Aspen Gold (9 page)

Of course. His public image was that of a womanizer, an image that had practically become carved in stone over the years. After one disastrous marriage and a dozen abortive affairs, there had been a subtle merging of his private life with his public one. There had been women. A lot of them. Most had wanted nothing from him but the thrill of making it with a big-name star.

Something he'd never really understood.

But he chose not to deal with those facts. "Do you know how many affairs I've had with women I've barely spoken to? Not to mention the ones I've never met?"

"A lot, I imagine." She smiled. "But aren't celebrities required to have overactive libidos? I always heard it was part of the job."

"Maybe it is."

"Speaking of jobs, it's time I drove you back to the studio."

He glanced at his watch, surprised at the time. "Better make that the Beverly Wilshire instead. I have a tennis date in an hour and I need to change first."

"You're staying at a hotel?" Kit eyed him curiously as she retrieved the sack with her trash from the base of the L.

"I have an apartment there. That's where I live."

He walked with her to the car.

"No house in Beverly Hills?" Somehow she'd thought a home would have been one of the first things he would have bought for himself, considering he hadn't had one growing up. That's what she wanted--a home, family, children--someday. At thirty-two, she was fast running out of somedays.

"What would I want with one?" He stepped over the passenger door of the low-slung sports car and lowered himself into the bucket seat. "I have all the room I want at the Wilshire, plus privacy, valet and maid service, twenty-four-hour security, room service, and all the rest of the hotel's amenities."

"True." But she still didn't think it qualified as a home.

"Plus, it drives the paparazzi crazy."

"I'll bet." She flashed him a quick smile as she turned the key in the ignition. "I've heard your photo is worth thirty thousand."

"That depends on who I am with, and how many clothes we have on," John replied and listened to her rich laugh.

The ride to the Beverly Wilshire went much too quickly for him. When she pulled through the black iron gates of the motor entrance, he wasn't ready to let it be the end.

"Have dinner with me tonight." He climbed out and leaned both hands on the door.

"Sorry." Her smile indicated regret.

"I already have other plans."

"You can cancel them."

She shook her head, blond hair sweeping her shoulders. "I don't do that."

Irritated by her refusal, he challenged.

"I thought you wanted the part." He knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute the words were out. He wasn't even sure why he'd said it unless it was a test to see if she really was a woman of scruples.

Her chin came up, the angle proud and a little stiff, her eyes going cool on him. "I want the part. And I'll give my best performance to get it. But that's all." She reached for the gearshift.

"Hey, it was only a joke. A bad one, maybe, but--"

"A very bad one." She shifted the transmission into gear, but kept her foot on the clutch while she gave him a long, considering look. "And you weren't joking, John T. Not really. If that line would have gotten you what you wanted, you would have taken it."

Candor seemed called for. "Probably." So did an apology. "I'm sorry."

"Why? Because it didn't work?" She sighed and smiled rather ruefully. "I have no idea why I like you, John T.," she said. "At times, you're probably not a very nice person, although you could be if you tried." She gunned the motor. "Let my agent know about the screen test," she said and drove away.

The screen test went well. Better than well. When they showed it to Lassiter the following week, John sat slouched in his seat, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, the smoke wafting through the bright light from the projector.

Nolan Walker sat behind him and Lassiter was in the row ahead of him.

By rights, John knew he should be watching Lassiter's reaction, but he couldn't take his eyes off Kit's image on the screen.

Makeup concealed the freckles on her nose and highlighted the deep blue of her eyes. Her blond hair gleamed smooth and sleek; the satin peignoir of lavender ice gave evocative glimpses of her shapely form. The clothes, the makeup, the hair--she was Eden.

More than that, she seemed to fill the screen with her presence, making it impossible not to look at her.

Nolan leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "The camera loves her."

John nodded, aware something mystical and magical had happened in the developing room.

She projected an inner radiance, an aura, that commanded attention.

He watched the scene unfold--the same scene they'd used in the reading. The chemistry between them was there--as he'd instinctively known it would be--the tension between them electrifying the screen, the sexual sparks flying, the passion exploding in the kiss.

