Lucky In Love by Deborah Coonts

and women with cameras and huge telephoto lenses looped around their necks, jockeying for position. All that was missing from this sideshow was a snake oil salesman and a guy selling funnel cakes out of his van.
    Paparazzi were like ants—once they got the scent, they closed in on the target, angling for a kill. You could push them, squash them, or run them off, but they always found a hole in the fence to get back in. I guess the members of the Spanish Trail security force either understood their limitations or had been contractually excluded from hazardous duty. Either way, they couldn’t be counted on for reinforcement in case we got in over our heads.
    As Paolo eased the big car into the driveway, he honked to clear a path through the throng. Experience had taught him to never allow the car to come to a standstill, so he kept it rolling, pushing people out of the way with the front bumper if he had to. Disembodied faces with hands cupping their eyes pressed to the glass, trying to see through the dark film. I could see them, but hopefully, my identity remained obscured. My name and photo included in an unsavory article about alternative sexual practices would probably do little for my upward career mobility. Although, worse things had been said about me.
    Clearly someone had told the photogs they had to remain off private property, so they lingered at the fringes. Of course, we were in a gated community so it was technically all private property—but, in an Orwellian sense, apparently some was more private than others. Once we made it through the throng, we traveled the rest of the way up the curved driveway unmolested.
    When Paolo brought the car to a stop under the porte cochere, I slipped over to the driver’s-side door and let myself out. I didn’t try to shield my face in case someone had found a good vantage position for a photograph—no need to look guilty when I wasn’t.
    Tape covered the doorbell so I was forced to use the knocker, which, as expected, was a set of brass... knockers. D cups, if I could hazard a guess. I wasn’t amused.
    The door opened after the first... bang, and Phil Stewart, in all his sleaziness, ushered me inside. “You have to get those camera people out of here. My guests are peeved. While they don’t try to hide their identities, they don’t seek publicity either. And some of them would be less than thrilled to have their faces on the national news.” Phil had unnaturally black hair, a perpetual dark tan, evasive eyes, and a manner in keeping with his overall repugnance.
    He turned and I followed him through the marble foyer to the back of the house. The house was unexpectedly quiet. The last time I’d been to one of his parties, all manner of activities I’d rather forget had been going on in the pool and the hot tub—although I did rather like the naked mariachi band. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to do anything you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the Review-Journal ?”
    “Mothers say a lot of stuff they don’t mean.”
    Even with Mona being what she was, that hadn’t been my experience, but I wasn’t about to share a personal tidbit with the likes of Phil Stewart. “If you didn’t want the publicity, why’d you let the celebrity couple in?”
    He waved a hand at me. “I don’t watch reality tv . How the hell was I supposed to know they were pop-culture curiosities? I just thought they were a tv producer and a plastic surgeon from Texas.”
    “Wait.” I grabbed his elbow, pulling him to a stop. “Are we talking about a nice, clean-cut African American couple? Tall. Thin. Warm smiles.”
    A sardonic grin lifted on side of his mouth. “What? You think normal people don’t swing? Normal is so boooring. Needs some spice. Know what I mean?”
    When fringe folks use logic, it weirds me out—especially if I find myself semi-agreeing. I mean, who aspires to “average”? I got it. Phil’s lifestyle might be unpalatable, but his logic was