by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“I have to put my career back together.”
“Career, schmareer. How many times have you been in love?”
“What?”
“You heard me, missy.”
“There was that trainer who dumped me.” Earlier that summer Harris had heard Amanda’s tale of betrayal.
“So let’s say never. That’s why you don’t get it. You think love comes along when it’s convenient. Well, let me tell you, sister, love is like winning a Tony. Patti LuPone had to wait twenty-odd years between them. And she’s one of the lucky ones to win two.”
“A: who said anything about love? And B: there’s no guarantee we would work out, even if we did . . . date.”
He was silent for a time as he carefully applied eyeliner. When he spoke again, he sounded so serious, Amanda was alarmed. “You know what really bothers me, Miss Denial Ain’t Just a River in Egypt? I love him—as a friend—and I love you and I hate to see you let this slip away. I’m afraid you’ll be sorry—and I’m talking sorry with a capital s and for the rest of your life—if you don’t pounce on this. Or him.”
“I told you—”
“Talk to the hand.” He cut her off and was as testy as she’d ever seen him. “You don’t get to choose. That’s what’s driving you crazy, isn’t it? You don’t have any control over how much you like him.”
“It’s just an infatuation.”
“Take your head out of the smitten-kitten sand, my little ostrich. If I could package the chemistry between you two and sell it, I’d be Bill Gates. With better clothes. And a more resonant voice.”
Finally Harris allowed Amanda to look in a mirror. She was stunned. Her face looked natural, but enhanced. Her hair framed her face in soft layers and lustrous curls that looked eminently touchable. He insisted that she put on her dress, shoes, and jewelry so he could give his blessing to the completed look. He circled her like a haute-couture jackal, studying every fold of the dress and every light beam bouncing off her dangly earrings. Satisfied, he stood back, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
“Perfection. I take credit, of course, but fuckin’ A, Amanda, you are L-E-T-H-A-L lethal. When George Clooney spots you, he’ll beg for mercy.”
“George Clooney’s coming?”
“No. But a guy can dream.”
Amanda entered the house through the patio doors in the back so Grady wouldn’t see her. She found Harris in the kitchen, looking terrific in a designer tux. He hugged her and whispered, “You look spectacular,” and blasted her with his signature thousand-watt smile.
“You, too. Is Alonso coming?”
“Betcher bottom dollar. Along with the regular volunteers from the soup kitchen.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Nice. Good luck.”
Solstice waltzed into the kitchen. “Harris, darling, where’s the champagne?” Solstice affected a highbrow accent on steroids. She looked like a little sophisticate in a modest black dress.
“Don’t you look beautiful!” Amanda said, hugging her.
“As do you, Miss Vogel,” the girl said.
Harris produced a flute of sparkling grape juice. Solstice took it and said, “Thank you, Harris, this is divine.” Putting her nose firmly in the air, she strode out of the room.
Harris offered his elbow to Amanda. “Ready to inspect the talent?”
They wandered around the patio where a jazz quintet played for the cocktail hour. Harris and Amanda spotted Priscilla, looking radiant in a gold gown that was cut down to there and slit up to here. Harris found a few handsome men in the crowd, and noted them like a game warden tagging elk. But Amanda could tell his heart wasn’t in it. She encouraged him to text Alonso and find out where he was, but Harris wasn’t leaving her side until Grady saw her.
She said, “You’re making too much of this. He’s not going to care.”
“You are so wrong, my piquant hors d’oeuvre. I give great face.”
“Amanda!” said a small voice below eye level.
“Hey there,” Amanda said to Wave, then crouched. “Look at you!” The girl wore a sapphire-blue dress that made her eyes sing. Her blond curls gleamed with what Amanda knew was glittery powder the girl had taken to wearing daily, presumably in case she suddenly had to go clubbing. At eight years of age. “You look like a princess.” Wave positively beamed.
“Hey, Waver, c’mere.”
It was Grady. Behind her. Her heart succumbed to a cliché and stopped. She glanced up at Harris, whose face glowed with anticipation. He popped his eyebrows up once. Showtime.
