Hollywood Girls Club

by Maggie Marr

  Another perk: They received every major paper in America, and there was always one extra. She loved dating a man with a bookstore.

  “Look what I found,” Adam called, heading back up the stairs. He tore open a box.

  Inside were four advance copies of Mitsy’s first book.

  “They’re really cool,” Adam said, handing one to Mary Anne.

  She’d seen one before over at Mitsy’s, but somehow this felt more real, holding a copy and knowing that every bookstore owner in America would receive Mitsy’s book today. It was an exact replica of the first book Mary Anne ever read. The hand-drawn pictures were even the same.

  “I’m so happy for her,” Mary Anne said, flipping through the book. “And I’m happy for me, too.” She looked at Adam.

  With this gentle man, in this little bookshop away from the bright lights and celebrity of Hollywood and the movie business, she had finally found her haven. It wasn’t quite Midwestern, but it wasn’t very L.A., either.

  “Hey, you figured out the third act,” Adam said, bending over and skimming the screen of Mary Anne’s laptop.

  “I sure did,” Mary Anne said, grinning.

  “Bet you guys leave room for a sequel.”

  “There is always room for a sequel,” Mary Anne said, turning back to her computer screen and typing two final words.

  THE END

  Epilogue

  Ten Months Later

  Jessica sat nursing Max. Only five months old, he’d slept through the Sunday afternoon premiere of Mike’s newest film, Sky Man. She was thrilled. So was Mike. Sky Man would be a huge hit among the tiny-tot set. The premiere party was held in a tent that had been designed to be an exact replica of the cloud city Sky World that was home to Sky Man. Mike had worked so hard on getting this film made while starting parenthood. He’d even postponed production for six weeks after Max was born, almost losing his star. Jessica saved that deal, promising to get Matt a meeting with Zymar for Fifteen Minutes Past Midnight, if only he’d still do Sky Man.

  Jessica glanced across the tent at Lydia working the room. She was the uber-everything right now. Worldwide’s box office, overall, had never been better. Jess didn’t know how Lydia juggled it all—producing, president of production for Worldwide, Zymar. But she did, effortlessly and brilliantly. Unmitigated determination and belief in her projects, Jessica knew, drove Lydia forward. Besides, Lydia absolutely loved what she did.

  “How we doing?” Mike asked, bending over to tickle Max’s cheek.

  “My little vampire is just about finished,” Jess joked, removing her breast from Max’s mouth.

  “Oh, there’s Cici!”

  “Let me take him for a while,” Mike offered. “You’ve had him all afternoon.”

  “Jess!” Celeste sang out, bouncing over to her and wrapping her in a huge hug. “You look beautiful. And look at my perfect little godson,” Cici said, cooing over Max, the second favorite man in her life.

  “You, as always, look stunning.”

  Celeste’s megastar glow had only been enhanced with three successful films (each more so than the last) and the consistent love of Ted Robinoff.

  “Where’s Ted?” Jessica asked.

  “Over with Lydia. Discussing their next big film, I’m sure. Have you seen Mary Anne yet? She brought her bookstore man. Sooo sexy. And smart. You know he quoted Whitman to me. I thought I might just die. Those two are perfect for each other.”

  Jessica had met Adam, and agreed with Celeste’s analysis that Mary Anne had found her Mr. Right. Adam was smart and bookish, yet sophisticated.

  “I hear, although she’s not fessing up, that Max may have a playmate soon,” Celeste said, giving credence to the rumor that Mary Anne’s full face was not from the ten pounds most women gained when in a serious relationship.

  “She’d be a great mom,” Jessica said.

  “And Mitsy would be thrilled,” Celeste added.

  Celeste now held Max in her arms. (having stolen him from Mike). Like most men, Max stared adoringly at Celeste, giggling at the funny faces she made.

  Jessica scanned the crowd, watching her husband work the room. Lydia gestured enthusiastically to Ted about some project that was sure to be a tremendous hit. Mary Anne held Adam’s arm as they made their way over to Celeste and Jess, weaving through the hectic tangle of celebrities and their children playing games and eating corn dogs. Agents and managers circled the outskirts of the tent, trying to make deals and poach stars. This Hollywood existence was, Jessica thought, surreal but it was for her, the ideal life.

