Soft Focus

  “I had to rewrite it because her husband is Dawson Holland,” he said with extravagant patience. “Holland held the purse strings on Fast Company. He put together the finance package that bankrolled the film just so his wife could star in it. Naturally, he got whatever he wanted. Or, in this case, whatever Vicky wanted.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth smiled weakly. “Actually, the only reason I’m here tonight is because I’m a friend of one of the investors.”

  Spencer contrived to look both cynical and knowing. “The money guys.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth searched for an opening. “Did any of them try to influence the script the way Vicky and Holland did?”

  Spencer made a face. “Some of ’em hung out on the set a lot. Made nuisances of themselves. One tried to put his two cents in a couple of times, but I ignored him. I mean, what does a guy like that know? He was just some little nerd from Seattle who wanted to pretend he was a player.”

  Elizabeth choked on a swallow of her mineral water. She sputtered wildly. “From Seattle, you say?”

  Spencer took another swallow of his tequila sunrise. “Guy named Page. Tyler Page.”

  “Oh, yes, the producer.”

  Spencer rolled his eyes. “Page got the credit, but Dawson Holland was the one who put the deal together. Takes a lot of cash to make a film, you know, even a small one. There are usually several investors.”

  “But Page got sole credit on Fast Company. I wonder why.”

  Spencer looked bored. “Probably put up the biggest chunk of cash. Or maybe he did a deal with Holland. Who knows? Some of those investors will do anything to get their name in the credits.”

  Without warning, Victoria Bellamy swam out of a nearby shoal of guests.

  “Spencer.”

  Her voice was as glamorous as the rest of her, Elizabeth thought. Husky, low, throaty. Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep. She watched Victoria exchange air kisses with Spencer.

  “Nice party, Vicky,” Spencer said.

  “So glad you could make it.” Victoria turned to Elizabeth with an inquiring look. “Introduce me to your friend.”

  Spencer’s eyes glazed for the moment. It had probably just occurred to him that he didn’t know her name, Elizabeth thought. She smiled at Victoria and extended her hand.

  “I’m Elizabeth. A business associate of one of the money people. I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Bellamy.”

  “Please, call me Vicky. Everyone else does.” Vicky’s laugh was low and rich. “Of course I don’t mind. I just love money people. And their business associates. Are you here for the entire festival?”

  “Yes. I’m very excited about the whole event.” Vicky didn’t seem to care that she hadn’t gotten a last name to go with the first name. Elizabeth recalled the book she had scanned on the plane from Seattle. “Noir is such a fascinating genre. The way light and shadow is used as a visual metaphor is so distinctive. And the classic films did such an incredible job of catching the essence of modern moral ambiguity. And the use of the dark urban landscape—” She broke off. “Well, it’s the quintessentially American style, isn’t it?”

  Vicky smiled. “Don’t forget the Western.”

  “You’re absolutely right. Westerns and noir film are both uniquely American.”

  “Amazing,” Vicky mused.

  Elizabeth wondered if she’d overdone it. “What’s amazing?”

  “Most money people don’t talk about film like that.”

  “I’m just a friend of one of the investors,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “I’m attending the festival because I’m a film buff.”

  “Who’s your friend? The one you said was an investor?” Vicky asked.

  Elizabeth took a breath. “Tyler Page. You probably met him in the course of making Fast Company.”

  “Yes, of course I met Tyler.” Vicky smiled. “He was a rather sweet little man. He liked to hang around the set whenever possible. I think he had stars in his eyes. Didn’t he, Spencer?”

  Spencer gave an elaborate shrug. “All the money guys have stars in their eyes.”

  Vicky gave a husky laugh. “Given the fact that most of them will never see a dime in profits, I think it’s only fair to allow them a few dreams. Don’t you agree, Elizabeth?”

  “Dreams are important,” Elizabeth said. “Sometimes that’s all you get.”

  Vicky smiled. “That sounds like a line from one of Spencer’s scripts. Maybe you’d like to read the script for Fast Company?”

  “I’d love to read it,” Elizabeth said quickly.

  “I’m sure Spencer could get you a copy.” Vicky looked at him expectantly.

  Spencer looked up from his tequila sunrise. “What? Oh, sure. Copy of the script. Got one with me. I’ll get it for you before you leave, Elizabeth.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I’d appreciate that.”

  Spencer rocked precariously on his heels and looked at Vicky. “How’s it going on the stalker front? I heard about the incident at the spa the other day.”

  Vicky grimaced. “I wound up with a lot of red paint on my clothes, as usual. It’s the third time the bastard has struck in the past month. I think Dawson is getting worried.”

  Elizabeth stared at her. “You’re being stalked?”

  “Some idiot has decided that I’m the incarnation of a biblical harlot. He started stalking me about a month ago.” Vicky made a circular motion with her finger near her ear. “A real loony.”

  “Good grief,” Elizabeth whispered. “I can’t imagine anything more terrifying than being stalked.”

  Vicky’s jaw tightened. “It is a little scary, I admit. Dawson is more concerned than I am.”

