Hollywood Tiger: BBW Tiger Shifter Paranormal Romance (Hollywood Shifters Book 3)

by Chant, Zoe

  His presence seemed to fill the car, putting them in intimate space in a way that made all her nerve endings tingle. She was hyper-aware of the subtle hiss of his shirt sleeves as he moved, the soft sigh of his breathing deep in his broad chest, and a quick peek upward drew her fascinated gaze to the little hollow above his upper lip, with tiny glints of gold in his whiskers that in a few hours would become stubble.

  She wondered what that stubble would feel like rubbed against her thighs—

  Her belly fluttered at that thought, and she cleared her throat, relieved as he turned on the engine and the air conditioner blasted. Yes, definitely time to cool off. Sheesh, it hadn’t been that long since she’d ridden in a car with a guy, so why was she acting like a teenager on her first date?

  Only it wasn’t any guy. It was this guy. She breathed through her mouth to fight the instinct to sniff him all over. “Where are we going?” she babbled inanely. “Are they at Sony or Paramount? Or on Sunset?”

  “No. They took over part of an old studio off Laurel Canyon, in the Valley.”

  She nodded, breathing out and in as he handled the traffic smoothly. Film companies, she knew, had offices all over, and rented sound stages when they needed to. Some studios were converted barns from the old days of the orange groves, and so forth.

  She kept her gaze firmly out the window as Dennis drove up the treacherous narrow, winding Lauren Canyon, and down into the shimmering bowl of heat that was San Fernando Valley.

  The studio turned out to be a picturesque old building with a new sign saying Viking Productions. “There are a couple small companies renting space upstairs, but Viking has the main offices and also the single sound stage. Both of which we’re here to get a personal tour of,” he said.

  She nodded, remembering what Agent Sloane had told them.

  He pulled up at the gate and said in a loud voice completely different from his own, “Daniel Moore for Jerry Haskell. Payton Lee, same.”

  The guard obviously recognized Dennis, and peered in at Mindy. She pulled down her sunglasses and simpered at him. He stepped back and waved them through.

  “How’s my bimbo?” Mindy asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

  Dennis flashed his grin. “Perfect.”

  They parked, Dennis pulled his cane from the back seat, and limped noticeably as they walked up the low steps to the arctic office. The thermostat had to be set at around 60, incredibly wasteful of energy. The pretty young front office girl who welcomed them was wearing a light sweater, Mindy noticed as she pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head.

  Then Haskell came out, and it was time for the loud male voices, hurr hurr, fake smiles and broad gestures taking up a lot of space. Alpha male posing. Mindy wondered why the cane and the limp as Dennis introduced Mindy as Payton.

  Haskell grinned her way, barely looking at her face. His gaze stopped at her breasts and stayed there as he uttered an inane welcome, then gestured toward the office he had come out of.

  “You’ll remember this, of course,” he said, and then launched into a lot of bragging about the famous actors he’d auditioned in there, and the famous directors he’d had to turn down before deciding to go in a new direction with the young, going-places Michael Benedict.

  Mindy listened with half her attention as she took in the room: enormous desk the size of an aircraft carrier, big chair behind it, smaller chairs for the peons. Ah, and behind the desk, a low, discreet file cabinet of some kind of expensive wood, with serious-looking locks on the fronts of the two drawers. Mindy slid her hand into her purse to pull out one of her favorite doodads, a bent paperclip. She knew she had about one chance in ten of actually being able to use it—but why not grab that one chance if it happened?

  Dennis interrupted to say, “Hey, Jerome, can I see that contract if you have it?”

  Haskell pulled out his keys and unlocked the file cabinet, then opened the top drawer as he said, “It might take a minute. You know we’ve got six pictures at various stages of development, and one in post-prod. That’s post-production, heh heh, a little insider lingo for you.”

  What a gasbag, Mindy thought, watching the way he flipped his fingers through the files. No way was he actually looking for something. “Damn. Looks like my paralegal is slacking on the job again. We’ve been expanding the legal department—and somehow that causes slow-ups, hurr hurr hurr.”

