Starstruck Romance and Other Hollywood Tails

by Julia Dumont

  ALSO BY JULIA DUMONT:

  Sleeping With Dogs and Other Lovers, A Second Acts Novel - Book 1

  “The misunderstandings and mischief will keep readers turning pages… erotic adventure for readers more interested in an entertaining read than deep thought.”

  – Kirkus Reviews

  “Think Stephanie Plum meets Sex and the City wearing Fifty Shades of Grey – L.A. style. In Julia Dumont’s funny and erotic romantic novel, Sleeping with Dogs and Other Lovers, sparks fly as matchmaker extraordinaire Cynthia Amas tries to make sense of her own increasingly complicated -- and steamy -- love life.”

  – Kindle Nation

  “If 50 Shades of Grey was a bit too kinky for you but you’d like a hot sexy story, this is it! …Cynthia and her “bad-boy lover” Max’s intense sexual connection was a highlight, but I also loved the wacky fun that ensued with her friends and crazy mom.”

  – Amazon

  www.TruLoveStories.com

  Where Passionistas Play!

  BroadLit

  July 2012

  Published by

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  Copyright © 2012 BroadLit, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9855404-4-9

  Produced in the United States of America.

  Visit us online at www.TruLOVEstories.com

  Contents

  Day 1, Chapter 1

  Day 1, Chapter 2

  Day 1, Chapter 3

  Day 1, Chapter 4

  Day 1, Chapter 5

  Day 1, Chapter 6

  Day 1, Chapter 7

  Day 1, Chapter 8

  Day 2, Chapter 9

  Day 2, Chapter 10

  Day 2, Chapter 11

  Day 2, Chapter 12

  Day 2, Chapter 13

  Day 2, Chapter 14

  Day 2, Chapter 15

  Day 2, Chapter 16

  Day 2, Chapter 17

  Day 2, Chapter 18

  Day 2, Chapter 19

  Day 2, Chapter 20

  Day 2, Chapter 21

  Day 2, Chapter 22

  Day 2, Chapter 23

  To all the women, like me, who are taking a second chance at love, life and new ventures.

  I would like to thank first and always, Barbara Weller, Cynthia Cleveland and Nancy Cushing-Jones, who are not only the inspiration for this story, but also my dedicated and crazy but brilliant editors and the best girlfriends ever. I also want to thank my husband, Dilbert, whose nightly visits to the neighborhood donut shop sustained me throughout those long nights burning the midnight oil at my computer.

  Day 1, Chapter 1

  Rain was pounding so hard on the convertible top, Cynthia Amas could no longer hear herself think, let alone make out the lyrics of the frantic rock song blasting from the radio. The wipers were on high, but it was futile. They seemed like frantic little tyrannosaurus rex arms, ill equipped for keeping the deluge at bay. In all her years of living in Los Angeles, Cynthia had never seen this kind of downpour. Visibility: zero. Traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard, normally an effective shortcut, had come to a complete halt. She was going to be late for the most important meeting of Second Acts Dating Service’s four-month history. She had no idea that this was the first of two very eventful days that would shake her world.

  Cynthia had swung by her mother’s house to drop off some headshots of potential dates. She had made it a personal and professional mission to find a match for her mother. She loved her dearly, but one, she wanted her to find happiness, and two, and more importantly, she desperately needed someone else to take over at least some of the duties associated with her mother’s sky-high maintenance. No, sky-high was a gross understatement. More like beyond the Milky Way, in a whole other galaxy. Obviously, matchmaking her mom was a time-and-energy-sucking proposition. She would have preferred to do it via email, but, for her mother, that was a non-starter. Cynthia had given her countless tutorials on the computer and had even spent an entire afternoon coaching her on how to navigate the Second Acts website, but Marjorie Amas was adamantly opposed to retaining any knowledge that might potentially save Cynthia time and aggravation. Aggravating her daughter was one of her strong suits. Of course, it also had something to do with the fact that Margie wanted to see her. Cynthia understood that, and she did enjoy her mother’s company at least some of the time, but making a trip over to the valley in the middle of morning rush hour was unbelievably inconvenient . . . and the timing couldn’t have been worse. It’s not every day one has a private consultation with the number-one movie box office draw for the last three years running.

  Jack Stone had two Oscars, one for acting and one for directing. He had one Tony and one Emmy. He’d had one failed marriage to his high school sweetheart—long before the gods of celebrity had plucked him from small-town Colorado obscurity twenty years ago. Since then he’d pretty much slept with every starlet he’d laid eyes on. There was endless speculation about the women he dated and whether any of them would ever settle him down, but so far there was zero evidence that they could. He was one of those handsome men who seem to get sexier and sexier with every passing year. It was maddening to women. While they had to spend increasingly more time getting ready to leave the house in the morning, Stone was the kind of guy who could not shave, not get enough sleep, not dress up, and still win World’s Sexiest Man . . . which he had done four times. So far. In a recent incident, his neighbor, a twenty-seven year-old Eastern European supermodel, had caught a glimpse of him walking Scarlet O’Hara, his wheaten terrier, and promptly crashed her Porsche into a palm tree. She was severely injured, but not from the accident. Her feelings were hurt when he didn’t ask her into his house.

