Never a Bride

by JoAnn Ross

  Cait folded her arms. “I rest my case. I also don’t think you should make such snap judgments about that dress,” she advised. “As boring as the doc can be, I doubt there’s a man alive who doesn’t fantasize about his woman in a trashy, sexy outfit like that one. It works like Love Potion Number Nine whenever I wear it out on Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “Alan is not the kind of man to pick up women on the street.”

  “Believe me, you can’t always tell. Although in the doc’s case, I’d probably have to agree with you,” Caitlin admitted. “But I’ll bet you’d never guess in a million years who I busted the other day.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Blythe said when Cait revealed her recent celebrity arrest. “Walter Stern actually offered to pay you for sex?”

  “I told you,” Cait said with a shrug, “you just never know. What was even more amazing was the way he hinted that if I played my cards right, I could have an audition at Xanadu.”

  Cait frowned as she remembered Sloan’s similar remark when she’d almost arrested him and wondered why men in this town couldn’t get it through their heads that the bad old days of the casting couch were over. Her frown darkened as she decided the sad truth was that though sleeping your way to the top of the studio might not be as prevalent as it once was, trading sex for parts undoubtedly happened more times than she cared to know.

  “But Walter has a gorgeous young wife,” Blythe argued.

  His fourth. Some brainless airhead with a silicon enhanced Barbie doll body, who’d recently been signed to play the part of a moll in a mobster picture, Blythe recalled.

  “Hey, most of the guys we bring in are married. Which is one more reason I have no intention of ever tying the knot.”

  Having been Cait’s best friend since childhood, Blythe was all too familiar with Cait’s aversion to marriage. In truth, she could even understand it, given the fact that Cait’s mother, Natalie Landis had been married seven times at last count, and Devlin Carrigan, her screenwriter father had gone to the altar five times. Or was it six?

  Whichever, the thought of her best friend fated to go through life alone, just because of her parents’ failed romances, made Blythe sad.

  “You certainly can’t judge all men by the ones who solicit hookers,” Blythe pointed out.

  “Right. Let’s talk about the child molesters and wife beaters and rapists.”

  “You really do need to get into another line of work.” Blythe wondered as she so often did, how Cait could remain so unrelentingly upbeat when she spent her days mucking around in society’s sewer.

  “And give up playing cops and robbers?” Cait shook her head. “Never happen. But you know,” she said, “when you talk like that, you sound depressingly like my mother.

  “She’s still telling all her movie star friends that the only reason her daughter is running around in an LAPD uniform is because I’m researching a role for some television series that only exists in her mind.”

  “I’m sorry I sounded that way,” Blythe said. The last thing she wanted was to hurt Cait’s feelings. “You know I’ve always respected your career choice. Although,” she admitted, as she turned into Natalie Landis’s sweeping drive-way, “I certainly can’t imagine doing it myself.”

  “Different strokes,” Cait said with renewed good humor. “So, when does the nose doc get back to town?”

  Alan had been gone for the past ten days at a medical convention in Bonn, and although Blythe truly missed him, one thing she’d definitely not missed were their arguments regarding her workaholic lifestyle.

  “I’ve told you time and time again not to call him the nose doc,” she complained lightly, knowing Cait’s feelings about Hollywood’s obsession with artificially enhanced beauty. Of course it helped, Blythe considered, that Caitlin was naturally stunning.

  “He’ll be back in town Wednesday morning. We’re scheduled to have dinner with the retiring director of surgical services Wednesday night.”

  “Boy, the guy must have a lot of energy,” Cait conceded. “I’d be too jetlagged out after flying all that way back from Europe to go out and make party conversation.”

  “So would I. But Alan didn’t have any say in setting the date.”

  “And of course he can’t not go,” Cait guessed. “Since he’s undoubtedly lobbying for his retiring superior’s job.

  “He is the most qualified,” Blythe said loyally. And although she knew that she could be considered obsessive from time to time—like now, with her Alexandra project—she was a piker compared to her fiancé.

