overly familiar."
"Is it your account?"
"Between us?"
"No. I'm taking an announcement in Ad Weekly."
"Very amusing, Lauren."
"Well?" she pressed. "Is it your account?"
"It wasn't, but it will be."
"Really?"
"They're coming in tomorrow to see what we have to offer."
"And what do you have to offer?"
"A surprise."
She grinned. "I love surprises.
"Good."
The car drew up outside her building. She'd never asked him in before,
but the time seemed right. "Would you like to come up for a drink,
Oliver?"
He shook his head. "I didn't want to bother you with this before, but
my charming wife has detectives following me. Apparently she feels
she'll get even more of my money if she can prove I'm sleeping
around."
"I asked you up for a drink, nothing else."
"My dear, I know that. But I would never put you in a compromising
position."
Thoughtful as well. He was turning out to be the perfect man.
"Tomorrow night-I'll pick you up at eight," he said.
"Not possible, I'm catering a dinner."
"Have someone else do it."
"No.
"Why not?"
She hated it when he tried to tell her what to do. "Because I want to
do it myselœ" He started to say something, then changed his mind.
Lauren had that determined look, he knew better than to argue.
hings happened fast. "You've got the part," Frances told him over the
phone. "Shooting begins in two weeks. I've made an appointment for
you to see an agent friend-she'll handle the deal. And I've booked a
photo session with another friend of mine. The session's gratis-all
you have to pay for are the prints."
"Hey, Frances-this is great. I-" Frances was a fast talker. "Saturday
night. Escort duties. You're taking me to an industry party-wear a
suit."
He started to say something but she cut him off again.
"I'm putting you on to my assistant, she'll give you the details. Oh,
and Nick, don't forget who got you started."
"Frances, I-" But she was gone.
He had a role in a fucking movie. He was about to get an agent. He
was going to be a star! Things were definitely moving in the right
direction.
His new agent was a short middle-aged woman named Meena Caron. She had
dark cropped hair and thick no-nonsense glasses. She was with a large
important agency, which was reassuring.
"It's two days' work," she said, all business. "You'll be shooting in
New York. They'll fly you in the day before-tourist-only above the
title gets first."
A fl ù "What does that mean?"
"Above the title?"
"Yeah."
She looked at him quizzically.
"You are new to the business, aren't you.
"Gotta learn sometime," he said cheerfully.
Meena tapped a silver Cartier pen on her desktop. "Stars get their
name above the title. The star of your movie is Charlie Geary. He's
young, red-hot and a real-life pain. Stay away from him-he'll do his
best to get you fired. And don't try to screw the leading lady-that's
Charlie's privilege."
Oh, yeah?
"Who's the girl?"
"Carlysle Mann. Very pretty. Very crazy.
"I never went for crazy.
Meena didn't crack a smile. "As soon as you get your photos bring them
in. There's a pilot at NBC you could be right for. You can act, can't
you?"
"Frances wouldn't've sent me to you if I couldn't."
Meena stood up-she was finished with him. "Frances has her own reasons
for doing things. You look good. I'm sure she's taking you on the
party circuit."
He didn't answer. It was none of her goddamn business. Maybe he
should have opted to go with Ardmore Castle instead of this storm
trooper.
The photographer Frances set him up with was a tall gawky woman who
worked fast, shrieking directions at her harassed assistant. Didn't
Frances ever deal with men?
She circled him like a predatory animal. "Stop trying so hard," she
kept telling him. "For God's sake, attempt to look natural. Dump the
put-on scowl, it's so phony."
He hated her too. He was used to women falling all over him. The
agent and the photographer didn't appear to give a fast fuck.
After the session he figured he should go home-check up on Cyndra. But
then again, Joy was probably wondering where he'd vanished to, and he
didn't want her mad at him. Christ, this was like walking a tightrope
without a net. Surrounded by women and he wasn't even getting laid.
Joy greeted him frostily.
He told her about the movie.
"Bit part," she said, screwing up her nose in disgust. "You should
have held out for better."
"At least it's a job. My first professional one."
"Crap movie. Crap director."
Why couldn't she be pleased for him instead of criticizing
everything?
