Aspen Gold (30 page)

"You mean--away from the prying cameras and gawking fans shoving cocktail napkins and blank deposit slips at you, begging for autographs," Kit corrected, remembering other occasions when they'd dined at public restaurants in Los Angeles.

"Maybe I do."

"Well, you're right. Here, I don't feel like we're on display." Something she'd found unnerving on those occasions. But that wasn't a subject she wanted to pursue. "They've done a remarkable job of fixing this place up. I remember when this used to be the basement of a hardware store."

"Really?" he countered on a bored note.

"Don't sound so interested, John T.,"

Kit mocked.

"Shall I feign some enthusiasm?" He grinned.

"Don't bother. Tell me what you've been doing these past two days instead. How's Chip coming on those revisions you wanted?"

John responded with a mock grimace. "The way he's acting, you'd think he'd been told to molest his child. Ask me about the locations we've picked out instead."

"Okay. What about the locations you've picked out?" she repeated obediently and cut into her chicken, unleashing another waft of garlic-scented steam.

"A few were obvious--the pedestrian-mall area in downtown, the Silver Queen gondola, the opera house. We have verbal

agreements on those. Abe has started getting all the terms and conditions worked on and the permission reduced to writing on those. As for your husband's house in the film, Chip turned thumbs down on every one Abe and Nolan had picked out. We went up and down every block in the West End before Chip saw one he wanted. It's a big, old rambling affair with turrets, Palladian windows, and enough gingerbread to satisfy even Chip.

The owner took us through it. Every room we went in--especially the tower room--Chip said, "This is it. This is my "painted lady."" I have a feeling the owner was convinced he was on something."

"Not Chip. Never Chip," Kit declared with a laughing shake of her head.

"Anyway, the owner is willing to let us film there--for a price. A very steep price. And he's insisting on a large deposit to cover damages."

"Do you get the feeling he's heard about movie crews and directors like Chip who want to knock down a wall to get the shot they want?"

John responded to her twinkling look with a smile. "Could be." He took another sip of wine. "Do you remember the log cabin scene between Eden and McCord in the mountains and snow?"

"Where she finds out he's been hired by her late husband's family to prove she killed him

--I remember." She nodded and forked another bite of chicken to her mouth. "Have you found it?"

"I think so. We spotted it from the helicopter this afternoon. It looks perfect.

Nothing but mountains in all directions. No power lines. No man-made obstructions of any kind. There's a logging road that comes within about a quarter mile of it. Abe thinks we'll be able to use it to get the trunks and equipment up there.

He's going to check it out tomorrow."

"Where is it?" She sampled the caramelized onion on her plate.

"Not far from the Maroon Bells. It's a shelter that was built for skiers on one of the cross-country trails."

"I'll bet I know which one you're talking about.

It sits on the edge of some trees facing a broad meadow and there's a stream with a small waterfall about fifty feet from it. Is that it?"

"Sounds like it."

"You're right--it would be perfect. Wait until you see it when it's all white with snow. It's gorgeous." She started to take another bite of chicken, then abruptly lowered her fork. "Wait. What about the interior scene?

The cabin's too small. By the time you put the camera, lighting, and sound equipment in there, you and I will be cramped in a corner. I know Chip's a stickler for authenticity, but won't he have to find some other place for the interior?"

"He says no. He thinks he can shoot the scene through the window and hang lights in the rafters."

As John launched into a long explanation of how Chip planned to shoot the scene in such limited space, his words opened a door to familiar scenes. In her mind, she could see the scene being shot, the clutter of crew and equipment outside, the miles of cable strung through the snow like long black umbilical cords, the camera at the window, the cinematographer stepping back to let Chip check the shot, the grips, the gaffers, the best boys busy making their final checks. She could feel the glare of the 4K's in the rafters, see the mike boom just out of frame, makeup standing by with powder and gloss, the stylist with brush and spray. She could hear the A.d. call for "quiet on the set," the tech man verifying they had speed, the clapper falling on the first take, Chip asking for "action."

