Las Vegas Nights. Cat Schield
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“That’s terrible.”
“That’s showbiz.” Scarlett skimmed her palms over her hips, thinking about how she’d put on the black skirt to thumb her nose at Logan’s suggestion that she dress more professionally. He didn’t seem to understand that unless she worked really hard to downplay her allure, her innate sexuality came through whatever she wore.
It’s why the parts that came her way after her stint as Hilary were all of a kind. She’d turned down so many offers to play sexy roles that she’d lost count. Being typecast as the bitchy sexual rival of the heroine was not the part she wanted to play. She longed to be taken seriously as an actress, but her agent said none of the casting directors he spoke to could see past her looks to the talent beneath.
“I know my uncle wants you to talk me out of being an actress.”
“Aren’t you a smart girl.” Scarlett caught Madison’s gaze in the mirror. “Smart enough to have a plan for what happens if you can’t make it in Hollywood?”
Madison looked away. “I’m young. I thought I’d give it a few years. If I don’t make it, I can always go to school later.”
Scarlett considered how many times she’d heard a fellow actor say something similar. It was hard to give up your dream of making it on the silver screen when a great part was always the next audition away.
“Or you could see if your parents would be okay with you attending college in L.A. while you take acting classes and audition.” Scarlett could see that Madison hadn’t considered this option. She’d probably been so focused on defying her parents and fighting for the future she wanted that she’d never considered there might be a middle ground. “It might be a lot more work than you intended, but it might also be a way to make everyone happy.”
“I’ll think about it.”
But Scarlett could see the teenager wasn’t quite ready to.
“In the meantime, do you want to be Judy Garland in Summer Stock or Greta Garbo from Mata Hari?”
“How about Marilyn?”
Scarlett laughed. “Not so fast, my young apprentice. First you need to prove to me you’ve got the chops to be Marilyn.”
“I’ve got the chops.”
“Then you won’t have any trouble making a casino full of people believe you’re Mata Hari.”
“You got that right.”
It was ten minutes after eleven, and Logan was pacing from one end of his thirty-foot front porch to the other. There was a pair of rocking chairs where he could sit down and enjoy the flowers cascading from long pots affixed to the railings, but he was too agitated.
Through the Bluetooth receiver in his ear, Logan half listened to his brother muse about Tiberius’s files. “So, we were right.”
“I’ll know for sure tomorrow.”
Logan squinted into the dark night as if that could help him see farther. Where the hell were they?
“I don’t suppose there’s any way she’d just turn the files over to you.”
“Not a chance.” His irritation spiked as he saw headlights appear at the end of his long driveway.
“Yeah, I forgot how well you two get along.” Lucas sounded disgusted. “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you. She’s gorgeous and the chemistry between you is off the charts. You’d barely have to lift a finger to charm the key from her.”
“Charming people is your job,” Logan retorted, stepping off the porch as Scarlett’s Audi TT rolled to a stop. “You’re late,” he snapped as she cut the engine.
“I’m late?” Lucas said in his ear, tone rising in confusion.
Scarlett protested, “By ten minutes.”
“You sound too cranky for this to be a booty call,” his brother taunted, having heard the female voice. “I take it our rebellious niece wasn’t home on time.”
“Something like that. Later.” He disconnected the call, cutting off his brother’s laughter.
Logan frowned as Madison stepped from the car. “What is she wearing?”
“I’m Greta Garbo as Mata Hari,” Madison announced, striking a pose, arms out, face in profile, nose lifted to the sky.
Logan surveyed the elaborate headpiece that concealed Madison’s blond hair and the sparkling caftan-looking gown that covered her from chin to toes. With her dramatic makeup and solemn expression, his niece was an acceptable Greta Garbo.
But he’d asked Scarlett to steer Madison away from acting, not demonstrate how much fun it could be.
“Doesn’t she look great?” Scarlett asked, coming around the front of the car. Also in costume, adorably feminine in a blond wig and pale pink ostrich-feather dress, she gave Logan the briefest of glances before settling her attention on the teenager.
The fondness in her gaze struck low and hard at Logan’s gut. Unprepared for the blow, he stiffened. Scarlett genuinely liked the girl. And from Madison’s broad smile and the hint of hero worship in her eyes, the feeling was mutual. When he’d agreed to let Scarlett show his niece around the hotel, he never dreamed they’d become friends. But now he understood his faulty judgment. Having an actress of Scarlett’s caliber to learn from would be any fledgling actress’s dream come true.
“Just great.” He felt a growl building in his chest. “Madison, why don’t you go in and take off the costume so Scarlett can take it back to the hotel with her.”
Logan’s shortness dimmed his niece’s high spirits. “She said I could bring it with me when I go back tomorrow.”
“I’ve been thinking that the hotel might not be the best place for you.”
“It figures that I’d find something I enjoy and you’d take it away.” Madison threw her arms out. “Do you all want me to be miserable? Is that it?”
“I thought you might spend some time with me at the office tomorrow.”
“We tried that, remember?” Madison crossed her arms over her chest and dropped the enigmatic Mata Hari facade. Once again she looked like a twenty-first-century teenager playing dress-up. “You left me sitting in the lobby with the receptionist while you dealt with all the supersecret stuff for your clients. No, thanks.”
Up until now, Scarlett had remained silent. Now she stepped into the fray, her manner relaxed, her voice a refreshing spring breeze. “Madison, why don’t you head in. Your uncle and I will figure something out.”
To his amazement, Madison did as she was told. Giving Scarlett a quick, warm hug, his niece shot him a pleading look before disappearing through the front door.
“How did you do that?” The question tumbled out of him. “She fights me on everything from breakfast to bedtime. But you tell her to do something and she agrees without so much as a frown.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve treated her like the intelligent young woman she is.”
“Meaning, I haven’t?”
“You’re pretty bossy.”
“She’s seventeen.”
“When I was seventeen, I had my GED, was managing my acting career and having a ball with my friends.”
“She’s not you.”
“I’m not saying she is. But she’s smart and ambitious. If she’s behaving like a brat, it might be because no one is listening to her.”