by Michele Hauf
I chose a pair of white, skin-tight pants and a white sleeveless shirt that gloved my torso nicely. With my new white panties and wonder bra from Victoria’s Secret, I could easily pass for a model, especially when I stepped into white, high-heeled shoes. Their tips were nicely sprinkled with rhinestones, and I even had a matching white, sparkly evening bag, which I’d bought from a shop on Rodeo Drive.
I did my makeup carefully, outlining my eyes discretely with gray, and my lips and cheekbones with soft shades of pink. As for my hair, I debated for a while what to do with it, then decided to simply let it flow down my back and shoulders. It was actually beautiful, newly-washed and shiny, falling sexily around my face.
The only problem left were my hands. I thought about rubbing face foundation or color corrector cream on them, but realized my mistake just in time. If I did that, I would ruin my white outfit with stains if I touched myself anywhere, which of course I was bound to do. The hell with it! I was a working woman and they’d have to put up with my working hands. If they didn’t like it, screw them!
I was sure they were a pack of snobs and I was ready to dislike them right off—until I realized that made me a snob too, not to mention a bundle of prejudices. As for Blake Tyler, I expected him to be a great-looking hunk of nothing, a Hollywood narcissistic womanizer with no substance.
I thought about him as I drove to Beverly Hills, trying to remember what I knew about him, in order to be able to make conversation. I recalled reading recently in a magazine that he was thirty-six and had never been married. People speculated he might even be gay, since he was never seen with any of the Hollywood starlets, or other female arm-pieces in public. I suspected this was just tabloid crap though. Most likely he was the kind of man who valued his privacy and didn’t want to make his personal life a matter of public record.
He was a big guy, over six foot tall, with an athletic body—which seemed to be a must-have for all notable stars—and a somewhat rugged appearance that nearly screamed ‘100% real man’. He wore his light-brown hair cut short, and the slight lines around his spectacular blue eyes gave him even more sex-appeal. As a matter of fact, he resembled his namesake quite a lot—one of my favorite country singers called Blake Shelton. He even had the charming dimples and dark-blond fashionable stubble on his face. He looked like a real man alright, a mouthwatering one.
I’d seen three of his movies, and I had to admit he’d given stellar performances. One was a modern version of The Great Gatsby, which I think had brought him an Oscar nomination. The other was a more cliché-ish story of a guy whose wife is gang-raped and killed by a trio of crooks, all of which he hunts down and kills in the most painful ways possible. The third one was also a masterpiece, where he played the role of a paid assassin, who falls in love with the woman he was paid to kill. I didn’t know what kind of man he was in real life, but he was a very talented actor, lucky enough to have been cast in good movies.
I reached Beverly Hills around 6:30, then turned the GPS on to find the restaurant. I arrived sooner than I thought, and immediately felt under dressed when I saw the fancy building and the obscenely expensive cars parked on the one way street. I saw a valet in front, but for some reason I decided not to hand him my Rover to park. Instead, I drove a few buildings away and found a parking opening in a row of cars by the sidewalk. I grabbed my bag, adjusted my boobs and, after a reassuring glance in the mirror, climbed out of the car.
My heart was racing as I walked toward the sumptuous entry of the restaurant. I clutched my small evening bag with damp palms. A man in formal attire was just opening the door for me, when I heard someone calling my name. It was Danny, dressed in a killer grey suit, white shirt and pink tie.
His teeth flashed as he approached, letting out a low whistle. “Wow! I’m honored to be escorting the most beautiful woman in town tonight. Hi there, lady in white.”
He kissed my cheek, then took my arm and ushered me into the restaurant. If it wasn’t for the elegant maître d’ who led us to our table, I would have gotten lost in the enormous space, bathed in soft light, jazz music and the exquisite aroma of expensive food. As we approached the corner table flanked by potted jungle plants, I swallowed the knot of nervousness in my throat. Instinctively, I squeezed Danny’s hand tighter, and he gave me a discreet pat of reassurance.
“Good evening, Mark, Sandra,” Danny addressed the two people already seated. “This is Kendra Kensington.”
