Excerpt of Beauty Mark by Jan Moran

London, England “Where is she?” Scarlett Sandoval sat in the tea room at Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair waiting for her client to arrive. She was annoyed, as usual, at Fleur’s perpetual tardiness. She ordered a second pot of tea and checked her watch. Even though they were traveling on a private jet to Los Angeles, they did have a schedule, something that frequently escaped the fashion designer’s notice. “I’ll take a car to the airport,” David said, rising from his chair and slipping a button through a buttonhole on his crisply tailored bespoke suit. “I don’t want to get stuck in traffic. You’re the best one on the team at handling her anyway.” “We’ll see you there. Soon, I hope.” Scarlett made a face. David Baylor was on the partner track at the same high profile law firm, Marsh & Gold, in Los Angeles. Years ago, when she’d been in the firm’s New York office, and he’d been in Los Angeles, they’d threatened a cross- country affair, but now that she’d relocated and they were in the same city, they were glad they hadn’t crossed the line. David was a good work friend, and had recently become engaged. Her mother was right. At this rate she might never get married. Polite conversation bubbled across the room. Scarlett nibbled on a scone, and then checked her watch again. She glanced around the stylish room, which had been renovated in recent years. Antique fireplaces flickered in the corner, while contemporary art splashed color across the walls. Silver gleamed against white tablecloths, and VIPs of London filled every tapestry covered chair. A flurry of activity erupted at the entry way to the Georgian townhouse in which Brown’s had been established since 1837. The venerable old hotel was the law firm partner’s preferred hotel in London. As the story went, Alexander Graham Bell made the first telephone call from the lobby at Brown’s. Couldn’t Fleur have managed a call on the gold-plated mobile phone usually glued to her ear? Speak of the devil, thought Scarlett, dropping her buttered scone in shock. Fleur strutted into the room, and Scarlett realized what the commotion at the front door was about. Her client struck a defiant pose at the door, while a murmur rose across the room and the tea room manager hurried to speak to her. Waist-length purple hair matched her six-inch platform shoes, but it was the attire in between—or rather, the lack of it—that had the manager in a dither. Her sliver of a dress was definitely against the dress code at Brown’s Tea Room. Why then had Fleur insisted on meeting her here instead of the airport? “Put this on my corporate account, please,” Scarlett whispered to the tea sommelier. Hastily grabbing her briefcase, she slid from the booth. She covered the room in long strides and hooked her arm in Fleur’s, whisking her from the room. “Hey, wait a minute,” Fleur said, struggling to keep up in her platform shoes. “We need to get some shots.” That’s when Scarlett saw the billionaire shipping magnate with whom Fleur had been pictured in the tabloids. The impeccable Vladimir Ivanov was having tea in a booth near the entrance with another woman. She sighed and checked her anger against her client. “The plane is waiting.” Scarlett nodded to the doorman, who was attired in a formal top hat and three-quarter length coat. He signaled for a black town car that had been idling on the quiet block. Out of nowhere appeared several paparazzi; they began snapping photos like mad. Fleur placed her hands on her hips and angled a shoulder in a provocative pose for them. “Let’s go, Fleur.” Scarlett gave her a minute, and then grabbed her hand. This was not the brilliant legal career Scarlett had imagined while she was pulling all-nighter study sessions in law school. She slid into the backseat and let out a sigh of relief as the driver steered his way through London. “Did you call them?” Scarlett had traveled with Gina “Fleur” Georgopoulos long enough to know that she often called paparazzi to keep herself in the headlines. A Greek native from the Bronx, she’d moved to London, adopted an accent, and took the world by surprise when she had one of her boyfriends buy billboards over Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. Soon everyone was asking, ‘who is Fleur of London?’ On some level—a low one, Scarlett thought—it was brilliant. “If I’d just had the chance to speak to Vladimir, they could’ve gotten some great shots. Cover page stuff.” Fleur sniffed. “I’ll be lucky if those make it into print at all.” Fleur was known for her outlandish costumes. “Chin up, Fleur,” Scarlett said. “I’m sure that outfit is print- worthy. Besides, you should be celebrating. This new cosmetics trademark deal is nearly complete. You’re about to be one very wealthy woman.” One of the top makeup companies in the world, High Gloss Cosmetics, was licensing the Fleur of London trademark for a new line of brilliantly colored products, including lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. “Pour me a couple of shots of vodka then.” Fleur smiled coyly and shoved on oversized sunglasses, her signal that she was through talking. “I have a call to make,” Scarlett replied, matching Fleur’s smile. A bartender she was not. Scarlett punched in a number on her phone. “We’re on our way,” she said, and clicked off. She had already had a long day of negotiations regarding the intellectual property uses, and now they were en route to Los Angeles for Fleur to meet with the company in person. It was the final phase in the deal. Fleur was a master of self- promotion who had, surprisingly, few other talents. She hired other fashion designers to create her line, dressed outlandishly, wore makeup more suited for Kabuki theatre, and dated billionaires. This got her a multimillion dollar deal that others worked a lifetime for and never realized.