Final Destination: Looks Could Kill Read online

  ONE

  The receptionist, who was sitting behind the front desk of Pier Merlot, barely glanced up from her computer screen as one of the most beautiful women on the face of the planet exited the elevator and hurried into the agency's richly appointed foyer. Then again, the coming and going of the most beautiful people on earth was a daily occurrence there.

  "She's waiting for you," was all that the receptionist said in way of acknowledgement of the other woman's arrival.

  Sherry nodded her tawny-haired head in understanding. She tightened her grip on the Gucci garment bag, which was draped over one lithe shoulder, as she breezed past the front desk with the same long-legged, purposeful stride that had propelled her to rave reviews on the Paris catwalks. She pushed open the frosted glass double doors that led into the belly of one of New York City's most prestigious modeling agencies, and headed straight to the only office, out of the dozens filling the entire fortieth floor, that really mattered.

  Merlot was sitting behind her desk, as always, a lit cigarette fitted into her trademark ebony holder, as she went over stacks of proofs with a jeweler's loop. Her boy-toy-in-residence of the moment, Carlo, was also on hand, lounging near the well-stocked wet bar.

  Merlot had once been a model herself, in the days before Twiggy. In her early sixties, she was still an amazing beauty, thanks to good bone structure and decades of carefully applied plastic surgery. It also helped that the five-foot nine former model still maintained her fighting weight of one hundred and ten pounds, despite not having set foot in front of a camera in a professional capacity since 1975.

  But perhaps Merlot's most impressive attribute was the self-confidence that she carried about her like a Derringer tucked away in her evening bag. Whether swanning about with European royalty in the gaming houses of Monte Carlo, or whooping it up with wild-eyed beatniks in the Village, she had always managed to maintain a sense of sophisticated style that was beyond reproach. Merlot could remain elegantly dressed in waders whilst tied to a tree during the middle of a hurricane.

  The former model looked up from her work as the younger woman entered the room. "Sherry, my precious. Finally. I was wondering when you would get here."

  "I'm sorry, Merlot," Sherry said, leaning down to air-kiss her agent's proffered cheek. "There was a delay at Orly. I only just arrived at Kennedy. I had the limo driver take me straight here. I haven't even been home yet.”

  “Darling, the phones have been ringing off the hook. Your catwalk debut at Haute Couture has been the talk of the trade! You would not believe the photographers who want to book you. I have Vogue Italia, Elle and Marie Claire all clamoring to use you for their upcoming editorials. By this time next year, my dear, you'll have Prada, Gucci and Estée Lauder all eating from that lovely little palm of yours. Mark my words.”

  "That is very good news for the signora, yes?” Carlo said, beaming a hundred-watt smile in Sherry's direction.

  "Less talky-talky and more drinky-drinky, if you please, darling,” Merlot said curtly.

  Carlo's smile quickly folded in on itself, and he bowed his head as he moved over to the wet bar and began fixing his mistress a highball.

  "Now that I have you back on terra firma, such as it is,” Merlot said, scrawling a street address on a piece of paper. "I need you to go to this shoot. The entire Cellar is being featured in Harper's Bazaar."

  Sherry scowled at the paper. "Today? But I just flew in from Paris.”

  "The editor asked for you for the cover, dear heart," Merlot said with a shrug. “But I understand if you're too tired. I explained that you were in transit, so she said she would take Rose as a substitute.”

  "I'll go," Sherry stuffed the address into the hip pocket of her Calvins. “Who's the photographer?"

  "That's my little soldier," Merlot said with a sly smile. "And Gunter's doing the shooting.”

  Sherry groaned, rolling her eyes. "It keeps getting better.”

  Merlot gave a small laugh. “Once you get to know him, Gunter's an absolute pussy cat. Although I don't know if I should be mad at him or not for knocking up one of my best girls. Now, shoo! I'll call ahead and let hair and make-up know you're on the way!"

  ***

  As she left the skyscraper that housed the modeling agency and climbed into the back of the waiting limo, Sherry handed the paper with the shoot's address to the driver. As the car pulled away from the curb, she sighed and allowed herself to slump against the seat.

