Skin Deep: The O'Hurleys

by Nora Roberts

  “Make it pizza,” Maddy instructed, resting an elbow on her shoulder.

  “Pizza and caviar,” Abby put in, then stood on the other side.

  With a laugh, Chantel slipped her arms around her sisters’ waists. They were a unit now, just as they had been in the womb. “We’re going to go places. We’re going to be somebody.”

  “We already are.” Abby tilted her head to look at Chantel. “The O’Hurley Triplets.”

  Chantel looked at the reflection the mirror tossed back. “And nobody’s ever going to forget it.”

  Chapter 1

  The house was big and cool and white. In the early morning hours, a breeze came through the terrace doors Chantel had left unlatched, bringing in the scents of the garden. Across the lawn, hidden from the main house by trees, was a gazebo, painted white, with wisteria climbing up the trellises. Sometimes, when the wind was right, Chantel could catch the perfume from her bedroom window.

  On the east side of the lawn was an elaborate marble fountain. It was quiet now. She rarely had it turned on when she was alone. Near it was the pool, an octagonal stone affair skirted by a wide patio and flanked by another, smaller, white house. There was a tennis court beyond a grove of trees, but it had been weeks since she’d had the time or the inclination to pick up a racket.

  Surrounding the estate was a stone fence, twice as tall as a man, that alternately gave her a sense of security or the feeling of being hemmed in. Still, inside the house, with its lofty ceilings and cool white walls, she often forgot about the fence and the security system and the electronic gate; it was the price she paid for the fame she had always wanted.

  The servants’ quarters were in the west wing, on the first floor. No one stirred there now. It was barely dawn, and she was alone. There were times Chantel preferred it that way.

  As she bundled her hair under a hat, she didn’t bother to check the results in the three-foot mirror in her dressing room. The long shirt and flat-heeled shoes she wore were chosen for comfort, not for elegance. The face that had broken men’s hearts and stirred women’s envy was left untouched by cosmetics. Chantel protected it by pulling down the brim of her hat and slipping on enormous sunglasses. As she picked up the bag that held everything she thought she would need for the day, the intercom beside the door buzzed.

  She checked her watch. Five forty-five. Then she pushed the button. “Right on time.”

  “Good morning, Miss O’Hurley.”

  “Good morning, Robert. I’ll be right down.” After flipping the switch that released the front gate, Chantel started down the wide double staircase that led to the main floor. The mahogany rail felt like satin under her fingers as she trailed them down. Overhead, a chandelier hung, its prisms quiet in the dim light. The marble floor shone like glass. The house was a suitable showcase for the star she had worked to become. Chantel had yet to take any of it for granted. It was a dream that had rolled from, then into other dreams, and it took time and effort and skill to maintain. But then she’d been working all her life and felt entitled to the benefits she had begun to reap.

  As she walked to the front door, the phone began to ring.

  Damn it, had they changed the call on her? Because she was up and the servants weren’t, Chantel crossed the hall to the library and lifted the receiver. “Hello.” Automatically she picked up a pen and prepared to make a note.

  “I wish I could see you right now.” The familiar whisper had her palms going damp, and the pen slipped out of her hand and fell soundlessly on the fresh blotter. “Why did you change your number? You’re not afraid of me, are you? You mustn’t be afraid of me, Chantel. I won’t hurt you. I just want to touch you. Just touch you. Are you getting dressed? Are you—”

  With a cry of despair, Chantel slammed down the receiver. The sound of her breathing in the big, empty house seemed to echo back to her. It was starting again.

  Minutes later, her driver noticed only that she didn’t give him the easy, flirtatious smile she usually greeted him with before she climbed into the back of the limo. Once inside, Chantel tipped her head back, closed her eyes and willed herself to calm. She had to face the camera in a few hours and give it her best. That was her job. That was her life. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with that, not even the fear from a whisper over the phone or an anonymous letter.

