Molly rubbed her eyes. She had hardly slept at all during the night. She’d been up, nursing Mitch’s cuts and bruises. She didn’t want to talk to Peter. He didn’t sound as if he was in a very happy mood.
“This is just what I needed this morning, when I can’t even move,” Peter growled.
“What do you mean, you can’t move?” Molly asked, looking at the receiver, puzzled. Had she heard aright?
“I reached for a newspaper and threw my back out,” Peter explained. “Have you seen the morning edition of the International Intruder?”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
Peter told her with quiet fury.
“No!” she cried.
“What?” Mitch asked with a groan. “What is it?”
“I don’t believe it,” Molly said when Peter repeated the news.
“What?” Mitch asked again, wincing this time.
“You’re fired, Ms. Hill.”
“I understand, sir,” Molly said. She hung up.
“What?” Mitch persisted, sitting up with a great deal of agony.
“You’ll be happy to hear you finally accomplished what you wanted to do since I got here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Peter just fired me.”
“He did what? Why?”
“Seems the two of us made the cover of the International Intruder.”
12
“YOU WAKE HIM UP,” Angie told the key grip when he asked why Mitch wasn’t on the set.
“Not me, but the director is madder’s hell. Somebody better wake him up. It’s the last scene—then we can go home.” He looked at Angie expectantly.
“Okay, I’ll do it, since you put it that way,” Angie agreed. Being around Mitch for the last few days was about as much fun as a dance without a punch bowl to spike. The whole crew had been walking on eggs ever since Molly’s departure.
“I’m here,” Mitch growled, coming out of his trailer. “Let’s get this over. I’ve got business in Hollywood to get to. Important business.”
“Her name wouldn’t be Molly Hill, would it?” Angie said, dripping sarcasm.
“Angie, you’re a woman,” Mitch said, then paused.
“You got great powers of observation there, Marlow.”
“What I mean is, maybe you can tell me why Molly won’t return my calls.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, you being such a charming fellow and all,” Angie replied, no less sarcastically.
“So I was stupid.”
“So you were.”
“You’ve never done anything stupid?”
“Not on such a regular basis. It’s like you’re getting college credit for it. You must be approaching your master’s degree in bad moves.”
“So give me some help here. What can I do to get her to take my calls?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a lot of help.”
“Mitch, reaching out and touching someone is always better done in person.”
“You think she’ll see me then?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Not at first, but if you love her, you’ll find a way to make her see it.”
Mitch nodded.
“You do love her, don’t you?” Angie persisted, ever the pesky younger sister.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. I didn’t expect to miss her like this.”
“Well, find a way to figure it out and make things right.”
Mitch walked onto the set to play his last scene and vowed to do just that. Molly had been right about him. He had been self-indulgent. His guilt and suicidal behavior would not negate Matthew’s death. It would only dishonor his brother.
It was time to grow up—at the very least, time to apologize to Molly. Time to accept the responsibility of life.
If, indeed, it was Molly he wanted. He had to find out. Happiness could be snatched away in a heartbeat, as it had been when Matthew died.
Did he love her?
Did she love him?
He had to find out.
MOLLY SAT ALONE in her apartment.
Her bags were still sitting in a corner, unpacked. She didn’t see any reason why she should unpack them, when she couldn’t unpack her heart.
It was still in the Midwest with Mitch Marlow.
The scum.
The snake.
The most wonderful, impossible man she’d ever met.
She hated him.
She loved him.
She was crying again.
And, oh, hell! She was out of tissues.
MOLLY LAY in the soft cocoon of her bed.
“I’m No Angel” was playing once again on the tape deck. Yes, Mitch had taken her to places she’d never been when she’d gone for a ride with him.
She’d lost him and her heart. She had only to look at the cover of the International Intruder—the one with the picture of Mitch and Sonny fighting over her. The black-and-white photograph was a record of the outfit Mitch had bought her, a record of her failure.
Her dream of becoming an agent had been destroyed. No one would hire her now. She’d not only failed at what Peter had sent her to do; she’d been made to look a perfect fool by a tabloid photographer who’d been following the battling Simms.
The movie poster on the back of her closet door was from Dangerous. She hadn’t taken it down. Instead she’d drawn a red circle with a slash through it. Drawing it had been very satisfying.
Oh, hell! She was crying again.
And now she was out of toilet tissue.
MOLLY AWOKE from a deep sleep, her fogged brain pounding. She shook her head but the fog didn’t go away.
Someone was pounding on the door.
She blinked twice and looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was six in the morning. Who would come to her apartment at six in the morning?
Throwing on a robe, she yawned, fumbled to tie the sash and made her way to the door.
“Who is it?” she called out.
Her heart sank when she heard the voice.
Mitch!
Suddenly she was awake and fully alert. What was he doing here? Hadn’t he already gotten what he wanted?
He hadn’t tried to stop her leaving.
Sure, there had been phone calls, but they’d only been made to assuage the guilt he felt over getting her fired. She didn’t really think he’d planned that.
