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Beverly Hills. Two words, each unremarkable enough on its own, but like champagne and caviar, they combined to form the ultimate expression of the good life. In this pastel pocket of Los Angeles, everything was about fantasy; stardust from nearby Hollywood gilded even the mundane. Images of Beverly Hills were famous around the world: pink hotels with poolside phones, valet parking at the post offices, restaurant tables that couldn’t be bought for any amount of money—ah, but a whisper of fame could get you seated in an instant. It was a city where last names were unnecessary among the chosen few. Harrison. Goldie. Brad. Julian.
Even in the rarefied perfection of this most trimmed and tucked and glamorized of cities, Julian True was special. Not just a star, but a superstar, a nova who showed no sign of burning out.
He’d come to Hollywood like thousands of young men before him, with nothing more than a handsome face and a dream. He’d wanted to be someone who mattered, and he knew it would happen. Things had always come easily to him—attention, women, invitations, everything—and he took what came easily.
Today he was flying high. That was the thing he loved most about fame: It gave a man wings. He eased off the accelerator. The Ferrari responded instantly, slowing down. He pulled up in front of a notoriously trendy new restaurant. Before he’d even reached for the door handle, a valet was there.
“Good afternoon, Mr. True,” said the boy—no doubt an actor.
Julian flashed him a smile. “Thanks, kid. ” Without a backward glance, he headed for the front door, which also opened automatically at his arrival. “Good afternoon, Mr. True. ”
The maître d’ was already there, smiling broadly. “Good afternoon, Mr. True. She is already at your table. ”
“Thanks, Jean Paul. When the bill comes, add fifty bucks apiece for the valet and doorman, and a hundred for yourself. People magazine can afford it. ”
“Merci. ”
Julian followed Jean Paul to the table. He knew he was late, not that it mattered. People—especially reporters—were used to waiting for him.
He paused, looking around, searching for famous faces, power brokers, studio heads.
Unfortunately, it was that damn hinterland of time, after lunch but well before dinner. The place was almost deserted.
Too bad.
He was in the mood for a little schmoozing. Hell, he deserved it. Today’s screening of his new film, The Bad Boys of C Company, had gone better than he’d hoped. Better than anyone had hoped. Julian had earned his twenty million. He’d given the studio a surefire hit.
A hit. Two of the sweetest words possible.
He saw the reporter from People magazine—a woman (good), sitting at the restaurant’s best table. Clearly she’d told the maître d’ that she was here to meet Julian.
He moved easily through the restaurant, hearing the few scattered whispers of recognition. At the table, he stopped, “Heya, Sara Sandler. ”
She stopped breathing, then started again, all at once, like a newborn baby. Color fanned up her cheeks. “Hi, Mr. True,” she answered, making a clear attempt to compose herself. She tucked in a few flyaway hairs, resettled her eyeglasses. “Thanks for meeting me. ”
He gave her The Smile. “Call me Julian,” he said, settling down into the seat across from her. He stretched out one leg, plunking his booted foot on the settee beside her hip. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair and lit up a cigarette, watching her through a haze of smoke. “So, Sara, what is America dying to know about me?”
“D-Do you remind … mind if I record this?”
He laughed. “’Course not, darlin’. But I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the smoking. It used to be smokers were sexy and dangerous, but in the puritanical nineties, we just look stupid. Like we don’t have the self-control to quit a habit that has killed millions. ” The smile he gave her was slow and intimate, designed to disarm. He’d learned a long time ago how to hook a woman and reel her in. It came as easily now as breathing. “Did you get a chance to see Boys?”
“It was wonderful. ” She leaned forward, all schoolgirl earnestness.
“Why, thanks. That really means something to me. ”
She struggled to tamp down a smile and reached into her briefcase, pulling out some papers and a notebook and pen. Then she took a deep breath and glanced up at him. “So, when did you know you wanted to be an actor?”
He laughed easily. It was a familiar question, one he answered all the time. This interview would be a breeze. He leaned toward her, gave her a conspiratorial look. “I’ll tell you a secret, Sara. I never wanted to be an actor. Acting—that’s a verb. It implies work. Actors spend the better part of their lives skulking around Broadway, learning their craft, and eating macaroni-and-cheese out of a box. But a movie star …” He settled back into the settee, gazing at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world. “Ah, now that’s a different thing entirely. Lightning in a jar. Fame is the greatest drug in the world. Everybody wants to be your friend. That’s what I wanted to be. I knew it the first time I saw how a star was treated. ”
She didn’t seem to like that answer. “But you’re a great actor. All the reviewers say so. ”
He was quiet for a moment, took a long drag off his cigarette, exhaled slowly. “I know what I am, darlin’, and it ain’t an actor. But you’re sweet as hell to say so. ”
She glanced down at her notes. “Is Julian True your real name?”
Another familiar question. He gave her another Hollywood smile. “Nothing up on that movie screen is real, Sara,” he said softly, using her name again to seduce her. “And at the same time it’s as real as life. Everything I am, everything I’ve ever been is up there in Technicolor, forty feet wide. Nothing that came before matters. ”
“That’s a nice way of saying ‘No comment. ’”
