• • •
Merrill Zandack did not stay long at parties. Once he’d circled the room and spoken to everyone he deemed worthy of his attention, he was out of there.
Jonas was waiting outside.
“Did you find my diamond?” Cat asked, pouncing on him.
“Yes I did.”
“Where is it?”
“Why? Are you planning on sticking it back in your navel now?”
“What are you two talking about?” Merrill asked, lighting up his usual strong-smelling Cuban cigar.
“Nothing important,” Jonas said. “How was the movie?”
“Shelby Cheney’s got a great rack,” Merrill remarked, exhaling smoke. “Told her she’d be right for Caught. Messenger her people a script.”
“I’d like to speak to you about that, Mr. Zandack,” Cat said quickly.
“How many times I gotta tell you? Call me Merrill. ‘Mr. Zandack’ makes me sound like I’m a hundred years old.”
“Okay, Merrill,” she said, fuming. “We have to discuss it.”
“Sure, kitten. We’re on our way to the Carlton Terrace for a drink, we’ll talk about it there.”
“I asked you not to call me kitten,” she muttered.
He didn’t hear her; he was already heading for the waiting car.
Cat turned to his dark-haired date, who was lingering. She felt sorry for the woman tagging along behind the fat man. “Do you have a name?” she asked.
“She doesn’t speak English,” Jonas said.
“What nationality is she? Perhaps I can talk to her in her own language.”
“Russian,” Jonas said, giving Cat a superior look. “Do you speak Russian?”
“No,” Cat retorted, returning his look with one of her own. “Does your boss?”
“They communicate in other ways,” Jonas said, ushering them both into the car.
“Let’s go,” Merrill said, filling the backseat with cigar fumes. “It’s champagne time.”
• • •
The crowd was thinning out. Shelby looked around for her husband. He was easy to spot, muscular, tanned, and rugged. Linc was an extremely masculine looking man and every woman picked up on his macho scent. Fact of life. If he wasn’t a movie star, they’d still be all over him.
She hoped he was sober. She needed him tonight. She had an urge to cuddle up in bed and have him look after her. Compliments from her husband would make such a welcome change.
On the other hand, she knew how painful intimacy was for Linc. He’d had such a tough childhood, full of beatings and rejection. Giving unconditional love was extremely difficult for him.
“No more interviews tonight,” she said to the RR. woman. “I’d like to go back to the hotel now.”
“Very well,” the woman said. “I’ll make sure your car is waiting.”
“Please tell my husband I’m ready to leave.” “Certainly.”
She watched as the woman crossed the room toward Linc. What kind of life was it for someone like that? Looking after celebrities, putting up with their outrageous demands, dealing with the press. It must be so unfulfilling.
I want a baby. The thought popped into her head out of nowhere. I want Linc’s baby.
Maybe tonight was the night. The south of France. Her movie triumph. A luxurious hotel suite overlooking the Mediterranean. She’d waited long enough. Why not?
Here came why not. Linc. Her husband. Smirking like an idiot. Unsteady on his feet.
Damn! He was loaded.
“Hi, baby,” he drawled, pawing her arm. “You havin’ a good time?”
“Actually I’m quite tired,” she said quickly. “Can we go back to the hotel?”
“No way!” he said in a loud voice. “The evening’s just beginning. There’s parties all over town. We gotta celebrate, sweetheart. We gotta celebrate you takin’ it all off.”
“Linc, it’s late,” she said, trying not to lose it. “You’ve had a lot to drink. I think—”
“C’mon, sweetie, relax,” he cajoled. “We’re on vacation.”
“This is not a vacation,” she reminded him. “It’s work.”
“Some work, sitting on your ass watching a movie,” he said, his lip curling. “Although,” he added, “I gotta admit—it’s a cute ass.”
“Not a movie, my movie,” she corrected. “And I’ve done a ton of interviews today, with more tomorrow. Plus I’m jet-lagged, and don’t forget that we’re still on L.A. time.”
