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“You mean they want to see me making steady progress toward marriage and children.”
Odele nodded.
“Life is rarely that neat.” She should know.
Odele gave a big sigh. “Well, we don’t deal in reality, do we, honey? Our currency in Hollywood is the stardust of dreams.”
Chiara resisted rolling her eyes. She really needed a vacation.
“That’s why a little relationship is just what you need to get your name back out there in a positive way.”
“And how am I supposed to get said relationship?”
Odele snapped her fingers. “Easy. I have just the man.”
“Who?”
“A stuntman, and you’ve already met him.”
A horrifying thought entered Chiara’s head, and she narrowed her eyes. “You put out the rumor that Rick and I are getting cozy.”
OMG. She’d gone to Odele with the rumor because she expected her manager to stamp out a budding media firestorm. Instead, she’d discovered Odele was an arsonist...with poor taste in men.
Odele nodded. “Damn straight I did. We need a distraction from stories about your father.”
Chiara stepped forward. “Odele, how could you? And with—” she stabbed her finger in the direction of the door “—him of all people.”
Odele remained placid.
Chiara narrowed her eyes again. “Has he said anything about your little scheme?”
“He hasn’t objected.”
No wonder Rick had seemed almost...intimate a few minutes ago. He’d been approached by Odele to be her supposed love interest. Chiara took a deep breath to steady herself and temper her reaction. “He’s not my type.”
“He’s any woman’s type, honey. Arm candy.”
“There’s nothing sweet about him, believe me.” He was obnoxious, irritating and objectionable in every way.
“He might not be sugar, but he’ll look edible to many of your female fans.”
Chiara threw up her hands. It was one thing not to contradict a specious story online, it was another to start pretending it was true. And now she’d discovered that said story had been concocted by none other than her own manager. “Oh, c’mon, Odele. You really expect me to stage a relationship for the press?”
Odele arched a brow. “Why not? Your competition is making sex tapes for the media.”
“I’m aiming for the Academy Awards, not the Razzies.”
“It’s no different from being set up on a date or two by a friend.”
“Except you’re my manager and we both know there’s an ulterior motive.”
“There’s always an ulterior motive. Money. Sex. You name it.”
“Is this necessary? My competition has survived extramarital affairs, DUIs and nasty custody disputes with their halos intact.”
“Only because of quick thinking and fancy footwork on the part of their manager or publicist. And believe me, honey, my doctor keeps advising me to keep my stress level to a minimum. It’s not good for the blood pressure.”
“You need to get out of Hollywood.”
“And you need a man. A stuntman.”
“Never.” And especially not him. Somehow he’d gotten his own trailer even though he wasn’t one of the leads on this film. He also visited the exercise trailer, complete with built-in gym and weightlifting equipment. Not that she’d used it herself, but his access to it hadn’t escaped her notice.
Odele pulled out her cell phone and read from the screen: “Chiara Feran’s Father in Illegal Betting Scandal: ‘My Daughter Has Cut Me Off.’”
Oh...double damn. Chiara was familiar with yesterday’s headline. It was like a bad dream that she kept waking up to. It was also why she’d been temporarily—in a moment of insanity—grateful for the ridiculous story about her budding romance. “The only reason I’ve kept him out of my life for the past two decades is because he’s a lying, cheating snake! Now I’m responsible not only for my own image, but for what a sperm donor does?”
As far as she was concerned, the donation of sperm was Michael Feran’s principal contribution to the person she was today. Even the surname that they shared wasn’t authentic. It had been changed at Ellis Island three generations back from the Italian Ferano to the Anglicized Feran.
“We need to promote a wholesome image,” Odele intoned solemnly.
“I could throttle him!”
* * *
Rick Serenghetti made it his business to be all business. But he couldn’t take his gaze off Chiara Feran. Her limpid brown eyes, smooth skin contrasting with dark brows and raven hair made her a dead ringer for Snow White.
A guy could easily be turned into a blithering fool in the presence of such physical perfection. Her face was faultlessly symmetrical. Her topaz eyes called to a man to lose himself in their depths, and her pink bow mouth begged to be kissed. And then came the part of her appearance where the threshold was crossed from fairy tale to his fantasy: she had a fabulous body that marked her as red-hot.
They were in the middle of filming on the Novatus Studio set. Today was sunny and mild, more typical weather for LA than they’d had yesterday, when he’d last spoken to Chiara. With any luck, current conditions were a bellwether for how filming on the movie would end—quickly and painlessly. Then he could relax, because on a film set he was always pumped up for his next action scene. In a lucky break for everyone involved, scenes were again being shot on Novatus Studio’s lot in downtown LA, instead of in nearby Griffith Park.
Still, filming wasn’t over until the last scene was done.
He stood off to the side, watching Chiara and the action on camera. The film crew surrounded him, along with everyone else who made a movie happen: assistants, extras, costume designers, special effects people and, of course, the stunts department—him.
He knew more about Chiara Feran than she’d ever guess—or that she’d like him to know. No Oscar yet, but the press loved to talk about her. Surprisingly scandal-free for Hollywood...except for the cardsharp father.
Too bad Rick and Chiara rubbed each other like two sheets of sandpaper—because she had guts. He had to respect that about her. She wasn’t like her male costar who—if the tabloids were to be believed—was fond of getting four-hundred-dollar haircuts.