  At nineteen years of age, Sherry could not remember a time when she was not shuttling between one shoot and another. The last five years of her life were little more than a blur of cab rides to and from airports or local shoots. It didn't matter if the location was Aruba, Paris, Milan, or Brooklyn, the streets all looked the same after a while. Jet lag and persistent hunger were her constant companions-along with the little vial of white powder she used to perk herself up and dull her appetite.

  She reached inside her Vuitton handbag the moment the thought crossed her mind and dipped her finger into the cocaine. The ride was too short and too bumpy to snort, so she had to be satisfied with rubbing it directly onto her gums She grimaced at the taste and glanced up to see the driver watching her in the rear-view mirror. She met his eyes for a moment and he quickly averted his gaze. As far as she was concerned, doing drugs in front of a limo driver was about as embarrassing as having sex in front of a house cat.

  There was a time, back before Merlot's scouts discovered her when she was modeling swimsuits at the local mall's summer fashion preview, out in the wilds of Eastern Pennsylvania, when that would not have been the case. That was back when she still was called by the name her parents had given her, not the one Merlot had chosen for her. But it was not before she sued for the right to be an emancipated minor, in order to move to New York to pursue her career full-time.

  In many ways, it was like the fifteen years she had spent growing up in Allentown had never happened. As far as she was concerned, she had only been truly alive since she stepped off the train onto the platform at Grand Central four years ago.

  The shoot was in a former industrial warehouse along the East River, which had been converted into trendy loft space. One side of the huge open area was full of lighting and camera gear, with rolls of backdrop suspended from the ceiling. Make-up and wardrobe stations filled the other side. The moment Sherry entered the building she could hear the telltale sound of handheld blow dryers that signaled an active fashion shoot.

  Justinian, Sherry's regular make-up artist, scurried forward the moment he caught sight of her. “There you are. Thank God you're finally here. I thought I was going to have to end up working on Rose. And you know I simply can not stand that bitch."

  "I'm sure you say that to all the girls," Sherry said with a small laugh.

  "Well, you're right about that, sugar," Justinian giggled. "But this time it happens to be the truth. Now, let's get you in the chair."

  "Sherry."

  She turned in the direction of the voice and was greeted with a hug by a radiantly beautiful woman with chestnut-colored, shoulder-length hair, dressed in a pair of black velvet maternity pants, and a loose-fitting black and white bamboo print Chloe halter blouse. Although the figure was nowhere near the same, the face was still that of Seventeen's Cover Girl of the Year for 1997, and Sherry's best friend and fellow top model, Cabernet.

  "Cabby! Merlot said you'd be here. Let me look at you." She held her friend at arm's length, her gaze automatically dropping to the other model's gently swelling midsection. “You look magnificent.”

  "I feel like a puke factory," the older girl said with a laugh. "Not that throwing up after every meal
is anything new, right? But this time I'm doing it whether I intend to or not. We'll catch up after the shoot, okay? I have to run to wardrobe. I'm modeling the new Lagerfeld maternity line. But I want to hear all about Paris.”

  The moment Sherry took her seat at the makeup station, a tall, statuesque redhead, with eyes the color of emeralds and skin like a Dresden doll, plopped down in the chair beside her.

  "Have you seen how fat Cabby's become?" the redhead said, by way of greeting.

  "She's not fat, Rose,” Sherry said with a sigh. "She's pregnant. There's a difference."

  Chardonnay, a leggy blonde with short-cropped hair, sitting opposite to Sherry, leaned over and rested her hand atop her arm. "I think it's wonderful that Cabby's decided to take time off to focus on raising her child."

  "Yes. How wonderful for her," Rose sniffed. "I'm sure she'll get plenty of work from Lane Bryant once she's ready to come back."

  "At least she's undergoing a natural transformation." This came from Chardonnay, the platinum blonde.

  "What are you suggesting?" Rose snapped, turning to glower at the eighteen year-old model.