  “What are the police doing about it?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “There’s not much they can do. The police chief here in town is a man named Gresham. He’s very nice and very earnest, but the fact is, he’s got a very small force and it’s not exactly high-tech or state of the art. This week it’s probably overwhelmed with the crowd that’s in town for the festival.”

  “Maybe Dawson should hire a bodyguard for you,” Spencer suggested with an odd look. “He can afford one.”

  “He’s mentioned it,” Vicky said vaguely. “But I’ve asked him to hold off for a while. I really hate the thought of having to have a bodyguard. I’m hoping the police will catch him before we have to go that route.”

  “Good luck,” Spencer mumbled into his drink.

  “Thanks.” Vicky stepped back. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better keep circulating. Enjoy yourselves.”

  Spencer watched her disappear into the crowd. Elizabeth noticed that several other men and one or two women did the same. She thought about what Jack had said earlier and decided to run Spencer through a test.

  “She’s really beautiful, isn’t she?” Elizabeth asked casually.

  “Yeah,” Spencer replied. “The amazing thing is that she’s not a half-bad actress. Not Hollywood material, but not bad.”

  “I feel sorry for her. That stalker stuff must be very frightening.”

  Spencer gave a short bark that was probably meant to be a laugh. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Vicky and her stalker if I were you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Five will get you ten that it’s all a publicity stunt. Probably dreamed up by Vicky herself.”

  Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. “Are you serious?”

  “Sure.” Spencer seemed amused by her reaction. “Hey, this may not be Hollywood, but this is still the movie business, lady. For someone like Vicky Bellamy, publicity is interchangeable with blood in her veins.”

  “That sounds a little cold.”

  “You kidding?” Spencer drained his glass. “I’ll bet Vicky has to drink antifreeze in her orange juice every morning to keep herself from freezing solid.”

  “THE THING ABOUT noir is that it all hinges on vision and lighting,” Bernard Aston declared. “You gotta have vision and lighting.”

  “And money,” Jack said.

/>   He glanced around the room, searching for Elizabeth. He hoped she was having better luck than he was. Thus far he had talked to a lighting technician, a member of the camera crew, and two people who claimed to have had walk-ons in Fast Company. None of them seemed to know or care about Tyler Page. He had finally managed to track down the director, but Aston wasn’t proving any more helpful than the others.

  Bernard was short and heavy, and he had left his designer denim shirt unbuttoned a little too far down his chest. The silver ankh dangling in the sparse gray hair that covered his midsection and the straggly ponytail did nothing to enhance the image Jack suspected he was trying to project.

  “Lining up the money is the producer’s problem. As the director, I gotta stay focused on vision and lighting,” Bernard explained.

  “Sure. But with Dawson Holland handling the financing, you had the luxury of staying focused, didn’t you?”

  “Shit. Holland was a pain in the ass right from the start. He made it clear that the main condition for financing Fast Company was the female lead for Vicky. It wasn’t easy making her look good, I can tell you that. Woman can’t act her way out of a paper bag.”

  Jack glanced up at one of the huge posters that dangled from the high ceiling. “She looks pretty good in that shot.”

  “Vision and lighting.” Aston removed the olive from his martini and popped it into his mouth. “Vicky was a pain in the ass, too. Never made it in Hollywood, you know.”

  Jack suspected that Vicky was not the only one present tonight who had failed to make it in Hollywood.

  He was formulating a question that would lead to the subject of Tyler Page, when Aston glanced past him and raised his martini in a careless salute.

  “Nice party, Holland,” Aston said.

  “Don’t thank me, thank Vicky. She handles things like this. Glad you could make it, Aston.”

  Jack turned very casually at the sound of the dry, cultured voice. He took in Dawson Holland with a quick glance, measuring him against the information Larry had supplied.

  At fifty-seven he was more than twenty years older than his wife, but if Larry hadn’t supplied the age factor, it would have been tough to guess. He had refined, ascetic features and a judicious amount of silver in his hair. “Distinguished looking” was the phrase that most people would probably come up with to describe him, Jack thought. Holland moved with the athletic ease of a man who took care of his body. He was wearing a black silk shirt and black trousers, but he somehow managed to carry off the look without appearing too painfully L.A.

  He looked at Jack and smiled slightly. His gray eyes were politely quizzical. “Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Jack Fairfax.” Jack held out his hand. “And no, you didn’t invite me. My date and I crashed your party. Our only excuse is that we know the producer. Or at least, the guy who got the credit in the film. Tyler Page.”

  “No problem, Jack.” Holland’s handshake was as solid as a banker’s. “Business associates of people who pour money into films are always welcome here. Are you interested in getting into the game yourself?”

  “I don’t know.” Jack glanced meaningfully at the posters. “Looks expensive. And I hear the independent film business is a real crapshoot from a financial point of view.”

  “Tell me about it.” Dawson’s chuckle was easy, unforced. “But there’s nothing quite like the final product, eh, Aston?”

  “No.” Aston’s eyes gleamed briefly. “Nothing else in the whole damn world like making pictures.”

  “Are you and your friend here for the festival, Jack?” Dawson asked.

  “My friend likes old movies.” Jack shrugged. “So we’re here for the whole week.”

  “Your friend has good taste.” Dawson winked. “Besides, it usually pays to please the ladies.”

