Hollywood Baby Affair. Anna DePalo
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“You’re ruthless.” He said it with reluctant admiration.
“There’s chemistry between you,” Odele responded, switching gears.
“Fireworks are more like it.”
Chiara’s manager brightened. “The press will eat it up. The stuntman and the beauty pageant winner.”
So Chiara had won a contest or two—he shouldn’t have been surprised. She had the looks to make men weak, including him, somewhat to his chagrin. Still, Odele made them sound like a couple on a C-rated reality show: Blind Date Engagements. “I’ve seen the media chew up and spit out people right and left. No, thanks.”
“It’ll raise your profile in this town.”
“I like my privacy.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“Well,” Odele drawled, lowering her eyes, “maybe I can appeal to your sense of stuntman chivalry then.”
“What do you mean?”
Odele looked up. “You see, Chiara has this teeny-weeny problem of an overly enthusiastic fan.”
“A stalker?”
“Too early to tell, but the guy did try to scale the fence at her house once.”
“He knows where she lives?” Rick asked in disbelief.
“We live in the internet age, dear. Privacy is dead.”
He had some shred left but he wasn’t going to go into details. Even Superman’s alter ego, Clark Kent, was entitled to a few secrets.
“Don’t mention the too-eager fan to her, though. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. “Does Chiara Feran know you approached me?”
“She thinks I already have.”
All right then.
He surmised that Odele and Chiara had had their talk. And apparently Chiara had changed tactics and decided to turn the situation to her advantage. She was willing to tolerate him...for the sake of her career at least. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d already had one bad experience with a publicity-hungry actress, and then he’d been one of the casualties.
Still, they were in the middle of the second act, and he’d missed the opening. But suddenly things had gotten a lot more interesting.
Odele’s eyes gleamed as if she sensed victory—or at least a chink in his armor. Turning away, she said, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”
As Rick watched Chiara’s manager leave, he knew there was a brooding expression on his face. Odele had presented him with a quandary. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with actresses—ever since his one bad episode—but he had his gallant side. On top of it, Chiara was the talent on his latest film—one in which he had a big stake.
As if on cue, his cell phone vibrated. Fishing it out of his pocket, Rick recognized the number on-screen as that of his business partner—one of the guys who fronted the company, per Rick’s preference to be behind the scenes.
“Hey, Pete, what’s going on?”
Rick listened to Pete’s summary of the meeting that morning with an indie director looking for funding. He liked what he heard, but he needed to know more. “Email me their proposal. I’m inclined to fund up to five million, but I want more details.”
Five million dollars was pocket change in his world.
“You’re the boss,” Pete responded cheerfully.
Yup, he was...though no one on set knew he was the producer of Pegasus Pride. He liked his privacy and kept his communications mostly to a need-to-know basis.
Right. Rick spotted Chiara in the distance. No doubt she was heading to film her next scene. There was someone who treated him more like the hired help than the boss.
Complications and delays on a film were common, and Rick had a feeling Chiara was about to become his biggest complication to date...
“Hey.”
It was exactly the sort of greeting she expected from a sweaty and earthy he-man—or rather, stuntman.
Chiara’s pulse picked up. Ugh. She hadn’t expected to have this reaction around him. She was a professional—a classically trained actress before she’d been diverted by Hollywood.
Sure, she’d been Miss Rhode Island, and a runner-up in the Miss America pageant. But then the Yale School of Drama had beckoned. And she’d never been a Hollywood blonde. The media most often compared her to Camilla Belle because they shared a raven-haired, chestnut-eyed look.
Anyway, with her ebony hair, she’d need to have her roots touched up every other day if she tried to become a blonde. As far as she was concerned, she spent enough time in the primping chair.
She figured He-Stuntman had gotten his education in the School of Hard Knocks. Maybe a broken bone or two. Certainly plenty of bumps and bruises.
Rick stopped in front of her. No one was around. They were near the actors’ trailers, far away from the main action. Luckily she hadn’t run into him after her talk with Odele two days ago. Instead, she’d managed to avoid him until now.
Dusk was gathering, but she still had a clear view of him.
He was in a ripped tee, jeans and body paint meant to seem like grease and dirt, while she was wearing a damsel-in-distress/sidekick look—basically a feminine version of Rick’s attire but her clothes were extratight and torn to show cleavage. And from the quick perusal he gave her, she could tell the bare skin hadn’t escaped his notice.
“So you need a boyfriend,” he said without preamble.
She itched to rub the smug smile off his face. “I don’t need anything. This would be a completely optional but mutually advantageous arrangement.”
And right after this conversation, she was going to have another serious talk with her manager. What had Odele signed her up for?
“You need me.”
She burned. He’d made it sound like you want me.
“I’ve been asked to play many roles, but never a stud.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I have a thing for the doe-eyed, dark-haired look, but since Camilla Belle isn’t available, you’ll do.”
The flames of temper licked her, not least because he was clued in as to her Hollywood doppelgänger. “So you’ll settle?”
“I don’t know. Let’s kiss and find out.”
“If the cameras were rolling, it would be time for a slap right now,” she muttered.
He caught her wrist and tugged her closer.
“This isn’t a movie, and you’re no actor!” she objected.
“Great, because I intend to kiss you for real. Let’s see if we can be convincing for when the paparazzi and public are watching.” He raised his free hand to thread his fingers through her hair and move it away from her face. “Your long dark hair is driving me crazy.”
“It’s the Brazilian-Italian heritage,” she snapped back, “and I bet you say the same thing to all your leading ladies.”
“No,” he answered bemusedly, “some of them are blondes.”
And then his mouth was on hers.