  About the Author

  Maggie Marr was born and raised in Illinois, after practicing law for four years, first as a guardian-ad-litem for abused children and then as a prosecutor in domestic violence, she made the move to Los Angeles with her husband, who is an actor. Her first job in entertainment was pushing the mail cart at ICM, where she eventually became a motion picture agent. She now splits her time between writing and producing.

  Please visit her at http://www.maggiemarr.com

  Twitter http://twitter.com/maggiemarr

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Maggie-Marr-Books/168071873226783?ref=ts

  Check out an excerpt from three more Maggie Marr titles. First, Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club, then Maggie's first contemporary romance, Can't Buy Me Love, and finally her upcoming release Courting Trouble available Summer, 2012.

  An Excerpt from Secrets Of The Hollywood Girls Club

  the Next Hollywood Girls Club Book

  RULE 1

  There Are No Secrets in Hollywood

  Kiki Dee, Publicist

  Kiki Dee thought she knew where all the Hollywood bodies were buried—even the ones she had killed—because secrets were her business. Celebrity secrets. Kiki was a secret keeper. As a publicist, Kiki shifted the bright white spotlight away from everything her celebrity clients needed to hide. Their gratitude for her covering up their indiscretions took the form of a check, or cash, whichever they preferred. Kiki collected secrets the way some people collected diamonds or cars. Each naughty tidbit could potentially destroy Hollywood careers. And of course, along with the indiscretions came the clients. Kiki promised to lock the secret in “the vault,” also known as her brain, for a weekly fee. Some called it extortion. Kiki called it commerce.

  And Kiki didn’t keep just one secret per client. She’d discovered that once a star accepted that she knew his most depraved act or hidden kink, suddenly all the crimes and misdemeanors came pouring out. Kiki listened to all her clients’ confessions. It was good to have collateral.

  But this secret, the one Kiki had just witnessed in Dr. Melnick’s office … well, this secret was platinum. This secret had the potential to sink movie studios, destroy high-power industry marriages, and ruin one of the biggest celebrity careers in Hollywood. With this one very big and amazingly well-kept secret, Kiki and her publicity firm, KDP, which had suffered a precipitous slide into the abyss of B-list stars, would be back on top. This secret potentially affected dozens of Hollywood heavyweights. Not to mention the little lovely who was rapidly sleeping her way up the A-list. Kiki would sign two big stars based on this peccadillo. Failing to have her in their corner would result in the release of this salacious bit of gossip to the press. If the truth reached the masses, the two stars could kiss their careers and their paychecks good-bye.

  Kiki had proof, and she figured it was worth at least seven figures. But Kiki cared little about the money. No, she desired prestige. The prestige obtained by representing the biggest stars in the world. Prestige and access were priceless commodities in Hollywood, and for Kiki prestige, access, and power made her job almost worthwhile.

  Kiki would be thrilled … if she weren’t so nauseated. Her discovery almost made the torture of her lipo, tummy tuck, and eye lift worth it. Almost. She gritted her teeth as the Lincoln Town Car came to a fast stop on Wilshire. How had this luscious deceit remained quiet? People must know. But Kiki had rummaged through celebrity liv
es for twenty (okay, twenty-five) years, and she had never sniffed a whiff of this treat. She carefully leaned back against the supple black leather of the backseat. It was a short four-block trip from Dr. Melnick’s office to the Peninsula Hotel, but with stitches around her face and the super-tight spandex body glove around her stomach, the ride felt like miles. She knew from experience.

  Although painful, the spandex body glove prevented her belly from rupturing. She turned her gauze-wrapped head toward the window and attempted to block from her mind the lipo procedure that Dr. Melnick had just completed, otherwise she’d be sick. She clutched the paper airsick bag that Dr. Melnick’s receptionist (who herself had bovine-fat-enhanced lips and perfectly Botoxed brows) had handed her before the nurse wheeled her out the back exit of the office to her awaiting car and driver.

