Courting Trouble

by Maggie Marr

  The humiliation was horrifying. Celeste had spent the last two years prancing around town talking about nothing but her next big part in Damien’s next big film. For two years, through script rewrites, changes in director, and changes in locale, Celeste had held off doing any other film. Instead, Celeste waited for Damien and Borderland Blue. She’d been offered other roles. Roles for which other actresses were nominated and even won awards, fulfilling what was Celeste’s dream—to have an Oscar to sit next to her Golden Globe. But no, Celeste waited. She waited for Damien’s film, because he’d promised.

  And now Brie Ellison was getting the lead—an eighteen-year-old wannabe who hadn’t even starred in a film.

  Sure, her breasts were perky and she had great hair, but so did Celeste. Celeste had paid twenty-five grand just three months ago to have her breasts re-perked (a little maintenance in preparation for the bikini scenes). It wasn’t pleasant having stitches around your nipples.

  How had this happened? Fury knotted in her stomach. Fury and anger and even fear. Fear that her career was over, fear that she’d never work again—fear that she’d lose everything she spent a lifetime working for and have to return to that beat-up trailer in Tennessee. Celeste’s heart hammered within her chest and she gulped big breaths of air. The money, the marriage, the house, the clothes—none of it meant anything if she didn’t have her job—her work—her career.

  Where the fuck was her agent in this colossal mess? It was Jessica’s job—not only as Celeste’s agent but also as her best friend—to protect Celeste’s business interests and to never let her get blindsided in the trades. Celeste obviously couldn’t trust her husband to look out for her best interests (at least whenever his cock was involved). But her agent, one of her closest friends? What was going on? Jessica had to have known about this deal; she was the president of CTA, the most powerful agency in town. Agents knew everything, every bit of business, gossip, and intrigue that went down, usually before all the players. And Jessica was the best.

  “Jessica’s office,” Celeste commanded her hands-free cell.

  “Jessica Caulfield’s office,” answered Kim, Jessica’s number one assistant.

  “It’s me,” Celeste said. The bitchiness in her voice was barely contained.

  “One moment, Celeste. I’ll get her.”

  They’d better recognize her voice. She’d paid enough in commission to CTA over the last seven years to buy a Third World country. Ten percent of her $20 million quote combined with ten percent of first-dollar gross was big bucks.

  “Cici—”

  “What the fuck is going on, Jessica?” Celeste roared over the phone line. Fuck it. She knew she sounded shrill and high maintenance, but she didn’t care. This was her life, her career!

  “Cici, the deal closed late last night, one A.M. I didn’t find out until two.”

  “You could have called.”

  “Someone leaked it to the trades; it wasn’t supposed to run today. I’m sorry, Cici. I swear we just didn’t get in front of the story fast enough.”

  “I was bumped for someone younger and by my own fucking husband!”

  “Cici, there are at least a dozen producers who want you in their films. I have three full-quote offers right now—pick one. We’ll run it tomorrow; it’ll look like it was your decision, not Damien’s—that you chose to step off of Borderland Blue for a better film.”

  “I don’t like them. I’ve read them,” Celeste whined, her anger deflating. She wanted sympathy from her agent. And coddling. And a fucking good script.

  “What do you like? What do you want to do?”

  “I like Borderland Blue, Celeste whispered, “and I want my husband not to be such a backstabbing bastard.” Her bottom lip quivered—she was bumped and her marriage was most certainly over. A lump of sadness plopped into her heart and spread upward and grasped at her throat. She bit the inside of her cheek and willed herself to halt the tears that threatened—again.

  “What about Lydia’s film?” Celeste finally asked. Lydia Albright was a close friend of both hers and Jessica’s and a mega-producer. One way to get back at a bastard was to do the film of his biggest competitor. Plus she’d rather spend four months on set with Lydia—someone she could trust—than be thrust into the arms of a producer she disliked and some project she loathed.

  “She can’t make your deal,” Jessica said.

  “What about a trick deal?” Celeste asked. “SAG minimum and more gross points?”

