Great, Lara thought, now I’ll be all over the tabloids. She hated being linked to someone she hardly knew. Last month she’d been in the same restaurant as Kevin Costner, and the supermarket rags had written they were planning marriage!
The paparazzi chased them all the way to their cars. Harry was furious; he couldn’t make his move without being photographed. His wife was a jealous woman who wouldn’t appreciate late-night photos of him and the delectable Ms. Ivory getting into a car together, while she sat at home in Fulham with two under-five children and his seventy-six-year-old mother. He had no choice but to allow Lara to go with Pierre.
However, all was not lost. He had a plan. Jumping in his rented Renault, he stuck close behind Pierre’s car as they moved off into traffic.
As soon as he was sure they were not being followed, he began honking his horn and flashing his lights, forcing Pierre to pull over.
“What’s the matter?” Lara asked, as Harry leaned in the window.
“Richard insisted I drive you home,” he said. “I promised I would.”
“Why?”
“Because Pierre will never find the house.”
“Of course he will.”
“Do you have the address?”
“No . . .” she said, hesitating for a moment. “But it’s in St. Paul de Vence. I’m sure I can direct him.”
“There’s a hundred twists and turns up there. You’ll have to come with me, otherwise you’ll be driving around all night.”
“Harry—”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care. “Listen, luv, whatever you want.”
What she didn’t want was to be lost in the hills with a French actor she hardly knew. “You’re right,” she said, reluctantly getting out of Pierre’s car and into Harry’s.
Pierre was not upset. It was late and he was tired—too tired to try scoring with an exquisite American movie star who would probably reject him anyway. Besides, his real preference was men—a secret he’d managed to keep to himself, not wanting to ruin his blossoming career as a leading man.
Lara waved good-bye to Pierre, settling back in the passenger seat of Harry’s Renault. She closed her eyes and decided she must have been crazy to leave the security of Nikki and Richard to run around Monte Carlo with a couple of actors. Why did she always manage to do the wrong thing?
For a moment her mind drifted and she thought about Lee Randolph, her former boyfriend. Lee was a genuinely nice guy—admittedly not the most exciting man in the world, but he’d satisfied her needs.
What were her needs?
Someone to cuddle up with. A warm body in the middle of the night. Occasional sex. Companionship.
Christ, Lara, you sound as if you’re seventy-five!
She frowned.
Harry glanced over at her. “Don’t look so happy,” he chided.
“I was thinking.”
“What about?”
“My ex-lover, if you must know.”
“Did you dump him?”
“He dumped me, actually.”
Harry laughed disbelievingly. “That’s impossible.”
“Told me he couldn’t take the heat.”
“You have to be joking.”
A long, deep sigh. “I’m not.”
Harry considered the possibilities of a red-blooded male actually dumping Lara Ivory. It seemed highly unlikely. “Why would he do a thing like that?” he asked at last. “Was the fool brain-dead?”
“Too much attention,” Lara said wryly. “And all directed at me.”
“You need to be with a fellow actor,” Harry said confidently. “We know how to share.”
Sure, Lara thought. The only thing actors know how to share is a scene, and then they’ll kill for the close-ups.
She’d met enough megalomaniac actors in her time—all different and all the same.
The movie star with the polished pecs and the wry humor. He was addicted to steroids and only slept with models.
The macho action hero with the slit eyes and thin smile. He got off beating up on women and sexually abusing them—but only if they were below the line and couldn’t fight back.
The popular black star who only considered busty blondes candidates for his extremely large waterbed.
The charismatic king of comedy with the enormous dick who was currently screwing his children’s nanny.
And the “serious” New York actor who could only get it up for transvestites.
Ah yes, movie stars, a charming, well-adjusted bunch.
While she was busy with her thoughts, Harry seized his opportunity. Swerving the car to the side of the road, he leaned over, pressing his warm lips down on hers.
“Harry!” she exclaimed, managing to push him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Words tumbled from his mouth in a senseless torrent as his hands went for her breasts. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lara . . . so gorgeous . . . the first time I saw you . . . my wife’s a cold fish . . . we never sleep together . . . maybe a couple of times in the last year . . . my cock bums for you . . .”
She slapped him hard across the face—a theatrical gesture, but one that seemed to work.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, stopping his extended grope.
“Harry,” she said, sounding more calm than she felt. “Get control of yourself. I do not get involved with married men, so kindly start the car and take me home.” He slumped away from her like a rejected fool. “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive,” she continued, her voice softening. “But everyone has to stick to their principles.”
Her smooth words soothed him. “Sorry, Lara,” he muttered, quite abashed. “It won’t happen again.”
You bet it won’t, she thought. ’Cause this is the one and only time I’ll find myself alone in a car with you.
“I’ll forget if you will,” she said quietly, saving his damaged pride.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and drove her to the villa, where Richard waited at the front gate, standing outside like a protective father.
“Wasn’t sure you had your keys,” Richard said, glaring at Harry.
Lara marched into the villa without a word to either of them.
Men! If only she could find one worth keeping, then maybe she’d be happy.