  By the time the limo passed through the studio gates, Chantel had herself under control again. She should be safe here, shouldn’t she? Here she could pour herself into the work that still fascinated her. Inside the dozens of big domed buildings, magic happened, and she was part of it. Even the ugliness was just pretend. Murder, mayhem and passion could all be simulated. Fantasyland, her sister Maddy called it, and that was true enough. But, Chantel thought with a smile, you had to work your tail off to make the fantasy real.

  She was sitting in makeup at six thirty and having her hair fussed over and styled by seven. They were in the first week of shooting, and everything seemed fresh and new. Chantel read over her lines while the stylist arranged her hair into the flowing silver blond mane her character would wear that day.

  “Such incredible bulk,” the stylist murmured as she aimed the hand-held dryer. “I know women who would sell their blue chip stocks for hair as thick as this. And the color!” She bent down to eye level to look in the mirror at the results of her work. “Even I have a hard time believing it’s natural.”

  “My grandmother on my father’s side.” Chantel turned her head a bit to check her left profile. “I’m supposed to be twenty in this scene, Margo. Am I going to pull it off?”

  With a laugh, the stringy redhead stood back. “That’s the least of your worries. It’s a shame they’re going to dump rain all over this.” She gave Chantel’s hair a final fluff.

  “You’re telling me.” Chantel stood when the bib was removed. “Thanks, Margo.” Before she’d taken two steps, her assistant was at her elbow. Chantel had hired him because he was young and eager, and had no ambitions to be an actor. “Are you going to crack the whip, Larry?”

  Larry Washington flushed and stuttered, as he always did during his first five minutes around Chantel. He was short and well built, fresh out of college, and had a mind that soaked up details. His biggest ambition at the moment was to own a Mercedes. “Oh, you know I’d never do that, Miss O’Hurley.”

  Chantel patted his shoulder, making his blood pressure soar. “Somebody has to. Larry, I’d appreciate it if you’d scout up the assistant director and tell him I’m in my trailer. I’m going to hide out there until they’re ready to rehearse.” Her costar came into view carrying a cigarette and what Chantel accurately gauged to be a filthy hangover.

  “Would you like me to bring you some coffee, Miss O’Hurley?” As he asked, Larry shifted to distance himself. Everyone with brains had quickly figured out that it was best to avoid Sean Carter when he was dealing with the morning after.

  “Yes, thanks.” Chantel nodded to a few members of the crew as they tightened up the works on the first set, a train station complete with tracks, passenger cars and a depot. She’d say her desperate goodbyes to her lover there. She could only hope he’d gotten his headache under control by then.

  Larry kept pace with her as she crossed the set, walking under lights and around cables. “I wanted to remind you about your interview this afternoon. The reporter from Star Gaze is due here at twelve thirty. Dean from publicity said he’d sit in with you if you wanted.”

  “No, that’s all right. I can handle a reporter. See if you can get some fresh fruit, sandwiches, coffee. No, make that iced tea. I’ll do the interview in my dressing room.”

  “All right, Miss O’Hurley.” Earnestly he began to note it down in his book. “Is there anything else?”

  She paused at the door of her dressing room. “How long have you been working for me now, Larry?”

  “Ah, just over three months, Miss O’Hurley.”

  “I think you should start to call me Chantel.” She smiled, then closed the
door on his astonished pleasure.

  The trailer had been recently redecorated for her taste and comfort. With the script still in her hand, Chantel walked through the sitting room and into the small dressing area beyond. Knowing her time was limited, she didn’t waste it. After stripping out of her own clothes, she changed into the jeans and sweater she would wear for the first scene.

  She was to be twenty, a struggling art student on the down slide of her first affair. Chantel glanced at the script again. It was good, solid. The part she’d gotten would give her an opportunity to express a range of feeling that would stretch her creative talents. It was a challenge, and all she had to do was take advantage of it. And she would. Chantel promised herself she would.

  When she had read Strangers, she’d cast herself in the part of Hailey, the young artist betrayed by one man, haunted by another; a woman who ultimately finds success and loses love. Chantel understood Hailey. She understood betrayal. And, she thought as she glanced around the elegant little room again, she understood success and the price that had to be paid for it.

