Aspen Gold (4 page)

even if you do it behind his back."

"If he was here, I'd do it to his face."

"Careful, Chip," John Travis cautioned. "You're not exactly J.d.'s favorite person."

His head came around at that, the thick lenses in his glasses magnifying the glaring look of his brown eyes. "And he's not mine. That makes us even."

"Not quite." John's face was utterly smooth, but there was a touch of firmness in his tone. "It's still his fifty million that's funding the picture and his company that will be distributing the film."

"And you can bet he never lets anyone forget it," Chip muttered.

John smiled somewhat grimly. "Considering you were born without a filter between your brain and your mouth, do us all a favor, Chip, and keep your mouth shut around Lassiter tonight."

The resistance went out of him and he hung his head like a chastised schoolboy. "I'll try, John," he said. "So help me God, I'll try. But the man doesn't know a good movie from a bad one--let alone what makes a good script."

Two weeks ago Kit had heard a vague rumor that J.d. Lassiter was demanding some script changes. Was that what Chip was upset about? She knew Chip planned to do some fine-tuning on the screenplay as well as scout locations for the film while he was here in Aspen.

Was Lassiter demanding more than that?

A man dressed in jeans and a windbreaker fastened at the waist approached the plane, his tanned, All-American face wreathed in a smile, his eyes singling out John Travis.

"Welcome back to Aspen, Mr. Travis.

It's good to see you again."

"Thanks, Dan." He stepped forward and shook hands with him, then turned back to the group, explaining, "This is Dan Somers. He handles security for me in Aspen. Dan and a couple of his men will be on hand tonight to make sure the fans--

and the fanatics--stay at a safe distance."

Kit glanced at the bodyguard, aware that John Travis never made public appearances without at least one at his side. Three years ago he'd had his ribs broken after he'd been attacked at a premiere by a man wielding a baseball bat, a man who had stalked him for months. That, combined with the rash of attacks on other celebrities by deranged fans in recent years, had served to double his already heightened sense of caution.

Fame and fear had become almost synonymous; a sign of the times, Kit decided, a little soberly.

"Bert's bringing the limo up." Dan Somers motioned at the stretch Lincoln driving onto the concrete apron. "As soon as I check on your luggage, we'll be ready to roll."

"Sounds good."

With a saluting wave, the bodyguard moved toward the rear of the aircraft where two of the ground crew were off-loading their bags.

"I thought Abe and Nolan were going to meet us when we landed." Chip frowned absently. "I wanted to go over the preliminary shooting schedule with them. Nolan's got it way too tight."

"They probably got held up at the house." The limo came to a stop well clear of the aircraft. Taking Kit's arm, John guided her toward the car.

"Wait a sec, Kit," Maury called.

Looking back, Kit saw Maury, his short legs quick-stepping to catch up with them. She disengaged herself from John's hand. "We'll be right there," she promised, then turned to wait for Maury.

He halted in front of her. Forced by his short stature to look up to nearly everyone, including Kit, Maury Rose had long ago adopted a tilt to his head that was blatantly aggressive, lifting his big, hooked nose in the air and allowing his deep-set eyes to fix their gaze on the person before him. It was that great beak of a nose combined with his New York accent and his tightfisted way with a dollar that had prompted people to believe he was Jewish.

Some years ago, he'd admitted to Kit that he was no more Jewish than Billy Graham.

But shortly after coming to Hollywood, he'd discovered that actors liked the idea of their agent being Jewish, believing it meant he would bargain harder to get them a good deal. So, operating on P. T. Barnum's adage of "Give the people what they want," he'd stopped denying he was Jewish and started closing his office on Yom Kippur and Hanukkah, accepting invitations to bar mitzvahs for studio executives' and producers' sons, and eating his eggs and bacon at home and ordering lox and bagels in restaurants.

Without question, Maury Rose belonged in Hollywood.

"What is it, Maury?" Kit asked, her curiosity aroused by the determined expression he wore.

"It's about this bash tonight." He tucked his arm inside hers and headed in the general direction of the limo, his pace deliberately unhurried. "I want you to stay glued to Travis from the time you leave the house until you get back."

"Don't you think that could get a little awkward?

Especially if he asks some other woman to dance or goes to the men's room?" she countered with a perfectly straight face.

"Be serious, Kit."

"Why?" She grinned. "You're serious enough for both of us." She could tell he was not amused.

"Okay, I'm serious. You want me to be John's Siamese twin tonight."

"I do. W is covering the party tonight as well as P. If anybody takes a picture of Travis, I want you in the shot. Hang all over him if you have to, but make sure you're close enough that they can't crop you out."

"Right." She nodded, feeling more and more like a veteran of the publicity game--and not particularly liking it.

"Good." Maury rushed on, "Now, this Davis woman's getting some other interviews lined up for you. Mostly local stuff.

"Hometown girl makes good"--that sort of thing. We'll go over them once they're firmed up."

Kit sighed inwardly. She'd hoped that after tonight's charity benefit, she'd get a respite from all the interviews and photo sessions--at least for a few weeks until the filming actually started. The publicity blitz had started a month ago when she'd signed the contract to play the role of Eden in White Lies. At first, all the media attention had been fun and exciting. Now the pleasure had begun to wane. She wanted a break from it, but it seemed that wasn't to be.

