“A few days ago.” Since then, he’d changed the color of her hair and her name.
“Well, Franklin seems to have made up his mind what he wants to do with you.” She waved Abra into a raised chair and draped her with a shiny black cape. “Where did he find you? Waiting tables at a restaurant? Carhopping on skates?”
“We met at one of Lilith Stark’s parties in Beverly Hills.”
Shelly looked surprised. “So you were already in the business and had connections in high places. Not his usual modus operandi.” Shelly stared intently at her in the mirror, waiting for more information.
What story did Mr. Moss want Abra to tell about Lena Scott? She didn’t think he’d want her to admit she’d been Dylan’s live-in girlfriend and he had tricked Franklin with a bet he couldn’t refuse. She could say she was part of the hired help. It was partially true. She’d had room and board as long as she kept Dylan happy and snooped for Lilith, until her conscience got in the way. Abra felt Shelly’s silence and knew she had to say something. “I was just visiting.”
Shelly began wiping away the makeup Abra had applied. “Well, wherever Franklin discovered you, he’ll know exactly how to market your talent.”
“I’m not sure I have any talent.”
“Oh, honey, you have plenty.” Shelly laughed before turning to look over the various shades of foundation. “Look what Franklin did with Pamela Hudson, not that she ever appreciated his efforts.”
“Did you know her?”
“I still know her. She’s beautiful and ambitious, and I thought she was smart until she dumped Franklin and married Terrence Irving, one of the top directors in Hollywood. I’d bet a million dollars she’ll never star in another one of his movies.”
“Why not?”
“Because he only casts the best, and she’s barely mediocre.”
Hadn’t Shelly just said Mr. Moss could spot talent a mile away?
Shelly applied foundation, her expression serious as she got down to work. “I must say, you have lovely skin. You wouldn’t believe the spots and blemishes some stars have.” She mentioned a few and then turned to her brushes, tubes, compacts, and pencils.
The time passed quickly as Shelly regaled Abra with stories of the private lives of well-known young actresses she knew. Abra decided never to tell Shelly anything she didn’t want spread around.
“You’re lucky to have an agent like Franklin Moss,” Shelly said. “You won’t end up being a five o’clock girl.”
“A five o’clock girl?”
“Under contract to a studio and under an executive or producer at five in the afternoon, if you know what I mean. Pretty girls are a dime a dozen in Hollywood, honey. Hundreds arrive starry-eyed and hopeful for any part in any movie. They come hoping to be discovered. Some smarten up and go home. Some end up with a contract and get no further than a casting couch. Precious few end up with an agent who knows what he’s doing. Sad fact of life in Tinseltown.” Shelly stepped back to survey her work. “You are absolutely gorgeous. I can definitely see your face on the silver screen and your name on a marquee.”
“If Mr. Moss knows what he’s doing.”
“Take a little advice from someone who’s been around and seen a lot. Give Franklin free rein, and he’ll get you where you want to go.” She winked. “He’s the best sugar daddy anyone could have.” She laughed. “You’re not going to ask me what that means, too, are you?” She removed the cape from around Abra and gestured toward the mirror. “So? What do you think?”
Abra stared at the stunning girl in the mirror. “Is that me?”
Shelly laughed. “That’s all you with just a bit of my magic.”
Mr. Moss was deep in conversation with Al Russell when Abra came out of the makeup room. Both men glanced her way and then stared, Mr. Moss with paternal pride, Al grinning boldly. “I can’t wait to get to work on that face!”
Shelly touched Abra’s arm and showed her into a dressing room furnished with a full-length mirror and a rack of evening gowns, swimming suits, and airy lingerie, along with several shoe boxes. On top sat a gold foil box tied with a red ribbon. Mr. Moss had followed her into the dressing room. He stepped around her, flipped through the hangers, and pulled out a black satin gown. “This one first.” He hooked the hanger on the mirror. He picked up the gift box and offered it to her. “First photo shoots can be unnerving. This is a little something from Paris to help get you in the proper mood.”