Or would she?
Could anyone make her forget the dark memories of her past?
Could anyone make everything all right?
CHAPTER
4
ALISON SEWELL WAS NEVER A pretty girl, never the one the boys wanted to party with. She was always the outcast, a loner with no friends. Hefty and round faced, by the time she was fourteen, she already weighed over a hundred and sixty pounds. The kids at school taunted her, calling her all sorts of names. “Sewer” was a favorite; “The Dump” and “Big Boy,” two others. Just because her mother made her cut her hair in a manly crop, it wasn’t fair to call her Big Boy—that was downright mean. But Alison didn’t care, she knew she was smarter than all of them, even though she managed to flunk most subjects.
“You’re an idiot,” her father often said to her.
Then one day he fell off a ladder, hitting his head and suffering an untimely death. Who was the idiot now? she thought.
Shortly after her father passed away, Alison and her mother, Rita, a small sparrow of a woman who worked as a laundress at a downtown hotel, moved in with Rita’s brother, Cyril. He lived in a small, ramshackle house a short walk from the seediest part of Hollywood Boulevard. He was divorced and childless, and since he had recently broken his leg while “on the job,” he needed help.
On the job for Cyril was photographing celebrities—usually when they didn’t care to be photographed. He hung around outside popular restaurants and clubs, camera at the ready, grabbing any shots he could. His big claim to fame was catching Madonna and Sean Penn in a steamy embrace before anyone knew they were a couple. Pure luck, really. But he made plenty of money from those particular photos, and garnered a modicum of respect from th
e other freelancers, who couldn’t believe Cyril had finally scored.
Alison was fascinated by Uncle Cyril; to her he was a celebrity himself. As soon as he recovered from his broken leg, she began following him around, watching in awe as he went about his job. Since Cyril had no children of his own, he didn’t mind Alison trailing him, especially as she was strong enough to carry his equipment and big enough to shove other photographers out of his way—a task she seemed to relish.
By the time she reached the age of twenty, Alison was taking pictures too. She knew where to go to catch the famous faces, and she didn’t care what she had to do to get the shot. She proved herself more tenacious than Uncle Cyril, aggressively chasing her famous subjects into their cars and limos if they failed to cooperate, taunting them with insults—and getting away with it because she was a female, and they didn’t dare fight back.
Uncle Cyril said she was a natural, but the other photographers loathed her. They nicknamed her “The Hun” and steered clear.
Over the years, Alison made some good scores. Whitney Houston screaming at Bobby Brown outside The Peninsula. Charlie Sheen screaming at her as she chased him and his sexy date to his limo. A disheveled Jack Nicholson exiting a club. A drunken Charlie Dollar falling down a flight of stairs. An abashed Hugh Grant outside the police station after being arrested for dallying with a prostitute. And Kim and Alec with their baby—a rare sighting.
And then, one day, Lara Ivory came into her life, and everything changed.
Obsession wasn’t the word for it.
CHAPTER
5
FRENCH SUMMER WAS ALMOST FINISHED, and Lara felt the usual sadness that always came over her when filming ended. Making a movie, especially on location, was like becoming part of an extended family. The family she didn’t have. The nice thing was that everyone—from the hair and makeup people to the teamsters and grips—looked out for her. She was a special favorite with film crews, because even though she was an enormous star, she wasn’t a prima donna, and she knew how to treat everyone with fairness and respect. Most of the male members of the crew usually fell in love with her. And why not? She was exquisitely beautiful with a gorgeous body, and as if that wasn’t enough, she was smart, friendly and a good sport.
Nikki had organized a lavish wrap party to take place at the rented villa. There were huge tables of food set up in the garden, and plenty of beer, wine and spirits to accommodate the mostly English crew. The tennis court had been transformed into a flashy disco, complete with a dreadlocked disc jockey who was into sixties soul.
“Everything looks wonderful,” Lara exclaimed, emerging from her room, dressed in a filmy white sleeveless dress and flat sandals. Her skin glowed, and her shoulder-length hair was freshly washed.
“Enough with the wonderful shit,” Nikki responded, hands on black-leather-clad hips. “I worked my butt off to make damn sure it’s the wrap of the year. I want everyone to know that when they work on a Richard Barry movie, they know they’re appreciated.”
“I hope Richard appreciates you,” Lara remarked.
“He’d better,” Nikki said with a grin.
“You’ve been so good for him,” Lara continued. “He’s a much nicer person.”
“Want him back?” Nikki asked jokingly.
Lara laughed. “No, thank you.”
“That’s good,” Nikki said with another wide grin. “ ’Cause he’s totally unavailable.”
As if he sensed he was the subject of discussion, Richard appeared, strolling out to the garden, wearing beige linen pants and a casual silk shirt.
“Hmm . . . He even dresses better now,” Lara remarked.
“Of course,” Nikki said. “I drag him to Neiman’s twice a year and make him spend all his money!”
“Are you two talking about me again?” he asked, as usual pretending not to enjoy the attention.
“You know, Richard,” Lara said, lightly touching his arm, “you’re incredibly lucky to have found a woman who cares so much about you.”
