Tess MacIntosh is 29, a professional R&B singer in a nightclub in Los Angeles, owned by her fifty-something fiance, Porter Hunt. She’s as cynical and as hardnosed as Porter, due to her own difficult childhood, and is marrying Porter for his money and connections. Porter, in turn, is one of those middle-aged men whose wealth and power in his little world make him feel invincible and entitled to any beautiful woman he wants. Tess’s good friend and once teenage crush, Aaron Peterson, a musician and composer with dreams of seeing one of his musical plays on Broadway, needs her to join him for a cruise gig. He’s loved Tess since he was nineteen and she was sixteen. He sees this cruise gig as his last chance to win her over before she takes a path in life that he’s convinced will lead to misery. So which path will Tess choose? Millions of dollars if she marries Porter? Or Aaron’s love and Broadway dreams?
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Scheming and Dreaming in Los Angeles
Copyright © 2011 Donna Del Oro
ISBN: 978-1-55487-919-9
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Smashwords Edition
Scheming and Dreaming in Los Angeles
Born To Sing 2
By
Donna Del Oro
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my sisters in song, the Sierra Gold Chorus of Region 12, Sweet Adelines International.
Chapter One
Tess MacIntosh bowed her head and held her hand to her heart. The applause was deafening, like a freight train roaring down the tracks. It was wonderful!
Seconds later, she half-turned to the nine-piece band behind her and swept her arm to include them in the audience’s display of appreciation. The applause rose in intensity as the musicians stood, and then subsided. Since she’d already sung three encore numbers, she sensed this was the time to exit stage left. Literally.
Fifteen minutes later, she’d shed her silk evening gown, glittery hose and stiletto heels, along with the sparkly bling and heavy stage makeup—the darker foundation, heavy eye shadow and fake lashes. Down came her straight, red tresses, which she brushed and fastened into a long ponytail. Dressed now in a black Nike track suit, Tessa sighed deeply. It seemed she’d been doing a lot of sighing lately. For a second, she wondered why. Of course… she was exhausted.
The success of tonight’s closing show, a tribute to romantic songs from the 1940’s and 1950’s, gratified her enormously. But it was time to take a well-deserved break and do something fun. And, Lord knows, different! Having removed her stage makeup, she let her sprinkling of freckles show and finished applying a light touch of coral lipstick. She heard the call of Porter’s assistant, then his knock, “Are you decent?” When she replied, he peeked in.
“Tess, boss wants to see you. He’s in his office.”
“Tell him I’m on my way, Andy.” She smiled and waved him off while she slipped into her running sneakers. A late dinner, a shower and some lovemaking awaited her… well, she wasn’t so sure about the lovemaking. Exhaustion suddenly hit her like a weight of stones on her shoulders. No nookie tonight. She’d beg off or rather, she’d be honest and tell him she just wasn’t in the mood.
She yawned loudly and closed her eyes.
Why do I feel so down?
Porter Hunt. Her fifty-year-old fiancé. Although twenty-one years her senior, he had the energy of a man half his age. Her thoughts scattered a bit nervously, then settled on their life together.
He’d hired her as one of three main acts for his enormously prosperous supper club in Malibu. Within three months, he’d wined and dined her, bedded her, blinged her up (in Hollywood parlance), and asked her to marry him. A whirlwind romance that had swept her off her feet, owing to the fact that Porter was fabulously rich—as in Southern California rich. Even with three ex-wives, Porter was the kind of rich that got you the best table at Ruby’s in Beverly Hills and Malibu, that drew the famous and powerful over for an exchange of air kisses and agents’ cards, and that provided Tess a ten-thousand square-foot shelter in Beverly Hills with views of the Hollywood Hills. Another smaller digs in Manhattan Beach overlooking the ocean. She even had her own walk-in closet, the size of her entire flat in San Gabriel, as well as her own bathroom of black marble and gold-plated fixtures.
What was not to like about Porter? He still had a handsome face, kept a little more youthful thanks to two facelifts. He reminded her of Alec Baldwin with his somewhat racy sense of humor, and his burning desire to stay young. But in all truth, Tess suffered no illusions about what drew her to him. The main attraction was his money, plain and simple.
All pretense and hypocrisy aside, Tess yearned to marry rich. All her friends knew this was her ultimate goal, had been since puberty when she’d discovered she was a horny-male magnet. The trauma of childhood poverty had convinced her that whatever gifts God gave her were meant to be used any way she chose. And that meant putting millions of dollars’ worth of distance between her miserable childhood and her future.
“If you knew what I had to endure as a child,” she’d once told her good friend, Marisa, who’d raised her eyebrows at Tess, “you’d understand.” For Tess, that was sufficient explanation, one she seldom elaborated upon. Her and her brother, Mac’s childhood was not a topic she ever cared to discuss…with anyone. Until Porter, that is. He understood and he welcomed the chance to play Santa Claus, the tooth fairy and Prince Charming all rolled into one. For that, she was happy to marry him and give him whatever he wanted of her youth.