  Boom Boom, Kiki’s ever-faithful and ever-suffering assistant, sat in the backseat holding a BlackBerry in one hand and a cup of ice chips in the other.

  “She said it was urgent,” Boom Boom said and scrolled through the e-mails. “Here, look.”

  She held the BlackBerry within inches of Kiki’s nose, but Kiki couldn’t read it. God, Boom Boom could be an idiot. You couldn’t wear glasses right after an eye lift. Where did Boom Boom think they put the stitches? Kiki leaned her head to the left. She could barely speak. Her lips were swollen (ass fat or bovine, she didn’t even remember at this point), and her jaw hurt.

  “Read it,” Kiki mumbled, trying to move her lips as little as possible.

  Boom Boom pulled an ice chip from the cup and managed to wedge it into Kiki’s mouth. “Fine. It says, `Kiki, my luv, we need to talk. Urgent news, don’t want to e-mail, call me.’“

  Kiki looked at Boom Boom. That was it? That was the e-mail Boom Boom appeared so worked up about? Kiki had worked the public relations gig for a long time, and urgent to one of her stars could mean a broken nail without a manicurist on set. This was nothing, especially compared with Kiki’s recent discovery. But still, the e-mail had come from one of her biggest stars.

  “When?” Kiki whispered then winced as the Town Car bounced over a pothole. She remembered that bump from the last face-lift, six months earlier.

  “Three hours ago,” Boom Boom said. She put on her headset. “Want to roll some calls? We’ve got twenty-five to return.”

  Kiki glared at her assistant. She felt doped up on morphine and hadn’t yet taken her Vicodin.

  “Lydia called. She needs an answer about press.”

  Kiki shook her head and motioned for the pad and pen resting on Boom Boom’s lap.

  “Jen wants to know about the CDF fund-raiser,” Boom Boom continued. She handed Kiki the pen. “Also Natalie asked about your trip to the ashram, wants to know if it’s one or two weeks?”

  Kiki’s head pounded. She put pen to paper.

  “Galaxy just FedExed dailies from the Take No Prisoners set and wants you to let them know about the Oscar campaign.”

  Kiki finished writing and turned the monogrammed notebook toward her young, wrinkle-free servant. Boom Boom continued to chatter about appointments and calls. Kiki tapped on the pad, and then again with more force, finally requiring Boom Boom to silence her yammering and look at the paper.

  A small gasp escaped Boom Boom’s lips as she read Kiki’s short but effective note.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful. You don’t have to get bitchy about it,” Boom Boom said.

  Kiki turned toward the window and tried not to smile—smiling would have torn at the stitches clamped to the skin behind her ears. Business would have to wait until she was wrapped in eight-hundred-thread-count sheets at the Peninsula. She relaxed as the limo turned into the private entrance to the hotel, and glanced at the notepad in her lap. Two very effective words were emblazoned across the pad: Fuck you.

  Praise for Can’t Buy Me Love

  “Marr delivers a great story, the thrill of romance, and sexy love scenes in this often delightful novel.”

  —Romantic Time Book Review

  “Maggie Marr does it again! Can’t Buy Me Love is an entertaining hot and heavy high stakes Hollywood love story that’ll keep you turning the page!”

  —Jenny Gardiner, #1 Kindle Best Selling Author Sleeping With Ward Cleaver

  “Sharp, sexy prose and a fast-paced plot make Maggie Marr’s Can’t Buy Me Love a very entertaining and steamy read! Romance readers will love this book!”

  —Jane Porter Best Selling Author Flirting With Forty

  “Readers will delight in Meg and Cole’s sexy, romantic and charming love story and will find themselves touched by the kind of passion and vulnerability it takes to bring these two ambitious people together for a lifetime.”

  —Marilyn Brant, Author of A Summer In Europe

  An Excerpt from Can’t Buy Me Love

  Available March 2012

  Chapter One

  “Is it always this hard?”

  For Cole Jackson there was only one answer to Meg’s question: Yes.

  Every conquest was the outcome of a hard-fought battle, every win the results of a decimated other side, every challenge more difficult than the last. Otherwise what was the point? With ease came softness and with softness a swift defeat.