  Though she knew her lines cold, she kept the script with her as she went back to the sitting room. With luck she would have time for one quick cup of coffee before they ran through the scene. When she was working on a film, Chantel found it easy to live off coffee, a quick, light lunch and more coffee. The part fed her. There was rarely time for shopping, a dip in the pool or a massage at the club until a film was wrapped. Those were rewards for a job well done.

  She started to sit, but a vase of vivid red roses caught her eye. From one of the studio heads, she thought as she walked over to pick up the card. When she opened it, the script slid out of her hand and onto the floor.

  I’m watching you always. Always.

  At the knock on her door, she jerked back, stumbling against the counter. The scent of the roses at her back spread, heady and sweet. With a hand to her throat, she stared at the door with the first real fear she’d ever experienced.

  “Miss O’Hurley … Chantel, it’s Larry. I have your coffee.”

  With a breathless sob, she ran across the room and jerked open the door. “Larry—”

  “It’s black the way you— What’s wrong?”

  “I—I just—” She cut herself off. Control, she thought desperately. You lose everything if you lose control. “Larry, do you know anything about these flowers?” She gestured back but couldn’t look at them.

  “The roses. Oh, one of the caterers found them while she was setting up breakfast. Since they had your name on them, I went ahead and put them in here. I know how much you like roses.”

  “Get rid of them.”

  “But—”

  “Please.” She stepped out of the dressing room. People. She wanted lots of people around her. “Just get rid of them, Larry.”

  “Sure.” He stared at her back as she walked toward the set. “Right away.”

  Four aspirin and three cups of coffee had brought Sean Carter back to life. It was time to work, and nothing could be allowed to interfere with that—not a hangover, not a few frightening words printed on a card. Chantel had worked hard to project an image of glamour and style. She’d worked just as hard not to develop a reputation as a temperamental actress. She was ready when called and always knew her lines. If a scene took ten hours to shoot, then it took ten hours. She reminded herself of all of this as she approached Sean and their director.

  “How come you always look as though you stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine?” Sean grumbled, but Chantel observed that makeup had dealt with the shadows under his eyes. His skin was tanned and shaved smooth. His thick, mahogany-colored hair was styled casually, falling across his brow. He looked young, healthy and handsome, the dream lover for an idealistic girl.

  Chantel lifted a hand and let it rest on his cheek. “Because, darling, I did.”

  “What a woman.” Because the aspirin had made him feel human again, Sean grabbed Chantel and leaned her back in a dramatic dip. “Let me ask you this, Rothschild,” he said, calling to the director while his lips hovered inches from Chantel’s. “How could a man in his right mind leave a woman like this?”

  “It hasn’t been established that you—or Brad,” Mary Rothschild corrected, referring to the role, “is in his right mind.”

  “And you’re such a cad,” Chantel reminded Sean.

  Pleased to remember it, Sean brought her up again. “I haven’t played a real cad in about five years. I don’t think I’ve properly thanked the writer yet.”

  “You can do it later today,” Rothschild told him. “He’s over there.”

  Chantel glanced over to the tall, rangy man who stood, chain-smoking nervously, on the edge of the set. She’d met him a handful of times in meetings and during preproduction. As she recalled, he had said little that hadn’t dealt directly with his book or his characters. She sent him a vaguely friendly smile before turning back to the director.

  As Rothschild outlined the scene, Chantel pushed everything else out of her mind. All that would be left was the heartbreak and hope her character felt as her lover slipped away. Mechanically, their minds on angles and continuity, she and Sean went over their brief but poignant love scene.

  “I think I should touch your face like this.” Chantel reached up to rest her palm on his cheek and looked pleadingly into his eyes.

  “Then I’ll take your wrist.” Sean wrapped his fingers around it, then turned her palm to his lips.

  “I’ll wait for you and so forth.” Chantel skipped over the lines as one of the crew dropped a barn door into place with a clatter. She gave a small, broken sigh and pressed her cheek to his. “Then I’ll start to bring my arms up.”