“You’re on L.A. time,” he said pointedly. “I’m ready to party.”
She had a choice. She could go back to the hotel and get some well-needed rest, or she could accompany her husband on his prowl around town.
There was no choice—she couldn’t leave Linc to his own devices. He was drunk and on his way to being out of control. She had to stay by his side to protect him.
It was too bad. He’d faithfully promised her that he wasn’t going to drink on this trip, and now look at him. Linc was fast turning into the king of empty promises.
“Okay,” she sighed. “One party, and then bed. Is that a deal?”
“Deal,” he said, grabbing her and twirling her around. “I got me the best little wife in the world.”
CHAPTER
* * *
5
The group sitting around a table on the terrace of the Carlton Hotel included Merrill Zandack with his mystery date; Lola Sanchez and her husband, Matt; Jonas; Elliott Finerman; and Cat. There were stars, producers, investors, and directors congregating at all the surrounding tables. The Carlton Terrace was a popular meeting place, especially at the end of the evening, when everyone was ready to wind down and catch up on all the day’s gossip.
Cat had already checked out the action, had a drink, been ignored by Lola Sanchez—who obviously didn’t consider her important enough—and now she was anxious to get back to the yacht.
Unfortunately, Merrill was in no hurry. He was fawning all over Lola, who was basking in the attention. She’d once made a movie for him, and they were apparently old friends.
Cat had an urge to call Jump, find out how his tour was going. They’d spoken only once, and she missed him, especially since they’d hardly been apart since their marriage, two years ago.
She daydreamed about what they’d do if Jump was with her. Knowing her husband, he’d be into adventure. They’d hire a speedboat, go waterskiing, hit the beaches and mountains, and generally explore. On their honeymoon he’d taken her to the Great Barrier Reef, off the coast of Australia, where they’d had the most amazing time.
The simple life. When she wasn’t working, that’s what she was into, not all this fancy party crap.
“Do you think I’ll get through to Australia on my cell?” she asked Jonas.
“Checking up on hubby?”
Who the hell used the word “hubby”? Of course Jonas was gay. Why had she ever doubted it?
“I don’t check up on people,” she answered crisply.
“I’ve been meaning to ask . . . ,” Jonas ventured.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t you kind of young to be married?”
“Aren’t you kind of nosy to be questioning me about stuff that’s none of your business?” she retorted.
“Give me the number, I’ll try it for you.”
She scribbled the number on a drink napkin and handed it over with her phone.
Jonas got up and walked away from the table, cell phone in hand.
Cat wasn’t sure whether she should follow him or not. Then she decided that she should—anything to get away from the cigar smoke permeating their table, polluting the balmy night air.
Just as she was about to run after Jonas, Matt Seel grabbed her arm. “Merrill’s raving about Caught,” he said, preventing her from taking off. “How long did it take you to write?”
She knew exactly where this question was leading. Since the huge success of Wild Child, everyone thought they were capable of writing a successful script. After all, if a nin
eteen-year-old girl could create a hit movie, why couldn’t they? Now Matt obviously thought he could write a screenplay, and he was expecting her to tell him how easy it was.
“Uh . . . it’s difficult to say,” she answered, being purposely vague.
“A month? Two? Three?” he persisted.
“It’s not really a question of time.”
“What, then?”
“Talent,” she wanted to say. But she didn’t. It couldn’t be a laugh a minute being married to Lola Sanchez—the woman came across as a total diva. “Tenacity,” she said. “And stamina.”
“I’m writing a script,” he announced.
Surprise! Surprise!
“That’s great,” she murmured.
“It’s loosely based on my life.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. My dad’s a cop and I was a championship tennis player before I married Lola.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It is,” he said enthusiastically. “Can I tell you more?”
“Later,” she said, extracting herself from his grip. “Right now I gotta go talk to my old man.”
She hurried over to Jonas, who informed her he was unable to get a signal.