Hell, he hadn’t made any plans at all.
And she’d made way too many. Too many foolish plans.
“Go away,” she called through the door. She couldn’t let him in. She couldn’t let him see how devastated she’d been by the ending of their affair.
“Molly, let me in. We need to talk.”
“We have nothing to say to each other,” she said, leaning her forehead against the door. If he’d had something to say—something she’d wanted to hear—he would have said it before she left the movie location. He wouldn’t have let her leave.
“Come on, Red,” he persisted. “Let me in,” knocking loudly enough to wake her neighbors.
“Go away. You’re going to wake the neighborhood.”
“Look, I know we can work this out if you’ll just let me in.”
“I don’t want to see you.” That was a lie. She was dying to see him. God, how she’d missed seeing him.
“Stop being so damn stubborn. Let me in, Molly. I need to talk to you.”
“I’m not your agent any longer. I’m not anyone’s agent. Talk to Peter.”
“Aw, Molly, will you stop? Everything just got all messed up. I didn’t mean—”
“Funny how that always happens when you’re involved, isn’t it, Mitch? You never think about how what you do affects other people.”
“Molly, I’m sorry. I want you to understand how sorry I am.”
“I understand. You’re sorry. Now will you go away?”
“Yo
u’re not going to let me in, are you?” Mitch said. She heard a groan of frustration.
“No.”
“Molly!”
“Go away. Just…just go.”
“You’re being…you’re being impossible. I could just…”
“You could just leave.”
“You really aren’t going to let me in?”
“You catch on slowly… but you do catch on.” He was so used to getting his way with women that she could hear the genuine disbelief in his voice.
“Okay, I’m leaving.”
“Goodbye.”
“Molly…”
“Go.”
MOLLY SAT AROUND the apartment all day,, watching the soaps. She read all the trade news journals and did her nails twice.
She didn’t dare leave the house, because she was afraid she’d find Mitch sitting in her hallway, lying in wait. It hadn’t sounded as if he’d gotten the message.
If only she could believe her own words! She’d told him to leave, but she’d wanted to let him in. She still wanted to be with him. There was no hope for her.
She hadn’t called her parents yet, but it was on the agenda. She’d call them in a day or two. Maybe by then she would have figured out if there was any way at all to salvage the mess she’d gotten herself into.
Tomorrow. Like Scarlett, she’d pull herself together tomorrow.
MITCH WALKED BAREFOOT along the beach in the moonlight. He’d neither slept nor shaved, his clothes were rumpled.
Who would have thought it? Molly Hill. She wasn’t what he’d been looking for. He hadn’t really been looking for a woman. But she’d turned out to be just what he needed.
But he’d been too dumb to see it. He’d let her just walk away—no, he’d pushed her.
He had to get her back. He had to.
Falling to his knees in the sand, he rubbed his sleep-weary eyes. “I love her… I just didn’t know. You’ve got to help me get her back, Matthew,” he said to the wind that blew a page of newsprint into his face.
MOLLY SLEPT LATE the following morning.
When she finally awoke, she felt as if she were fighting her way out of a marshmallow. Days of self-indulgence lay blurred in her memory, blended with nights of romantic, erotic dreams.
Mitch Marlow might not be pounding on her door, but thoughts of him wouldn’t leave her alone.
She had to get out of the apartment today. Yesterday she’d been afraid to leave, afraid she’d find Mitch camped on her doorstep.
Looking into the refrigerator, she saw that she was out of everything without fuzz on it. It was definitely time to go to the market. Besides, her crying jags had left her without tissue of any kind.
Maybe if she got dressed and went out she’d gain some perspective. After all, Peter Ketteridge didn’t own the only talent agency in L.A. Maybe she could start again, smaller, lower down in the pecking order.
Maybe she could start her own agency.
Yeah, right. And International Intruder reporters got up before the sun went down.
Throwing on some clothes, she paused to check her appearance in the mirror she’d been avoiding. She shrugged.
In her baggy jeans, oversize sweater and ponytail, the only fashion statement she was making was a 911 call to the fashion police.
Grabbing her canvas bag, she headed out the door after a careful inspection of the hallway for any loitering movie stars. She knew she was being ridiculous. Mitch’s visit yesterday had only been made out of some sense of duty—or worse, pity. He had probably already moved on, to Heather or a Heather clone.
The market was half-empty, making shopping less of an obstacle course than usual. The first aisle yielded up microwave popcorn, one of the staples of singles. Aisle two brought her a case of Diet Coke drinks….She now had seven pounds to lose instead of five. Aisle three had tissues. She picked up ten boxes although she absolutely, positively was not going to cry again for at least a week.
Aisles five and six offered frozen pizza and romance novels; after all, somewhere there had to be a happy ending and a hot meal. In aisle seven she found Dove Bar ice creams, in case she felt faint from all the crying.
She was almost surprised that no one paid her the least attention. Hadn’t she been on the cover of the International Intruder?