  The silence from Jessica only confirmed what Celeste knew to be true. Working on Lydia’s film, with a trick deal, was a gargantuan gamble. Celeste hadn’t worked in two years and she would forgoe her $20 million fee on the possibility of Lydia’s film, Seven Minutes Past Midnight, becoming a success. The risk was obvious; did the public still love Celeste enough that she could open a blockbuster action film and earn her fee on the back end?

  “If that’s what you want,” Jessica said her voice even, “I’ll call right now.”

  Celeste sighed and the iron-gripped fear in her belly relaxed its tightfisted grip. The slightest smile crossed her face. At least Jessica still believed in Celeste and her box office strength. “I’ll call Lydia. You call the attorneys and start drafting the deal.”

  “Anything else?” Jessica asked.

  “I want a producer’s credit, too,” Celeste said, the wind whipping her golden locks around her face.

  “Not a problem. Call me after you talk to Lydia.”

  “Got it.” Celeste said and Jessica was gone. There was one more call to make before she dialed Lydia. Another call to make Damien pay. Aside from taking the role in Seven Minutes Past Midnight, there was one other thing that would force Damien to experience a similar anger and pain that burned through Celeste.

  For the second time, Celeste spoke to her phone, “Get me Frederick.”

  “‘Allo; Frederick,”

  “Lover,” Celeste purred.

  “Oh, my Cici! I wondered if I might hear from you today,” Frederick said, with a hint of a question.

  “It is a very big day.” Anticipation warmed Celeste’s skin and desire tingled up through her toes and legs.

  “How big?”

  “Black Card big,” Celeste answered, referring to the limitless credit card that Damien kept locked in his safe. Damien mistakenly believed Celeste knew nothing of the card.

  “Oooh!” Frederick moaned into the phone. It sounded as if he’d come all over himself. “We just got some fabulous Christian Louboutins this morning.”

  “Perfect. I’ll take twenty pairs.”

  “He must be in very big trouble, your Damien,” Frederick cackled. “Back from New Zealand?”

  “Last night.”

  “You know, my boyfriend’s ex-lover is doing makeup on that set. For the actress, Brianna Ellison. You know her.”

  Celeste’s heart beat kicked upward and humiliation swept through her body—she felt the heat on her chest and neck.

  Of course Frederick knew about Damien and Brie. Everyone knew.

  The film industry was a small town in a huge city. Everyone’s boyfriend’s ex-lover did makeup, set design, acted, wrote scripts, produced, gaffed, gripped, agented, or directed. Hollywood was six degrees of separation minus five degrees.

  “Brie’s lovely,” Celeste hissed. “I hear she likes girls.”

  “Interesting,” Frederick cooed. “I hear she likes cock.”

  If Frederick were a woman, she’d rip his eyes out for that remark. But being a member of the catty-effeminate set, Frederick could say whatever he wanted. The exchange was fair trade because Frederick would pay Celeste back with a juicy tidbit of Brie gossip once Celeste finished dropping fifteen grand in his store. And if Frederick really wanted to help Celeste, he’d start spreading some wonderfully salacious lie about little Miss Brie Ellison—perhaps something in the gonorrhea or methamphetamine family?

  “I should be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Darling, for you I’d wait forty.
Ciao.”

  Celeste took a quick check of her reflection in the rearview mirror and then balanced the steering wheel with her knees. She grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. The vial had to be in her Chanel bag somewhere. She dug through her purse tossing aside her credit card case, make-up, and cigarettes. She just needed a teensy weensy sniff to keep her alive. There wasn’t a Starbucks on the way, and with so much shopping to do and so little sleep (silly her, she’d cried into her Egyptian cotton towels for three hours), she just needed a jolt. She dug into the pretty white powder with her pinky nail.

  Sniff. Sniff.

  Celeste wiped under her nose and glanced in the rearview mirror one more time. Still perfect.