“Crap!” she exclaimed. “Can we go back to the boat now?”
“When Mr. Zandack is ready.”
“When will that be?”
“Do I look like a mind reader?”
Jonas was so fucking uptight. He’d been drinking Perrier all night; maybe a shot of vodka would get the stick out of his ass.
“Can’t the tender take me back on my own?” she persisted.
“Mr. Zandack doesn’t like people leaving before he’s ready.”
“Like I care?”
“Word of advice,” Jonas said, poker-faced. “Don’t piss him off.”
“Hey,” she said, sick of his attitude. “He’s bought my movie—not my soul. I’m a free spirit, and I intend to remain one. Tell him I’m going to the boat.”
Jonas was not giving an inch. “How do you plan on getting there?”
“I’m taking the tender,” she answered, equally stubborn. “Please call and have it come fetch me.”
“This seems like a good time to remind you that I work for Mr. Zandack, not you.”
“Then I’ll have to ask Mr. Zandack to speak to you, won’t I?”
“About what?”
“About getting me the fucking tender,” she said, finally losing patience.
“Go ahead.”
“I will,” she said, snatching her cell phone and marching back to the table, where she found Merrill sucking limes and downing tequila shots along with Lola Sanchez—both of them enjoying themselves immensely. Merrill’s Russian girlfriend and Lola’s husband looked on with glum expressions. Elliott Finerman was long gone.
What was she supposed to do? Sit and watch?
No way. That wasn’t her style. She could only kiss ass for so long, and Merrill’s time was now up.
“Uh, Mr. Z. . . . Merrill, I’d like to go back to the yacht,” she ventured. “Can you tell Jonas to call the tender for me?”
Ignoring her request, Merrill downed another tequila shot and sucked on a lime.
“Merrill,” she repeated. “I want to leave.”
“Ten minutes,” he said, beaming. “An’ we’ll all go back together. Okay, kitten?”
• • •
The smile on Shelby’s face was becoming more fixed by the moment. She was desperate not to let it slip, for the paparazzi were everywhere, ready to pounce. There were big bucks to be made from a picture of her and Linc involved in any kind of altercation.
Linc was loud and boisterous, coming on to every woman in sight, grabbing and pawing. If only she could get him back to the hotel before he did something he’d regret in the morning.
Unfortunately she knew the routine only too well. Basically Linc was an alcoholic who refused to admit he had a problem. Oh yes, a couple of times he’d conceded that maybe he needed help, and had actually spent time in rehab. But as soon as he got out, he’d laughed at the idea that he was addicted and done nothing about it. His glass was full, something he refused to acknowledge.
There were times he didn’t drink for months on end. There were other times one glass of wine would be all he could tolerate. Then there were the times like tonight, and these were the times she dreaded most. Linc on a binge. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Linc is damaged goods,” Brenda, her therapist, had explained to her. “He’s experienced an extremely traumatic childhood, and that colors everything he does.”
“How can I help him?”
“Tell him to come and see me, I’ll do what I can.”
After much persuasion, Linc had finally agreed to sit down with Brenda. A couple of lengthy sessions later, he’d pronounced the whole therapy deal total crap.
Brenda didn’t think so. “The man needs help,” she’d informed Shelby. “He’s suffering from an overload of guilt. He feels he could not protect his mother, and in some way failed his father. He drinks to take away the painful memories.”
Determined to lure him away from the party without incident, Shelby quietly whispered in his ear. “Sweet-heart, you promised one party only. I’m very tired. Can we go now?”
“Wassamatter?” he slurred, his eyes becoming glittery and mean. “Doncha want me havin’ fun?”
“We’ll have fun at the hotel,” she promised, knowing exactly what would happen when she got him there. He’d collapse on the bed and she’d have to undress him, shoes and all. In the morning he’d awake with a vicious hangover, beg her forgiveness, and faithfully promise it would never happen again.
Linc belonged in AA. Much to Shelby’s dismay, his tolerance level for alcohol was steadily declining. When they’d first gotten together she had not considered it too much of a problem.
