Bad Attitude

“G
ET ME A COFFEE
and a loaded gun!” Peter Ketteridge demanded.

No one answered. The early-morning silence of the Ketteridge Talent Agency unnerved him. He threw the copy of the
International Intruder
onto his lacquer-topped desk, along with his extrathin, leather briefcase, and cursed. Damn! Five years of hard work as the head of his own agency and now this!

He tapped the cordless headset that was the lifeline of his business and noted the time with a glance at his vintage watch. No one was due at the agency for another half hour.

Taking off his round glasses, he unbuttoned the jacket of his broad-shouldered suit, slouched in his chair and loosened his tie, all the while glaring at the image of the blue-eyed, fair-haired, pain in the butt of a client that smiled at him from the tabloid's front page. Instead of ducking or scowling like most paparazzi-shy, sensible celebrities, Mitch had smiled directly at the camera.

Peter scanned the copy once again, hoping he'd overreacted.

He hadn't.

Dealing with creative people was a double-edged sword. It was never boring, but it was never safe. Artists often behaved like children. He understood that their ability to contact the inner child was the source of their talent. Still, too often he felt like a baby-sitter instead of an agent.

This time I'm really going to kill him.

Peter couldn't help but compare Mitch to himself. He knew he had a polished, urbane style, but had to admit that his features were nondescript. Everything he'd acquired he owed to his tremendous drive and effort, everything from success in his career to women.

His client, on the other hand, had only to wait for those same things to drop into his lap as if they were his due. Everything came too easily to him.

To be fair, Peter had to admit Mitch didn't exactly trade on his incredible charisma. Like the sun—it just was.

It was hard not to love the guy. Harder still not to hate him.

For the past five years Mitch Marlow had been the reigning heartthrob of the silver screen, fulfilling female fantasies by playing rebellious charmers. He was James Dean reborn, with a decidedly nineties spin.

Peter had practically built his agency on Mitch Marlow. In the early days the two of them had been quite a team. Now Mitch was only one of the many important clients the Ketteridge Agency represented—this year's Academy Award-Winning director, a screen-writing team responsible for a current hit television series, and a multitalented international rock star, as well as the rock
star's wife, who was writing a cookbook of the band's favorite recipes.

But the agency's specialty remained the talent in front of the camera.

It had been some time since Peter involved himself with the day-to-day routine of his client's welfare. He'd learned to delegate all but the most important matters to his staff. After all, his busy schedule wouldn't allow him to personally handle the problem Mitch Marlow had become.

Peter could mark the date on the calendar the trouble had started—the day, eight months earlier, when Mitch's twin brother had been killed in a racing accident. Since then, Mitch's exploits had made him the darling of the tabloids. But there were others who whispered that Mitch Marlow was hell-bent on a path of self-destruction.

On this particular morning Peter was inclined to believe they were right.

Matthew's death had put Mitch into a tailspin.

His brother's death had been the first negative in Mitch's charmed existence, the first thing he couldn't change. Couldn't, in fact, seem to get through at all.

Reaching for his date book, Peter flipped through the appointments listed for the week, then glanced around his sleek office at the movie posters, framed sheet music, signed photographs and awards, mementos of his clients' successes—and his own.

The Ketteridge Agency was a small talent agency, not quite in the top league, yet. Though he was genuinely fond of Mitch and worried that he might harm himself, Peter's first concern had to be for his business. The press Mitch was generating was not going to help Ketteridge break into the closed circle of the big four.

Until now he had indulged his client's strange method of grieving. But when Mitch started showing up in his birthday suit on the cover of a national tabloid—when it most definitely wasn't his birthday—it was time for action.

Peter knew he couldn't allow Mitch to throw away the career they had both worked so hard on. He needed to send someone to the movie set in the Midwest, someone the star couldn't charm or influence.

But whom?

Peter looked up at the sound of footsteps.