  Cole yanked at the knot of his cobalt-blue tie, tired of the day-long strangle-hold. On the far side of his office window night sucked away the last light of day as the sweltering orange sun surrendered to the Pacific. The streaks of pink, orange, and fuchsia that decorated the sky failed to captivate Cole. He could witness such sunsets on any horizon, in any city, on any night.

  Cole reached for the crystal decanter stationed on the bar in his office. His pour was generous and neat, and the amber liquid shimmered in the final rays of the sun. As he sipped his bourbon heat slid down his throat, but the liquor didn’t scorch him nearly as much as the woman, that after a six month absence, now stood in his office.

  “There are cell phone towers up and down the entire California coastline and the one spot in Los Angeles where I can’t get a signal is your office?”

  Meg Parson’s voice was brighter and lighter than the curves of her body would suggest. She shifted her weight and her hip teased forward against her suit skirt. The outline of bone against taut fabric taunted Cole. In a careless moment his gaze roamed over her legs, caressed her skirt, and brushed over the outline of her breast.

  Hunger for Meg clutched his belly and twisted hard. Cole turned back toward the ocean and the unwatched sunset—away from Meg. Better to feign interest in the blossom of color on the horizon than to indulge his desires to stare at his colleague and former assistant.

  “Hello? Hello?” Meg said into the phone.

  In the window, Cole caught Meg’s reflection as she flipped her long sable colored hair over her right shoulder. Her jaw tightened, her lips parted, and she closed her eyes.

  His stomach clenched as Meg’s tongue caressed her pout of a mouth. Cole took another slug of his drink hopeful that the liquid heat burning down his throat would distract him from his desires.

  No. Luck.

  He set his jaw in opposition to his craving and pulled his gaze away from Meg’s indelible imprint on the glass. He didn’t need the reflection, her every sinew was seared into his mind but Meg was off-limits.

  In the three years she’d worked for him, Meg made herself indispensable, and he had been fool enough to let her become a necessity. She knew everything about him—from the way he took his coffee down to his shoe size. She ran his business affairs seamlessly. He leaned on her. Depended on her. Cole even began to need her and needing anyone was completely intolerable. To need a person was to appear weak. Need allowed vulnerability to take root. Need was the end of strength. No, to need Meg, was completely unacceptable.

  “Yes, hi. This is Meg Parson. I have Cole Jackson for Stan Morton.”

  With the sound of his name on her lips he faced her.

  “Of course I’ll hold.” Meg covered the mouthpiece and her blue eyes sparkled alive with the
thrill of the deal. “Why didn’t we use your landline?”

  Cole’s heart quickened as Meg’s excitement spilled over to him. He sipped his drink and watched Meg over the top of his glass. This time, her proximity, and not the bourbon, seared through him. This deal was Meg’s baby and once the deal was consummated Cole would have to promote Meg. If he waited any longer another company would swoop in and grab her. One of his competitors might already be trying.

  “They’re getting Stan,” Meg whispered still covering the mouthpiece.

  Stan Morton owned one of the two things Cole wanted most in the world. Stan owned TBC studios. And the other thing Cole wanted?

  Cole’s eyes traced the porcelain curve of Meg’s neck as she twirled a piece of hair between her thumb and pointer finger. Well, the other thing wasn’t for sale, nor was it negotiable. Office dalliances weren’t Cole’s style and neither was a long-term commitment. Meg was the type of woman that required he break both rules and Cole preferred his relationships exactly as they’d been for the past decade of his life: hot, fast, and disposable.

  “How will you celebrate?” Cole rarely asked Meg anything so personal. A dusty pink flush crept over Meg’s ivory colored cheeks.

  Protectiveness surged through Cole with her blush.

  “I’m thinking Bali.” A smile started in Meg’s eyes and quickly encompassed her whole face with the vision of a luxurious and well-deserved beach vacation growing in her mind.

  “Nice choice.”

  “And you?”

  Cole tilted his head toward Meg. Her question surprised him. He’d celebrate the same way he always did; with more hard work. There was no family in his life. His parents were dead. He had an uncle in Florida that he didn’t speak to—could never speak to again.