  “Stupid model,” Cynthia’s mother had said at the time, “if it had been me, I would have feigned a faint and hitched a ride in his arms to his couch while I waited for the tow truck to arrive.”

  “Believe me,” Cynthia had replied, “I know you would.” Since Cynthia’s father had died, her mother’s history with men was checkered with shenanigans like that. She had been kicked out of two doctors’ practices for basically molesting said doctors.

  Meanwhile, Second Acts had really taken off. The website was bustling with traffic. Membership had quadrupled in the past few months. Despite the sorry state of the economy, or maybe because of it, men and women were more desperate than ever to hook up. Not necessarily hoping to get married, but definitely looking for something that lasts. She had been remarkably successful at matching people. She had hardly any complaints and only failed miserably with one client: her good friend, Lolita Albion. Cynthia didn’t take it as a true failure, because in this case, the customer was always wrong.

  But as difficult as Lolita was as a prospective match, she had been very helpful as a friend and at drumming up business. She talked up Second Acts constantly at Dog Groomer
to the Stars, her high-end Beverly Hills shop, handing out cards, and even directing her own dogs to spread the word in the canine world. King, Max, and Wilfredo——Great Dane, Irish Wolfhound, and Chihuahua, respectively——were social animals. The dog chatter in there was akin to a nail salon——nonstop hot and heavy gossip . . . the perfect place for promoting anything, really. And everything King, Max, and Wilfredo learned, they passed on to Lolita, who passed it on to Cynthia. It was a sweet arrangement.

  It was the most exclusive salon, spa, and all around puppy paradise in L.A., which was saying a lot. Located on the most prestigious commercial block of Beverly Hills, it successfully catered to the nearly insatiable obsession of the rich and/or famous to over-pamper their pooches. It almost seemed like her clients heaped more luxury upon their furry “children” than they did their actual ones. Lolita wasn’t sure she approved of this, but she certainly did wholeheartedly where it counted, on her bottom line. She also owned an incredible boarding facility called Bed Breakfast and Bone (a double entendre lost on some of the stodgier clients, but right in the zone for the younger ones who after all are the future). It was situated on a perfect two-acre parcel, up the hill from the salon, just beyond the Beverly Hills Hotel and nearly on par with it in terms of opulence and amenities. The four-legged clients could literally sit poolside with a view of the human hotel guests lounging below by their pool. The dogs enjoyed an indoor-outdoor experience that resembled world-class resort. The small staff catered to every doggy whim. When prospective clients toured the grounds they often remarked that maybe they should check in with their dogs instead of flying halfway around the world for a potentially inferior vacation experience.

  Max, King, and Wilfredo spent time in both locations, and were always hyper-aware of the comings and goings and needs of the other dogs and their humans. They had been a big help to Lolita all her life and recently in business. She was more than happy to have them help out Cynthia as well.

  But they were occasionally problematic. King was prone to vanishing and then reappearing in all kinds of unlikely locations——somehow unhindered by locked doors and high walls, scaring the bejeezus out of innocent bystanders——especially those who happened to take a liking to Lolita. Cynthia’s friend Diego was nearly chased out of town when King discovered Lolita and him in a romantic entanglement. Diego had been in an extremely vulnerable position. As in naked. Exposed body parts. Exposed tender body parts. Diego escaped intact, but suffered horrible nightmares for weeks.

  Max seemed to have a peculiar knack for just plain knowing things he shouldn’t know. It wasn’t just that he understood human language——multiple human languages——he also seemed to comprehend things that went unsaid, like some kind of doggy mind reader.

  Wilfredo was more of an all-around troublemaker . . . a thief, a pick pocket, you name it. If he were human, he’d have been in jail by now. He was big on rooting through garbage and files and dragging in all kinds of both important and completely unimportant ephemera to Lolita. He once delivered a diary he’d pilfered from the purse of a starlet who happened to be walking her Afghan hound past the shop. It also contained her passport, drug tests, and love letters to three separate, very-married United States Senators. Lolita returned everything to her, but not before finding out she was trying desperately to turn over a new leaf and get serious about trying to find a good man- vital information Lolita immediately passed on to Cynthia. Lolita had also found another client for herself . . . and Wilfredo, an Afghan girlfriend.

  “Sweeties, listen up,” Lolita would say. “Just give me the who, what, where, why, when. Don’t break or enter or rob or murder anyone on my account, okay? What do you say? Is that clear?” They would all nod and promise, but despite their good intentions and extraordinary abilities, they were still dogs, after all . . . ruled by instinct and id.

  If a squirrel came along, all bets were off. Or a man with romantic designs on Lolita.

  But overall, the grooming shop and doggy hotel provided one effective pooch pipeline to exclusive eligibles. Which, in a roundabout way, was how Jack Stone got involved. Cynthia was still incredulous that this major movie star wanted or needed help in finding someone. She guessed that 99% of the female population of the U.S. would be happy to date him. But he’d said he was tired of women falling in love with him because of their preconceived media-made notion of who he was and what he wanted in life. He’d said that he was not “Jack Stone” . . . nobody could be. He wanted Cynthia to handle it and his famous face would have to be kept out of the equation, at least until after the dates had been agreed upon. He wanted the prospective suitors to choose him based on qualities other than those that could be gleaned from the silver screen or tabloid television.