Untying the box and opening it, Abra lifted a red teddy out with one finger and stared, heat filling her face. “You want me to wear this? In front of Al Russell?”
His smile was almost tender. “He won’t see it, but what a woman wears underneath her clothing shows in her eyes.” He tipped her chin. “It’ll be our little secret.”
“But . . .”
He put two fingers over her lips. “You promised to trust me. So trust me. Get dressed.” He closed the door behind him when he left.
The murmur of men’s voices outside the door fell silent when she came out. The black satin gown fit every curve of her body. Feverish with nerves, Abra felt Al’s and his assistant Matt’s eyes fixed on her. She remembered Mitzi’s training and breathed in through her nose, exhaling slowly through parted lips. She tried not to hunch her shoulders.
Mr. Moss poured her a glass of champagne. “It’s early, but this will help you relax.” He leaned close. “Roll your shoulders back. Chin up. A little more. That’s it. Try to remember that from now on.” The champagne tickled her nose and warmed her stomach. “Drink it all.” He jerked his chin. “Al’s ready.”
Abra downed the champagne like soda pop and handed him the glass.
“Wait.” Mr. Moss turned her around. “You look like you just came from a beauty salon.” He raked his fingers into her hair. “I want it tousled, a bit wild.” He lifted her hair and shook it gently. “That’s my girl.”
Al stood deep in conversation with Matt, who lost concentration as Abra approached. Al noticed and turned to face her. “You look loaded for bear.”
Abra lifted an eyebrow. “Where do you want me?”
Matt blushed crimson. Al gave a throaty laugh. “That’s a dangerous question from a girl who looks like you.” His gaze swept over her. “And dressed like that.” He pointed her toward a mattress covered in waves of white satin. “I want you on your back in the middle of that.”
She tried not to show panic when she looked around. “Where’s Mr. Moss?”
“I’m right here, Lena. It’s all right. Do what Al says.”
Al chuckled. “Better give her another glass of champagne, Franklin.”
“Better give me the whole bottle,” Abra muttered, earning a laugh from both men.
“Good girl!” Al winked. “She’s going to do just fine, Franklin. You can go now.”
Mr. Moss spoke from the darkness. “I’m staying so I can keep an eye on things.”
Abra breathed in relief as Al climbed a ladder to the scaffolding above. Gathering her courage, she hitched up the ankle-length satin gown and crawled to the middle of the mattress. She lay on her back, legs crossed, arms outstretched. She looked at Al. “Like this?”
“You look like you’re about to be crucified.” Al gave quick, businesslike instructions. “Curve one arm; turn your head to the right, body to the left; stretch out your left leg, right leg bent over the left. Relax. Point those pretty toes. Look at me. Now smile as though you’re hoping I’ll come down and join you on that mattress.”
“I feel like a pretzel.”
“Take my word, you don’t look like one. Your hands are in fists. Loosen your fingers. That’s it.” He offered over-the-top compliments as he snapped shots.
The champagne began to do its work and she started to have fun. She vamped several actresses she’d always admired, hardly daring to believe she might soon be one of them. Al came down off the ladder and moved in close. “Close your eyes partway. I want a sleepy look, like Venus awakening. There you go! Beautiful!”
/> Mr. Moss moved in closer and gave instructions. “Arch up into a sitting position, Lena. Did you get that shot, Al? Stretch out on your side, Lena. Prop your body up a little, hands flat on the mattress. Tilt your head. There’s what I want.”
Al came in for another close-up.
Mr. Moss again, from the shadows. “Shake your hair, Lena. Lean back on your elbows. Let that hair be like a waterfall. That’s it.”
Al interrupted. “Bend one leg.”
Abra felt the satin slide and heard Al’s sharp intake of breath. “Betty Grable has some competition.” He spoke in a low, husky voice.
The fear had left Abra, the shyness. She was desirable, in control, powerful. The room felt steamy. She moved seductively and looked into the lens. “Is it getting hot in here?”
Al chuckled low. “Hotter by the minute. Hey, Matt! Wake up. Turn on the fans.”
