by Nora Roberts
Laughing, Ariel handed her the baklava as they rose.
***
It was well after nine when Ariel paid off the cab in front of P. B. Marshell’s building on Madison Avenue. She wasn’t concerned with being late because she wasn’t aware of the time. She’d never missed a cue or a call in her life, but when it wasn’t directly concerned with work, time was something to be enjoyed or ignored.
She overtipped the cabbie, stuffed her change in her bag without counting it, then walked through the light drizzle into the lobby. She decided it smelled like a funeral parlor. Too many flowers, too much polish. After giving her name at the security desk, she slipped into an elevator and pushed the penthouse button. It didn’t occur to her to be nervous at the prospect of entering P. B. Marshell’s domain. A party to Ariel was a party. She hoped he served champagne. She had a hankering for it.
The door was opened by a stiff-backed, stone-faced man in a dark suit who asked Ariel’s name in a discreet British accent. When she smiled, he accepted her offered hand before he realized it. Ariel walked past the butler, leaving him with the impression of vitality and sex—a combination that left him disconcerted for several minutes. She lifted a glass of champagne from a tray, and spotting her agent, crossed the room to her.
Booth saw Ariel’s entrance. For an instant, he was reminded of his ex-wife. The coloring, the bone structure. Then the impression was gone, and he was looking at a young woman with casually curling hair that flowed past her shoulders. It seemed misted with fine drops of rain. A stunning face, he decided. But the look of an ice goddess vanished the moment she laughed. Then there was energy and verve.
Unusual, he thought, as vaguely interested in her as he was in the drink he held. He let his eyes skim down her and decided she’d be slim under the casual pleated pants and boxy blouse. Then again, if she was, she would have exploited her figure rather than underplaying it. From what Booth knew of women, they accented whatever charms at their disposal and concealed the flaws. He’d come to accept this as a part of their innate dishonesty.
He gave Ariel one last glance as she rose on her toes to kiss the latest rage in an off Broadway production. God, he hated these long crowded pseudoparties.
“. . . if we cast the female lead.”
Booth turned back to P. B. Marshell and lifted his glass. “Hmm?”
Too used to Booth’s lapses of attention to be annoyed, Marshell backtracked. “We can get this into production and wrapped in time for the fall sweeps if we cast the female lead. That’s virtually all that’s holding us back now.”
“I’m not worried about the fall sweeps,” Booth returned dryly.
“The network is.”
“Pat, we’ll cast Rae when we find Rae.”
Marshell frowned into his Scotch, then drank it. At two hundred and fifty pounds, he needed several glasses to feel any effect. “You’ve already turned down three top names.”
“I turned down three actresses who weren’t suitable,” Booth corrected. He drank from his own glass as a man who knew liquor and maintained a cautious relationship with it. “I’ll know Rae when I see her.” His lips moved into a cool smile. “Who’d know better?”
A free, easy laugh had Marshell glancing across the room. For a moment his eyes narrowed in concentration. “Ariel Kirkwood,” he told Booth, gesturing with his empty glass. “The network execs would like to push her your way.”
“An actress.” Booth studied Ariel again. He wouldn’t have pegged her as such. Her entrance had caught his attention simply because it hadn’t been an entrance. There was something completely unselfconscious about her that was rare in the profession. She’d been at the party long enough to have wangled an introduction to him and Marshell, yet she seemed content to stay across the room sipping champagne and flirting with an up-and-coming actor.
She stood easily, in a relaxed manner that wasn’t a pose but would photograph beautifully. She made an unattractive face at the actor. The contrast of the ice-goddess looks and the free-wheeling manner piqued his curiosity.
“Introduce me,” Booth said simply and started across the room.
Ariel couldn’t fault Marshell’s taste. The condo was stylishly decorated in elegant golds and creams. The carpet was thick, the walls lacquered. She recognized the signed lithograph behind her. It was a room she knew Amanda would understand and appreciate. Ariel enjoyed visiting it. She’d never have lived there. She laughed up at Tony as he reminisced about the improvisation class they’d taken together a few years before.
“And you started using gutter language to make sure everyone was awake,” she reminded him and tugged on the goatee he wore for his current part.
“It worked. What cause is it this week, Ariel?”
Her brows lifted as she sipped her champagne. “I don’t have weekly causes.”
“Biweekly,” he corrected. “Friends of Seals, Save the Mongoose. Come on, what are you into now?”
She shook her head. “There’s something that’s taking up a lot of my time right now. I can’t really talk about it.”
Tony’s grin faded. He knew that tone. “Important?”
“Vital.”
“Well, Tony.” Marshell clapped the young actor on the back. “Glad to see you could make it.”
Though it was very subtly done, Tony came to attention. “It was nice that you were having this on a night when the theater’s dark, Mr. Marshell. Do you know Ariel Kirkwood?” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “We go back a long way.”
“I’ve heard good things about you.” Marshell extended his hand.
“Thank you.” Ariel left her hand in his a moment as she sorted her impressions. Successful—fond of food from the bulk of him—amiable when he chose to be. Shrewd. She liked the combination. “You make excellent films, Mr. Marshell.”