  Praise for Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

  “In her follow-up to Hollywood Girls Club Marr not only takes readers behind the scenes of Tinseltown, she plummets them into the middle of hot sex scandals, blackmail and illicit affairs. These four powerful women not only manage to stay on top – both in the office and in the bedroom — they keep their friendship strong and their movies hot.”

  —Romantic Times Book Review 4 Stars

  “Marr’s second novel is frothy, gossipy fun for US and People magazine addicts.”

  —Booklist Review

  “Marr’s prose is fast and sharp and she keeps the plots flying….The ripsnorter sequel to Hollywood Girls Club revolves around sex and plastic surgery secrets…if it sounds like fun it is.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “This is a juicy, delicious read! I just loved the insider secrets and the access to what really goes on in Hollywood—the stuff we suspect happens but is always denied by scary publicists.”

  —Marian Keyes, author of The Other Side of The Story

  “Move over, Jackie Collins! Secrets of The Hollywood Girls Club is a steamy page-turner bursting with insider Hollywood gossip. I loved it!”

  —Sarah Mlynowski, author of Milkrun and Ten Things We Did (And Probably Shouldn’t Have)

  An Excerpt from Secrets of the Hollywood Girls Club

  RULE 1

  There Are No Secrets in Hollywood

  Kiki Dee, Publicist

  Kiki Dee thought she knew where all the Hollywood bodies were buried—even the ones she had killed—because secrets were her business. Celebrity secrets. Kiki was a secret keeper. As a publicist, Kiki shifted the bright white spotlight away from everything her celebrity clients needed to hide. Their gratitude for her covering up their indiscretions took the form of a check, or cash, whichever they preferred. Kiki collected secrets the way some people collected diamonds or cars. Each naughty tidbit could potentially destroy Hollywood careers. And of course, along with the indiscretions came the clients. Kiki promised to lock the secret in “the vault,” also known as her brain, for a weekly fee. Some called it extortion. Kiki called it commerce.

  And Kiki didn’t keep just one secret per client. She’d discovered that once a star accepted that she knew his most depraved act or hidden kink, suddenly all the crimes and misdemeanors came pouring out. Kiki listened to all her clients’ confessions. It was good to have collateral.

  But this secret, the one Kiki had just witnessed in Dr. Melnick’s office … well, this secret was platinum. This secret had the potential to sink movie studios, destroy high-power industry marriages, and ruin one of the biggest celebrity careers in Hollywood. With this one very big and amazingly well-kept secret, Kiki and her publicity firm, KDP, which had suffered a precipitous slide into the abyss of B-list stars, would be back on top. This secret potentially affected dozens of Hollywood heavyweights. Not to mention the little lovely who was rapidly sleeping her way up the A-list. Kiki would sign two big stars based on this peccadillo. Failing to have her in their corner would result in the release of this salacious bit of gossip to the press. If the truth reached the masses, the two stars could kiss their careers and their paychecks good-bye.

  Kiki had proof, and she figured it was worth at least seven figures. But Kiki cared little about the money. No, she desired prestige. The prestige obtained by representing the biggest stars in the world. Prestige and access were priceless commodities in Hollywood, and for Kiki prestige, access, and power made her job almost worthwhile.

  Kiki would be thrilled … if she weren’t so nauseated. Her discovery almost made the torture of her lipo, tummy tuck, and eye lift worth it. Almost. She gritted her teeth as the Lincoln Town Car came to a fast stop on Wilshire. How had this luscious deceit remained quiet? People must know. But Kiki had rummaged through celebrity lives for twenty (okay, twenty-five) years, and she had never sniffed a whiff of this treat. She carefully leaned back against the supple black leather of the backseat. It was a short four-block trip from Dr. Melnick’s office to the Peninsula Hotel, but with stitches around her face and the super-tight spandex body glove around her stomach, the ride felt like miles. She knew from experience.

  Although painful, the spandex body glove prevented her belly from rupturing. She turned her gauze-wrapped head toward the window and attempted to block from her mind the lipo procedure that Dr. Melnick had just completed, otherwise she’d be sick. She clutched the paper airsick bag that Dr. Melnick’s receptionist (who herself had bovine-fat-enhanced lips and perfectly Botoxed brows) had handed her before the nurse wheeled her out the back exit of the office to her awaiting car and driver.