It was all back--the clatter and confusion of moviemaking, the jargon, the tense moments of action, the explosions of temperament, the little intrigues off camera, the smell of bitter black coffee and the taste of stale Danish, the sometimes lengthy delays between takes, the excitement and the tedium, the tough technical nuts and bolts side behind the creativity and the talent.

The pull of it stirred through her.

She hadn't worked on a set in weeks.

Listening to John made her realize she missed it.

For their after-dinner coffee and drinks, they moved to the club's Great Room with its coffer-beamed ceiling and walls covered in British racing green, lined with western art. John's hand rode warmly on the small of Kit's back as he steered her through the room's cozy groupings of couches and chairs, plump and overstuffed in the best English tradition with Indian blankets for throws, an unquestionably eclectic decor.

Along the way, John acknowledged greetings from those he knew with a nod or a raised hand, but he didn't stop until they reached a couch along the far wall, slightly secluded from the rest. Among the paintings by Bierstadt, Remington, and Nesbit on the wall above it, Kit recognized a Remington that had been a favorite of her father's, and paused to admire it.

"Coffee, cognac, or both?" John asked.

Turning, she saw the butler in black tie waiting for her order. "Just cognac for me."

"The same," John told him, then took a seat on the couch by the arm and shook out a cigarette.

Kit curled on the cushion next to him, angling toward him. She watched him light his cigarette, her glance idly traveling over the aristocratic bones in his face that the camera loved so well. The soft light from the antler-based lamp on the end table accented the leanness of his features and turned his hair the color of dark mountain honey.

"By the way, I'm glad I agreed to have dinner with you tonight," she said.

He blew out the smoke in a quick stream and arched an eyebrow in challenge. "That's a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. Inherent in that remark is the implication that you thought you might be sorry."

"If it was, I promise it was purely unintentional. I never had any doubt I'd enjoy being with you, but I didn't realize how much I needed the movie talk. These last couple of days at the ranch, going through my father's things"--so immersed in the past, she could have added--"I started to lose perspective of who I am and where I'm going." She took one of the glasses of cognac from the butler's tray. "Tonight you reminded me."

John lifted the remaining glass in a saluting gesture and added his own ending to her last remark. "You're an actress shooting to the top."

"Being swept along to the top, you mean," Kit corrected, smiling faintly. "It's hard to believe, especially when I remember that all I ever wanted was to make a living at something I enjoyed."

"Who are you kidding?" John mocked. "You're just like all the rest of us. There isn't anyone in this business who doesn't dream of hitting it big."

She hadn't. She started to tell him that, but one look at his face warned her that he wouldn't believe her. If she tried to argue the point, he'd probably think she was protesting too much.

Kit took the middle ground and shrugged.

"Maybe not."

God knows, she couldn't think of a single other actor who hadn't at some time talked about landing the role that would make them a star. She'd always dreamed about landing a role that challenged her in some new way, made her explore other emotions, other attitudes. Truthfully she'd always been glad she didn't feel that desperate need to succeed that others did. Why didn't she have that ambitious streak? Was there something wrong with her?

It was true she wanted the role of Eden. She wanted the role so bad she could taste it. But she wanted it because Eden was such a complex character, so different from any she'd ever played. That's why she wanted it, not for what it might do for her career.

But she didn't know how to make John understand or accept any of that. As long as she did, maybe that was all that mattered.

"To the debut film of Hollywood's newest star?" John suggested in toast.

"To White Lies," Kit replied as their glasses touched with a melodic clink.

The cognac's smooth heat had barely touched her throat when a voice gushed, "Kit! I didn't see you sitting over here." She glanced up as Angie swooped down on them. John started to rise and she waved him back onto the couch. "Don't get up," she insisted and immediately perched on a corner of the cocktail table in front of them. "I won't even ask what you two are doing sitting over here by yourselves."

She grinned knowingly and Kit's smile became a little stiffer. "Angie. This is a surprise."