“So this is the talent behind the scenes! I’m Mark Santini, baby, and I’m the guy who’s gonna make all of your dreams come true,” the man said in a booming voice, getting to his feet to shake my hand.
He was a tall, solid black man with long hair twisted in tiny braids, and a blinding smile, made even more so by a gold, sparkling incisor. He wore baggy jeans and a white T-shirt advertising some baseball team.
“Nice to meet you too, Mark,” I replied, smiling, then turned my attention to the woman. “Hi.”
“Hi! Great to meet you,” she said, shaking my hand warmly, but without standing. “I’m Sandra Hilton.”
“I’ve heard great things about you,” I lied. “I’m so excited you’ll play Serena.”
This was a gross inaccuracy. Sandra Hilton was a Barbie doll prototype, the kind of skinny blonde with fake tits, bleached teeth and too much makeup you see everywhere. There was nothing visible to distinguish her from the millions of other blondes that dabbled in showbiz. Still, I smiled brightly at her, determined to shed all my preconceptions.
“Isn’t Blake Tyler joining us?” asked Danny, sitting next to me at the large, square table, decorated with a single white candle.
Santini glanced at his oversized wrist watch. “He’s always late. He’s bound to show up any minute now. So, Kendra, I have to say you got some talent, baby. You wrote a damn good story, and I’m gonna turn it into a damn good movie. I must say I didn’t expect you to be such a hot-looking babe.”
I couldn’t help smiling. His exuberance, coupled with a lot of hand gesturing and colorful vocabulary, was contagious.
“Thank you. I heard you’re very talented too. The next Quentin Tarantino, I believe was the phrase.”
“Ha! Tarantino can come and take lessons from me. I put a lotta heart in my work, baby. That’s what makes me friggin’ brilliant,” he declared, flashing his golden smile.
We all laughed, then I said, “I hear this is your first romance movie. How come you wanted to direct it?”
He leaned across the table, talking earnestly, his dark eyes on mine. “I like the story, girl, and I like the way you write. This story, it’s not about the plot, but the atmosphere, the visuals, the chemistry between the guy and the broad. When I read it, it was like I simply saw the friggin’ movie in front of my eyes. That’s talent, that’s what I’m lookin’ for. Doesn’t matter if it’s romance, action, comedy or whatever.”
“Did you find a location you like?” Danny asked, absently thanking the waiter who’d arrived with a tray full of soft drinks and a bottle of champagne.
“No, man, that’s a real problem.” Mark scratched his goatee, then reached for his glass of Cola. “It’s not like ruined castles are in big supply around here. I think we might have to film in Romania after all.”
“What’s Romania?” Sandra asked, her blue eyes round and curious. No wonder I’d pegged her for a dumb blonde.
“Romania is a country in Eastern Europe,” I explained, trying not to use words with too many letters. “Transylvania, where the action in The Diary takes place, is the central part of Romania.” I turned my attention to Mark. “Couldn’t you just film in the studio, build a really good set?”
He looked at me as though I’d swore at him. “No way! I don’t do that kinda shit. Only the real thing for me, baby. I deliver quality, and when I finish this movie, the spectators will be able to smell the rotten brick and dust of that castle, the blood in that torture room. I’m gonna keep scouting. There’s no rushin’ genius.” He winked at Sandra. “I also wanna ha
ve the real thing when we get to the sex scenes, but we’ll have to talk about that. I bet you wouldn’t mind, would you, baby?”
Sandra blushed and bit her lip, giving Mark a pussycat look. Before she could answer though, a deep male voice came from behind me, startling me so much I nearly spilled my drink.
“Even the real thing has limits, Santini.”
10
I turned my head so fast my neck cramped, especially since I had to keep looking up at Blake Tyler. He was much taller and more broadly built than he looked on screen. His shoulders blocked my view, and I had to strain my neck to get a look at his face.
“Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late.”
He took off his sunglasses, then sat in the chair to my right. He gave me a quick onceover, then extended his hand, “I’m Blake Tyler. You must be Kendra.”
