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“You need to get out of Hollywood.”
“And you need a man. A stuntman.”
“Never.” And especially not him. Somehow he’d gotten his own trailer even though he wasn’t one of the leads on this film. He also visited the exercise trailer, complete with built-in gym and weightlifting equipment. Not that she’d used it herself, but his access to it hadn’t escaped her notice.
Odele pulled out her cell phone and read from the screen: “Chiara Feran’s Father in Illegal Betting Scandal: ‘My Daughter Has Cut Me Off.’”
Oh...double damn. Chiara was familiar with yesterday’s headline. It was like a bad dream that she kept waking up to. It was also why she’d been temporarily—in a moment of insanity—grateful for the ridiculous story about her budding romance. “The only reason I’ve kept him out of my life for the past two decades is because he’s a lying, cheating snake! Now I’m responsible not only for my own image, but for what a sperm donor does?”
As far as she was concerned, the donation of sperm was Michael Feran’s principal contribution to the person she was today. Even the surname that they shared wasn’t authentic. It had been changed at Ellis Island three generations back from the Italian Ferano to the Anglicized Feran.
“We need to promote a wholesome image,” Odele intoned solemnly.
“I could throttle him!”
* * *
Rick Serenghetti made it his business to be all business. But he couldn’t take his gaze off Chiara Feran. Her limpid brown eyes, smooth skin contrasting with dark brows and raven hair made her a dead ringer for Snow White.
A guy could easily be turned into a blithering fool in the presence of such physical perfection. Her face was faultlessly symmetrical. Her topaz eyes called to a man to lose himself in their depths, and her pink bow mouth begged to be kissed. And then came the part of her appearance where the threshold was crossed from fairy tale to his fantasy: she had a fabulous body that marked her as red-hot.
They were in the middle of filming on the Novatus Studio set. Today was sunny and mild, more typical weather for LA than they’d had yesterday, when he’d last spoken to Chiara. With any luck, current conditions were a bellwether for how filming on the movie would end—quickly and painlessly. Then he could relax, because on a film set he was always pumped up for his next action scene. In a lucky break for everyone involved, scenes were again being shot on Novatus Studio’s lot in downtown LA, instead of in nearby Griffith Park.
Still, filming wasn’t over until the last scene was done.
He stood off to the side, watching Chiara and the action on camera. The film crew surrounded him, along with everyone else who made a movie happen: assistants, extras, costume designers, special effects people and, of course, the stunts department—him.
He knew more about Chiara Feran than she’d ever guess—or that she’d like him to know. No Oscar yet, but the press loved to talk about her. Surprisingly scandal-free for Hollywood...except for the cardsharp father.
Too bad Rick and Chiara rubbed each other like two sheets of sandpaper—because she had guts. He had to respect that about her. She wasn’t like her male costar who—if the tabloids were to be believed—was fond of getting four-hundred-dollar haircuts.
At the same time, Chiara was all woman. He remembered the feel of her curves during the helicopter stunt they’d done yesterday. She’d been soft and stimulating. And now the media had tagged him and Chiara as a couple.
“I want to talk to you.”
Rick turned to see Chiara’s manager. In the first days of filming, he’d spotted the older woman on set. She was hard to overlook. Her raspy, no-nonsense voice and distinctive ruby-framed glasses made her ripe for caricature. One of the crew had confirmed for him that she was Odele Wittnauer, Chiara’s manager.
Odele looked to be in her early sixties and not fighting it—which made her stand out in Hollywood. Her helmet hair was salt-and-pepper with an ironclad curve under the chin.
Rick adopted a pleasant smile. He and Odele had exchanged a word or two, but this was the first time she’d had a request. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a proposal.”
He checked his surprise, and joked, “Odele, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
He had been propositioned by plenty of women, but he’d never had the word proposal issue from the mouth of a Madeleine Albright look-alike before.
“Not that type of proposition. I want you to be in a relationship with Chiara Feran.”
Rick rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t seen that one coming. And then he put two and two together, and a light went off. “You were the one who planted that story about me and Chiara.”
“Yup,” Odele responded without a trace of guilt or remorse. “The press beast had to be fed. And more important, we needed a distraction from another story about Chiara’s father.”
“The gambler.”
“The deadbeat.”
“You’re ruthless.” He said it with reluctant admiration.