  "Nothing," Chardonnay said with a shrug of her perfectly rounded shoulders. "But if Michael Jackson's nose fits, wear it."

  Rose's cheeks developed twin blotches of an unbecoming red, and the young model jumped to her feet and stormed off.

  “I'd say 'me-yow', but you're much too bitchy to be catty." Justinian said with a laugh.

  "She can dish it out, but she can't take it," Shiraz snorted as her own make-up artist put the finishing touches on her mocha-colored flesh. "You can't be thin-skinned in this business, no matter how flawless it might be."

  "Rose is just pissed that you made the shoot," Chablis said with a dry laugh. "She was bragging about getting the cover because you had fucked up and missed your flight."

  Chardonnay leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. She put her hand atop Sherry's once more as she spoke, but this time the touch lingered longer than before. "That's not the only thing she was trying to steal from you while you were gone."

  "What do you mean, Chard?"

  "Just that the dog will play while the cat's away.”

  Before Sherry could ask her friend any further questions, the other model quickly removed her hand and turned her face away from her. Sherry felt a familiar hand rest on her shoulder.

  "Hey, babe. I missed you." Brut, Pier Merlot's star male model, leaned in and kissed the air besides Sherry's cheek with his trademark bee-stung lips.

  "Is that why you didn't call me the whole time I was in Paris?" she replied.

  If her tone concerned Brut, it could not be seen in his sparkling blue eyes.

  "I tried calling you on your cell, but I couldn't get through,” Brut said with a toss of his surfer boy locks. “And the one time I called the hotel, they said you were out at some shoot with a photographer from Paris Match.”

  Sherry studied his smiling, boyish features for a long moment, but was not up to the task of trying to divine the truth. It all sounded plausible enough to be true and that was good enough for the moment. She was too tired to do anything more than focus on the job at hand.

  Justinian was putting the final touches on her make-up when there was sudden buzz of activity and Merlot suddenly appeared in Sherry's mirror.

  "Good afternoon, my lovelies. As always, it is a delight to see you all. And that goes doubly for you too, my dear,” Merlot said, smiling affectionately at Cabernet. The older woman patted the model's swollen belly. “I'm glad to see our little mother is positively glowing. I'm already pitching your bundle of joy for Baby Dior, by the way.”

  "You'll do no such thing to my child-unless I'm the one doing the shoot."

  This comment came from one of the photographers, who had stopped taking pictures and come over to see what was going on. Merlot rarely left the office to visit locations, unless they involved balmy skies and sandy beaches.

  "What is it? I'm very busy here."

  "I see impending fatherhood has done nothing to mellow your temperament, Gunter."

  “Californians are mellow," the German replied with a snort of disgust. "I am not American, much less a verdant Californian."

  "Well, if you must know, I have news so wonderful I had to come right over and tell you all about it. I just got off the phone with Roma Fragrance in Italy. They're launching a new, youth-oriented perfume line next year, called Fellini, and they want to use all of you in the upcoming campaign. But most importantly, they especially want you, Sherry, as their lead spokesmodel.”

  Sherry's jaw dropped, despite her best attempt to look nonchalant. "Oh-my-God."

  "I'm so happy for you!” Cabernet squealed, throwing her arms around her friend and hugging her as tightly as her condition allowed.

  "Let me continue, please," Merlot said above the sudden swell of excited chatter from the gathered models. "To celebrate, I've decided to host a party! How does a Caribbean cruise sound?”

  Chardonnay, Chablis, Shiraz, Cabernet, Sherry and Rose responded by clasping hands and hopping up and down, squealing like a squadron of cheerleaders who have just been informed they were going to State.

  Merlot pulled Sherry aside and smiled as she brushed a stray lock of brownish-blonde hair from the young girl's flawless brow. "This is just the start, my dear. You have a wondrous life ahead of you. And while your face may not as yet launched a thousand ships, it will at least have an ocean liner to its credit.”

  TWO

  "That's it?" Sherry asked uncertainly, as she peered out of the back of the taxi. She was still wearing the clothes she had on from New York: a two-tone, pink and red, block print cardigan over a gray tank, with a rosy-toned, floral print, A-line skirt with diagonal stripes at the hem-all from Marc Jacobs--along with a pink jade bracelet from Valentino.