The scene had called for him to be rough, and he'd been rough. John watched her fingers curl to rake him, then stay to dig, and remembered that moment of surrender when she'd become suddenly soft and boneless in his arms, the sensation filling him with a tenderness that had overwhelmed, leaving him shaken.

The flicker of empty frames flashed across the screen. "Thanks, Jonesy," Nolan called to the projectionist in the booth. "That's all we need."

The screen went dark and the lights went up.

John started to take a drag on his cigarette and discovered it had burned all the way to the filter. He dropped the butt into the ashtray on the floor by his feet.

"She's good," Lassiter said from his seat in the next row, his attention still focused on the darkened screen.

"She's more than good, J.d.," John said.

"She is Eden."

Lassiter turned in his seat. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Kit Masters." He lit another cigarette, ignoring Lassiter's pointed look. He needed it.

"Never heard of her. What has she done?"

"She's been a regular on one of the soaps for the last three years," Nolan volunteered.

Lassiter digested that information, then nodded thoughtfully. "Some top names have come out of daytime television. What kind of following does she have?"

"Almost none," Nolan admitted with a faint grimace. "She plays a minor character."

"Too bad." Lassiter stood up as if that ended the discussion. John rolled to his feet as well. "She's perfect for the part, J.d."

He didn't argue the point. "Turner's better. She has a name."

"If it's a name you want," Nolan inserted,

"Kit Masters can have one by the time this film is released."

Lassiter eyed him skeptically. "And how do you intend to accomplish that?"

"The old-fashioned way." Nolan smiled.

"We'll hype the hell out of her. Kit Masters: a surprising new star; Kit Masters: John Travis's hot new love interest. Hell, J.d., she was even raised in Aspen, where we're shooting the movie. That's great human-interest stuff. We can milk the hell out of it. And generate enormous interest in the film before it's ever in the can."

"A big publicity buildup," Lassiter mused with a thoughtful nod. "It hasn't been done in years. It might work."

"If it's handled properly, it will," Nolan added, but wisely didn't press.

"Who do you have in mind to handle it?"

Nolan shrugged. "Davis and Dunn are the best in the business."

Lassiter raised both eyebrows at that. "And expensive, too."

"Think what we'd have to pay Turner. We'll save a bundle using Kit Masters in the part.

She has a small-time schmuck for an agent.

We can sign her for fifty grand, easy.

Maybe less."

Lassiter turned and glanced thoughtfully back at the screen. "She was good. In fact ..."

He eyed John, a smile edging the corners of his mouth. "She just might steal the movie from you the way she stole that scene."

John smiled, concealing the twinge of unease.

"More power to her if she can do it." But he knew this film had to be .his hit; he needed it to get back on top. To share the glory was one thing, but to have it stolen from him totally was another.

"It won't happen," Nolan stated. "This film will undoubtedly make a star out of Kit Masters, but it will get John an Oscar." He gave John a long, steady look. "I watched both of you in that scene. The anger, the confusion, the desire, the distrust, it was all there. You outdid yourself, my friend."

John didn't doubt that Nolan meant that.

Honesty had long been the keystone of their relationship. They never blew smoke at each other. Yet he was uncomfortable with the praise and tried to laugh it off.

"In the words of the immortal Duke--

"That'll be the day."" John knew he didn't make the kind of movies that won awards. "Besides--"

"Besides, hell." Nolan chuckled. "You'd give anything to get that little golden statue and you know it."

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to pretend awards didn't mean anything to him--that he only wanted to make solid, entertaining films, films that were financially successful and long-lasting. That was enough.

But it wasn't. He wanted that damned Oscar.

"The role could get you the Oscar, John,"

Lassiter said, then added, "It's too bad you don't have a director who can get you one."

Behind him, John heard Chip arguing with Abe.

"No, I am not doing the interiors in the soundstage. White Lies needs to be filmed entirely on location. All of it," he insisted angrily. "You can fake the look and feel of some places, but not Aspen."