  Alan Sturgess played hospital politics the same way he played tennis. To win.

  Blythe’s unusually sharp tone had Cait slanting a curious look her way. “I didn’t say he wasn’t,” she said. “Just because I don’t think the guy’s right for you doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge his medical talents, Blythe.”

  Uncomfortable at having snapped at her best friend, and knowing that there was no love lost between Cait and Alan, Blythe was relieved when their arrival at Natalie Landis’s Bel Air estate precluded further discussion.

  A visitor to the Colonial mansion would undoubtedly feel like a time traveler to the Old South. Although Cait hated the memories her childhood home represented, still she could appreciate the southern beauty of the gleaming white six-pillared mansion. The curving entrance drive flowed onto a velvety green sweeping lawn and magnificent gardens that provided a dramatic landscape.

  The inside of the mansion was as dazzling as the exterior. A fantasy come true that was almost as glamorous as its movie star owner. Settings swept opulently from soaring gilt-framed ceilings, creamy Italian marble flowed un-derfoot, an ornately gilded curving staircase suitable for a fairy-tale princess-to-bride float down romantically. Museum quality paintings adorned silk-draped walls, billowing treatments framed the tall windows.

  The formal gardens were in full bloom, orchids floated atop the azure waters of the tiered swimming pool. A string quartet from the Hollywood Symphony played Bach and Beethoven while Hollywood’s heaviest hitters nibbled on canapés, sipped mimosas and mingled and gossiped.

  The affair was Natalie Landis at her best. There was enough glitz and glamour gathered around the sparkling pool to fill the Hollywood Bowl. More stars than the Griffith Planetarium.

  How many parties like this had she been to in her life? Cait wondered. Hundreds? Thousands? And she hadn’t enjoyed any of them.

  “Relax,” Blythe advised Cait under her breath as they joined the gala gathering. “You look like a virgin brought to the slaughter.”

  “I hate these damn things,” Cait said between clenched teeth.

  “I’m not all that wild about them myself,” Blythe admitted. She flashed a smile at the television reporter who was covering the charity brunch for “Entertainment Tonight”. “But when in Rome...”

  “I wish I were in Rome. Anywhere but here.”

  Blythe waved at a former NFL quarterback who’d surprised all the critics by proving himself to be a very good dramatic actor. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “That’s undoubtedly what the chaplain tells death row inmates while they’re getting their heads shaved,” Cait countered.

  There had been a time when Blythe had wondered why it was that although she could tolerate Hollywood’s more superficial moments, on those rare occasions when her best friend succumbed to Natalie’s not inconsiderable will, Cait always seemed like a fish out of water.

  It hadn’t been until one memorable night, when all of Cait’s various stepfathers and stepmothers unexpectedly showed up at the same party, that Blythe had realized Cait’s insecurities stemmed from her lack of stability during her important formative years.

  Both Cait and Blythe had grown up in the movie business. They’d attended the same schools from kindergarten through college. They were both intelligent and attractive. They both had careers they loved.

  The difference had been that Blythe’s parents had provided a family that could have
been the prototype for a 1950s television program. As an entertainment attorney, David Fielding had worked a normal nine to five job while his wife combined running their home and taking care of their daughter with her charity work.

  In contrast, Natalie Landis and Devlin Carrigan had spent their entire lives—and, distressingly, Cait’s—in a seemingly nonending series of tempestuous relationships.

  Cait had been at the Pet Parade Brunch less than five minutes when her mother’s butler informed her that she had a telephone call from police headquarters. From the disapproving tone in his properly British voice, she guessed he shared his employer’s distaste for her chosen profession.

  “Thank you, Malcolm.” Cait forced a smile at the man who, during his entire seventeen years in Natalie Landis’s employ, she’d never once seen crack even a hint of a smile in return. “I’ll take it in the library.”

  “Wherever you wish, Miss Caitlin.” He nodded brusquely, then walked away, his spine and his attitude as stiff as his starched white shirtfront.