  Jack glanced across the room and saw Elizabeth. She was chatting earnestly with a young man in glasses.

  “Some ladies are a lot harder to please than others,” he said.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  DAWSON LOUNGED BACK AGAINST THE PILLOWS and watched Vicky come out of the turquoise and white tiled bath. She wore the robe she had brought back with her from Paris last month. It was made of heavy maroon silk decorated with elaborately stitched flowers. Her hair was piled on top of her head.

  She had removed her makeup. Even without it she was still stunning. His two previous wives had both been beautiful, but neither of them could hold a candle to Vicky.

  He felt the familiar heaviness between his legs. He knew that a lot of men never got past Vicky’s beauty. The fools never noticed the razor-sharp brain. But he had noticed. That was why she was with him instead of some other man. Vicky traded on her beauty, but she had only disdain for men who could not see beyond it or who did not care what lay beneath the surface.

  He thought fleetingly about the redhead in L.A. last month. He could not recall her name, just the nice tits. Not nearly as nice as Vicky’s. He gave a small inward sigh and wondered again why he bothered with the one-night stands. None of the other women he had been with during the past two years since his marriage to Vicky meant anything to him. They were nameless and faceless. When he came with one of them, he usually fantasized that he was with Vicky.

  Why the hell did he waste his time with the others when he had a woman like this in his bed? he wondered. It was a question that had begun to bother him more and more frequently during the past few months. Maybe he should see a shrink, he thought.

  He watched Vicky sit down on the white velvet chair in front of the dressing table and cross her long legs. One high-heeled slipper dangled.

  “I thought it went well tonight,” he said. “You were spectacular, as always.”

  “Thank you.” She swung one ankle absently and met his eyes in the mirror. “We may have a problem with the stalker thing, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think people are starting to conclude that it’s just a publicity stunt. Spencer West mentioned it. I could tell that he had his doubts, and I’m pretty sure he’s not the only one. Maybe it’s time to end it.”

  “Let’s let it run through the festival. The local paper gave you several column inches after the last incident. So what if a few people suspect it’s a stunt? No big deal. We’ll get our money’s worth out of it.”

  She smiled. “You mean your money’s worth.”

  “My pleasure, I assure you. If it helps to advance your career, I consider it a worthwhile investment.”

  Vicky’s smiled faded. She regarded him with a somber, considering look. “You’re very good to me, Dawson.”

  “I enjoy being good to you, my dear.”

  She uncrossed her legs, stood, and unbelted the silk robe. She wore nothing underneath.

  Dawson felt himself grow rock hard. “Damn, but you’re beautiful.”

  She smiled again, turned out the light, and came to him in the darkness. When she took him into her mouth he felt as though he had been swept up and roiled in a tidal wave. With the others he had to do all the work. But Vicky made love to him with the skill of a trained courtesan. All he had to do was lie back and give himself over to the thrill of the experience.

  His questions about the fling with the redhead in L.A. evaporated. Vicky would never know about the others, he promised himself as she flowed across his body. He was always very careful.

  He liked to think that he practiced discretion out of consideration for her. She was his wife, after all. She deserved at least that.

  Just before the powerful orgasm seized him and shook him until he was limp, he thought about the way Jack Fairfax had studied one of the posters featuring Vicky in Fast Company. There had been a calculating look in his eyes. Probably imagining what it would be like to have Vicky in his bed.

  Fairfax would never know the answer to that question, Dawson thought, because, unlike his first two wives, Vicky did not cheat.

  Her priorities in life had been
obvious from the outset: She craved the financial security his money provided, and she wanted to star in films. Although she could act her way through an orgasm as well as any woman he had ever known, he was almost certain that she had no great personal interest in sex. It was simply the commodity she offered in exchange for what he could give her.

  She was expensive, but she was worth it. He’d had a lot of women in his bed, but never one like Vicky.

  Later, just before he collapsed, exhausted, from the sex, he wondered again why he bothered with the others.

  * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  * * *

  JACK SETTLED DEEPER INTO THE SIMMERING waters of the hot tub. The steam that rose from the surface was invisible in the darkness, but he could feel the cloud of warmth that enveloped the pool.

  He had not turned on any lights when he had come downstairs a few minutes ago. He had left the underwater lamps inside the tub off, too. The only illumination on the deck came from the cold glow of the moon and the stars.

  He stretched his arms out along the edge of the tub on either side and leaned back to contemplate the late-night sky. It was after two in the morning. He and Elizabeth had returned to the house shortly before one.

  As far as he could tell, she had gone straight to sleep, which, for some obscure reason, irritated him. How could she drop off so easily while he lay there staring through the glass at the night-shrouded mountain? The answer was all too obvious. The fact that he was in a bed a short distance away from her didn’t affect her one damn bit.

  He had eventually concluded that he might be able to think more clearly out here in the hot tub. He got some of his best ideas in the middle of the night, he reflected. But there was some risk involved, because he had also been known to come up with some of his dumbest ideas at night. Take the decision to start an affair with Elizabeth before he told her that he had been the man behind the Galloway takeover. Six months ago, that brilliant idea had come to him shortly after three in the morning.