“See ya later,” Amanda whispered to Wave so Grady couldn’t hear. A whirlwind of electricity descended upon her. Focusing on staying upright in her four-inchers, she rose, then turned to face Grady in his custom-made tux.
He looked magnificent.
Taller, somehow. More masculine. More gorgeous, which she didn’t think was possible. For a long moment she just gawked, his looks blasting her like a jet engine. At long last she eked out, “This is some clambake you’ve got here.”
Grady stood stock still, his mouth slightly open. Amanda half-expected him to pull out the blow dart that had obviously just struck his neck. His gaze meandered down to her feet, then back up to meet her eyes. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard enough that she could see his Adam’s apple bob. He licked his lips.
Estelle appeared and grabbed his arm. “Come, Grady, you must talk to—” She dragged him away, and he tripped over his own feet in their beautiful Italian shoes. Amanda’s heart pounded as though she had just run the Kentucky Derby without a horse.
A grin split Harris’s handsome face. “He was struck dumb! Dumbstruck! That was epic! I’ve never seen that happen before. Congratulations!”
“Wow,” she said. “He looked good.” She needed to sit down.
“When I think of the stupendous children you two will have . . . But, I repeat, you completely slayed him, just as I predicted.”
Grady was on autopilot during the minutes that followed the Amanda sighting. He knew he sounded like he was stoned when he talked to whomever his mother had introduced him to, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Amanda.
He’d always found her attractive, certainly, and sexy—definitely—but that dress! It accentuated her curves, granted a glimpse of cleavage, hugged her neat, nipped-in waist, and swirled around her racehorse legs. And those shoes . . . He was gobsmacked.
And that was before he took in her face—she looked so different. He was used to seeing her in a film of dust, her hair sentenced to a veritable time-out in a ponytail, her mouth grim. Not that he minded how she usually looked. But tonight her hair shimmered in thick, loose waves that beckoned his fingers. Her eyes were huge and deep. And her mouth—holy shit, her mouth. Red. Pliant. Inviting.
Want to touch her. Kiss her. Feel that dress under my hands. Taste her skin. God, she’s so beautiful.
But he had to wait. He straightened his bow tie for something to do, smiled automatically at one of the dozen or so household-name actors, and shifted into host mode, schmoozing.
The party was in full swing, and a pleasant, buzzy din and mouthwatering aromas from hors d’oeuvres made from mostly local fare filled the thin air. Every now and then a flash would go off as the photographers plied their trade. An excellent Motown cover band played on the patio stage, drawing people outside. Large Deadly Horizon posters stood here and there, along with dramatic still photographs from the movie. The few trees around the house were strung with white lights, and the patio had been transformed into a fairyland with thousands of twinkle lights, as well as candles on the tables and floating in the pool. Black tablecloths and chair covers blanketed the rented furniture, and small bouquets of white and purple flowers reflected the glow of the tiny flames.
Grady had to admit, as long as nobody caught fire, the place looked great. And since there were party wranglers everywhere, there was little chance of a guest combusting. He’d been afraid the party planners would go overboard, but the place had an understated elegance.<
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Priscilla materialized at his side. Although his mind’s eye was still roving over Amanda’s curves, he had to admit Priscilla looked every bit the movie star. She said something about dancing, slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, and led him to the dance floor, where she molded herself to him like a golden lava lamp.
Grady scanned the revelers until he found Amanda dancing with Harris. Grady maneuvered Priscilla through the crowd to Amanda, leaned over, and yelled, “Save a dance for me?”
“Sure.” She shouted to Priscilla, “You look beautiful.” The actress smiled broadly.
“I sure hope so,” Priscilla said.
Just then the elegant prince of PR, Mark Rivers, put a hand on Grady’s shoulder.
“I need to speak with you.” Mark’s well-modulated voice cut through the music. “Priscilla as well.”
“C’mon.” Grady took his date’s arm. “Mark says my dancing is damaging my action-hero image.” He tried to make eye contact with Amanda again, but she was facing away from him. “Duty calls,” he called to Harris. But before he followed Mark, he had time to note how the silky material of Amanda’s dress cascaded down the slope of her derriere.