“Hey—” Richard objected. “What about her? She got me!”
“Ah . . . the ego gets bigger and bigger,” Lara murmured.
“And that’s not all,” Nikki said with a lewd wink, flinging her arms around Richard’s waist and hugging him.
“Seriously though,” Lara said. “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you.”
“Now all we have to do is find the right guy for you,” Nikki said.
“I keep telling you,” Lara said patiently. “I’m perfectly content by myself.”
“Bullshit!” snorted Nikki. “Everyone needs somebody.”
“I’m sure Lara is quite capable of finding him on her own,” Richard said, irritated that Nikki was so intent on setting Lara up.
Lara wished they’d both leave her in peace. She was happy by herself—most of the time. “I’m going to miss you guys,” she said wistfully. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“You’ll be slaving so hard on The Dreamer you won’t even notice we’re gone,” Nikki said, referring to Lara’s next movie, which started principal photography in the Hamptons in a week.
“I want to work with you two again,” Lara said. “This was a memorable experience.”
“Tell your agent,” Nikki said crisply. “According to him, you’re booked for the next three years.”
“Nonsense!”
“Richard,” Nikki nudged her husband, excitement lighting her face. “Shall I tell Lara about the book I took an option on?”
“What book?” Lara asked curiously. “And why are you mentioning it now when I’m practically out of here?”
“It’s called Revenge,” Nikki said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “A true story about a schoolteacher who gets gang-raped, nearly dies, then recovers and exacts her own form of punishment.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I’m producing,” Nikki announced proudly. “My first attempt.”
“That’s great!”
“Richard’s promised to help—which means he’ll be keeping a steely eye on everything I do. I’m going for a hot young director. Unfortunately, it’s a depressingly low budget. But the lead’s a fantastic role for an actress.”
“I don’t get it,” Lara said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Nikki shot a baleful glare at Richard. “He said I shouldn’t bug you.”
“Which is exactly what you’re doing now,” Richard interrupted, with a what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look. “I’ve told you, Nikki, this is not the kind of movie Lara would be interested in.”
“Do you have a script yet?” Lara asked.
“Nothing I’m satisfied with.”
“I’d love to read it.”
“Just for fun?” Nikki asked hopefully.
“I’m curious to see what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“She has no idea,” Richard said dryly. “Try stopping her—I can’t.”
“Isn’t that what life’s all about?” Lara said gently. “Helping other people achieve their dreams?”
“Right on!” agreed Nikki, squeezing Richard’s arm. “And when I’m a big, fat mega-rich producer with an out-of-control coke habit, a live-in stud and a majorly inflated budget, the first person I’ll hire will be Richard Barry—who by that time will be an ancient, out-of-shape drunk, living in Santa Barbara with nothing but his memories and a couple of senile old dogs.”
“Thanks, darling,” Richard said ruefully. “You sure know how to make a person feel good about himself.”
“Only joking.”
“Like I didn’t know that?”
“Don’t get uptight.”
“Who’s uptight?”
“You two,” Lara said, shaking her head and laughing. “You’re acting like a road-show version of Virginia Woolf!”
“Let’s go get a drink,” said Richard. “We may as well be first.”
• •
Much later in the evening, Harry Solitaire grabbed Lara on the dance fl
oor. He was sweating through his red polo shirt, and his hands were clammy as he placed them clumsily on her shoulders. His wife, a pleasant-looking English girl who had arrived in time to spend the last weekend with her husband, sat in a corner conversing with the first A.D. Lara felt sorry for the poor girl. After Harry’s aborted attempt at making it with Lara, he’d had a series of one-nighters that had included her stand-in, the continuity woman and two extras. There was no such thing as a secret fuck on location; everyone knew the moment it happened.
“I want to thank you for not saying anything about the other night,” he said, shooting a furtive glance at his wife, feverishly hoping the first A.D. was not saying anything he shouldn’t.
“Why don’t you try being a gentleman and stop cheating on your wife?” Lara suggested. “What would you do if she carried on the same way?”
“She wouldn’t,” Harry said gruffly.
“Maybe she should,” Lara retorted crisply. “See how you’d like it.”
“My wife’s not that kind of woman,” he said, sweat beading his upper lip.
“What makes you so sure?”
“It’s different for men,” he said, as if she should understand. “Everyone knows that.”
“No,” Lara said unwaveringly, “that’s where you’re wrong.”
Harry was not about to argue. He had the delectable Lara Ivory in his arms, and this was his last chance to score. He pulled her so close she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. Before she could move away, he managed a sly “I’d give my left ball to make love to you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, grow up, Harry,” she said, pushing him away and leaving the dance floor.
Wrap parties. Sometimes they were too much of a good thing.
• •
The next morning, Lara departed early for the airport. Nikki and Richard came to the door of the villa to see her off, both clad in terry-cloth bathrobes, bleary-eyed with monster hangovers.
“Can’t believe it’s over,” Nikki said, stretching her arms high above her head.
“I know what you mean,” Lara agreed. “I feel the same way.”