  Wondering as she so often did how it was that her mother had been able to maintain such a long-term relationship with her butler, when she went through marriages like tissues during the cold and flu season, Cait shook her head and wove her way through the crowd.

  The library, like the foyer, boasted a towering, two-story ceiling. Exquisite Persian carpets floated atop the black marble floor. Leather bound books, which looked as if they’d never been opened, lined the walls.

  The old-fashioned style telephone on the cherry Queen Anne desk was antiqued and appropriately gilded. Although she routinely turned on her call forwarding whenever she left her home, Cait was definitely not accustomed to re-ceiving calls from division headquarters.

  “This is Detective Andretti, in the fugitive squad,” the male voice on the other end of the line informed her brusquely. “We’ve got a little problem here, Officer. And we think you may be able to help.”

  “I’d certainly be happy to try, sir,” she said trying to keep her tone briskly professional as a frisson of excitement shot through her. “What is it?”

  “I’d prefer not to discuss it on the phone,” he said, causing her interest to skyrocket. “Could you come downtown, at say, three o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock is fine, sir,” she agreed without hesitation.

  “We’ll see you then,” he said, sounding as if he’d expected no other answer.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Blythe said when Cait told her about the change in plans. “We’ll simply leave a little early so you’ll have time to change into your uniform.”

  Patience had never been Cait’s long suit and it wasn’t now. For the next two hours, as she forced herself to circulate and exchange small talk with these people she’d known all her life, she couldn’t help wondering what the fugitive squad could possibly want with her.

  Her mind continued to reel off endless scenarios, trying each on for size, then discarding them, like a dress that didn’t quite fit.

  Later, she would tell herself that her intense concentration on the phone call from the head of Los Angeles Police’s fugitive squad was why she hadn’t noticed Sloan Wyndham’s arrival at the party.

  4

  BLYTHE HAD NEVER LIKED Walter Stern. Even before Cait’s revelation about his solicitation arrest, she’d found him smarmy. But just because she didn’t like the man didn’t mean she couldn’t work with him. At least that’s what she’d been telling herself.

  But lately she had the feeling that he was doing everything he could to deter her from making the film about Alexandra Romanov in the first place.

  Which didn’t make any sense, she considered. Unless he was worried about Xanadu Studios being portrayed in an unattractive light.

  Taking advantage of his appearance at the brunch, she was attempting, unsuccessfully thus far, to talk him into granting her additional access to his grandfather’s and father’s old archives files when Sloan approached.

  “We need to talk,” he said without preamble.

  Once again his curt tone reminded her that he was reputed to be difficult. But still Blythe found herself hoping he’d accept her proposal.

  “I’m a little busy at the moment.” Refusing to grant him the upper hand, she purposefully made her tone chilly.

  He smiled at that, a slow, remarkably sexy smile that warmed those whiskey brown eyes and had Blythe reminding herself she was an engaged woman.

  “Sorry. I tend to get impatient when I’m excited about a story.”

  Hope flared. Enough that Blythe missed the studio head’s stiffening beside her. “Are you saying—”

  “I’m interested. Hell, I’m more than interested.”

  Blythe felt her mouth go suddenly dry. “And that is?”

  “Your project has dynamite potential, Blythe. Factor in you playing the part of Alexandra, and it can’t miss. I’d be a fool to turn down the opportunity.”

  Relief shuddered out on a long breath. “Thank you.”

  He shrugged in a negligent gesture that pulled his shirt against his broad shoulders. “I’ll want to hash out some details.”

  “I’m free this evening.” Having waited so long, she wanted to settle whatever last reservations he might have.

  “Sorry. As it happens, I’ve got somewhere else I have to be tonight.”

  The phone had been ringing when he’d come in from his run and although Sloan would like nothing more than to resolve the details of his working agreement with Blythe, some things—and some people—could not be ignored.