In Grady’s office, Grady, Priscilla, and Mark joined Tammy Tavares, Grady’s personal PR advisor, at the large round table made from marble and Colorado slate. Lines of tension around Mark’s mouth marred his usually smooth, preternaturally handsome face.
“Brace yourselves; I have a bit of news,” Mark said. “I just got a call, and the studio head—Spence himself—has a notion. He’s been . . . ruminating on the marketing strategy for Deadly Horizon. Between you, me, and the bedpost, his new wife fancies herself a bit of a public relations expert regarding what will put bums in seats. Unfortunately, he’s been listening to her. Bottom line, I fear we’re in a bit of a spot. Since this is the studio’s priciest project in five years, he wants his stars to be in the news when Horizon hits theaters.” He paused to make eye contact first with Priscilla, then with Grady. “Spence wants you two to pretend to be engaged.”
Grady stared at Mark. He stared and stared and then stared some more. He tilted his head and stared. He took in a breath and stared. He let out the breath and stared. He intended to stare until Mark confessed he was kidding.
Mark remained silent.
“What?” Priscilla asked, looking prettily confused.
“Spence wants you to announce your engagement tonight. See? He’s already started the gears moving.” Mark tilted his iPad to show them a preeminent entertainment gossip website with a picture that had been taken during the filming of Deadly Horizon. It was Priscilla and Grady kissing. The caption shouted, “Engaged!”
“Come on, Mark,” Grady said. “That’s an easy fix. They’re always speculating.”
“Grady, I’m terribly afraid he’s not going to give on this.”
“It’s ridiculous. The movie’s great, and you know I’d never say that unless I meant it. It doesn’t need a planted story. It’s going to get plenty of bums in seats on its own.”
“I agree completely. But Spence doesn’t, and he’s the final say.”
“Call him and tell him we refuse. Better yet, have Peter call him.”
“Peter already has. It was moot.”
“My bulldog of an agent couldn’t stop this? Christ. I’ll call Spence.” He got to his feet and circled behind his large desk. “He’s a reasonable guy. Would you all mind waiting outside?”
“Normally I’d agree,” Mark said as he rose. “However, he’s quite enamored of his young bride. I daresay we all know how influential love can be.”
Grady picked up the phone. “I went to his wedding, and I’m guessing it’s not love that’s driving this decision. Never seen a wedding gown sprayed on like that.”
“Whatever the motivation,” the PR man said, “he’s dug in.”
“We’ll see about that,” Grady said as the room emptied and Mark closed the door behind him.
Grady toyed with his Babe Ruth baseball as he reached the seventy-something Hollywood tycoon on his yacht. The star charmed and cajoled, but Spencer Fein, whom Grady liked and respected, wouldn’t budge. Spence was perfectly pleasant while making it perfectly clear that Grady was going to fake an engagement.
“I am obligated to the stockholders. Deadly Horizon is a spectacular film with a shitload of money sunk into it. If I can boost profits by half a percentage point with a publicity stunt, you can bet your ass I’m going to do it.”
He remembered Spencer thought of himself as a devout family man and said, “What about my girls? How’s this going to look to them? Daddy gets engaged, then breaks it off?”
“They’re kids. You’ll explain it. They’re used to you playing parts in movies; explain it that way.” The mogul lowered his voice. “Consider this a personal favor to me.”
Spencer Fein didn’t ask for personal favors unless his proverbial butt was in one hell of a proverbial sling. Grady leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling above him, and mouthed fuck.
“Grady, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. All right, Spence.” He held the baseball and traced the red stitching with his forefinger. “We’ll get engaged.”
“Believe me, I won’t forget this.”
They ended the call and Grady dropped the ball, rested his elbows on the desk, and sunk his head into his hands. There were some things they’d never covered at the Actors Studio.
Grady herded his PR entourage and Priscilla back into his office. He looked at Priscilla. “I’m sorry. There’s something else going on. I couldn’t talk him out of it.”