I nodded, my hand trapped in his large, warm palm. My eyes locked with his. They weren’t blue, but gray. Stunning, mesmerizing gray, which made his gaze even more striking because of the contrast it made with his tanned skin and golden-brown stubble that covered the lower part of his face.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, hoping no one had noticed the breathlessness in my voice, or the fact I couldn’t stop staring at him.
As he leaned over me to shake hands with Danny, who was seated on my left, my face was only inches apart from his. I could smell his aftershave—a subtle, spicy scent that sent my senses into overdrive.
“Didn’t your Mom teach you any manners?” Mark said. “It’s a sin to keep two gorgeous women waiting.”
“I said I was sorry,” Blake replied, making himself more comfortable in the chair. “I couldn’t find a parking spot.”
“Man, the valet parks your car. That’s why you’re a celebrity, so people can kiss your ass and always be at your beck and call.”
“I don’t want anyone kissing my ass. At least, not in public. I’m not into crowds,” Blake said. “Besides, I don’t let valets handle my car.”
When he turned his head to glance at me, I saw amusement in those gray eyes, and maybe a hint of... something else. Something I didn’t recognize. Probably it was in his genes to flirt and toy with every woman he met, like a cat teases a mouse.
I hastily looked down, which wasn’t very smart because my gaze landed on his powerful thighs encased in faded jeans, and on the generous bulge between them. I adjusted my view to read the inscription on his white T-shirt: ‘Be the Best and Fuck the Rest’. I swallowed again, noticing the perfect curves of his muscled chest beneath the thin cotton. I could even see the impression of his nipples. The man was a sexual punch. No wonder he was so famous. A woman could melt off a few hundred calories just by looking at him.
“Getting into character,” he said, pointing to his chest.
“Oh, right.” I lifted my eyes to his face and reached with a not-so-steady hand for my drink. “Hunter always wore T-shirts with suggestive wordings.”
“You created quite an interesting character. If we’d met before, I’d say he resembles me somewhat.”
Everyone laughed, knowing that at the beginning of the story I’d made Hunter look like an asshole.
“He and Serena definitely can’t stand each other when they meet,” Sandra said, “but in the end he turns out to be a nice guy.”
“Since everyone’s here, I suggest we order and talk more about the actual production,” Mark said, grabbing the menu in front of him. “I have a lot of ideas, but I wanna ask you some questions, Kendra. As I said, I’ve been looking seriously at Romania as our primary location. Did you know there are more than three hundred castles out there?”
Everyone’s eyebrows raised, including mine.
“I had no clue. The idea about Countess Bathory and Transylvania came to me when I saw a documentary about the so-called Blood Countess. She was a fierce historical character, reputed to have tortured and killed over six hundred girls, and was labeled the most prolific female serial killer in history. Who did you choose to play her, by the way?”
“I have the perfect gal for the Countess, a genuine Hungarian broad,” Mark replied excitedly. “She’s appeared in a few movies, small roles, mostly historicals. She’s got that kind of face, cold and mad beauty. This is gonna be her big break. And I have this Russian blonde who’s perfect to play Anastasia, the crazy killer who thought she was the Countess reincarnated.”
“Wow, that’s quite a selection,” I remarked laughing, and reached for my own menu.
Mark raised his index finger and aimed it at me. “Baby, I’m gonna make an Oscar movie from this. Mark Mark’s words. Now, let’s eat. I’m friggin’ starving!”
It was past midnight when we finally left the restaurant, each heading in a different direction. I had no idea making a movie could be this complicated, but it was also fun and exciting. There were a million details to consider, and despite his eccentricity, Mark seemed an excellent director. Sandra Hilton hadn’t made any notable impression on me. She hadn’t spoken much, hadn’t eaten much, hadn’t done much of anything. As for Blake... My stomach did a flip every time I thought of him. He was undeniably attractive, and I was surprised to glimpse how intelligent he was, not to mention a meticulous actor. I could swear I’d had dinner with Hunter Cole, the character I’d created from my own imagination, the character no one knew better than I. But Blake Tyler seemed to.
