Hollywood Baby Affair Page 2

  “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.

  “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...

  Two

  “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. If he’d been forceful, she’d have had a chance, but his lips settled on hers with soft, tantalizing pressure. He smelled of smoke from the special effects, and when his tongue slipped inside her mouth, she discovered the taste of mint, too.

  She’d been kissed many times—on-screen and off—but she found herself tumbling into this one with shocking speed. The kiss was smooth, leisurely...masterful but understated. Rick could double for any A-list actor in a love scene. He touched his tongue to hers, and the shock and unexpectedness of it had her opening to him. As an unwritten rule, actors on-screen did not French kiss, so she was already in uncharted territory. The hard plane of his chest brushed against her, and her nipples tightened.

  Think, Chiara. Remember why you don’t like him.

  She allowed herself one more second, and then she tore her mouth away and stepped back. For a fleeting moment she felt a puff of steam over his audacity. “All right, the screen test is over.”

  Rick curved his lips. “How did I do?”

  “I don’t even know your last name,” she responded, sidestepping the question.

  “I’ll answer to anything. ‘Honey,’ ‘baby,’ ‘sugar.’” He shrugged. “I’m easy.”

  “Clearly.” This guy could charm his way into any woman’s bed. “Still, I’d prefer your real one for when the police ask me to describe the suspect.”

  He grinned. “It’s Rick Serenghetti. But ‘darling’ would add the appropriate air of mystery for the paparazzi.”

  Serenghetti. She knew an Italian surname when she heard one. “My last name was originally Ferano. You know, Italian.”

  His smile widened. “I’d never have guessed, Snow White.”

  “They used to call me Snow White, but I drifted,” she quipped. “Not suitable for the role.”

  “No problem. I’m not Prince Charming. I’m just his body double.”

  She wanted to scream. “This is never going to work.”

  “That’s why you’re an actress.” He looked curious. “And, Odele mentioned, a beauty contestant. Win any titles?”

  She made a sour face. “Yes. Miss Congeniality.”

  He burst out laughing. “I won’t ask what your talent was.”

  “Ventriloquism. I made my dummy sing.”

  “‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’?”

  “Nothing from Snow White! I was also Miss Rhode Island, but obviously that was on the state level.” She’d gone on to be a finalist in Miss America, which was where she’d earned her title of Miss Congeniality.

  “Rhode Island is the smallest state. Still, the competition must have been fierce.”

  “Are you mocking me?” She searched his face, but he looked solemn.

  “Who, me? I never mock women I’m trying to score with.”

  “Wow, you’re direct. You don’t even like me.”

  “What’s like got to do with it?”

  “You have no shame.” When it came to sex, she was used to men wanting to bed anyone in sight. This was Hollywood, after all.

  “Is it working?”

  “Nothing will work, except Odele convincing me this is a good idea.”

  Rick frowned. “You mean she hasn’t already?”

  It took Chiara a moment to realize he wasn’t joking. “Please. She may have persuaded you to go along with her crazy scheme, but not me.”

  “I only went along with it because I thought you’d said yes.”

  Chiara watched Rick’s dawning expression, which mimicked her own. “I believed you’d agreed.”

  “Stuntmen are made of sterner stuff.” He threw her attitude right back at her.

  Chiara realized they’d both been tricked by Odele into believing the other had agreed to her plan. Rick had dared to kiss her because he thought she’d already signed up for her manager’s plot. “What are we going to do?”

  Rick shrugged. “About the gathering media frenzy? We’re already bickering like an old married couple. We’re perfect.”

  Chiara’s eyes widened. “You can’t tell me you’re seriously considering this? Anyway, we’re supposed to act like new lovebirds, not a cantankerous old married couple.”

  “If we’re already arguing, it’ll make our relationship seem deeper than it is.”

  “Skip the honeymoon phase?” she asked rhetorically. “What’s in this for you?”

  He shrugged. “Have some fun.” He looked at her lingeringly. “Satisfy my fetish for Snow White.”

  Chiara tingled, her breasts feeling heavy. “Oh, yeah, right...”

  “So what’s your take?”

  “This is the worst storyline to come out of Hollywood.”

  * * *

  For the second time in recent days, Chiara banged open the door of her trailer and marched in. “I can’t pretend to be in a relationship with Rick Serenghetti. End of story.”

  Odele looked up
from her magazine. She sat on a cushioned built-in bench along one wall. “What’s wrong with him?”

  He was too big, too macho, too everything—most of all, annoying. She still sizzled from their kiss minutes ago, and she didn’t do vulnerability where men were concerned. But she sidestepped the issue. “It’s the pretending part that I have trouble with.”

  “You’re an actress.”

  “Context is everything. I like to confine my acting to the screen.” Otherwise, she’d be in danger of losing herself. If she was always pretending, who was she? “You know I value integrity.”

  “It’s overrated. Besides, this is Tinseltown.”

  Chiara placed her hands on her hips. “You misled me and Rick into thinking the other one had already agreed to this crazy scheme.”

  Odele shrugged. “You were already open to the idea. That’s the only reason it even mattered to you whether he was already on board with the plan.”

  Chiara felt heat rise to her face, and schooled her expression. “I’m not signing up for anything!”

  Her conversation with Rick had had no satisfactory ending. It had sent her scuttling, somewhat humiliatingly, back to her manager. Chiara eyed the shower stall visible through the open bathroom door at the end of the trailer. If only she could rinse off the tabloid headlines just as easily.

  “Fine,” Odele responded with sudden and suspicious docility, putting aside her magazine. “We’ll have to come up with another strategy to distract the press from your father and amp up your career.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Great, it’s settled. Now...can you gain twenty pounds?” Odele asked.

  Chiara sighed. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. “I’d rather not. Why?”

  She’d gained fifteen for a film role two years ago in Alibis & Lies—in which she’d played a convicted white-collar criminal who witnesses a murder once she’s released from jail and thinks her husband is framing her. To gain the weight, she’d indulged her love for pasta, creamy sauces and pastries—but she’d had to work for months with a trainer to shed the pounds afterward. In the meantime, she’d worn sunglasses and baggy clothes and had lain low in order to avoid an unflattering shot by the paparazzi. And she’d been disappointed not to get a Golden Globe nomination.