  Her heart hammered. If Dennis would just do some more Dan Moore antler-dancing—

  “I know we talked about it,” Dennis said, and Haskell turned his way, obviously glad of an excuse not to be looking for what clearly did not exist. “And I’m totally on board,” Dennis went on. “Totally, as you know. I really want to get into the industry. But my guy, he’s a typical pencil neck—”

  Dennis went on complaining about his mythical accountant while Haskell’s head bobbed. The two guys’ attention was on each other so she made two soundless steps on the thick carpet and laid her doodad over the edge of the file cabinet.

  She had one second to straighten up and stare out the window as she fiddled with her scarf. She held her breath, sensing Haskell’s gaze rake down her body before he turned back to Dennis. “I’ll have to fire my paralegal’s pretty little ass if she doesn’t get on the ball. Let’s take a rain-check, or better, we should revisit my idea. Trust me, Danny, I can absolutely guarantee your taking on an executive position if you come in high with a check.”

  “Sure, sure,” Dennis said. “And that’s what I want. But you know how it is. Me, I like to strike while the iron is hot, but these CPAs and lawyers, they get a guy by the short hairs . . .”

  Haskell kneed the file cabinet shut, and kept his attention on Dennis as the file cabinet closed. Mindy listened for the click of the lock, but didn’t hear it. She let out her breath silently.

  Okay, there was one strike for the team. Maybe one of Agent Sloane’s people could ninja-sneak in to get at that cabinet after hours, or something.

  “So,” Haskell said, “Shall I send the girl for coffee? Pastry?”

  “No, we’re good,” Dennis said without waiting for Mindy to answer. The way a Dan Moore would.

  And Haskell didn’t even give Mindy a glance to see how she felt about his offer. “Great. Then how about taking a look at the sound stage? You’re in luck—Michael is here today, doing setups right now. If you like, we’ll head right over and catch him before the cameras have to roll. I’ll introduce you as the new executive producer . . .”

  He led the way past the sweater-shrouded receptionist, who was busy at her computer, earphones on, though the phone didn’t seem to be ringing. Mindy craned her neck, and glimpsed the edge of her terminal: she was watching Dean and Castiel fighting some demons.

  Mindy smothered the urge to snicker, then her humor froze as Haskell turned her way. They were talking about her!

  “Want to try acting, do you, honeybunch?” he said to Mindy. But he didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Aren’t you the belly dancer?” He turned to Dennis.

  One thing con men were usually good for, Mindy had discovered, was a memory for faces. And when she’d snapped the camera shots the second time, he and Patrice had been staring right at Mindy.

  “Oh, yes,” Dennis said easily as they crossed a little patio and headed for the doors of the big sound stage. “Belly danced straight into my life, if you know what I mean. We’ve spent the last three days auditioning.” He uttered a fake laugh.

  Haskell joined right in, hurr hurr hurr, as he opened the doors to the sound stage. “I like a guy who knows how to move fast,” Haskell said to Dennis, and then, with a leer at Mindy, “Well, the way you move, we might just have to find a part for you.”

  So Haskell had noticed her dancing. Mindy didn’t know whether to be gratified or repulsed.

  But she knew her role as Payton the belly dancing airhead. “Ooooh,” she squeed, clapping her hands. “What can I do?”

  Haskell’s forced smile broadened as he said in a patronizin
g tone, “Tell you what, sweetie, see those girls over there? The blonde is the screenwriter. Why don’t you go talk to her? She’ll tell you all about the picture, while we boys handle some business with the director.”

  And as she turned away, he swatted her on the rump.

  She kept walking. Payton probably would love swats on the rump. But inwardly, Mindy thought, You are so going to pay for that.

  She dodged around cables snaking every which way across the cement floor, and ducked past a lot of other lighting and sound equipment, to where a girl who looked college age sat at a makeshift table, going over papers with another girl.

  And Mindy got an idea.

  “Um, excuse me. Where is the ladies’ room?” she whispered.

  “You’ll have to go in through the office,” the dark-haired one said. “It’s all the way to the back. Can’t miss it.”