“Mr. Ketteridge, this just came for …” Molly Hill, the ambitious, second-year agent trainee who always came in early, stood in the doorway of his private office, waving an express mail envelope in her right hand.

“Where's my coffee?” he wanted to know.

“I don't do coffee.”

“The loaded gun, then … ?”

“It would be a violation of my parole.”

If Peter Ketteridge could have done so, he would have rubbed his hands together with glee. Providence had intervened.

“Come in and sit down. Ms. Molly Hill … isn't it?” he said, smiling expansively as he took the express mail envelope from her, then propped his expensive, glove-soft leather loafers on his desk.

She took a seat, and he studied her covertly while he slid the contract from the envelope.

Unlike many of the young agent trainees, she didn't use her position at the agency to mine the pool of good-looking amateur talent for dates. Instead she showed up at industry functions, a job requirement, with men who were more brain than brawn.

Molly Hill was acerbic, ambitious and by today's standards plumpish. She just might be the right candidate for the job of rescuing Mitch Marlow from himself. She evidently liked a man who used his brain, something Mitch Marlow hadn't been doing since his twin's death.

Tossing aside the contract, Peter finally made eye contact with her.

She didn't look away, and that annoyed him slightly; she wasn't as easily intimidated as most people were. But this was a quality that would enable her to handle Mitch Marlow.

Despite the early hour, the fax machine came to life, startling both of them. Rising to take the message, Peter crossed the office and closed the door.

“Just how badly do you want to be an agent, Molly?” he asked on the way back to his seat.

Had her spine really stiffened, he wondered, or had it been his imagination?

“Excuse me?” Molly inquired, clearing her throat and crossing her arms in front of her. She shifted her body, trying to sit with some decorum in the low-slung, black leather chair, which must have been chosen for its museum-quality appearance rather than its function.

“It's a simple enough question. I have a proposition for you, Ms. Hill,” Peter explained, switching back to the more formal address so she wouldn't get the wrong idea.

She waited. Silence once again surrounded them now that the fax was quiet.

“Yes … well,” he continued, uncomfortable with the realization that she could unnerve him. “To put it bluntly, Ms. Hill, the agency has a client who needs to have … well, he needs to have a knot jerked in his tail.”

Molly followed the direction of Peter Ketteridge's gaze to the tabloid lying on his desk. “Mitch Marlow,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Exactly. He needs a keeper, and that's where you come in,” Peter said, absently doodling a beard and glasses on his client's picture with his fat, black, gold-trimmed pen. He stopped in midstroke when he realized he was drawing on a loincloth, as well.

“Right,” Molly said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I'm sure Mitch Marlow is just going to allow me to waltz into his life and derail his exhilarating ride on the suicide express.”

“He doesn't have any choice in the matter. The studio brass insist the agency send a keeper for the wrap of the film to protect their investment.” He was certain they would be on the phone to him as soon as they saw the cover of this paper.

“You've talked with Mitch Marlow about this already, then, and he's agreed to it?” Molly asked, doubt tinging her words.

“No, but I will,” Peter said, steeping his fingers and peering at her over them. “Regardless, he doesn't have any say in the matter.”

“I still think I'll pass.”

“Why?”

“I'm not masochistic enough to go to the Midwest
and
deal with Mitch Marlow.”

Peter studied her. She was a piece of work, all right. Any other female agent would offer to pay him to “deal with” Mitch Marlow! They'd even go to the dreaded Midwest. He tapped his pen on the desk while he considered her opposition. Once again, he summoned up his expansive smile. “Suppose I sweeten the pot ….”

She just looked at him. “There aren't enough brownies in the world ….”

“How about brownie points?” he countered.

“What's the deal?” she asked, her green eyes narrow with suspicion.

“You agree to the assignment, and there's a promotion to full-fledged agent in it for you when you succeed.” No matter what Mitch's reputation, Peter knew exactly how tempting his offer was. It would shave two years off her apprenticeship.

