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“Is an ambulance on its way?”
“Yes, I dispatched the team closest to your location.”
“Thank you.” Darcy hung up before she could demand an autograph.
Chapter Two
“The ambulance is on its way,” William Darcy said to Elizabeth.
“Thank you,” she said to his shirt. Over the past ten minutes she had realized that actually gazing upon him caused her IQ to drop by 50 points, so it was better to avoid his face altogether. Incredibly enough, the guy was far more gorgeous in person than on screen. His wavy dark hair was artfully tousled on the top and short on the sides; it made a striking contrast with the sky blue of his eyes—a remarkable color that every camera loved.
Of course, focusing on his clingy t-shirt only drew her attention to his broad shoulders and perfectly sculpted chest. Those IQ points were probably a dead loss anyway.
Although she had envisioned someone nerdier when she read the screenplay, Elizabeth had been psyched when her father nabbed William Darcy for the movie’s lead. Having Darcy attached to the project ensured that her father could raise the necessary funding—and he was a terrific actor.
William Darcy was known for landing the teen or young adult parts in serious dramas: an adaptation of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, a movie about Civil War spies, a courtroom drama about a famous civil rights case.
Then he had starred in Ramon and Julia, a modern-day adaptation of Romeo and Juliet that had catapulted him from Masterpiece Theatre darling to heartthrob with a poster on every teen girl’s wall. Afterward, he had been offered the lead in every romance, romantic comedy, and superhero film in Hollywood.
He had turned them all down in favor of a small budget indie film about an adopted teen searching for his biological mother. Squealing teenage fans were disappointed while critics applauded his choice. Since then his career had favored serious and offbeat movies rather than crowd-pleasers, although his heartthrob status never seemed to wane.
A year ago, he had been signed for the lead in a drama about the French Resistance during World War II, both big budget and high prestige. But after the incident in Palm Springs, the offer had been withdrawn. Two other tenta
tive deals had gone belly up. His blazingly hot career was suddenly lukewarm at best.
But Darcy’s bad fortune had proved to be good luck for Elizabeth’s father. With limited options, Darcy had agreed to do a little indie film for SAG scale, ensuring that the movie would be made and bringing other high-profile stars aboard.
Maybe I should have been nicer to him; Dad needs him for the movie. But honestly it’s hard to be gracious when someone nearly hits you with a car. It doesn’t provoke the urge to write a thank you note.
Elizabeth was so sick of Hollywood guys. Although her father had never been an A-list producer or director, she had met plenty of celebrities over the years. When she was younger, meeting actors whose work she admired had been exciting, particularly those who eschewed big-budget crowd-pleasers in favor of more serious dramatic work. On talk shows, her favorite movie stars would seem so genuine and friendly, but then she’d meet them in person and be…disappointed.
Every.
Single.
Time.
They were all shallow, entitled assholes. She’d give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps some of them had been nice people before becoming movie stars, but once they achieved a certain level of fame, all the fawning and attention created a perpetual sense of entitlement, and they evolved into huge jerks.
She couldn’t wait to get away from Hollywood and the falseness it represented. Thank God this would be the last of her father’s films she ever helped to make; at least it was a project she believed in. But Darcy’s behavior so far had confirmed her impression that he was the typical self-centered Hollywood SOB who always got what he wanted, whether it was women, drugs, booze, or money.
Still, William Darcy called an ambulance for me. That’s a story I can tell the grandchildren someday.
“Here.” One of the PAs had lugged a cooler out of the building, and Darcy thrust a cold bottle of water into Elizabeth’s hand. She gratefully unscrewed the cap and drank thirstily.
“Thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
She peered up at him briefly, but the sun was bright, and squinting made her headache worse. Closing her eyes, she longed for a place to rest her head…and some shade. But she might as well wish for a bed and a massage therapist while she was at it.
“Do you mind not looming over me like that?” she said irritably. “The sun makes my head hurt even more.” Was that a sign of a concussion? Mentally she reviewed the symptoms: dizziness, loss of consciousness, disorientation… Was light sensitivity on the list? She couldn’t remember, but she was pretty sure loss of memory was.
“Sorry.” Darcy positioned his body so that he shaded her from the sun. “Is that better?”
That was actually a lot better, but why was he suddenly being so nice? Maybe he wanted the cast to view him as a genuine, caring person. Of course, he also didn’t want Elizabeth to die; it would create a lot of bad press—something he could ill afford. She couldn’t forget that his nice guy act had nothing to do with her.
Lydia had wandered away to flirt with a cameraman, so Darcy sat beside Elizabeth on the bench. “I don’t…I hope—” He cleared his throat. “There’s no need to go to the media with this story.”