They came on abruptly, blasting cool air. Abra’s flesh tingled. Al clicked away. She forgot her inhibitions and relished the male attention, the rain of compliments, the sense that her body held Al and Matt captive. She moved languidly into whatever pose they wanted, imagining herself as Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Rita Hayworth. She smiled, pouted, looked breathless with anticipation.
“Enough.” Mr. Moss spoke roughly from behind the lights. He came forward, took her by the hand, and helped her off the mattress. “Put on the strapless ballet dress.” Leaning down, he whispered, “No red teddy. No nothing.”
Her heart plummeted.
Shelly refreshed Abra’s makeup. “Matt’s in love with you.”
“We haven’t even been introduced!”
“As if that mattered. You’re going to have hordes of men in love with you when you hit the silver screen.”
Abra’s excitement grew. Was she really going to become a star loved by thousands? Would people want her autograph? She laughed at herself. She had to be in a movie first.
Brushing her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail and wound it around into a prim bun on the crown of her head.
Mr. Moss grimaced. “What in hades did you do to your hair?”
“I’m in a ballet dress. My hair should be in a bun, shouldn’t it?”
He removed the pins and rubber band. “Shake it out.” He guided her to a low bench. “Sit knees a few inches apart, toes in and touching.” He plucked at the net skirt so it fluffed around her like a cloud of white. “Lean forward. A little more.” He stepped behind the lights. He said something low to Al, then gave Abra more instructions. “Elbows pressed against your sides. Hunch your shoulders a bit.”
She gasped, afraid she’d spill out of the front of the dress. Click. Click. Al said something to Franklin. “Tilt your head, Lena.” Franklin moved to one side where she could see him. “Chin down. Look into the camera, not at me. Wet your lips.”
Shelly laughed from somewhere in the studio. “Matt needs a cold shower.”
Abra felt an increasing sense of her own power as the morning wore on. She played whatever role Mr. Moss wanted, knowing she was safe as long as he stood guard.
When they decided it was time for a break, Mr. Moss had her change into a new dress Phyllis had tucked in among the gowns. He took her to the Brown Derby. Abra wasn’t quite sure whether he was serious when he said there was another Brown Derby restaurant that actually looked like the hat it was named for.
The proprietor recognized Mr. Moss, gave Abra an admiring smile, and showed them to a table, where a waitress offered Abra a menu. Mr. Moss took it and said he’d order for both of them: a French red wine for himself and water with lemon for her.
He glanced at her over the menu. “You’re having a bit of fun, aren’t you?” The possibility seemed to please him.
“Yes. I am.” She felt bold enough to admit it. “I was a little self-conscious. I think the champagne helped.”
His eyes grew amused. “And the French lingerie?”
“Until you told me to take it off.”
“You gave me the exact look I wanted: virginal fear and steamy heat.” He set the menu aside.
It had been five hours since she had eaten the small bowl of cereal and yogurt. Her stomach growled and she pressed her hand against it, embarrassed. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll feed you.” He leaned back. “I’ve known Al Russell for ten years, and I’ve never seen him sweat the way he has in the last two hours. If you can do that to a seasoned Hollywood photographer, we’re going to do very well with a few directors I know.”
“Really?”
He smiled. “Really.”
“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for all you’re doing for me, Mr. Moss.”
“You can start by calling me Franklin.”
She felt an odd flicker of misgiving, but pushed it away. “Franklin. I wouldn’t have had the courage to pose like I did if you hadn’t been standing right there every minute, making sure no one made a pass at me.”
The tension eased inside her. Their wine and water were delivered. Abra squeezed the lemon. “Shelly said I’m lucky to have you as an agent.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he sipped the wine. “I’ll have to remember to thank her.”
Abra’s gaze drifted and she drew in a startled gasp. “Is that Cary Grant over there?”
“Yes, and don’t stare.”
She tried to be surreptitious about it. On further exploration, she spotted Mickey Rooney laughing and talking with friends. John Agar, Shirley Temple’s ex-husband, sat a few tables away with his second wife, model Loretta Barnett Combs. Abra felt bubbles of excitement. She was sitting among stars!
