by Julie Kenner
It’s bizarre. And, yes, it’s a little scary. (Okay, it’s a lot scary.) And that’s exactly why I decided to start keeping a tight grip on the personal information that gets leaked out about me. And why I moved to a house with security roughly the equivalent of Fort Knox.
Too little, too late, you say? Well, maybe. But it helps me sleep at night.
The house was built in the twenties by Greta Garbo, although she never actually lived there. (That little tidbit made for tons of tabloid fodder after I became a recluse. “Spirit of Garbo Infuses Miss Devi, Who Simply ‘Vants to Be Alone.’” Puh-lease!) And although the house is older than my old bungalow, it’s been more thoroughly updated. State-of-the-art kitchen. State-of-the-art electrical system. Fully landscaped. Fabulous privacy fence (complete with security, of course). Video monitors all around the grounds. You name it.
And whereas my old house had been just off the street, my new place is tucked up against the hills and set back away from traffic. The driveway is more like a private road that winds around until you reach my house, tucked in against the hills. The guards check and announce all guests on the property intercom, and then send them through the gate after I give my okay.
A high fence surrounds the property, and it’s under twenty-four-hour video surveillance. It’s also got some voltage running through it, but I don’t advertise that.
The bottom line? I feel safe there. And for someone like me, that’s saying a lot.
Lucas is on shift when I arrive, and I pause to do the chitchat thing.
“How’d the first day of shooting go?”
“Great,” I say. “And the shopping afterward was even better.”
He grins, then nods toward the gate. “Go relax. And have a good night, Ms. Taylor.”
Lucas is an odd bird in Los Angeles—a man who wants absolutely nothing to do with the movie business. He used to be a plumber, but he went back to school to get an engineering degree. He likes the job because it gives him time to study. (That’s his basic overview, at any rate. I know a lot more about the man. Believe me. The background check I ran before I let the security company put him on-site would put the FBI to shame.)
My first order of business when I come home is to switch purses. My new Prada bag is a little bit tote bag and a little bit purse…and one hundred percent perfect. I slip my new laptop in it just to be sure, and it fits like a charm, with two interior pockets for my wallet, makeup, and other girlie things. It even has a pocket on the back that is just the right size for a script, and two additional pockets for sunglasses and a cell phone.
I take my time making the transfer, and when everything is switched over, I center the bag on my kitchen table, take a step back, and just look at it.
Perfect.
And, just in case I sound way too pathetic, might I point out that most women come home from a clothes-shopping spree and try on every single item in front of their own mirror. So my bag adoration is a long way from neurotic or abnormal. Really.
Everything from my old bag (also Prada) fits nicely into this one, and the stuff I don’t need to transfer I leave on the breakfast bar. Since I tend to only carry the basics, nonessentials include the present from Tobias, the parking ticket from the Beverly Wilshire, and the cocktail napkin on which I’d doodled some notes for tomorrow’s scene.
I take the strawberry box out of the bag and put the whole thing in the fridge. I’d meant to give it to Lindy, but I’d forgotten. Now, I consider just trashing it, but that seems a shame. I’ll pass it off to Miguel in the morning as I’m leaving for the set.
The only thing left in the gift bag is the envelope, and I open that now. Inside I find a card monogrammed with Tobias’s initials. I open it to find a block-printed note:
Good job today. The real fun begins tomorrow. Some notes for you:
http://www.YourGivenchyCodeMovieNotes.com
I have to laugh. Because about two weeks before filming began, I was giving Tobias grief for being the most computer-illiterate person on the planet. Looks like he decided to get literate fast, just to show me up.
For a second, I’m tempted to head over to the Web site, but my laptop is already packed away neatly in my new bag, and honestly, I’m just not in the mood to think about work. My script is on the countertop, and so I shove the card inside to deal with later.
Then I step back and consider my options.