Molly slowly uncrossed her arms. “What—what is it you want me to do exactly?”

Peter swallowed his smile. Yeah, he was good, all right. Negotiating was his ball game—hell, he owned the ballpark. Little Ms. Hill was not nearly as clever as she thought. She could have gotten more.

If she handled Mitch Marlow … he won. If she didn't … he still won.

He almost wished he could be there when her ambition came up against Mitch's attitude. “In a nutshell, I want you to baby-sit Mitch. He isn't to be out of your sight until the completion of the film.”

“Baby-sit him ….”

Peter nodded.

“The studio brass are livid, because the film is way over budget and weeks past its deadline, all due to Mitch's reckless antics. Even the insurance company is threatening to cut him loose.”

Peter laid down his pen and fastened Molly with an intent stare. “Frankly, I don't care how you go about accomplishing it, Ms. Hill, but until this film is wrapped, I don't want to see Mitch Marlow's face.” He glanced down and grimaced. “Nor do I want to see any other part of him on the cover of a tabloid or hear about one more hair-raising stunt….Understand?”

Molly nodded.

“Can I see that?” she asked, pointing to the paper on his desk.

He pushed the trash journalism toward her.

As she tilted her head to read, the scent of fresh strawberries wafted toward him, her unruly mass of red curls swinging forward. A tiny sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her perfect nose was noticeable only because of the paleness of her almost translucent complexion.

“Well?” he asked when she looked up from scanning the copy. “How about it? Think you can manage to turn Mitch around? I'm tired of seeing the agency's name in the tabloids.”

“I can try.”

“That's not good enough.”

“All right, I can do it, okay?” Molly said, rolling her eyes heavenward. She stood. “I want double my current salary and my elevation to full agent status if I succeed, and I want it in writing. Oh, and don't be surprised to see a whip and chair listed on my expense account.”

“Agreed,” Peter said, offering her his hand.

“When do I start?” she asked.

“Right now. Go on back to your place and pack. Use your company credit card for whatever whips and chains you might happen to need.”

“That's whip and chair,” Molly corrected.

Peter raised an elegant eyebrow. “Indeed. Then you haven't been keeping up with the tabloids. Well, at any rate, I'll have an airplane ticket awaiting you at the counter when you arrive at the airport.”

Molly nodded, moved away and was almost at the door when she hesitated, turned and asked, “Why me?”

“Because I trust you not to get involved in a physical relationship. And because I want to know just how badly you want to be an agent. Fail at this, and there won't be a second chance.”

“Don't worry. I plan to make Mitch Marlow want to live.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“Massage his ego. What else?”

“See that you keep the massaging to his ego … ” Peter mumbled beneath his breath “ … and nothing else.”

M
OLLY CONSIDERED
the clothing she'd pulled randomly from her closet to pack for her trip to Saint Louis.

The Midwest. Missouri, to be exact. How lucky could she get!

Didn't dragons still roam there? No matter; she wasn't their type. They preferred virgins, if she recalled her history lessons correctly.

Picking up a suitcase, she flung it onto the bed and flipped open the lock. Was Peter so sure she wasn't the type to get involved in a
merely
physical relationship just because she wasn't a size two?

Or was it because she was an ambitious career woman, unlike the blond socialite Mitch had been frolicking with on the cover of the supermarket tabloid?

Then again, there was always the little matter of her cutting wit. That got her into trouble more often than it helped her out.

Whom was she kidding? He'd been referring to her tendency to be plump. Looking at the pair of baggy jeans in her hands, she tossed them aside and packed her second-skin, Lycra separates: a paprika crop top and matching, lace-trimmed capri leggings.

She preferred the word “voluptuous.”

After all, she was only ten pounds or so heavier than the weight charts in popular women's magazines recommended as ideal for her five-foot, six inch frame. Charts, she was certain, made up by sadists who hated women with curves. As far as she was concerned, any man who wanted a woman with a body harder than his own was suspect.