by Joachim Jean
MOVIE LOVERS
HOLLYWOOD HEARTS 4
Jean C. Joachim
Mainstream Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Mainstream Romance
Movie Lovers
Copyright © 2013 Jean C. Joachim
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-765-1
First E-book Publication: June 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Tabitha Bower
Proofread by Carolyn Gibbs
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
DEDICATION
To Ruth Joachim, my beloved mother-in-law.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the following for their help and support: Larry Joachim, Tabitha Bower, my editor, Sandy Sullivan, my publisher, Marilyn Reisse Lee, my Book Buddies, friends and readers who make writing books so worthwhile.
The Cravings e-book Club
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*Trouble With a Cowboy, a western, erotic romance:
Can some slashed tires and an ornery bull bring two hard-headed people together for some fun in the sun and a little more?
**Forget Me Not, paranormal erotic romance:
A war is brewing, a war that could destroy an entire vampire race if left unchecked, and Julian Marino has been requested to participate in it. He stops his search for a long time friend to go home and discovers there is more at stake than just his wants.
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MOVIE LOVERS
HOLLYWOODS HEARTS 4
Jean C. Joachim
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Grace Brewster couldn’t control her breathing. Alone with Gunther Quill. Little me with one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He leaned against the corner of his desk. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, the neck, unbuttoned. His light blue striped tie hung loose. Grace noticed his perfect haircut and the whitest smile she’d ever seen. Brown hair going gorgeously gray at the temples and broad shoulders drew her attention.
No wedding ring. No family pictures on his desk or credenza. He’s sex on wheels.
His dark brown eyes feasted on her body, not missing one curve or her dangerously low-cut top. Suddenly feeling naked, Grace leaned back a little in her chair, folding her arms across her breasts. Her rich brown curls fell loosely about her shoulders. She blinked at him with the same big, ocean blues as her sister, famous actress Cara Brewster.
“Tell me a little about your script, Ms. Brewster. Does it have a love scene?”
She gulped, her mouth dry as day-old bread. “Of course.”
“Tell me…no, no. Show me.” His eyes danced as he strolled closer to her.
“Show you?” Her palms began to sweat as she rose slowly from her chair. “How?”
“The best scriptwriters act out their scripts. Show me. Make me feel it.” His magnetic gaze held hers.
Before she could catch her breath, he was standing right in front of her, his chest almost touching hers. He reached out to her locks, rubbing some fine strands between his fingers. “You are just as beautiful as your sister,” he whispered.
Grace stepped back. “Thank you, Mr. Quill. That’s quite a compliment.”
“Gunther. Now show me, Grace. Does your heroine have passion for the hero?”
She nodded.
“How does she show it?”
“Well…she…uh…she…” She looked around the room, avoiding his face.
“Does he do this?” He leaned over and placed his lips on hers, snaking his arm around her waist. Grace’s pulse kicked into high gear. The warmth of his kiss aroused her, but fear fought with desire. He’s a producer. What are you doing? You don’t even know him. This is business. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed. But he was like steel and didn’t budge.
Bending down, he whispered in her ear, “
Does he make love to her?” His mouth was on her neck while he pulled her closer.
“Mr. Quill…”
“Gunther…”
“Okay. Gunther…this is about my script, right? This is business.”
“Of course it is. We’re only acting out your script. Show me how she makes love to him. Make it real. I need to feel it for the audience to feel it.”
“Shouldn’t I be doing that with words?”
“Movies are pictures, Grace, my dear. Action, images, are more important than words.”
“But…” Her heart beat wildly.
“Show me,” he repeated, sliding his fingers up over her breast.
This time she shoved harder. “Wait a minute…” she began, but words stuck in her throat.
He stepped back and dropped his hand. The fire in his eyes turned to ice.
“Do you want me to read your script? Do you know how many get dropped on my door every day? Hundreds. What makes yours special? I need to know you have the passion to write a convincing love scene.”
She stared at her fingernails.
“Grace. If you can’t convince me, how the hell are you going to convince an audience?”
“But I thought…”
“Don’t waste my time. My secretary has your treatment and script?” He moved back to rest against his desk.
She nodded. “You want me to read it, don’t you?” She swallowed. “Make me want to read it. Show me your script is hotter, smarter, better than the other five hundred waiting for me. Convince me to read it.” His gaze warmed. She raised her chin to meet his stare. Lust glittered in his eyes.
“You want me to believe you come in here dressed like that, but you had no intention of seducing me?”
A moment of clarity burst through the confusion in her mind. If she wanted him to read her script, she was expected to have sex with him. A sense of calm washed over her when she figured out what was happening. Am I that desperate? He’s sexy. I could do worse. If he reads it and likes it, I’m in.
A war raged inside her. This script was everything to her as she struggled to find her way as a writer in a cutthroat business, where her sister was a queen and she was non-existent. But to prostitute herself for it was over the top. It’s not like he’s married. Maybe like a hook-up? I don’t do hook-ups.
The phone on his desk buzzed. Gunther leaned over to pick it up. “No, no. Hold all my calls.” He replaced the receiver and turned his attention back to Grace. Like a snake who has hypnotized his prey, Gunther slithered across the open space between them. Testing the waters, he ran his finger down her face. “Such beauty should not go…untasted.”
“My script. My story. It’s about a girl named Jackie and a guy name Brad…” The words came out in a rush.
“Tell me all, my lovely,” he said as he drew her near. His lips caressed her neck while his hand slid the shoulder of her blouse down, exposing her breast to his gaze.