In one month, she’d be Mrs. Porter Hunt. No prenup—he hadn’t asked for one—meant financial security for the rest of her life. If and when the marriages of the rich and famous came to an end—thanks to California’s Community Property Rights laws—the underdog always went away far richer. She’d continue to sing, of course, for music fed her soul and was her God-given gift, which she meant to share with anyone who cared to listen.
Life was perfect.
Tess sighed and opened her eyes, grabbed her wallet and bulging satchel of sheet music and closed the door of her dressing room behind her.
Up two flights of stairs, she rapped lightly on the office door, then entered. Porter arose from behind his desk and embraced her. Tess hugged him back and kissed him. Her arms draped around his neck, she kissed his neck and sniffed him. He wore an expensive, musky cologne that she recognized, but his breath exuded the scent of tobacco. She had to laugh. Porter Hunt was as unlike the Marlboro man as any urbanite, it was his secret fantasy to be as tough and rough as a rugged outdoorsman, and so he smoked those damned cigarettes.
She knew better. Having jet-setting parents, he’d never had th
e misfortune to want for food or shelter. If he splattered his golf shoes with mud on the fairway, he immediately had his caddy wipe them off. Lucky Porter. As a businessman, he had the Midas touch. Every venture he invested in or bought turned to profit. The silver spoon never turned to rust in his mouth.
“Great show tonight, babe. You really put your heart and soul into those songs. You floored them, as always.” His pudgy, ringed fingers skimmed tenderly over her cheek.
“Thanks. The house was hot to start with. Johnny and Tom primed the pump for me.” The comedic and song-and-dance acts that preceded her set were top-notch, former Las Vegas performers.
“Ah, Tess, you’re being modest. That’s not like you. Admit it, you had ‘em eating out of the palm of your hand.”
He withdrew and went back to sit behind his desk. Uncustomary of Porter, for he was usually ready to leave as soon as her numbers were done. Usually, he was all hands and mouth on her and couldn’t wait to show her off at the late-night spots around the valley. Or rush home and to bed. Andy Berkoff, his assistant, always closed up for the night.
At the moment, he was displaying extreme displeasure. His generous mouth was pursed and downturned. Tess knew what was coming. “So, babe, looking forward to some time off?”
She perched on the corner of his desk and offered a solicitous smile. “Porter, it’s just a twelve-day cruise. I’ll be back in plenty of time for the wedding. Everything’s under control. The reception’s all done—the flowers, music, caterer, the works. Everything’s been ordered.”
They’d be married at City Hall on the last Saturday of the month, followed by an evening reception at Porter’s mansion in Manhattan Beach. Rather, Porter’s and her mansion.
Not to be swayed by her reassurance, his dark brown eyebrows, which Porter kept dyed, furrowed.
“I don’t like you disappearing like this, especially with this guy pal of yours.”
She made a moue of exasperation with her lips, but kept her temper under control. “I’m not disappearing. Timing’s lousy, I know, but Skin’s—uh, Aaron’s a good friend, like a brother to me. My childhood pal and Mac’s best buddy. He needed a singer for this gig and, frankly, I need a break. I’ve been doing this same show for two years now, five times a week. First in Palm Springs, now here. I want to spend my days on the deck of a ship, soaking up rays. Just some R and R for a change.”
Her voice sounded plaintive, almost pleading. She hated feeling guilty for taking a much needed break—not that it was much of a vacation. Singing for their supper every night on the cruise ship was a bona fide job, not exactly time off.
“You still glad I lured you here from Dante’s?” Porter sat back, almost smirking, appearing confident of her reply. Not only did Porter’s club pay her twice the salary, her gig had been steady and had promoted her standing among the other SoCal nightclubs. Nevertheless, Dante’s, in Palm Springs, had enabled Tess to pay off her mother’s debts after her father had drunk himself to death. And since Porter hired her, she and Mac had paid to relocate their mother to a private rehab and nursing home where she could overcome her many addictions and maybe even recover her health.
Tess was grateful to Porter and she did her best to show it.
He held up his highball glass. “Want one?”
She stiffened and shook her head. The children of substance abusers had a propensity to become addicts themselves. Fortunately, she and Mac had learned the hard way what a miserable life addiction led to. From support groups like Children of Alcoholics, they’d learned how to avoid the pitfalls. The temptations, of course, were always there…at their fingertips.
“People on cruise ships drink a lot, I hear.”
“Won’t affect me, you know that, Porter.” If nothing, she had an iron will. She never touched alcohol, never smoked anything, never took pills except her daily vitamins. “What’s this objection of yours really about?”
Porter steepled his fingers together and tapped his lips. He leveled her with a speculative look. “That guy pal of yours isn’t bad looking. He’s close to your age. You going to share a cabin with him?”
Startled, her mouth gaped open. “Why ever would you think that? Of course not! As far as I know, I’m bunking with one of the chorus dancers. Aaron—I have no idea. I think he’s bringing his latest girlfriend along.”