There was a line at the checkout counter. If there were only two people in the store, there was a line at the checkout counter. It was written in Murphy’s Law. In ink.
The lady in front of her had a two-year-old toddler in her cart. Molly wondered what aisle the lady had found her in. Maybe a toddler was what she needed. A child would certainly make her less self- absorbed. Being self-absorbed wasn’t what it was cracked up to be, when the self involved was boring.
What would Mitch’s child—their child—look like? She started crying.
She was being stupid, stupid, stupid, she muttered, pulling tissue from one of the boxes she’d thrown into her cart. She tried smiling at the toddler, but he just threw his troll doll at her. And laughed.
Men, she muttered, bending to retrieve the doll. On her way up, her eyes caught sight of the International Intruder for the first time.
Oh, my God!
The headline left her speechless.
Quickly handing the toddler back his doll, she reached into her bag for her sunglasses and slid them on. She felt herself blanch as she reread the words that screamed at her from the tabloid.
She was going to kill him.
Mitch Marlow was dead meat.
But first she had to get rid of the tabloids. Gathering them up, she dumped them into the cart with everything else. The clerk looked at her a little oddly, but rang them up with her groceries without comment, then gave her the total in a bored monotone.
Molly paid her tab and fled with the evidence, as if it were the loot from some bank job. On the way home she looked neither right nor left, just straight ahead, as if she were wearing blinders. She kept going, one foot in front of the other, heading for the safety of her own apartment.
There was no safety to be found there.
A throng of reporters and photographers was camped outside, swarming around the place like bees. If they saw her, she’d be stung. She had to slip away before that happened.
What was she going to do?
She was trapped.
Trapped with melting groceries and an armful of the International Intruder.
She looked down at the bold headline and still couldn’t believe her eyes: Molly Hill… Will You Marry Me?… Mitch Marlow.
The scum.
The snake.
The… the… She had to think quickly. Where could she go?
And then it came to her. Of course. The person who was responsible for her getting into this mess in the first place.
Peter Ketteridge.
She’d go to his office.
What could he do—fire her?
PETER’S GREETING was effusive and unexpected.
“It’s about time you came back to work,” he said, taking her things and ushering her in. “Where have you been?”
“You fired me,” Molly said.
“Silly girl. I’m always firing someone. No one takes it seriously. Besides, your campaign to reverse Mitch’s image is simply brilliant.”
“My campaign?”
Peter held up a copy of the International Intruder, thumping the headline, marriage proposal.
“Yes, this is brilliant. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself. All the world loves a good romance.”
“But it wasn’t my idea—there is no—I don’t—”
A commotion in the outside lobby drowned Molly’s stammered objection. She sucked in a quick, startled breath when she saw Mitch. He was followed by a gaggle of shoving reporters and photographers. Shouldering his way into Peter’s office, Mitch joined them.
“You’ve seen the morning paper,” Mitch said, nodding to the stack on Peter’s desk.
“Are you collecting them for souvenirs, Molly?”
She glared at him.
“Well, Red,” he continued calmly, “we’re all waiting for your answer.”
All at once Molly saw past the self-assured movie star to the scared man who had risked the ultimate humiliation to win her heart, to prove that he loved her.
She couldn’t say no.
But she could make him squirm. And she would enjoy every delicious moment of the torture.
“I don’t see anyone on bended knee.” She sniffed, pushing back her curls.
“Now you do,” he answered, dropping onto one knee. Cameras flashed.
“Peter’s rehired me,” she said, taking care to put her boss on record next. “Do I have to quit my job, if we get married?” she asked him.
“No,” Peter answered.
Molly looked to Mitch for confirmation. “You heard the boss,” he said and shrugged. “But there is one condition.”
“And what might that be?”
“I have to be your number one client.”
“I think that can be arranged. Right, Peter?”
Peter nodded.
She stalled. “Will you still give me extravagant clothing?”
“As much as your mercenary heart desires,” he teased, “on one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked warily.
“Anything I pay for, I get to pick out,” he answered.
Molly felt her face flame, but went on. “One last thing.”
“One last thing,” Mitch agreed.
“I get to choose all your leading ladies.”
“Done.”
“Do you promise?”
“Red…”
“What?”
“Shut up and say yes.”
“Yes.”
13
International Intruder
Dateline L.A.
She Said Yes!
It wasn’t easy. He had to do it on bended knee, but Hollywood heartthrob, Mitch Marlow, convinced his agent, Molly Hill, to marry him. That’s a long way to go not to have to pay your ten percent, Marlow.
Stay tuned for wedding pics. You know the Intruder will get them.
International Intruder
Dateline L. A.
Jesse Is Taking the Loot!
Mitch Marlow has a monster hit on his hands and his new movie, Jesse, isn’t even out yet. The trailer being previewed in movie theaters around the country has shot Marlow’s ballad from Jesse to number one on the pop charts and created unprecedented interest in an unreleased movie.
Bad Attitude Page 13