“Thank you,” he returned and paused, expecting her to do some campaigning. When she left it at that, he turned to Booth. “Booth DeWitt, Ariel Kirkwood and Tony Lazarus.”
“I’ve seen your play,” Booth told Tony. “You know your character very well.” He shifted his gaze to Ariel. “Ms. Kirkwood.”
Disconcerting eyes, she thought, so clear and direct a green in such a remote face. He gave off signals of aloofness, traces of bitterness, waves of intelligence. Obviously he didn’t concern himself overmuch with trends or fashion. His hair was thick and dark and a bit long for the current style. Yet she thought it suited his face. She thought the face belonged to the nineteenth century. Lean and scholarly with a touch of ruggedness and a harshness in the mouth that kept it from being smooth.
His voice was deep and appealing, but he spoke with a clipped quality that indicated impatience. He had the eyes of an observer, she thought, and the air of a man who wouldn’t tolerate interference or intimacies. She wasn’t certain she’d like him, but she did know she admired his work.
“Mr. DeWitt.” Her palm touched his. Strength—she’d expected that. It was in his build, long, rangy—and in his face. Distance—she’d expected that as well. “I enjoyed The Final Bell. It was my favorite film of last year.”
He passed this off as he studied her face. She exuded sex, in her scent, in her looks—not flagrant or elusive, but light and free. “I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work.”
“Ariel plays Dr. Amanda Lane Jamison on Our Lives, Our Loves,” Tony put in.
Good God, a soap opera, Booth thought. Ariel caught the faint disdain on his face. It was something else she’d expected. “Do you have a moral objection to entertainment, Mr. DeWitt?” she said easily as she sipped champagne. “Or are you just an artistic snob?” She smiled as she spoke, the quick, dashing smile that took any sting from the words.
Beside her, Tony cleared his throat. “Excuse me a minute,” he said and exited stage left. Marshell mumbled something about refreshing his drink.
When they were alone, Booth continued to study her face. She was laughing at him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had had the courage, or th
e occasion, to do so. He wasn’t certain if he was annoyed or intrigued. But at the moment he wasn’t what he’d been for the past hour—bored.
“I haven’t any moral objections to soap operas, Ms. Kirkwood.”
“Oh.” She sipped her champagne. A sliver of sapphire on her finger winked in the light and seemed to reflect in her eyes. “A snob then. Well, everyone’s entitled. Perhaps there’s something else we can talk about. How do you feel about the current administration’s foreign policy?”
“Ambivalent,” he murmured. “What sort of character do you play?”
“A sterling one.” Her eyes continued to dance. “How do you feel about the space program?”
“I’m more concerned about the planet I’m on. How long have you been on the show?”
“Five years.” She beamed a smile at someone across the room and raised her hand.
He looked at her again, carefully, and for the first time since he’d come into the party, he smiled. It did something attractive to his face, though it didn’t make him quite as approachable as it indicated. “You don’t want to talk about your work, do you?”
“Not particularly.” Ariel returned his smile with her own open one. Something stirred faintly in him that he’d thought safely dormant. “Not with someone who considers it garbage. In a moment, you’d ask me if I’d ever considered doing any serious work, then I’d probably get nasty. My agent tells me I’m supposed to charm you.”
Booth could feel the friendliness radiating from her and distrusted it. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“I’m on my own time,” Ariel returned. “Besides”—she finished off her champagne—“you aren’t the type to be charmed.”
“You’re perceptive,” Booth acknowledged. “Are you a good actress?”
“Yes, I am. It would hardly be worth doing something if you weren’t good at it. What about sports?” She twirled her empty glass. “Do you think the Yankees stand a chance this year?”
“If they tighten up the infield.” Not your usual type, he decided. Any other actress up for a prime part in one of his scripts would’ve been flooding him with compliments and mentioning every job she’d ever had in front of the camera. “Ariel . . .” Booth plucked a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter and handed it to her. “The name suits you. A wise choice.”
She felt a pull, a quick, definite pull that seemed to come simply from the way he’d said her name. “I’ll tell my mother you said so.”
“It’s not a stage name?”
“No. My mother was reading The Tempest when she went into labor. She was very superstitious. I could have been Prospero if I’d been a boy.” With a little shudder, she sipped. “Well, Booth,” she began, deciding she’d been formal long enough. “Shouldn’t we just come out with the fact that we both know I’ll be reading for the part of Rae in a couple of days? I intend to have it.”
He nodded in acknowledgment. Though she was refreshingly direct, this was more like what he’d expected. “Then I’ll be frank enough to tell you that you’re not the type I’m looking for.”
She lifted a brow without any show of discomfort. “Oh? Why?”
“For one thing, you’re too young.”
She laughed—a free, breezy sound that seemed completely unaffected. He didn’t trust that either. “I think my line is I can be older.”
“Maybe. But Rae’s a tough lady. Hard as a rock.” He lifted his own drink but never took his eyes off her. “You’ve got too many soft points. They show in your face.”
“Because this is me. And I’ve yet to play myself in front of a camera.” She paused a moment as the idea worked around in her head. “I don’t think I’d care to.”
“Is any actress ever herself?”