Danny wanted to follow me to my Rover, but the valet saved me when he promptly arrived with Danny’s car, pushing the keys into his hand. I gratefully said goodnight and rushed to where I’d parked, hugging myself against the chill of the night. I hastily climbed into my Rover, turned on the headlights, and then frowned. Someone had squeezed a low, sports car in front of mine, barely leaving me room to get out. I lowered the window and leaned out to better squint at the midnight blue Maserati. I brushed my foot lightly on the acceleration and tried to turn the wheel to ease out, but I was too close to the Maserati. I didn’t care if I scratched it. The idiot who’d parked so close to me deserved it. I just didn’t want to damage my own car.
“Son of a bitch,” I said in frustration. “I could climb all over you!”
“Now that’s an interesting idea.”
I don’t know which annoyed me more: the way my heart leaped in my throat, or the realization that the tall shadow darkening my window was Blake Tyler. Damn it! He’d made me jump for the second time in a few hours.
“This stupid prick didn’t leave me enough room to get out,” I said furiously, gesturing to the Maserati.
He looked at me speculatively, then walked to gage the distance between the two cars.
“You’ve got plenty of room,” he said when he came back.
“No, I don’t.” I was beginning to feel like an idiotic, helpless female who found parallel parking one of the Universe’s greatest mysteries—which, by the way, I did not. “Besides, I just bought this Rover a few days ago, and I’m not familiar with driving this type of massive car yet.”
His eyes held mine for a few seconds longer, filled with cocky humor. “May I?”
I gave him an up and down look, then stalked out of the car and made a mocking bow, motioning for him to climb into the driver seat. He did so with a practiced movement, and in a smooth slide he had the car out in less than ten seconds. I had to admire his skill, but I was too piqued, especially when he let himself out and returned my mocking bow.
“It’s all yours.”
“Thank you,” I said, reluctantly.
I climbed in the car and, through the open window, I bent to wish him goodnight. To my horror, he took a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the infamous Maserati. I was still gaping when he walked over, opened the passenger seat of my car and propped a forearm against it.
“I might be a prick,” he said conversationally. “Maybe even an asshole, occasionally. But I’m not stupid.”
With that, he climbed into his Maserati, slid it expertly out of its parking place, and drove away, revving the engine, leaving me to swallow his dus
t.
The next few weeks went by in a blur as I worked relentlessly on the house. I was peeved to discover there was much more effort involved than I’d initially thought, and that I wasn’t much good when it came to hard core rehab. However, Harvey had always something for me to do, even if it was only scraping off the faded paint, or assisting one of the men. Although they appeared reluctant about my help in the beginning, I could tell they had come to respect me when they saw I was working just as hard, proving I was resourceful and inventive.
The house and lands were taking shape around us. The roof had been repaired, the entire electrical wiring replaced, as was the plumbing system, down to the last pipe. The walls had been stripped of the old traces of paint, the window openings enlarged, and the new windows were in place. What I adored the most were the floors, which had cleaned up gorgeously after being rid of an inch or so of grime with an electric planer. After that, I’d personally applied a shiny protective wood varnish over the dark-cherry colored wood. When no one was around, I actually got down on my knees and rolled all over the living room floor, thrilling in the smell of clean, restored wood.
The landscaping was pretty much finished as well. Tom and his boys had done a brilliant job, managing to preserve the urban jungle appearance of the property, while making it look well-tended. I had fallen in love with the violet color of the wisteria, so at my request, Tom color-matched the flower beds adorning the front of the house. Pink and purple petunias, heliotrope, mauve pansies and verbena, all were neatly arranged in stylish little nests. From afar, it looked as though the yard and house facade were sprinkled with amethyst. It was more enchanting than a fairytale.
I still had most of the old trees surrounding the house on three sides. Two rows of freshly planted, medium-sized evergreens flanked the lane meandering from the gates to the front door. The gray, flat stone had cost a fortune, especially since I’d insisted on it being delivered ASAP, but it was all worth it. Another smaller, similar path led from the back door to a small herb garden cleverly entwined around the trees. I was shocked when Tom informed me I had inherited a plantation of pot, and was amused to see his crestfallen look when I’d ordered him to yank every single plant out and burn them all.