In actuality, I should study the script, but all I really want to do is take a shower before Andy comes over. I’d been in such a hurry to shop that I hadn’t bothered to shower in my trailer. And after a day that began at four and wrapped up with a walk through the summer heat and smog, I’m feeling the grime of the city.
Besides, my bathroom is just shy of heaven, and any excuse for a shower is a good one.
It was, in fact, the bathroom that sold me on the house, even more than the security system. The room is huge, with a walk-in shower with eight vertical showerheads for a full-body effect, and two rain-style heads that spray from above. The shower stall is granite and glass, and the phone and the intercom to the gatehouse are just past the water barrier so that even in the shower you’re never out of touch.
The bathtub is insane as well. Lindy swears she’s going to teach Lucy to swim in it, and I don’t think she’s kidding. It’s sunk into the floor and surrounded by candles and bath salts and baskets of luscious-smelling soaps. Stacks of fluffy towels are easily within reach, and my maid, Carla, knows that the one thing that will get my ire up (other than rearranging the purse closet) is letting the towel supply dwindle.
One wall is dominated by a plasma television, another by glass bricks that let in light but distort the view, and another opens directly into one of my closets. My exercise bike and some free weights are tucked in one corner (I have more in the weight room downstairs), and the stereo system is elegantly hidden and operated by remotes that I aim at hidden infrared thingamabobs.
All in all, the room is awesome, just like the house. And I thank my mother for it every day. I’ve earned a lot of money over the course of my career, but my mom is the one who turned “a lot” into “a lot.” The woman has a knack for negotiating and a sixth sense about stocks. She dumped every cent I made as a minor into brokerage accounts, and bought and sold tech stocks at just the right time.
Today, I forgo the exercise bike (shopping was workout enough) and head for the shower. It’s a toss-up between that and a bath, but the idea of getting pounded by steaming hot water appeals at the moment. What can I say? It’s been a stressful day.
I get the jets going, strip off my clothes, and step into heaven. I scrub down with a rosemary mint body wash, then slather my face with Noxzema. I’m a fan of the basics.
The stuff is still on my face and I’ve worked my hair into a good lather when the intercom buzzes, and Lucas’s voice echoes through the room.
“Ms. Taylor? You’ve got a visitor at the—”
Andy. I reach out and blindly slap the intercom button, effectively silencing Lucas. “Lucas!” I shout over the drone of the shower. “He’s here to run lines and he’s early! But go ahead and send him on to the house. I’ll be right there!”
“Will do, ma’am.”
The intercom clicks back to silence, and even though I try to do the fastest rinse ever, I manage to get soap in my eyes and it takes me longer than I’d like. I can’t believe he’s almost an hour early. Finally, I’m squeaky clean, and I bundle my hair in a towel and myself in a big, fluffy bathrobe. I trot toward the stairs, my bare feet leaving damp prints on the hard wood floors.
I reach the front door—breathless—just as the bell rings. I used to have a live-in housekeeper, but having someone else putter around just made me nervous. So it’s just me, alone with the responsibility of opening doors and greeting guests.
“I was in the shower,” I say, even before the door is open. “Just wait down here while I get dressed, and—”
I stop cold, the words caught in my throat. Because this isn’t A
ndy I’m staring at. It’s Blake. And that’s just a bit more than my already fried brain can take today.
Chapter 12
He stands there on my front porch, his stance casual, his grin both quick and sincere. He looks perfectly at ease and sexy as hell. And there’s not one iota of doubt in my mind that this man will be a huge star someday.
I step back away from the door, instinctively pulling the robe tighter. “What are you doing here?” I ask. I turn and head across my foyer toward the kitchen then, and toss my words back casually as I walk. “If you’re coming for consolation that your interview was canceled, you really haven’t come to the right place.” That’s a shot in the dark on my part. I still have no idea why they were striking the set for his interview, but considering Elliot’s reaction, it obviously wasn’t expected. And I’ll admit I’m curious. And I’m not too proud to pry. Surreptitiously, anyway.