Which was a bald-faced lie. She knew Aaron was all business when he was on the job. For a musician, he was a consummate perfectionist, which sometimes drove her nuts when they did gigs together. That hadn’t happened in quite a while, more than a year. He’d been too busy working on his latest musical and she’d been too busy at the club and with Porter. She hadn’t even had time to rehearse with him for the cruise gig. In fact, the next forty-eight hours would entail nonstop rehearsals. She wasn’t looking forward to her friend’s taskmaster ways.
“Well, as you say, he’s like a brother to you. I expect that to remain true.” He smiled wryly and changed the subject. “Thanks to you, the baby boomers have been flocking to your show to hear all those schmaltzy—”
“Classic love songs,” she interjected. Annoyed by his implied distrust of her, she stood, ready to leave. “Shall we leave? I’m hungry, tired and in need of a long shower.”
What was with Porter tonight? He sat there, stewing or brooding, as he lit up another cigarette with his gold-plated table lighter. One of his disgusting habits. Her mother couldn’t talk without a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. He patted the pomaded sides of his thick, longish dark brown hair—his best feature, in Tess’ opinion, when it was left dry and natural. It, too, needed touch up with a monthly color rinse. He even dyed his chest hair, which had turned gray.
Except for golf, Porter disdained exercise, so he’d grown paunchy and flabby. His thousand-dollar suits, fortunately, were so well cut and tailored, his grooming so impeccable, that they camouflaged his physical failings. Naked, well, he was a fifty year-old man, going soft and fat. His bare abdomen felt like hairy bread dough.
Tess quickly quashed such thoughts. Not nice to dwell on her future husband’s physique. Not his fault that he was showing his age. The man’s generosity more than compensated for his shortcomings. He deserved her gratitude, not silent criticism.
Nervously, she chewed her lower lip. His prolonged silence worried her.
“Porter, would you like me to cancel this cruise gig?”
Was he really going to demand that she renege on one of her best friends? Although Porter had never demonstrated any jealousy, the one time he’d met Aaron—at their engagement party in Manhattan Beach—his reaction had caused her a little concern. He’d treated Aaron with uncharacteristic coldness. With Mac, however, Porter had exuded warmth and charm. And now Mac was with the Seventh Fleet in Bahrain, unable to return for the wedding.
She would miss him, for she’d hoped Mac would give her away. But Aaron said he’d fill in for Mac.
Very few people understood her emotional bond with Aaron Peterson, or Skin—short for Skinny, which she’d called him since junior high. He was a combination of second brother and musical soul-mate. Although there were plenty of times they’d lost touch with each other, they remained close. However, since the engagement party two months ago, Aaron hadn’t returned most of her phone calls. Except the one short call to her cell phone last week, asking if she’d changed her mind about the cruise gig. Tess was furious with him because he’d bowed out of her life so suddenly and because he’d assumed she’d go back on her promise to him.
She never reneged on a promise. Not with good friends, anyway. And never with Aaron or Mac. She’d sooner shave off her long hair than cause either of them pain. Many years ago—a lifetime ago—they’d saved her.
She owed them. And she always paid her debts.
“Porter? Do you want me to cancel this cruise gig?” she repeated. Hearing the hard edge to her voice, she softened her next words. “It’d be almost impossible for Aaron to find someone on such short notice. He’d lose the gig. You
know him. He needs every dime he can get.” Focusing on Aaron’s shortcomings—lack of money—was an admission of her own Achilles’s heel. Porter knew she avoided poor men like the plague.
Porter inhaled and blew out smoke…in Tess’ direction. She hated to breathe smoke. It was bad for her vocal chords.
“A talented guy…but money runs through his hands like water,” Porter murmured, studying her, “A damn shame. What’s he working on now? The sequel to ‘Phantom of the Opera’? A new Broadway hit?”
Tess didn’t appreciate Porter’s undisguised mockery of Aaron’s dream. It was cheap and unworthy of him. Aaron had three failed musicals that never made it past the La Jolla theater critics. But he hadn’t abandoned his dream…not yet, anyway. Tess had to admire that tenacity of his. Instead of snatching up that cigarette lighter and clocking Porter with it, she scrutinized her red-painted nails and gave a disinterested shrug.
“A musical about the Cold War and two world-class athletes—an American and a Russian—and the woman they both love. I’ve heard a few of the melodies. I think it’s his best work yet.”
Porter stood abruptly and barked out a harsh laugh. “Ha! I’ll bet. No wonder his musicals—what is this, his tenth one?—never make it to Broadway. He can barely draw a crowd at La Jolla. He should stick to piano playing.”
She pursed her lips. His exaggerated derision rankled her. If he continued this attack on Aaron, she was definitely going to throw that cigarette lighter at his head. It was bad luck and bad manners to laugh at another person’s dream.
“Which, my darling, is what this cruise gig is all about. His piano playing and my singing. Nothing more.” She sighed impatiently. “So? You going to order me to cancel out on an old friend at the last minute?”
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