But now . . .
Flash Back Four Years
“Who’s the girl with Pete?” Linc asked his closest pal and longtime agent, Marty Zimmerman. They were standing by the pool table at Marty’s house, while a few dozen people mingled at the party taking place. Ever since his latest divorce, Marty was famous for his casual Sunday night drop-ins; the usual ratio was three girls to every man. Marty was a major player.
Grabbing a drink, Marty cocked a somewhat bushy eyebrow. He was a short, wiry-looking man in his late forties, with a shock of thick brown hair and a prominent nose. “Off-limits,” he said. “Pete found her first and he’s in deep lust.”
“He is?” Linc said, staring at the girl in question.
“Yup,” Marty said, nodding vigorously. “He’s taken her out four times and according to him—barely gotten a good-night peck.”
“Pete?” Linc said, laughing incredulously.
“Yeah, Pete the Peterman. Can you believe it?”
“No,” Linc said, picking up a pool cue. “Pete scores more pussy than I do.”
“Not with this one,” Marty responded, selecting his own personal cue, embossed with his initials in gold. “She’s holding out pretty good.”
“Maybe I should move in,” Linc mused. “Put him out of his misery.”
“Naw, you don’t wanna do that. This is the real thing. Pete’s talkin’ marriage.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me?” Linc said, chalking his cue.
“Nope,” Marty said matter-of-factly. “ ’Fraid our Pete’s a goner.”
“How come I never heard about this?”
“Could be because you’ve been on location in Asia for the last three months,” Marty said, racking up the balls.
“That’d do it.”
“You break,” Marty said with a magnanimous wave of his hand.
“Mr. Generous,” Linc replied, starting off the game. “Hold tight ’cause I’m about to cream your ass.”
“You wish!”
“I know.”
“Lucky shot!” Marty exclaimed as several balls zoomed into various pockets.
“Thought yo
u were gonna come visit me on location,” Linc remarked, preparing for his next shot.
“Everyone knows I hate flying.”
“You’re my agent, Marty,” Linc chided, leaning over the table. “You’re supposed to service the client.”
“Talkin’ of getting serviced,” Marty said. “How was the pussy over there?”
“Same as here,” Linc said, taking another successful shot. “The difference is—three hours later, you’re hot for more.”
Both men laughed.
“ ’S good to have you back,” Marty said warmly. “This town’s not the same without you.”
“Thanks,” Linc said, taking another long look at the girl with Pete. “Believe me,” he added. “It’s great to be back.”
He blew his next shot, and Marty took his turn. “How come I’ve never seen her before?” Linc asked. “Because you do not go to other people’s movies,” Marty said, squinting at his options. “And she doesn’t frequent your favorite hangouts.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Shelby Cheney. She’s an English actress, starred in a couple of independents. Word is she’s up for the lead in the new Tom Cruise.”
“Fuck Tom Cruise,” Linc said forcefully. “How about my next movie?”
“Jesus!” Marty groaned, stepping back from the table and leaning on his cue. “Aren’t you listening to me. She’s taken. T-A-K-E-N.”
“You said Pete’s not fucking her.”
“Linc,” Marty said gravely. “Do me a personal favor. Leave this one alone.”
“Sure.”
But of course he didn’t, even though Pete, one of the top stuntmen in town, was a close friend.
The next morning he had his manager find out all about Shelby Cheney. She was a fairly successful English actress who’d moved to Hollywood eight months earlier. Her career was definitely on the rise, and she was definitely not a girl about town.
Linc liked the sound of her—he already knew he liked the look—so a couple of days later he arranged to have her come in for a meeting with his director, casting people, and himself.
The moment Shelby entered the office he knew she was different. Coolly beautiful, with a mane of raven hair, intelligent hazel eyes, and a body she could not conceal beneath a simple cashmere sweater and kneelength beige skirt.
Hollywood Divorces Page 5