  Exactly what Mindy had hoped to hear. She sashayed away, hustling the moment she got outside the sound stage doors. When she reached the office, her heart thundered against her ribs.

  The receptionist hadn’t moved—now it was a shirtless Sam fighting demons.

  Mindy eased up to Haskell’s office, and tried the door handle. It wasn’t locked. She slipped inside, eased the door shut, then carefully, slowly pressed the lock, which would give her a few seconds’ notice, at least.

  Then she stood there and checked for an escape route as woman or, if she had to, as a dog. There was another door, but a quick peek showed a private restroom, with a closet off it. Last resort. There was also the desk, under which a dog could conceivably get caught. But she’d have to be desperate. Much better to move fast and get out before she was discovered.

  She moved to the cabinet. Her trusty doodad had worked. She eased out the drawer. The stuff in the front that he had been so busily looking through all seemed to be submissions from hopeful screenwriters. He definitely had been fake searching! There wasn’t any contract, Mindy was certain of it. What a sleazechief. But halfway back—where his fingers had not gone walking—was a green divider marking off files with names, beginning with MIL GATE.

  According to Agent Sloane, the fake picture was called Millennium Gate.

  Jackpot.

  She yanked out her cell, clicked on her camera, and began leafing through the papers in that file, taking pictures as fast as she could, while mentally counting under her breath. She dared not be missing more than five minutes.

  She paused when she came to the contract for the screenplay. It certainly looked legal—according to it, the writer, named Emma Gordon, had been paid 1.2 million dollars.

  Wow. Further papers disclosed salaries commensurate. So far it certainly looked like a major picture, but then what she knew about actual filmmaking could be measured in teaspoons.

  Some shift of the air, some subliminal noise alerted her. Time to go.

  She shoved the files back in, and glanced at the others, which had much thinner files. Other fake pictures? She didn’t have time to find out.

  She retrieved her doodad, threw it and her camera in her purse, and ran to the door. Turn the handle slowly . . . slowly . . . so the lock doesn’t click loudly.

  She cracked the door a sliver. The air pressure must have changed when someone had come in the front door—and yes, there was a UPS guy setting a bunch of manila packages on the receptionist’s desk. The two were busy talking to each other.

  Mindy slipped out, then retreated to the restroom, where she washed her hands, then opened the door and marched down the hall, knowing she trailed the scent of soap.

  The receptionist glanced her way. “Oh! I didn’t see you come in.”

  “They told me where to find the restroom,” Mindy said, and grinned. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and shirtless Sam.”

  The receptionist laughed, then turned to deal with the pile of mail. Mindy wondered if all those thick manila envelopes were more screenplays that would end up in that file cabinet. Unread, from the looks of the ones already there.

  When she got to the sound stage, she headed straight for the two young women at the table. “Hi,” she said, giving them a big smile. “Jerome told me to talk to you. About a part? He said you’re the screenwriter?” At the name ‘Jerome’ they both stiffened a little.

  “I’m Emma,” said the blonde with cute little square glasses. She exchanged a look with the other as she said, “I’m the writer. This is Kayli, our P.A.”

  Mindy said cheerily, “It’s so exciting to meet a real screenwriter! Tell me all about it!”

  Emma brightened, and at first began talking haltingly, gaining enthusiasm as she went. Mindy learned that she was a second year student at Cal Arts Film School, and Millennium Gate had started out as her screenwriting class project, in which a girl goes back in time and meets Vikings, and how the two cultures compare.

  Then she lucked out, meeting Mr. Haskell at a school function that had invited industry people, they fell into conversation, and next thing she knew, she had a real offer.

  “We got green-lighted right away, before I’d even finished my first draft! But ever since we began principal photography, we’ve had a lot of changes.”

  She indicated a screenplay filled with green, pink, blue, and bright orange pages, which Mindy gathered were rewrites. The story sounded confusing as Emma backtracked and filled in and corrected herself, but it sounded like now it was a sci-fi action flick, where Vikings from the year 1016 sail out of some alien time warp into Marina Del Rey a thousand years later, and attack Los Angeles.