He looked at Mark. “How long?”
“The duration of the tour—two weeks—then you break up. Now all you have to do is announce it.”
“Let me talk to my kids first, okay? And I want everyone here to know this is the most inane, tragic stunt I’ve even been involved in, and I wouldn’t be doing it unless I had absolutely no choice.”
Amanda sipped icy champagne as she leaned against a stone wall in the living room. She caught Harris’s laughing blue eyes and beckoned. He slid through the crowd like a sophisticated eel.
“Hello, gorgeous! I just spied with my little eye one scrumptious, altruistic hunk-a-stud by the name of Alonso. Excuse me, darling, but that soul mate I ordered has finally arrived.” Amanda laughed and kissed his cheek.
“Vaya con Dios.” She squeezed his arm. He smiled sweetly, straightened his tie, and disappeared into the crowd.
Soon after, Amanda saw her own personal hunk-a-stud. Grady approached her, trailed by Mark, Priscilla, and Tammy Tavares. Grady caught Amanda’s eye. “Hey!” He turned toward her, but Mark snagged his arm and dragged him away. Grady looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s not—” but she couldn’t hear the rest over the band.
“Hope that wasn’t important,” she said to herself. She strolled onto the patio and found a spot where she could watch the festivities. She saw Grady’s elegant figure pushing through the throng and caught intermittent glimpses of the golden Priscilla in front of him, looking like a Rolls-Royce hood ornament nosing through a glitterati rush hour.
Grady and Priscilla took the stage and the band stopped. Grady was self-deprecating as he thanked everyone for coming and joked about a few famous guests. With a showman’s sense of timing, he paused until the crowd quieted. “One more thing. I have an announcement, and I want you all to be the first to know.” At this point he turned and beckoned Priscilla to join him. He put his arm around her and said, “This beautiful woman, talented actor, and my partner in our second movie together—well, I asked her to be my costar in life. And she agreed.”
The collective gasp that swept through the crowd was so conspicuous, it sounded fake. “That’s right, folks, Priscilla Mason and I are engaged.” He turned to the glowing blonde and kissed her.
Exuberant cheers filled the night air and camera flashes went off like lightning in a vicious mountain storm. The film idol and his fiancée posed for the p
hotogs, then stepped into the crowd for impromptu interviews. The band played “Here Comes the Bride.”
Amanda’s heart shattered.
15
Amanda sprinted in her treacherous shoes to the edge of the patio, then tottered down the steps and onto the cold grass. From there she tiptoed down the slope to the barn as quickly as she could, frustrated that in her ridiculous spiky heels she couldn’t flat-out run from the house. Halfway there, she took them off and ran.
Once in the dim barn, she brushed her feet off with her hands, put her shoes back on, then dove into Titanium’s stall because it was closest. Reliably, the black gelding came in from his run, seeking treats. She rested her forehead against his warm, solid neck and closed her eyes tight as fists, stifling the urge to sob. She scratched his withers—she needed his support and soothing horse smell to restore her emotional equilibrium. Within a few minutes, however, the horse tired of his therapist duties and ambled back out to his run. Amanda sniffled and wondered what to do next.
The music and drone of conversation drifted down and mixed with the appealing cacophony of horses eating, snorting, stamping their hooves, and shifting. Her face burned from the effort of not crying. She picked her way through the shavings in the stall and strode soundlessly on the rubber bricks and out of the barn. She stood on the stall-sized cement slab nearest the riding ring. As the refreshing alpine air cooled her face, she rested her head against the building and drank in the cloudless, starry sky.
She stood there a long time. “I asked her to be my costar in life. Priscilla Mason and I are engaged.” The words drifted around in her head, bouncing off each other. The man she had started to trust had been playing her all along. “Well,” she said to the stars, “at least I didn’t sleep with him.” She sighed as an aching emptiness replaced the chaos inside her, and she willed herself to get lost in the grandeur above. A Temptations song wafted down while she waited for a falling star. As soon as she saw one, she’d go to bed.
“Make any wishes?”