  Boom Boom, Kiki’s ever-faithful and ever-suffering assistant, sat in the backseat holding a BlackBerry in one hand and a cup of ice chips in the other.

  “She said it was urgent,” Boom Boom said and scrolled through the e-mails. “Here, look.”

  She held the BlackBerry within inches of Kiki’s nose, but Kiki couldn’t read it. God, Boom Boom could be an idiot. You couldn’t wear glasses right after an eye lift. Where did Boom Boom think they put the stitches? Kiki leaned her head to the left. She could barely speak. Her lips were swollen (ass fat or bovine, she didn’t even remember at this point), and her jaw hurt.

  “Read it,” Kiki mumbled, trying to move her lips as little as possible.

  Boom Boom pulled an ice chip from the cup and managed to wedge it into Kiki’s mouth. “Fine. It says, `Kiki, my luv, we need to talk. Urgent news, don’t want to e-mail, call me.’“

  Kiki looked at Boom Boom. That was it? That was the e-mail Boom Boom appeared so worked up about? Kiki had worked the public relations gig for a long time, and urgent to one of her stars could mean a broken nail without a manicurist on set. This was nothing, especially compared with Kiki’s recent discovery. But still, the e-mail had come from one of her biggest stars.

  “When?” Kiki whispered then winced as the Town Car bounced over a pothole. She remembered that bump from the last face-lift, six months earlier.

  “Three hours ago,” Boom Boom said. She put on her headset. “Want to roll some calls? We’ve got twenty-five to return.”

  Kiki glared at her assistant. She felt doped up on morphine and hadn’t yet taken her Vicodin.

  “Lydia called. She needs an answer about press.”

  Kiki shook her head and motioned for the pad and pen resting on Boom Boom’s lap.

  “Jen wants to know about the CDF fund-raiser,” Boom Boom continued. She handed Kiki the pen. “Also Natalie asked about your trip to the ashram, wants to know if it’s one or two weeks?”

  Kiki’s head pounded. She put pen to paper.

  “Galaxy just FedExed dailies from the Take No Prisoners set and wants you to let them know about the Oscar campaign.”

  Kiki finished writing and turned the monogrammed notebook toward her young, wrinkle-free servant. Boom Boom continued to chatter about appointments and calls. Kiki tapped on the pad, and then again with more force, finally requiring Boom Boom to silence her yammering and look at the paper.

  A small gasp escaped Boom Boom’s lips as she read Kiki’s short but effective note.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful. You don’t have to get bitchy about it,” Boom Boom said.

  Kiki turned toward t
he window and tried not to smile—smiling would have torn at the stitches clamped to the skin behind her ears. Business would have to wait until she was wrapped in eight-hundred-thread-count sheets at the Peninsula. She relaxed as the limo turned into the private entrance to the hotel, and glanced at the notepad in her lap. Two very effective words were emblazoned across the pad: Fuck you.

  Praise for Can’t Buy Me Love

  “Marr delivers a great story, the thrill of romance, and sexy love scenes in this often delightful novel.”

  —Romantic Time Book Review

  “Maggie Marr does it again! Can’t Buy Me Love is an entertaining hot and heavy high stakes Hollywood love story that’ll keep you turning the page!”

  —Jenny Gardiner, #1 Kindle bestselling author of Sleeping With Ward Cleaver

  “Sharp, sexy prose and a fast-paced plot make Maggie Marr’s Can’t Buy Me Love a very entertaining and steamy read! Romance readers will love this book!”

  —Jane Porter, bestselling author of Flirting With Forty

  “Readers will delight in Meg and Cole’s sexy, romantic and charming love story and will find themselves touched by the kind of passion and vulnerability it takes to bring these two ambitious people together for a lifetime.”

  —Marilyn Brant, author of A Summer In Europe

  An Excerpt from Can’t Buy Me Love