* * * *
With a shaking hand, Grace turned the key in the ignition of her SUV. What just happened? She put her head down on the steering wheel as the motor purred quietly. You slept with Gunther Quill. Idiot! You let him use you. A wave of nausea flashed through her belly as she jammed the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.
When she arrived at the dance studio for her class, Grace raced into the ladies room to throw up. Breathing heavy, she washed her face and mouth. Weakness washed through her body.
As she leaned against the bathroom wall, cooling her hot forehead against the tile, her instructor, Dorrie Rogers, pushed open the door. “Grace! Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“You’re pale as a ghost. What happened?”
“Nothing, Dorrie, nothing. I’m fine.” Grace pushed away to stand on her own as blood rushed back to her face, and her legs began to feel steady again.
Dorrie put an arm around her friend. “Hey, you don’t have to come to class today. We’ll extend your lessons.”
“I’m fine. I want to dance.” She applied lipstick with a trembling hand.
“Don’t bullshit me, you’re not fine.”
Two other students entered, eliminating Dorrie and Grace’s privacy.
“I want to dance. It’d be good for me.”
“We’ll see,” Dorrie said as she pulled out a comb and ran it through her auburn hair.
“Meet you inside,” Grace said, pushing through the door. She entered the large, sunny room with the shiny, light wood floor. The mirrored wall shouted her image back at her so she could see how bad she looked. Grace put down her bag and gripped the barre. She started slowly, stretching and bending.
Dorrie and the other women gathered and joined Grace in warm-up exercises. Grace directed her focus on dancing, trying not to think about what had just happened in Gunther Quill’s office. The smirk from his secretary confirmed her suspicion that Gunther did this all the time. She wasn’t special, but simply another pathetic female writer who was willing to put out for a reading, a chance to find out if her script was the one.
Was I good enough for Gunther? Did I capture the magic he was looking for…the mystical quality needed to make it to the silver screen? Anger replaced the nausea, causing Grace to work her tense, stiff muscles mercilessly until she pulled a hamstring. Pain shot through her and she collapsed.
Dorrie raced over. “I told you not to dance.”
“Thanks a bunch,” Grace choked out, clutching her injured limb.
“I’m sorry. Come over here. Let’s get some ice on that.” She helped Grace up while the class took a five-minute break. Dorrie retrieved an ice bag from the small fridge in the corner of the room and placed it on Grace’s leg.
“You’re tight as a drum. What’s going on?” The quizzical stare from her friend made Grace look away. No way was she spilling the truth. Bad enough you did it. Now shut up about it.
“Nothing.”
Dorrie placed her hands on her hips and shifted her weight. “Don’t lie to me, Grace Brewster.”
“Let it alone, Dorrie. Let it alone.” Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Shit! I’m not gonna cry. No tears. None.
The minute Dorrie saw the misting, her tone softened. “I’m sorry, Grace. What can I do?” She crouched down to be eye-to-eye with Grace, who was sitting on the floor.
“Nothing. I told you. Let it be, Dorrie.” Grace grimaced as she pushed up to a standing position and limped out of the room. Once in her car, she blasted the radio, opened the windows, and raced down the highway to the home she shared with her sister on Benedict Canyon Drive.
Once inside, she poured a screwdriver, grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen plus a handful of ice, threw that in a paper towel, and hobbled out to the deck that surrounded the swimming pool. She lowered herself into a chair and placed the cold pack on her aching muscle. She washed down two pills with her drink and sat back. The sun warmed her chest and the tightness coiled inside her began to loosen.
Within fifteen minutes, the pain in her leg had subsided and she had drained her glass. Feeling grubby after her encounter with Gunther, Grace took a shower. Under the hot spray, she relaxed even more. Emotion gathered in her and tears flowed. She propped her head up against the tile and sobbed.
* * * *
Day after day, Grace checked her email, not once, but twenty times. Still no message from Gunther Quill about her script. How long does it take to read a ten-page treatment? She bit her nails, did laundry, swam laps, and avoided her dance class while she waited. As more days passed with no word, tension grew. Grace exercised at home to relieve the pressure.
While hiding from the world soothed her and allowed her to dodge too many questions from friends and family she didn’t want to answer, she knew she couldn’t escape Dorrie’s caring curiosity for long. Before a week was out, her friend called. “When are you coming back to class?”
“When my leg is healed,” Grace lied.
“Really? How come I don’t believe you?”
“I can’t help
that.”
“We’re friends. What could be so terrible that you can’t tell me?”
There was silence. That I prostituted myself to sell a script? She chewed her lip.
“Whatever it is, please call me. Let’s have dinner. I’m worried about you, Gracie.”
Hell, I’m worried about me, too. No morals.
“I’ll call. I promise.” Grace hung up the phone. She padded over to her computer to check her inbox for the one-hundredth time that day. This time, it was there. A message from Gunther. She held her breath as she opened it.
Dear Ms. Brewster,
Thank you for submitting your script to Regency Hill Productions. Unfortunately,
it’s not what we’re looking for at the present time. We hope you will submit your next one to us, and we wish you well in your screenwriting career.
Sincerely,
Marsha Durward
Assistant to Gunther Quill
Grace screamed as fury welled up inside. Feelings of worthlessness washed through her. He didn’t even have the decency to reject me himself. Used his assistant. I’m a stupid fool. He just wanted to get laid.
Checking her phone, she discovered a series of texts from her sister. Cara! Need to hear your voice. But I can’t tell you why. You’ll be ashamed of me. With a badly shaking hand, Grace dialed through a flood of emotion.
“Hi, Pook—” Cara stopped when she was met with uncontrollable crying. “Grace? Gracie, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Grace took a couple of deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself. She couldn’t speak.
“Please, darling, what’s wrong?” Cara asked.