"Gotta start somewhere," he said easily, refusing to let her get to
him.
"Ha!" she sniffed.
He told her about Meena Caron.
"Second rate."
"She's with a big agency," he pointed out.
"You'll get lost. You should have signed with Ardmore."
"I don't like Ardmore."
She narrowed her eyes. "Who said you have to like people. It's what
they can do for you that counts."
Maybe. Maybe not. But right now Joy was bringing him down, so he got
out of there fast and stopped by to see Annie at the health club. She
was suitably cool.
"My movie's shooting in New York," he said. "Maybe Cyndra can stay
with you while I'm away."
"Your movie," she sneered.
He'd had it with her attitude. "Yeah. My fuckin' movie. Two days'
work-it's more than you're doin'."
She looked hurt. "Thanks, Nick. Remind me that I can't get a job.
Remind me that every time I go on an interview all they want is a six
foot blonde with big tits."
He did his best to soften her up. "Two days, Annie. I can't leave her
alone."
"Why not?" she said bitterly. "I'm here to do anything you want.
Right?"
Slowly Cyndra recovered and tried to think positively. After all it
wasn't her fault, she hadn't shot the man, Reece had. It was his gun,
his responsibility.
Damn Reece Webster. He'd gone. Vanished. Good riddance.
"I'm moving back to my apartment," she told Nick.
"You can't do that," he said, trying to reason with her.
Cyndra had a strong stubborn streak. "Why not?" she asked, tilting
her chin, preparing for a fight.
Cause you're not ready."
She sighed, brushing a hand through her long dark hair. "Stop worrying
about me, Nick. I won't go to the cops, nor will" "An' what'll you do
if Reece comes back?"
"He won't."
"You don't know for sure."
"Look-if he does, I'll tell him the guy got up an' walked away.
Was she stupid or what? "The man was dead, Cyndra, fuckin' dead."
"Reece doesn't know that. He ran out of there
so fast he doesn't know
anything. Go off and do your movie, it's a great break for you.
It'd be nice if one of us made it."
He couldn't argue with that.
Frances worked a room good. She knew everyone and everyone knew her.
Nick trailed behind, feeling out of place and inadequate in his rented
suit. He was in a freakin' mansion, for crissake-the like of which
he'd never seen. It made the Browning house back in Bosewell look like
a shack.
Frances ordered a drink and made him carry it. She didn't bother
introducing him to anyone-not that anyone seemed interested in meeting
him, they looked right through him as if he didn't exist. As the
evening progressed, so did his aggravation. He felt invisible,
unimportant-it wasn't a feeling he enjoyed.
Dinner was seated, and he was not seated next to Frances. He found
himself between a fat woman in a maroon cocktail dress and an older man
in an ill-fitting tuxedo. He didn't have to be a genius to figure out
it was the worst table in the room.
The fat woman talked to a vivacious blonde on her other side. The
older man morosely sipped his drink.
Frances was across the room at a table filled with familiar faces.
Everyone at her table was laughing and talking. Shit! How did he get
+c ciiion?
He gave conversation a shot, asking the man what he did.
"Banking" was the cold reply.
"You work in a bank or you own it?" he said, going for the flippant
approach.
The man was unamused.
After a while he got up and made his way outside to the bar. Two
waiters were sneaking a smoke. "Anybody know who's giving this party?"
he asked.
"Some studio exec," said one of the waiters.
"That's his daughter," said the other waiter, gesturing across the
well-kept gardens, where a young blonde was entwined around a guy with
long hair. They were making their own entertainment.
"At least someone's having a good time," he mumbled.
It took forever before Frances was ready to be escorted home. He got
behind the wheel of her old Mercedes and gunned the engine.
"Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked, puffing on a cigarette.
Was she kidding?
He stared unseeingly at the road ahead. "I had a lousy time."
She couldn't have cared less. "Really?"
"Those people don't wanna know you unless you're important."
"That's Hollywood, dear," she said matter-of-factly. "Make the most of
it-when you're famous they'll be crawling all over you."
He liked the sound of her words. Glancing at her quizzically he said,
"You really think I'm gonna be famous, Frances?"