John Travis stood beside the limo, watching their slow approach and feeling again an old run of irritation for that squat toad of an agent Maury Rose. A sound like a sigh came from Paula Grant. She was watching the pair, too.

Briefly she met his glance. "Why did he come along with us? I've never been clear on the reason."

"The next time you're close to him, take a deep breath," he suggested, cloaking his contempt of the man in amused disdain. "You'll smell two things: greed and fear. Kit is his ticket to the big time and the big money and he's terrified she'll dump him." He paused, then added, "I wish she would."

"He's been her agent from the very beginning." The slight lift of her shoulders seemed to indicate that settled the issue, but he could tell by her expression that Paula didn't disagree with him.

"You're Kit's friend. Convince her she needs to get rid of him and sign with some high-powered agency like Creative Artists or William Morris, one that can do her some good."

"I'd be wasting my breath. Kit's too loyal." Her smile turned wry and a little sad when she looked at him. "I believed in such things once. Didn't you?"

"I don't remember," he replied a little stiffly.

"Yeah, it's been that long ago for me, too."

She turned and climbed into the limo.

Dan Somers came striding across the tarmac, arriving at the limo simultaneously with Kit and Maury. "Everything's taken care of," he said.

"Ready?"

"Ready," John confirmed and offered an assisting hand to Kit as she slipped into the limousine.

The cattle milled in a tight circle, a black mass of bawling confusion after the silence of their run. Bannon reined the buckskin in alongside the lank and weathered Hank Gibbs.

"How many got away into the trees, Hank?"

Bannon sat straight-legged in the saddle, one arm full length and the other lifted slightly with the reins. The afternoon sun gave his face a deep bronze cast and the shaggy edges of his hair showed a dark brown beneath his faded hat.

Hank's left cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco. He turned and spat a stream of yellow juice at the ground before answering. "Near as I can figure, about a dozen."

Bannon nodded. That had been his guess, too. "We'll come back tomorrow and round them up.

Take the point, Hank. Let's get this herd lined out for home."

"Whatever you say, boss." Hank swung the sock-legged sorrel away from Bannon and pointed it toward the now-distant gate.

Once Hank was positioned between the herd and the gate, Bannon signaled to the other riders.

Within minutes, the crossbred Angus and Hereford cows were strung in a loose line with Hank in the lead, a tobacco-chewing pied piper.

This time the cattle didn't have a chance to balk at the gate. Hank looped his rope around the neck of the lead cow and dragged it through. The rest followed as docile as shorn lambs. Bannon brought up the rear and closed the gate when the last one was through.

His daughter, Laura, waited for him on her flashy black-and-white pinto. She wore a boy's denim work jacket and a pair of snug jeans with the legs tucked inside small cowboy boots. Her black hair was plaited in a single braid down her back, the headset to her pocket tape player dangling forgotten around her neck.

"That was a real stampede, wasn't it, Dad?"

Her gray eyes still held the excitement of it.

"It was a real one, all right," he confirmed with a half smile. Together they moved after the herd, putting their horses to a shuffling trot to catch up with it.

"It was awesome," Laura declared, then bit her lower lip in sudden delight. "I can hardly wait to tell Buffy. She's gonna die when she hears about it."

Bannon watched her giggle, seeing the liveliness in her eyes and the growing beauty in her face. Both came from her mother. It was something Bannon had watched for through the years. And yet, as much as he'd expected it, it was still unsettling to see in her the image of a woman who'd been dead for nine years. It was as if his wife--the beautiful and tempestuous Diana--was reaching out from the grave to remind him of that one brief, beautiful ... and miserable year of their marriage.

"The Pie almost came unglued when the plane buzzed us. It was all I could do to hold him and keep him from bolting for the trees," Laura said, then reached forward and gave the pinto's arched neck a pat. "But you settled down for me right away, didn't you, boy?"

"He's a good horse." For all the piebald's showy color and showy ways, the gelding had a calm and steady disposition, making him the ideal mount for a young girl.

"He's the best," Laura replied matter-of-factly.

Old Tom Bannon caught that last statement as they joined him at the drag. "Who's the best?"

"The Pie, of course," she answered blithely.

"Humph." He cast a critical horseman's eye over the pinto's lathered sides and neck. "He's all sand and no bottom," he announced, picking out the animal's one major fault--lack of endurance. "Now, you take that buckskin your father's riding, he can go all day and still be as fresh at the end of it as when he started."

"Gramps, that's not fair."

"Fair or not, it's the truth."

She knew better than to argue. Instead she changed the subject. "Did you see the plane, Dad?" She tipped her head back to look at the sky, her expression all soft and dreamy.

"Who do you think was in it?"

"Fools, that's who."

"Gramps." She flashed him an exasperated look, then resumed her idle musing. "Do you suppose it was Cher? Or maybe Melanie and Don Johnson? Or John Travis? Or

that guy who played the Joker in Batman?"

"Jack Nicholson," Bannon supplied the actor's name, certain she'd been closer to the mark when she'd mentioned John Travis. And certain as well that Kit had been onboard with him, making a triumphant return as the co-star of Travis's new film to be shot in Aspen. No one deserved success more than Kit. Bannon was glad for her. