Two Week Turnaround. Geneva Lee
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her emails asking about work. Karin, like many others, had been sent her way by a producer friend, because she had all the makings of an excellent assistant—punctuality, work ethic, a submissive personality—and none of the it-factor to be an actress. She wouldn’t last six months. None of them had, which was what made them ideal candidates for the position. They never stuck around long enough to see the potential blackmail material they encountered on a daily basis.
Still a new assistant twice a year meant coping with the little nuisances.
“You have a phone call,” Karin informed her.
“I don’t take phone calls during cleanings,” Sofia reminded her in a gentle voice. “Please take a message.”
“It’s your father,” Karin said timidly.
“Put him through,” Sofia said, clinging to the last shred of patience she could muster, “and next time mention that right off the bat.”
Karin nodded, scurrying back to the makeshift office she’d set up in the kitchen. A few moments later Sofia’s phone buzzed with the incoming call. She slid Accept as she made her way into the bathroom to check on the team’s progress. “Hi, Daddy.”
“There’s my baby girl.” Arnold Maxx was one of the most intimidating men in Hollywood. He’d scared more directors out of the profession than any other producer and was loosely linked to four suicides. A fact which he shrugged off as part of the business. Now he headed up the most profitable film company in the world, Maxximum Studios, but the one thing that could turn him into a giant cuddly teddy bear was his only daughter.
Sofia smiled at his pet name for her, softening as usual at his affectionate tone. She’d got her attitude from her daddy, although even now while she ran a successful multimillion-dollar enterprise she couldn’t say no to him. After her mother’s death, they’d stuck together in a city known for tearing relationships apart. When she pitched him her crazy business idea, he’d got her foot in the door with the Hollywood elite. She’d taken it from there, building a name for herself as a miracle worker, but she’d always be grateful that he’d believed in her little scheme from the beginning.
“Anything new in your life?”
“Working myself to death,” she said dryly.
“Same here,” he admitted. “So does that mean that you’re on a job?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t like her dad to call in the middle of the day to chitchat. Neither of them had time to waste like that, but it was nice to pretend for a moment.
Turning, she caught one of the techs watching her in the mirror. She shot him a withering glance, and he turned away quickly. She’d learned a long time ago that it didn’t matter if she wore a bikini or a parka—most guys saw blonde and lost their ability to function in polite society.
“Ms. King?” Another tech held up a prescription bottle for her approbation.
Sofia took it, reading the label before she snapped open the lid. Flush, she mouthed to him.
“I’m calling in a favor,” her dad continued.
“I’m free in a couple of days,” she said, scanning the contents of the medicine cabinet for any more bottles. Plucking two aspirin bottles from the shelf, she tossed them into the garbage. What twenty-four-year-old popped aspirin? Celebs loved to hide drugs in plain sight.
“No good. I need you now.”
Sofia recognized the firm tone her father usually reserved for contract disputes. The one he used when he was cutting someone’s budget. “Daddy, I have four days left on this job, and she’s one of your girls.”
He paused as though considering this. “Which one?”
“Georgia Andrews.”
“That girl is a train wreck. Maxximum has a much bigger problem.”
Sofia could picture his dismissive wave as he spoke, and her eyes narrowed. She’d run from the industry because of men like her father, and while she adored him for reasons largely related to genetics and the lottery of birth, she also knew that when he looked at his actresses he saw a bottom dollar. Georgia’s career was in the toilet, which meant she wasn’t worth his time. “I have a responsibility to my client.”
“I know, baby girl,” he said, quickly shifting his approach. “But you can put Georgia up in rehab for a few weeks. My problem can’t wait.”
“She’s not a jug of milk,” Sofia said. “I can’t put her on ice so she doesn’t spoil.”
“Look, when was the last time I called you in?”
Sofia hesitated. He had her there. After all these years her father had never actually called her in for a job. “Never.”
“I need you to handle this. You’re the only one I can trust to turn this situation around,” he admitted in an uncharacteristically anxious voice. “I’ve got six weeks of on-location shooting sunk into this picture and my star is a time bomb.”
“Fine,” she said with a sigh. He was right—she owed him this. She’d put Georgia up in Malibu Heights, where she could at least be certain the girl would behave herself, and be back in two weeks to start the process over again. “Who will I have the pleasure of fixing this time?”
He paused. “So we’re agreed then.”
“Daddy?” she pressed. He was avoiding her question, which wasn’t a good sign. “Who is it?”
“You’ve already agreed,” he reminded her, “and if anyone else could do this I would have brought them in.”
“Who is it?” she demanded.
“Isaac Blue.”
The name punched her in the gut, and Sofia sucked in a breath so quickly the air whistled over her lips. “Dammit, I am the last person you can trust to turnaround Isaac Blue!”
“I think you’re wrong about that, baby girl,” her dad said. “Call it a hunch.”
He had to know that wasn’t true. Just like he’d known not to mention that bastard’s name until he’d got her to agree. He obviously remembered that she hated Isaac Blue, but if he was asking her to do this, he must not remember why.
“Are you there?” he asked after a few moments of silence.
“Sorry, I was busy fantasizing about all the ways I’m going to make you pay for this one.”
Her father laughed, sounding relieved. “Anything you want, baby girl.”
Sofia grabbed her purse, shouldering it with a tight-lipped smile. “Good. Let’s start with your private jet.”
* * *
Judging from the white-hot pain searing across his forehead, Isaac had been shot. Or stabbed. Or hit in the skull with an ax. The possibilities seemed pretty endless actually. Pushing up to his elbows, he opened one eye slowly, wincing as the morning light hit. Or afternoon light. Or unethically bright floor lamp. He couldn’t be sure.
Yep, this was going to be one killer hangover.
Flashes of memories filtered through his mind as he tried to piece together exactly what had happened. Big Ben. The film set. A pub. It was no good. Dropping back on his bed, he raised his hand to rub his throbbing temples.
His fingertips were black.
Not smudgy, I’ve-been-working-on-a-car black or it’s-probably-time-to-bathe black. Nope, they were stained black with a permanent ink meant not only to document his identity but also to shame him. Black ink on all ten fingers was the modern day scarlet letter. Who knew they even arrested people in London? It seemed too impolite.
When he finally touched his temples, he winced again. Poking the skin over his left eye gingerly, he discovered what was probably a helluva bruise, which reminded him