“They didn’t cancel it,” he says. He’s right behind me. For that matter, he passes me as we reach the kitchen and heads straight for my refrigerator. He opens it, and his hand automatically goes for the cooler drawer on the bottom where I keep the beer. Since I don’t drink anymore, it’s for company only. He pulls one out, twists the cap off, then tosses it into the trashcan I have tucked in next to the cabinetry.
I watch in a kind of awed silence. His movements are so familiar it makes my chest hurt, and I have to shove my hands into the pockets of my robe to stifle the urge to reach out and touch him. This man hurt me. And no matter what Lindy says, it’s going to take a lot before I trust him again.
I tell myself I’m not going to ask, but of course I do. “If it wasn’t canceled, what happened?” I shoot for casual, but when the words come out, I have to wonder why I call myself an actress. I mean, talk about a crappy delivery.
He takes a long swig of beer. He’s wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt. Probably Hanes, knowing Blake and his totally unpretentious manner. Whatever the brand, I can’t help but think that he ought to be plastered above Times Square as an advertisement for all things male. Honestly, the way his biceps bulge against the thin cotton of that shirt is driving me to distraction. Which, naturally, pisses me off even more. I’m supposed to hate this man. For that matter, I do hate him.
I just happen to be in love with him, too.
“I canceled the interview,” he says after swallowing. The words come out casually, as if we’re discussing the weather or traffic. Just another mundane life fact.
To me, though, it’s not mundane at all.
“What do you mean, you canceled it? I thought you set it up.”
“That would be Elliot,” he says, then turns to scour my kitchen with his eyes. “Do you have anything to eat?”
I toss my hands up, not sure if I should be amused or exasperated. From his expression, I can tell he’s unimpressed with my histrionics. So I give in and point to the refrigerator.
He opens the fridge and starts to rummage about. After a second, I can’t stand it any longer.
“Come on, Blake. Tell me. Why did you cancel it?”
He emerges from the fridge, the little box from Tobias open in one hand. “Who gave you chocolate?”
“A crazed fan,” I say, dryly. “Now, tell me.”
He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, which leaves my rear pressed against the kitchen island. He’s right in front of me, and there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m trapped.
He leans in even closer, and I hold my breath. I don’t know what I expect, but I admit that my mind’s in a muddle. My head is angry with this man, but my traitorous body is tingly, and I’m painfully aware that I’m wearing not a stitch of clothing under my fluffy bathrobe.
His shoulder brushes mine, and I stifle a gasp. He shifts, comes closer…and then pulls back enough that my personal space is restored. “It’ll taste better at room temperature.”
I blink in confusion and wonder what he’s talking about. But a quick glance over my shoulder reveals the strawberry box sitting front and center on the kitchen island. He wasn’t trying to get close; he was just vying for perfect food placement.
Isn’t that just like a guy?
My reaction to his proximity flusters me, and I edge sideways, then scoot around the island until it’s safely between us. I try to do this all casual-like, but I have the sinking feeling that I’m being incredibly obvious. Damn.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say, since my brain isn’t capable of more than stating the obvious at the moment.
“I wanted you to do the interview with me. When it looked like that wouldn’t work out…”
He trails of with a shrug, and I’m left trying to process this new information that doesn’t quite fit inside my current view of reality.
“You wanted me on the interview with you? That’s why you came by my trailer?” Even as I say the words, I can feel the ice around my heart melting a little.
“Yup,” he says, and his face is perfectly serious, perfectly clear. His eyes never leave mine, and I know that he’s not lying. He’s a good actor, don’t get me wrong. But he’s not that good.
“Oh,” I say. And then, because there’s just a little too much hope sneaking in around the edges of my heart, I ask, “Why?”
He shifts a bit, as if he’s not comfortable in his skin. Or, more likely, in my kitchen. “I thought I owed you.”