  “It’s the experience of a lifetime,” Emma said earnestly, as though Mindy were taking notes. “Interning with a real production studio will look so great on my resume—it’ll get me into the Writer’s Guild once the picture comes out, and that’ll get me a decent agent—and all before my junior year!”

  “Interning,” Mindy repeated, mentally aging Emma down. She couldn’t be any older than nineteen. “Doesn’t that mean working gratis?”

  Emma’s lips parted, and her expression paled. Mindy had never seen the color actually drain out of a person’s face before. “I didn’t say—I didn’t mean—” Another quick look at Kayli, and she said low-voiced, “My NDA states that I’m not supposed to discuss anything until release. It’s such an opportunity, and it’ll be great when the picture comes out—doors will open all over town.”

  “It’s so incredibly hard to break in,” Kayli said earnestly.

  “Oh, I know,” Mindy said, waving a hand. “That’s what everybody says, and I don’t know a thing about the film world,” and watched two faces clear. “I’m just a dancer. Is there any room for me in that story?”

  Another exchanged look, and Emma said, “I’m in the middle of rewriting the scene we’re shooting on location on Sunday. Did Mr. Haskell tell you—”

  The sound of male voices interrupted them.

  “You girls getting along?” Haskell asked in such a patronizing tone that Mindy wanted to clock him with a boom mike.

  “Oh, yes,” she chirped, looking past him to Dennis. “That is, Emma’s been telling me the story, and it’s so exciting!”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Haskell said with another of his hurr hurr hurr chuckles. “Listen, we’re gonna be on location right off Sunset Blvd in a few days. It’s been all over Variety. Everyone’s talking about it—talk about free publicity! Would you like an exclusive pass?”

  Mindy clapped her hands.

  “Danny and I are getting our ducks in a row. Once we close our deal, you get an executive chair at a real location shoot, and afterwards we’ll celebrate. How’s Spago sound?”

  “I can hardly wait!” Mindy gave a Paytonish squeal.

  Dennis clapped his free hand against his thigh. “Well, I’m gonna build a fire under my guy. I can hardly wait to get in on the fun.”

  “Trust me, you won’t be sorry. I tell you, producing films is addictive—there’s no bigger rush. Other than maybe a day in the hay with a cutie.” He leered at Mindy, that ham
hand reaching out for another swat, and she made sure her butt was well out of range.

  Dennis stepped between them, keeping his cane on Haskell’s side as they exited the sound stage. He looked pissed, Mindy thought—but then his face smoothed out.

  Haskell escorted them all the way to the parking lot, gassing on about opportunities and big plans, until Dennis shut the car door.

  Neither of them spoke until they drove through the gate, then Dennis said, his voice grating, “I’m sorry that prick got handsy. I wanted to punch him through the window.”

  “It’s okay,” Mindy said. “I told myself Payton would love the attention, and promised myself that Mindy would get paybacks.”

  Dennis snorted his breath out, his eyes still angry under lowered brows. “Okay. Your call. You’re a damn good sport, I have to say. Especially as that was a shitload of nothing. He may be an obnoxious ass clown, but he’s not stupid. He isn’t going to let me in until he has money in hand.”

  “And so I did get paybacks,” Mindy said. “I got pictures.”

  “What?” He slewed her way, nearly sideswiped a car, then gritted his teeth. “Hold on. I’ve got a headache the size of Texas, and I don’t want to get us killed.”

  Neither of them spoke until he had driven down a couple streets, then pulled into a parking lot behind a mini-mall just off Laurel Canyon.

  He put the car in park and turned her way. “Pictures, you say? Of what?”

  “Files. In his file cabinet. I sneaked back there while you guys were yakking in the soundstage.”

  “God, you’re wonderful,” he breathed.

  He cupped his hands around her face, and kissed her. Heat shot from her lips to her toes.

  She grabbed his shirt and kissed him back.

  Chapter Six

  He didn’t mean to do it. But nothing in that long, shitty afternoon was right until Mindy’s soft lips parted, and those big spaniel-brown eyes rounded, and she whispered, “I got pictures.”