  Now that he’d bitten at the bait she’d dangled in front of him, Blythe was not about to let Sloan off the hook.

  “How about lunch in my motor home on the set tomorrow? Around noon?”

  “Lunch sounds great.” He flashed a grin she had no doubt charmed the opposite sex from eight to eighty. Acknowledging Walter Stern for the first time, he said, “Hello, Walter. It’s been a long time.”

  His tone was brusque, lacking in the warmth he’d bestowed on Blythe. She had the impression that Sloan wouldn’t really mind if a great deal more time elapsed before they worked together again.

  “Wyndham.” The studio head’s face was stony. His tone was no more cordial than Sloan’s. There were currents there, Blythe considered. Currents she couldn’t quite grasp.

  Before she could get a handle on the tension between the two men, the trio was interrupted by the arrival of an aging actress literally dripping in diamonds.

  “Walter!” The actress bestowed air kisses on each cheek. “I simply must talk to you about a project I have in mind.” She glanced at Blythe dismissingly. “Hello, Blythe, darling,” she cooed. “You wouldn’t mind if I steal Walter away, would you?”

  “Be my guest.” Once they were alone, Blythe turned to Sloan. “I don’t suppose you’d care to have our discussion now?”

  As interested as he was in Blythe’s film, Sloan had another, more personal project in mind. “I don’t want to risk being interrupted,” he said. “How about we just stay with tomorrow?”

  Once again, it wasn’t her first choice. Once again, Blythe realized she had scant choice. Like it or not, at this point Sloan—and, dammit, Walter Stern—were calling the shots.

  “Tomorrow it is.” Flashing him a smile that revealed not an iota of frustration, she drifted off in search of their hostess.

  At the opposite end of the garden, still focused on what the fugitive squad could possibly want with her, Cait was engaged in thoughts of chasing a beleaguered, handsome Harrison Ford across the country when an all too familiar voice shattered the fantasy.

  “Good afternoon, Officer.”

  She slowly turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man she’d been trying to forget ever since that debacle at Blythe’s gate.

  “I didn’t realize you’d be here.” Her tone was not welcoming.

  “Don’t you read Variety?” Sloan smiled charmingly, undeterred by her display of bad manners. He’d been watching her, a
ware of her discomfort and admiring the way she’d managed to conceal it so well. He’d also noticed she was distracted and wondered why. “I’m currently on all the A lists in town.”

  “Congratulations.” Her dry tone said otherwise.

  His brown eyes lit with humor. “Actually, I think it’s more a case of be careful what you wish for. But,” he shrugged his shoulders, “since it gets me first look at terrific projects like Blythe’s, I’m in no position to complain.”

  He smiled again, but this time it was a slow, seductive smile she couldn’t help imagining up on the silver screen. The smile slowly faded as he subjected her to a long silent study.

  Refusing to let him know she was even the least bit affected, Cait stood absolutely still and let him look.

  Her dress, Sloan considered, was about as far away from a stark blue police uniform as possible. Outrageously romantic, it could have washed off an Impressionist painting.

  Soft drifts of pastel flowers adorned a full, tea-length skirt that he imagined would rustle when she walked. Her hair had been pulled back with a gold filigree clip and allowed to tumble down her back in a riot of fiery waves.

  He’d spent the past four nights and much of this morning assuring himself that the spitfire in the hooker dress who’d waved that 9mm pistol in his face couldn’t possibly be as lovely as he’d first thought.

  Now, in the unforgiving light of bright, midday California sunshine, he realized that he’d only been partly right. Cait Carrigan wasn’t as lovely as he’d remembered. She was, incredibly, even more so.

  “You are,” he said slowly, “the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  The compliment, which she’d heard before, should not have made her heart beat faster. It should not, Cait told herself firmly. But it did.

  “You disappoint me, Mr. Wyndham.” She tapped an unpolished fingernail against her champagne glass and reminded herself to breathe. “I would have thought a man of your reputed talent would be able to come up with something a bit less clichéd.”