The waitress returned for their order. Mr. Moss—Franklin—ordered two salads, a medium rare steak for himself, and grouper for her.
Abra grimaced and spoke quietly. “I’m not fond of fish.”
Franklin didn’t change the order, and the waitress left. He faced her. “Fish is good for you. It has fewer calories. Learn to like it.”
Like cereal and yogurt. She stifled the disappointment, admonishing herself. She should be thankful. He was paying; he had the right to decide. Besides, he knew better how she should look and act in order to be a star. If she had to lose five or ten pounds, so be it. It wouldn’t cost her anything. Or would it? “How much will the photographs cost?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. All bills are on my tab until you’re suitably employed. Then we’ll figure out how you can pay me back.”
How could she not worry? “And if I fail?”
“You won’t.” He leaned forward, his manner confident and paternal. “Your job is to be teachable. I can help you with a lot of things, and for those I can’t, I’ll make sure you have the right people to train you. We’re in this together. Our relationship will be mutually beneficial.”
“You’re spending the whole day with me. What about your other clients?”
“Let me worry about them.” He changed the subject. He had managed to get an invitation to the premiere of a major movie. Phyllis would send over an appropriate gown, shoes, jewelry. The more he talked, the more excited and hopeful Abra became. Maybe everything would happen simply because Franklin Moss willed it.
Their meals were served, and Abra tried not to stare at Franklin’s succulent steak with open envy. The grouper wasn’t bad, but then a sautéed slice of cardboard would have satisfied her after so many hours with so little food. “How much weight do I have to lose?”
“No more than a few pounds.”
People stopped by their booth to greet Franklin and to be introduced to her. One mentioned Franklin’s long vacation. Another said he hadn’t seen anything of Pamela Hudson in a while. Franklin shrugged and said it would be up to Irving what she did in the future. “Not much,” came the response. Each visitor looked at her with open curiosity. One director grinned at Franklin and said he still had a good eye for what studios wanted.
Franklin smiled. “You know my number. Give me a call.” The man gave her an over-the-shoulder look before going ou
t the door.
Franklin put his napkin on the table and paid the bill. “Time to get back to work with Al.” He helped her out of the booth and kept a protective closeness as they made their way out of the restaurant.
The one-piece black bathing suit Franklin chose was sexier than the bikini Dylan had purchased in Santa Cruz. Al positioned her in front of a wooden helm wheel while Matt pulled down a sky-blue screen painted with clouds. Al put his hands on Abra’s hips and moved her back against the wheel. She had nowhere to go and felt the warmth of his mint-scented breath on her face. “I want you right here.”
“Knock it off, Al.”
A malicious gleam came into Al’s eyes. “Pretty protective of you, isn’t he? Better watch out.” He let go and stepped back. She frowned slightly, remembering Murray’s similar remark. What were they trying to say to her? Franklin Moss behaved like a perfect gentleman. Strictly business, he’d said. She hadn’t seen anything to indicate he wanted to change the arrangement.
“Grasp the spoke handles behind you, Lena.” Franklin gave directions.
Al winced. “Not so hard. Loosen those elegant fingers of yours.” He moved her hands to the spokes he wanted before backing off. “Put one foot against the wheel. Now stretch up on those pretty little toes.”
Franklin spoke again. “Left shoulder up, chin down. A little more. Get that shot, Al.”
“The man knows exactly what he wants from you.”
They worked through the afternoon. On the drive back to the apartment, Franklin told her they’d have time for showers and a quick change before they headed out for dinner at Ciro’s. She hoped he’d allow her to eat more than salad and fish. “You’ll see a lot of familiar faces there. Try not to look like an eager fan. When we get to the apartment, take a five-minute shower. Don’t get your face or hair wet.”
“Should I put my hair up?”
He cast an assessing look. “Brush it and leave it down.”
She did exactly as he said. The knee-length black dress he’d picked out fit perfectly. She brushed her hair quickly and went out to the living room. Franklin stood by the windows. He looked distinguished in black slacks and a crisp white shirt. His hair was still damp and slicked back.
Bridge to Haven Page 20
