

Where I come from, a spit-fire’s an airplane, he says with another fantastically bright smile that makes my insides ache and weep all at the same time. With a tiny cockpit.

Now you don’t think I’m the kind of girl who likes tiny cockpits, do you?

Where did that come from?

Evan’s brows lift high on his forehead and he chuckles, a slow, churning laugh originating from his gut. You win this round, Phia Lopez.

Pulse racing, I check my watch and realize I might be late for meeting Loréal. I don’t need this orientation anyway. Anna begins going through her check list, so I slip away to hustle back to my post on the VIP gangway. Thoughts of Evan Gregory and his chocolate eyes will have to wait.

I know my duty and my purpose.

As I walk through the corridor, I laugh to myself. Okay, so I can flirt, after all. Guess I learned well from all of those hours watching my DVDs of Sex and the City. I’m a bit of a combination of all four characters: Miranda’s sarcasm, Charlotte’s prim and proper lifestyle, Carrie’s drive and determination, and Samantha’s dirty little mind.

However, for the next two weeks, I can be anyone I want.

And I will be. First though, I have to make sure Loréal De Winter is ensconced safely in the Royal Buckingham suite and away from the curious eyes of passengers and employees alike.

When I arrive at the VIP entrance, I see two cruise personnel taking credentials from passengers as they board the luxury ocean liner. While everyone who sails on The Viceroy is a VIP in their own right merely because of the exorbitant price they pay for the voyage, some VIPs are more VIP-y than others.

Stanley Sturkey, a fat, sweaty man announces as he steps into the red-carpeted foyer. The Stanley Sturkey.

Yes, Mr. Sturkey, the female employee says. Welcome aboard. We’re honored to have you with us.

I feign a smile and stand back to let the older man pass. His name sounds familiar, but I can’t place the face, which at this moment is flushed from the late afternoon San Diego heat. Sturkey barrels his way into the corridor with two pursers in tow carrying his stash of luggage. A large Canon camera hangs from his meaty neck, swinging from side to side as he bumbles down the corridor.

Who was that? I ask the girl.

Stanley Sturkey. He used to be some big-shot photojournalist. Won the Pulitzer back during the first Gulf War or something.

And he rates a back door entrance?

Well, he paid the VIP rate, the girl explains. It’s kind of pathetic, too, since he’s a real nobody now. Works for The Worldwide Star News. That’s nothing but a gossip rag.

My senses kick into overdrive. The Worldwide Star News always stares at me when I’m checking out at the grocery store. It isn’t just a gossip rag; it’s the place to go for Hollywood dirt—that tends to be quite accurate—on all the stars.

What’s he doing here?

Does he know Loréal is going to be onboard? Is he out to ruin her career by trying to get pictures of the diva mending from surgery?

May I see the list, please? I ask. I trail my finger down the names and quickly memorize Sturkey’s cabin number. 1505. One level down from Loréal’s suite. What are you up to, Stanley? I mutter.

What’s that? my fellow crewmember asks.

Oh, nothing. Just want to make sure Mr. Sturkey’s stay is a pleasant one. If it’s my job—one I’m being paid handsomely for—to protect Loréal from the press, then I’ll have to keep an eye on Sturkey, as well. Make sure there are plenty of activities for him to get involved in. Keep him busy and away from Loréal.

Suddenly, I spot a long, black, stretch limo at the base of the gangway and my pulse kicks into overdrive. The tall chauffeur steps out and is met by two of the luggage handlers from Majesty Cruise Lines. They pile expensive tan and gold Louis Vuitton cases, bags, and luggage onto two carts. Then, the driver comes around to the near side, opens the door, and holds his hand out to assist the passenger.

I hold my breath in anticipation.

Is it her?

My heartbeat accelerates to breakneck speed as I watch the slender figure emerge from the back of the limo. The woman is shrouded from head-to-toe in what appears to be a traditional Muslim abaya, complete with scarf and niqab that covers her face. Her eyes are hidden with dark sunglasses and the only skin that shows is her smooth forehead and the delicate, pale hand that reaches toward the driver.

He escorts her up the gangplank and announces, Ms. Mulkieran.

It is her!

I steady my nerves and excitement when all I really want to do is burst into fan mode. In front of me, hidden beneath yards and yards of black fabric, stands my idol. A star of the greatest caliber. A Hollywood diva in her own right. Loréal De Winter!

Smoothing my hair back behind my ears and twisting the binding scarf over to the side of my neck, I wipe my sweaty palms down the side of my pants and step forward.

Ms. Mulkieran, welcome aboard. I’m Phia Lopez, your personal assistant for the cruise. May I escort you to your room?

Wow, that came out really strong and confident. I just wish my stomach would quit rolling like the mighty ocean. My lungs feel tight, as though I have no air left in them, and my heart continues to pound out of control.

The cloaked figurine nods her head and the driver bows slightly as he passes her off to me.

Right this way, ma’am, I say, wondering if I should touch the screen goddess on the arm and guide her down the corridor. Can she even see where she’s going with those midnight black glasses on?

Loréal doesn’t speak a word, but obediently follows me down the ornate hallway leading to the largest, grandest accommodations on the ship. At the door, I slip my access card into the electronic lock and wait for the green light to flash.

I hold the door while Loréal steps into the palatial suite. I follow her inside. Your cabin, ma’am.

Shut the door and lock it, her muffled voice says.

I do as I’m told, and then move deeper into the suite. There will be time later to take in the architectural beauty of the room and awe-inspiring views. Right now, I marvel at the figure before me and try not to hyperventilate like some stupid groupie.

Ma’am, if you’d like—

She holds up a hand to stop me. Do not ever call me ‘ma’am’ again, do you understand me?

Yes ma—I mean, yes. I clear my throat. Ms. De Winter, let me just say what an honor it is—

She slams down her purse on the nearby chair. Oh Jesus. The cruise line didn’t give me a fan, did they? Because I really can’t take that for two weeks. Her voice is smoky and deep, like she has imbibed on many a glass of fine scotch whiskey. It’s the voice of the scared heroine from Darkest Night, and the brave mother in For the Children, and the bold temptress in Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid.

I’ve seen them all, over and over. I can recite the lines.

But I won’t right now. I’ll rein in my fan’s dream of meeting the person I admire most. The person I put up on a pedestal. The person I so long to be.

I admire your work, yes, I state firmly, but confidently. However, I’m here to assist during your stay on The Viceroy and nothing else.

Loréal begins shedding the heavy abaya cloak, still keeping her face covered. She turns toward the gargantuan-sized fruit basket with pink carnations that adorns the living room’s glass coffee table and lets out a distinctive groan of disapproval.

Fucking fruit. Like I need the sugars. Barking in my direction, Loréal says, See who it’s from. Make sure there are no hidden cameras in there.

I stifle a laugh, but go straight to the basket. I tug on the white card and read aloud. To my darling star, enjoy the sea air and I’ll see you upon your return. We’ll count the millions together, Irving.

Who the hell is Irving?

As if Loréal reads my mind, she turns, her green orbs slicing over the top of