The tiny ember of hope dissolves into a pile of ash. “Don’t do me any favors, Blake,” I whisper, not able to look at him.
“Devi, it wasn’t like that. If you’d just—”
I turn away, not wanting him to see the tears pooling in my eyes. “Does Elliot know you’re here? Does he know why you canceled the show?” Suddenly Elliot’s earlier rage makes a lot more sense to me. At the same time, I’m not really fighting fair. Blake’s relationship with his manager was a point of contention throughout our entire relationship. Now that we have no relationship, I hardly have a right to bring it up.
Then again, he hardly has a right to come to my house. So I figure we’re even.
Blake tilts his head back, as if he’s fascinated by the antique tin tiles that cover my ceiling. When he straightens up to face me, I see resignation in his eyes. And maybe something else, too. Disappointment? I don’t know. And now isn’t the time to ask. I’m too on edge. And I’m honestly not sure what I want. He hurt me—he really did. But at the same time, I keep hearing Lindy’s voice in my head telling me to give him another chance.
It’s times like these when I remember why I love my job so much: real life is a hell of a lot more difficult than play-acting.
“We’re actors, right?” he says, doing that mind-reading thing again.
“Yeah.” But there’s a question in my voice. I mean, where could he possibly be going with this?
“Then let’s act. Let’s forget our fight and focus on the movie. Let’s shed our real selves and be pretend-Blake and pretend-Devi.”
“Uh-huh. And what exactly are pretend-Blake and pretend-Devi supposed to do?”
“Get along,” he says simply. “Work together. Go out in public without the threat of bloodshed.”
“Sounds tricky,” I say, but with a tiny smile.
“Devi…”
“I’m teasing. And obviously I get the work-together part. But the going out in public? That one intrigues me.”
“It shouldn’t,” he says. “Press junkets. Promo opps. You know the game better than I do.”
I also know the way his manager thinks. “This isn’t coming from Elliot,” I say. Could it be that Blake himself is tugging at this proximity string? Manufacturing an excuse to get close to me again?
Just the possibility makes my heart beat a little faster, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to answer.
“Tobias is concerned about fallout,” he says, and I concentrate on breathing normally. Damn me. I fell too hard for this man. Even after breaking up with him, I’m still getting hurt.
“Fallout,” I repeat, my voice
as sharp as the knife in my heart. “Maybe we should just elope. That would be good for the box office.” I pause, purely for dramatic effect. “Oh, wait. Marriage isn’t even on your radar at the moment. Isn’t that how you put it?”
“We had this argument weeks ago,” he says, perfectly reasonably. And you know what? He’s right.
Immediately, I deflate.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m not going to go overboard pretending we’re as chummy as we ever were, but I’ll make an effort to be seen in public with you without the voodoo doll or the evil eye.”
“You have a voodoo doll of me?”
“Of course,” I say. “Internet shopping is a wonderful thing. I had it within hours of breaking up.” I aim my glance toward his crotch and try out a tiny smile. “Any trouble in that department lately?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue. “You were trouble enough.”
Oh my.
I turn away, suddenly discomfited, and head to the fridge. I know I shouldn’t drink yet another Diet Coke, but this seems like a day for breaking rules, so I pop the top on one I find hiding in the back behind a bottle of Evian.
When I turn back around, Blake has moved closer to the island and is plucking the strawberry out of the tiny box. “Are you saving this for someone?”
“Apparently, I’m saving it for you,” I say. Blake loves chocolate as much as I loathe it. “You’ll probably get one of your own tomorrow, anyway.”
His brows lift in a question as he bites off a corner of the treat.
“Tobias,” I explain. “A ‘good job’ treat.”
“Really?” he asks, holding the strawberry (less one mouthful) in front of him. “Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“Just that I thought Tobias would know you better.” He pops the rest into his mouth, then chews and swallows. “Not bad, but not nearly worthy of your performance. The chocolate’s a little too bitter.”