  “Let’s try this.” Sean took her shoulders, held her for a moment while they stared at each other, then placed two nibbling kisses on either side of her mouth.

  “Oh, Brad, please don’t go … Then I kiss you until your teeth rattle.”

  Sean grinned. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Let’s run through it.” Rothschild held up a hand. Women directors were still the exception to the rule. She couldn’t afford to give herself, or anyone else, an inch. “I want a lot of steam when you get to the kiss,” she told both of them. “Keep the tears coming, Chantel. Remember, deep in your heart you know he’s not coming back.”

  “I really am a cad,” Sean said pleasantly.

  “Places.” Extras scrambled to their marks. A few members of the camera crew broke off making plans for a poker game. “Quiet on the set.” Rothschild moved over, too, until she had the best angle for Chantel’s entrance. “Action.”

  Chantel dashed out on the platform, looking around frantically while groups of people milled around her. It all showed on her face, the desperation, the last flames of hope, the dream that wasn’t ready to die. There would be a thunderstorm brewing, thanks to special effects. Lightning flashing, thunder rolling. Then she spotted Brad. She called out his name, pushing her way through the crowd until she was with him.

  They rehearsed the scene three times before Rothschild was satisfied enough to roll film. Chantel’s makeup and hair were freshened. When the clapper came down, she was ready.

  Throughout the morning they perfected the first part of the scene, her search, the impatience and rush of the crowd, her meeting with Brad. Take after take she repeated the same moves, the same words, at times with the camera no more than a foot away.

  On the sixth take, Rothschild finally gave the signal for the rain. The sprinklers sent down a drizzle that misted over her as she stood facing Brad. Her eyes filled and her voice trembled as she begged him not to leave. Wet and cold, they continued to go over what would be five minutes on the screen until lunch break.

  In her dressing room, Chantel stripped out of Hailey’s clothes and handed them to the wardrobe mistress so that they could be dried. Her hair would be styled again, then soaked again, before she could call it a day.

  The roses were gone, but she thought she c
ould still smell them. When Larry came to the door to tell her that the reporter had arrived, she asked him to give her five minutes, then send him along.

  She’d put it off too long, she told herself as she picked up the phone. It wasn’t going to stop, and she’d reached the point where she could no longer ignore it.

  “The Burns Agency.”

  “I need to speak to Matt.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Burns is in a meeting. May I—”

  “This is Chantel O’Hurley. I have to speak to Matt now.”

  “Of course, Miss O’Hurley.”

  Chantel couldn’t resist a slight smirk at how quickly the receptionist had changed her tune. Searching a drawer for the pack of cigarettes she kept for emergencies, she waited for Matt to come on the line.

  “Chantel, what’s up?”

  “I need to see you. Tonight.”

  “Well, sweetheart, I’m kind of tied up. Why don’t we make it tomorrow?”

  “Tonight.” Some of the panic fought its way through. Chantel lighted the cigarette and drew deeply. “It’s important. I need help.” She let the smoke out in a slow stream. “I really need your help, Matt.”

  Because he’d never heard fear in her voice before, he didn’t question her. “I’ll come by, what … eight?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine. I appreciate it.”

  “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

  “I can’t. Not over the phone, not now.” She was calm again, just knowing she was about to take a step seemed to help.

  “Whatever you say. I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Thanks.” She hung up the phone just as the knock came at her door. Chantel carefully stubbed out her cigarette, tossed her still-damp hair back and ushered the reporter in with a gracious smile.

  * * *

  “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me about this before?” Matt Burns paced around Chantel’s spacious living room with an unfamiliar feeling of helplessness. In twelve years he’d scrambled his way up from mail clerk to assistant to top theatrical agent. He hadn’t gotten there by not knowing what to do in any given situation. Now, he had a hornet’s nest on his hands, and he wasn’t sure which way to toss it. “Damn it, Chantel, how long has this been going on?”