At the same time, Chiara was all woman. He remembered the feel of her curves during the helicopter stunt they’d done yesterday. She’d been soft and stimulating. And now the media had tagged him and Chiara as a couple.
“I want to talk to you.”
Rick turned to see Chiara’s manager. In the first days of filming, he’d spotted the older woman on set. She was hard to overlook. Her raspy, no-nonsense voice and distinctive ruby-framed glasses made her ripe for caricature. One of the crew had confirmed for him that she was Odele Wittnauer, Chiara’s manager.
Odele looked to be in her early sixties and not fighting it—which made her stand out in Hollywood. Her helmet hair was salt-and-pepper with an ironclad curve under the chin.
Rick adopted a pleasant smile. He and Odele had exchanged a word or two, but this was the first time she’d had a request. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a proposal.”
He checked his surprise, and joked, “Odele, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
He had been propositioned by plenty of women, but he’d never had the word proposal issue from the mouth of a Madeleine Albright look-alike before.
“Not that type of proposition. I want you to be in a relationship with Chiara Feran.”
Rick rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t seen that one coming. And then he put two and two together, and a light went off. “You were the one who planted that story about me and Chiara.”
“Yup,” Odele responded without a trace of guilt or remorse. “The press beast had to be fed. And more important, we needed a distraction from another story about Chiara’s father.”
“The gambler.”
“The deadbeat.”
“You’re ruthless.” He said it with reluctant admiration.
“There’s chemistry between you,” Odele responded, switching gears.
“Fireworks are more like it.”
Chiara’s manager brightened. “The press will eat it up. The stuntman and the beauty pageant winner.”
So Chiara had won a contest or two—he shouldn’t have been surprised. She had the looks to make men weak, including him, somewhat to his chagrin. Still, Odele made them sound like a couple on a C-rated reality show: Blind Date Engagements. “I’ve seen the media chew up and spit out people right and left. No, thanks.”
“It’ll raise your profile in this town.”
“I like my privacy.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“Well,” Odele drawled, lowering her eyes, “maybe I can appeal to your sense of stuntman chivalry then.”
“What do you mean?”
Odele looked up. “You see, Chiara has this teeny-weeny problem of an overly enthusiastic fan.”
“A stalker?”
“Too early to tell, but the guy did try to scale the fence at her house once.”
“He knows where she lives?” Rick asked in disbelief.
“We live in the internet age, dear. Privacy is dead.”
He had some shred left but he wasn’t going to go into details. Even Superman’s alter ego, Clark Kent, was entitled to a few secrets.
“Don’t mention the too-eager fan to her, though. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. “Does Chiara Feran know you approached me?”
“She thinks I already have.”
All right then.
He surmised that Odele and Chiara had had their talk. And apparently Chiara had changed tactics and decided to turn the situation to her advantage. She was willing to tolerate him...for the sake of her career at least. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d already had one bad experience with a publicity-hungry actress, and then he’d been one of the casualties.
Still, they were in the middle of the second act, and he’d missed the opening. But suddenly things had gotten a lot more interesting.
Odele’s eyes gleamed as if she sensed victory—or at least a chink in his armor. Turning away, she said, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”
As Rick watched Chiara’s manager leave, he knew there was a brooding expression on his face. Odele had presented him with a quandary. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with actresses—ever since his one bad episode—but he had his gallant side. On top of it, Chiara was the talent on his latest film—one in which he had a big stake.
As if on cue, his cell phone vibrated. Fishing it out of his pocket, Rick recognized the number on-screen as that of his business partner—one of the guys who fronted the company, per Rick’s preference to be behind the scenes.
“Hey, Pete, what’s going on?”
Rick listened to Pete’s summary of the meeting that morning with an indie director looking for funding. He liked what he heard, but he needed to know more. “Email me their proposal. I’m inclined to fund up to five million, but I want more details.”
Five million dollars was pocket change in his world.
“You’re the boss,” Pete responded cheerfully.
Yup, he was...though no one on set knew he was the producer of Pegasus Pride. He liked his privacy and kept his communications mostly to a need-to-know basis.
Right. Rick spotted Chiara in the distance. No doubt she was heading to film her next scene. There was someone who treated him more like the hired help than the boss.
Complications and delays on a film were common, and Rick had a feeling Chiara was about to become his biggest complication to date...
Two (#ufff62d07-427b-5780-a059-cafa2dcecc6a)
“Hey.”
It was exactly the sort of greeting she expected from a sweaty and earthy he-man—or rather, stuntman.
Chiara’s pulse picked up. Ugh. She hadn’t expected to have this reaction around him. She was a professional—a classically trained actress before she’d been diverted by Hollywood.
Sure, she’d been Miss Rhode Island, and a runner-up in the Miss America pageant. But then the Yale School of Drama had beckoned. And she’d never been a Hollywood blonde. The media most often compared her to Camilla Belle because they shared a raven-haired, chestnut-eyed look.
Anyway, with her ebony hair, she’d need to have her roots touched up every other day if she tried to become a blonde. As far as she was concerned, she spent enough time in the primping chair.
She figured He-Stuntman had gotten his education in the School of Hard Knocks. Maybe a broken bone or two. Certainly plenty of bumps and bruises.
Rick stopped in front of her. No one was around. They were near the actors’ trailers, far away from the main action. Luckily she hadn’t run into him after her talk with Odele two days ago. Instead, she’d managed to avoid him until now.
Dusk was gathering, but she still had a clear view of him.