"Okay, Chip." Nolan, ever the diplomat, stepped in. "Cool down. You've made your point."

John turned back to finally join the discussion, forcing Kit out of his mind--for the time being.

The guest bedroom, like the rest of the house, was decorated stunningly in shades of white with a few vivid slashes of blue for accent. Kit decided it was gorgeous and that she'd never want to live in it permanently. Not enough color.

Entering the room, she set her purse on a free-form glass table, discarded her gold coat on an ivory mohair chair, shrugged out of her coral jacket and gave it a toss onto the bed's plump duvet of white velvet, then crossed to the glass doors leading onto a private terrace and a spectacular view of the green and gold mountains beyond. For a moment she simply gazed at the craggy sea of peaks capped with snow, then pulled open the doors and breathed in the sharp mountain air. It was good to be back in Aspen for more than just two or three days

--even if it meant facing Bannon again.

"Is there anything else for you?" The maid waited in the doorway.

Turning, Kit smiled at her. "Nothing I can think of. Thanks, Carla."

With a nod, the woman left. Kit

glanced at the suitcases lined up in a neat row on the cream white rug. She knew she should unpack but--first things first. Unconsciously she squared her shoulders and walked over to the telephone on the bedside table. She picked up the receiver and dialed from memory, then listened to the ringing on the other end while she ran a finger along the filmy edge of the white voile bed hangings, idly exploring their silken texture.

"Hello," a woman answered, somehow managing to make herself heard above the rock music blaring in the background.

"Hello, Maggie. It's me--Kit."

"Who? Wait a minute. I can't hear a thing," Maggie Peters grumbled, then shouted at her teenaged daughter, "Nicole Marie, I told you to turn it down! I'm on the phone."

Hearing a muffled protest in the background, Kit smiled and sat down on the edge of the bed, stretching out the cord and kicking off her shoes, digging her toes into the rug's soft, thick nap.

"Turn it down or you won't go anywhere for a month." The threat worked as the volume went down to a sane level. "Thank you." Maggie's voice reeked with sarcasm, then held a weary sigh. "Sorry. I'm back now. Is that you, Kit?"

"Yes. I'm in Aspen--"

"Then you made it safely. Good," she said and went on without a break. "In case you didn't guess, Nikki's grounded and I'm paying for it.

Lord, it's such a relief to hear my own voice.

I am so sick of those New Kids on the Block I could scream."

"You mean you haven't?" Kit teased her neighbor.

Maggie chuckled, recovering a portion of her sense of humor. "If the truth was told, about every five minutes. Don't ever be the mother of a teenager, Kit. That's how you get gray hairs, deaf, and grumpy," she declared.

"Anyway, I'm glad you called. I stopped by the hospital and saw Elaine this morning."

"How was Mom today?" Kit held the phone a little closer and shifted back on the bed, drawing her legs up to sit cross-legged.

"The same. No, I take that back.

Actually she was having one of her better days.

We talked a little ... about home ... about you.

I fixed her hair for her. I think she liked that."

"I'm sure she did," Kit murmured, her mouth curving in a faint smile that was both wistful and sad. "She was always concerned about her appearance, about looking nice."

"I know." Maggie's voice was just as sober and pensive as hers. "By the way, Dr. Evers stopped in while I was there."

"Did he have anything new to say about Mother?

How he thinks she's doing?"

"No. But he did go on about all the publicity you've been getting. He was very impressed to see your name in the "Out and About in Beverly Hills" column after you and John Travis were seen lunching at Spago's. Who knows? Maybe the good doctor is a closet actor or screenwriter and wants you to put him in touch with the "right" people."

"Or he has a story idea that will make a blockbuster movie. Or he wants an autographed photo of John for his daughter or his wife," Kit said, adding to the list of common requests she'd received from all quarters lately.

A similar thing happened after she had joined the cast of the soap three years ago, but on a much smaller scale. The number had increased in direct proportion to her change in status.

Instead of playing a minor character in a daytime drama, she had a lead role in a major film playing opposite one of the biggest names in Hollywood.