Not a particularly pleasant one either. Certainly not as pleasant as she wished it could be.

"A bunch of us came in for drinks and a natter." Her hand drifted in the general direction of her party, one of possibly a dozen in the room. "I'd ask you to join us but--"

"Maybe another time," John inserted.

She winked at Kit. "I knew he'd say that. God, you are so lucky, Kit." She tapped her on the knee and gave her a look of mock envy. Kit felt her teeth

grating together, but she managed to incline her head as if she agreed. "Look, I'm not going to stay.

I know you two want to be alone to talk and ...

things," she added suggestively. "I just came over to remind you that we still have to get together for lunch.

Give me a call and we'll set a date.

Okay?"

"Sure." But Kit doubted she would. The idea of spending over an hour with Angie, being pumped about her allegedly torrid affair with John Travis and listening to all her sly innuendos--and always with the thought of what Angie might later say behind her back--was more than Kit wanted to endure.

She hadn't been able to forget that remark she'd overheard when Angie claimed that Kit had landed her starring role by sleeping with John. It had hurt. Not just because Angie had believed it, but because she'd wanted to believe it about Kit. She wanted to believe Hollywood had changed Kit and corrupted her.

As she watched Angie walk away, she felt as if she should be mourning the passing of a friend.

The Angie she remembered didn't exist anymore. This new Angie was a stranger. She had changed. Kit knew she herself hadn't, not in the ways that counted.

"Want to bet she'll ask you to meet her at Gordon's?" John challenged, a heavy dose of irony in his smile.

"Why Gordon's?"

"That's where all the ladies who lunch go," he said and downed a quick swallow of cognac, then set the glass on the end table and stabbed out his cigarette. "Let's dance." He caught her hand and pulled her off the couch. "It's darker on the dance floor. It'll make it harder for our audience to watch me nibbling on your neck."

"You have that feeling, too," she murmured sadly.

"In spades," he replied in a low, curt voice, then flashed her one of his dangerously sexy smiles. "Want to give them something for their avid little tongues to wag about?"

"I don't like that look in your eye, John T." Kit drew back, eyeing him warily.

His hand snaked out and hooked her waist, hauling her against him. In one quick, striding spin, he whirled her onto the dance floor. Her gasping laugh of surprise turned into a whoop as he bent her backward over his arm in a low dip that had Kit grabbing for him.

When he held her there, she protested, laughter bubbling through her voice. "John T., let me up."

"Kiss me, you vixen," he growled theatrically.

"Oh, God, if that's your best Errol Flynn impression--" She never got a chance to finish the rest of it as his mouth crushed hers in a kiss of mock passion that had her laughing against it.

Still kissing her, he lifted her upright and the texture of the kiss changed into something warm and evocative before he drew back. "What do you think they'll make of that?" he asked and began swaying to a Cole Porter tune.

"That you're crazy."

"Is it any wonder?" he countered. "I can't get you out of my head."

"But you've got me in your arms." She drifted closer.

They danced through song after song, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but always touching, even in the up-tempo numbers, mostly by ignoring the beat.

When the music turned slow and dreamy, John slowed their steps until they were doing little more than swaying in place. "By now, they've probably taken away our cognac."

"Probably." She closed her eyes as he rubbed the corner of his mouth along her cheek.

"We could go to the bar and get another."

"We could." She slid the tips of her fingers into the hair at his neck, idly playing with the fineness of it.

"We're going to be accused of monopolizing the dance floor if we keep this up."

"I don't care."

"Neither do I." He drew back a little bit and smoothed the hair from her face, something heavy and disturbed in his eyes. "But I think we'd better start talking. It's getting harder to be satisfied just holding you."

"So, what do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me what you've been doing these last two days," he suggested.

"Sorting through my father's things. Thinking.

Remembering. Making decisions. Big and little ones."

"And what big decision have you made?" he mocked lightly.

She took a deep, long breath, then let it out. "To sell the ranch." Saying it made her realize how much she hated the thought of parting with it.