Her eyes came back to his. He was watching her again with that steady intensity most would have found unnerving. Though the pull came again, Ariel accepted the look because it was part of him. “You don’t care for us much as a breed, do you?”
“No.” For some reason he didn’t question, Booth felt compelled to test her. He lifted a strand of her hair. Soft—surprisingly soft. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he murmured.
Ariel tilted her head as she studied him. His eyes had lost nothing of their directness. She might have felt pleasure in the compliment if she hadn’t recognized it as calculated. Instead she felt disappointment. “And?”
His brows drew together. “And?”
“That line usually leads to another. As a writer I’m sure you have several tucked away.”
He let his fingers brush over her neck. She felt the strength in them, and the carelessness of the gesture. “Which one would you like?”
“I’d prefer one you meant,” Ariel told him evenly. “But since I wouldn’t get it, why don’t we skip the whole thing? You know, your character, Phil, is narrow-minded, cold-blooded and rude. I believe you portrayed yourself very well.” She lifted her glass one last time and decided it was a shame that he thought so little of women or perhaps of people in general. “Good night, Booth.”
When she walked away, Booth stood looking after her for several moments before he started to laugh. At the time, it didn’t occur to him that it was the first easy laugh he’d had in almost two years. It didn’t even occur to him that he was laughing at himself.
No, she wasn’t his Rae, he mused, but she was good. She was very, very good. He was going to remember Ariel Kirkwood.
Chapter Two
Booth stood by the wide expanse of window in Marshell’s office and watched New York hustle by. From that height, he felt removed from it, and the rush and energy radiating up from the streets and sidewalks. He was satisfied to be separate. Connections equaled involvement.
None of the actresses they’d auditioned in the past two weeks came close to what he was after. He knew what he wanted for the part of Rae—who better?
When he’d first started the script it had been an impulse—therapy, he mused with a grim smile. Cheaper than a psychiatrist and a lot more satisfying. He’d never expected to do any more than finish it, purge his system and toss it in a drawer. That was before he’d realized it was the best work he’d ever done. Perhaps anger was the tenth Muse. In any case, he was first and foremost a writer. However painful it was to expose himself and his mistakes to the public, there was no tossing his finest work in a drawer. And since he was going to have it performed, he was going to have it performed well.
He’d thought it would be difficult to cast the part of Phil, the character who was essentially himself. And yet that had been surprisingly simple. The core of the story wasn’t Phil, but Rae, a devastatingly accurate mirror of his ex-wife, Elizabeth Hunter. A superb actress, a gracious celebrity—a woman without a single genuine emotion.
Their marriage had started with a whirlwind and ended in disaster. Booth didn’t consider himself blameless, though he placed most of the blame on his own gullibility. He’d believed in her image, fallen hard for the perfection of face and body. He could have forgiven the faults, the flaws soon discovered. But he could never, would never, forgive being used. And yet, Booth was still far from sure whether he blamed Liz for using him or himself for allowing it to happen.
Either way, the tempestuous five-year marriage had given him grist for a clean, hard story that was going to be an elaborate television movie. And more, it had given him a firm distrust of women, particularly actresses. Two years before, when the break had finally come, he’d promised himself that he’d never become involved with another woman who could play roles that well. Honesty, if it truly existed, was what he’d look for when he was ready.
His thoughts came back to Ariel. Perhaps she was centered in his mind because of her surface resemblance to Liz, but he wasn’t certain. There was no similarity in mannerisms, voice cadence or style of dress. And the biggest contrast seemed to be in personality. She hadn’t put herself out to charm him or to hold his attention. And she’d done both. Perhaps she’d simply used a different angle on an old game.
While he hadn’t trusted it, he’d enjoyed her lack of artifice. The breezy laugh, the unaffected gestures, the candid looks. It had been a long time since a woman had lingered in his mind. A pity, Booth mused, that she was unsuitable for the part. He could have used the distraction. Instinct told him that Ariel Kirkwood would be nothing if she wasn’t a distraction.
“I’m still leaning toward this Julie Newman.” Chuck Tyler, the director, tossed an eight-by-ten glossy on Marshell’s desk. “A lot of camera presence and her first reading was very good.”
With the photo in one hand, Marshell tipped back in his deep leather chair. The sun at his back streamed over both the glossy and the gold jewelry he wore on either hand. “An impressive list of credits, too.”
“No.” Booth didn’t bother to turn around, but stood watching the traffic stream. For some odd reason he visualized himself on his boat in Long Island Sound, sailing out to sea. “She lacks the elegance. Too much vulnerability.”
“She can act, Booth,” Marshell said with a now familiar show of impatience.
“She’s not the one.”
Marshell automatically reached in his pocket for the cigars he’d given up a month before. He swore lightly under his breath. “And we’re running out of time and options.”
Booth gave an unconcerned shrug. Yes, he’d like to be sailing, stripped to the waist with the sun on his back and the water so blue it hurt the eyes. He’d like to be alone.
When the buzzer on his desk rang, Marshell heaved a sigh and leaned forward to answer. “Ms. Kirkwood’s here for her reading, Mr. Marshell.”
With a grunt, Marshell flipped open the portfolio Ariel’s agent