  The phone rang and Cynthia inserted her ear buds.

  “Hello, Lolita. No, I’m not there yet.” She knew that her friend was on pins and needles, waiting for a full report on Jack Stone. “No, I don’t know what his house is like yet. I don’t know what he’s wearing yet. Plus, I’m stuck on Sepulveda in the kind of rain that makes you want to build a large boat and start collecting animals. I have to get off the phone to let them know that I’ll be a little late.”

  “Cynthia! You need to leave early for this kind of thing!”

  “I left incredibly early! The weatherman didn’t exactly predict a meteorological event of biblical proportions.”

  “But Cynthia, for this kind of meeting you leave a day ahead and camp out. And you need to find out about you know what.”

  Cynthia did know what. She knew the rumors anyway . . . about the extraordinary size of Jack Stone’s endowment. All these reports are rooted in hearsay of course, but according to some, his wanker out-wanked everyone. In recent years, the big-schlong contenders were Colin Farrell, Liam Neeson, Ewan MacGregor, and a few others. Further back in Hollywood history, Sinatra was always mentioned (supposedly according to ‘50s starlet Ava Garner, “of his 112 pounds, 12 was Frank and 100 was cock”). But it was the comedian Milton Berle who was always considered the man to beat. The famous story about him was that he got challenged in a bar, made a very large bet, and then, when confronted with the other man’s oversized salami, “only took out enough to win.”

  But lately, at least for the last few years, in countless tantalizing, but ultimately inconclusive tabloid beach shots, all eyes were below Jack Stone’s belt, trying to get a glimpse, a hint, some indication of the dimensions of his dong, the weight of his willy, the heft of his hammer.

  “You have to ask him,” said Lolita. “I mean, jeez, it’s what everyone wants to know.”

  “And by ‘everyone’ do you mean everyone named Lolita Adriana Albion?” asked Cynthia.

  “No, I mean 50% of the Earth’s population. But come to think of it, it’s probably closer to 99%. Whatever…at least ask him. Remember, this only happened because of me.”

  She was right. It actually started with Wilfred Ames, a short, stocky character actor who had been bringing his five schnauzers into Lolita’s shop for a year or so. Wilfred was chatting with Lolita one day, obviously trying to pick her up. He wasn’t too subtle: “As my character Chuckles Roselli said to Karen Biali, a one-time Hustler centerfold, in the low-budget mob comedy The Godfather of the Bride, ‘Honey, if you spend a little equity shaking your moneymaker for me, you’ll get a good return on your investment.” Sure, he was crude, but he was feeling pretty desperate. His wife had left him. Well, not exactly left him. He had been on a shoot in Canada and came home as a surprise one weekend, except the surprise was on him instead. He found his wife in bed with his sister. His older sister…the one with the moustache. Surprise!

  Anyway, Lolita wasn’t about to go out with Wilfred. “I have a strict policy against dating men with five o’clock shadows immediately after shaving,” she’d said. “He looks like he had a five o’clock shadow in the womb.” But she was nice to him and convinced him to sign up for Second Acts. It worked out spectacularly well. Cynthia hooked Wilfred up with Denise Ko
paki, a casting director. Suddenly his love life and career shot through the roof. On his next movie, he mentioned it to another actor, who mentioned it to another, and another, and eventually someone mentioned it to Jack Stone. Jack’s pretty young assistant brought his dog in, who talked to Lolita’s dogs (who have powers far beyond those of their canine colleagues), and the rest is history.

  “Okay, okay, Lolita. I know they did some doggy dishing about their famous master’s love life, but look, I’ve gotta go.” Her good friend occasionally drove her completely bonkers. More than occasionally actually.

  Let’s see . . . recent calls . . . here we go.

  Beep. Ringing . . .

  “Hello, it’s Mariana.” This was Jack Stone’s personal assistant. Or one of them. He may have had an army of them for all she knew.

  “Hi, Mariana, it’s Cynthia. I’m going to be a little late. Stuck in a lake on Sepulveda.”

  “Oh, no problem. He’s not back from his run yet anyway.”

  Cynthia looked out into the torrent. “He’s running in this monsoon?”

  “Rain, shine, snow, and hail. Hasn’t missed a run in eleven years. When he sprained his ankle on The Big Nowhere he ran with crutches for two weeks.”

  “Wow,” said Cynthia, “that’s dedication.”

  “That’s insane as far as I’m concerned,” laughed Mariana, “but that’s Jack. He thinks he’s Superman.”

  Cynthia laughed too. She found it refreshing that his assistant would joke openly about her boss and she got the feeling that he wouldn’t care at all that their relationship was friendly and playful that way. She instantly felt less intimidated about meeting him. She had known lots of movie folk during her time as a marketing exec at two major Hollywood studios and there were plenty of bosses who no one would even think of making a joke about. There’s little lighthearted comradery in an office run on high-octane fear.