  "You say Pier Thirteen, Miami harbor. I take you Pier Thirteen," the driver said in heavily accented English, speaking over the Latin music pouring from his stereo.

  "That's the address Merlot gave us," Brut replied, studying the engraved invitation in the shape of a dolphin, which he and over one hundred other guests had been issued with.

  "I was just expecting something bigger, you know?” Sherry said with a sigh.

  Compared to the massive cruise ships anchored alongside the other docks, the Coral Clipper, with its four decks, dining room, onboard casino and seventy-five staterooms, seemed as small as the cigarette boat she could see buzzing back and forth across the harbor.

  "Granted, she's not the Queen Mary, but we're only going on an overnight cruise to Key West and back," Brut shrugged. He was dressed in a pair of faded gray Polo jeans, a pale blue Calvin Klein shirt, a navy blue silk Dolce & Gabbana blazer, which was already proving far too warm for Florida, and a platinum Panerai wristwatch.

  As Sherry looked back out the window in the direction of the cruise ship, she saw another taxi pull up behind them. "This is definitely the place. Cabby and Gunter just arrived."

  Sherry hopped out of the cab and hurried to greet her friend, leaving Brut to pay the driver.

  "Cabby, Gunter. I'm so glad you decided to make it.”

  "Well, being seasick can't be any worse than what I'm already going through each morning," Cabernet said with a tight smile as her lover helped her out of the taxi.

  Although she was just beginning to show, she was wearing a royal purple Dosa slip with an embroidered floral hem over a pair of Citizens of Humanity denim maternity jeans, and a pair of Marc Jacobs flats. "Besides, once the baby comes, we're not going to have the time for little pleasure jaunts like we used to."

  "Ja. Better network now while we still can," Gunter said with a wry half-smile.

  Sherry wasn't terribly sure if she was meant to laugh or not. Gunter was prone to making statements that did not involve the world of high fashion or the business of modeling, and therefore usually confused or bored her. She did not particularly like the photographer,
despite his obvious talent with a camera lens. His disdain for the industry that provided his living was notorious, as typified by the way he had chosen to dress down for the occasion in a pair of frayed black DKNY jeans, a charcoal-gray Hanes T-shirt, and a pair of black and white Converse sneakers. His only concession to fashion appeared to be the pair of Roberto Cavalli sunglasses he was wearing, but because he was her best friend's lover she tolerated his constant presence as best she could.

  Cabernet solved Sherry's problem by giving a small laugh and pecking Gunter on his chin, which somehow always managed to stay stubbly, without ever seeming to produce a genuine beard.

  "Oh, you. You're incorrigible."

  Sherry gave an appropriately light giggle and threaded her arm around Brut's elbow. "You know my boyfriend, don't you, Gunter?”

  "Of course." The photographer's eyes swept over the male model with the detached air of an entomologist attempting to recall the exact name of a species of bug. "Brut, is it? I shot you for Calvin. Underwear, war es nicht?”

  "Yeah. The billboard on Times Square."

  "Of course." Gunter nodded, already dismissing the other man. "Come along, my dear," he said, patting Cabernet's hand. "We don't want to be late and have the party leave without us. Merlot said they would be setting sail at exactly four in the afternoon."

  As the four of them headed down the pier, they were greeted by the sound of a live band, along with the noise generated by dozens of voices raised in conversation. Although the ship had yet to leave the pier, it was clear the party was already well under way.

  The ship's hospitality officer and his underlings, outfitted in crisp dress whites, stood alongside the gangway leading to the main deck, checking the invitations against a passenger manifest.

  "Gunter was only half joking,” Cabernet said over her shoulder to Sherry as they waited to be vetted against the guest list. “Everyone who is anyone in the fashion business will be on this ship-if they can make it. And if they can't, they'll send their right hands. I've already seen top execs from Versace, Oscar de la Renta, Gucci and Condé Nast bopping around on the top deck."