She blew smoke in his face and regarded him with her flinty gray
eyes.
"Yes, Nick. As a matter of fact I think you're going to be very famous
indeed." m finally divorced," Oliver announced over the phone.
"Tonight we're celebrating."
Lauren was at work. Cradling the receiver under her chin she doodled
on a yellow legal pad. "How did it happen so fast?" she asked.
"We made a deal. My ex-wife loves deals."
She drew a circle and enclosed it with a square. "Congratulations,
Oliver."
"Thank you, my dear."
"Where are we going?"
"We're staying home. My chauffeur will pick you up at seven." A
slight pause. "Oh, and Lauren . . . bring a toothbrush."
Was this his way of telling her they were finally going to consummate
their relationship? Hardly romantic, but Oliver was nothing if not to
the point.
She went home early, washed her hair, took a leisurely bath, rubbed
perfumed cream into her skin and thought about the evening ahead. She
liked Oliver-he was entertaining. He had panache and style, wore great
suits, always got the best table in restaurants. He was a good dancer,
charming and witty.
But I don't love him.
So what? Who do you think is going to come rushing into your life?
There are no Prince Charmings left.
But I don't love him.
Get real. He's the man for you.
He's old enough to be my grandfather.
It doesn't matter.
She dressed carefully, still thinking about what lay ahead. She'd
slept with three men. Nick-who'd gotten her pregnant and dumped her.
Brad-her bad-seed cousin. And Jimmy-who'd taken off the day of their
supposed wedding. Some trio.
Except Nick was special.
Bullshit. Nick Angelo was nothing but a loser.
Ilovedhim.
No, you didn't.
I still love him.
For God's sake!
Oliver's apartment was filled with white orchids, his favorite jazz
pianist-Erroll Garner-played background music on the stereo, the lights
were low and Oliver was in a very good mood indeed. He greeted her
with compliments and a glass of champagne, while the butler served
small wedges of toast loaded with caviar from a silver tray.
"I don't like caviar," she said, wrinkling her nose.
Oliver looked amused. "It's an acquired taste. Acquire it, my dear.
You'll soon grow to adore it."
They ate in the dining room with candles lighting the table and Erroll
Garner giving way to the smooth sound of Ella Fitzgerald.
Lauren picked at her food and gulped two glasses of wine, wondering if
she should encourage him.
A little late, Roberts. You've encouraged him for three months. Why
stop now?
After dinner he dismissed the servants and led her into the darkly
paneled library, where they sat in front of a wood fire sipping
brandies.
"I don't usually drink-" she began.
"I know," he interrupted, removing the glass from her hand and leaning
over to kiss her.
This was not the first time they'd kissed, but it was certainly the
most intense. She was glad she'd had the champagne and the wine at
dinner and now the brandy.
God, she was nervous!
He moved slowly, kissing her for a long time before suggesting they go
into the bedroom.
Her affair with Jimmy had taken place over a year ago-she hadn't been
with anyone since, and yet she did not feel that incredible rush of
excitement. Instead she felt apprehensive, as if she was about to
embark on a trip she might regret.
The bedroom was filled with red roses, their seductive scent in the
air. Oliver touched her lightly on the cheek. "Do you want to undress
in the bathroom? There's a robe in there for you."
She hadn't planned on undressing herself, but that was apparently what
he expected.
Shutting the bathroom door she stared at herself in the mirror.
Little Lauren Roberts. High school prude. About to embark on a sexual
adventure with a man who was older than her father. Oh, God!
For a moment she flashed onto the memory of Phil Roberts that fateful
day in Bosewell. Her father and his woman. Her father and that cheap
tramp.
And then she saw Primo, leering at her with his wild eyes. She could
almost feel his beer gut pushing up against her and hear his filthy
laugh ringing in her head.
; You killed him, Lauren.
I'm not sure.
Oh, yes, Lauren, you killed him all right.
She removed her clothes and put on the silk robe Oliver had so
thoughtfully provided. The material was soft and sensuous. She pulled
it around her protectively.
He was waiting under the covers with the lights off. A single candle
lit the room. The scent of the roses was overwhelming.
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