Starstruck Read Online Free Page B

figures. Where else? You want a drink or something?”
    Amanda smoothed her skirt down the sleek curve of her hips. “I just really have to talk to Olive.”
    “Suit yourself.” Lucy turned back to her companion as Amanda walked away. “A nice girl, that Ginger. I just hope she’s not in any
trouble.…
”
    The office was at the top of the curving staircase, tucked away in a complicated warren of rooms Amanda thought of as Olive’s secret hideout. Unlike the rest of the house, which was a riot of feathers and fountains and gilt-covered statues, Olive’s private rooms were tastefully furnished: heavy Oriental rugs, moss-green taffeta curtains hung everywhere to muffle the sounds of revelry from below.
    But the most tasteful decoration by far was Olive herself, sitting at an antique mahogany desk, her honey-colored head diligently bent over a stack of leather-bound ledgers. “Amanda, dear!” She looked up with a pearly smile. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
    “You got a …” Amanda stopped herself. Olive was terribly strict about elocution, insisting that all of her girls speak as correctly as she did. “Do you have a moment?”
    “Of course, dear. Come right in.” Olive beckoned her with a brisk nod. “Would you like a sherry? I’m having one.”
    “Sure.”
What the hell
. With what she had to say, they were both going to need one.
    Olive rose to pour the sherry. Amanda couldn’t help smiling at the way the older woman was dressed. Her impeccably tailored black suit and spotless white blouse with the knife-edgepleats at the collar and cuffs had almost certainly come straight from Madame Chanel in Paris. The creamy pearls at her ears and throat were undoubtedly the South Sea’s finest, as was the little gold-and-pearl pin she always wore fastened to the shoulder of her jacket. Olive had far more lavish jewels, but Amanda had always loved that pin. It was so sweet, so understated, so
classy
. If she ever had enough money to spare, she was going to buy one just like it.
    There was only one conspicuous flaw in Olive’s appearance: the thin red scar running down the right side of her face. She always kept it carefully powdered and camouflaged beneath the neatly marcelled waves of her hair. It was the only part of Olive’s appearance that hinted at a life more colorful than that of your average society matron, let alone a woman of Olive’s profession.
    But Olive’s views on her “profession” were hardly typical. For one thing, she hated the word
madam
, preferring instead the far more genteel term of
concierge
. When a traditional concierge’s client required flowers, the concierge contacted a florist. When the client wanted to go to the theater, the concierge procured tickets. Olive’s clients required beautiful girls to go out with them, keep them company, and not ask for much in return, so that was what she provided. Anything that might happen next was solely at the girl’s own discretion. Naturally, some of the girl’s were a bit more … 
eager
than others, but the ones who had been around for a while knew you didn’t have to try too hard to make a man happy. Amanda had become particularly adept at doing the bare minimum. For the vast majority of Olive’s clients, just being seen in public with a girl as gorgeous as “Ginger” was enough. Her beloved Packardconvertible hadn’t cost her more than a few kisses and a caress or two in the back of a limousine. It was just as Olive had told her the night they’d met, three years ago, when she’d found the fifteen-year-old Amanda begging in the rain on Hollywood Boulevard, hoping to get enough for a flea-infested room and a hot bowl of soup:
It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do. If you want to get anywhere in life, you always leave them wanting more
.
    “Well?” Olive handed Amanda a tiny crystal glass filled with amber liquid. “What do you need to speak with me about?”
    Courage
, Amanda thought, swallowing her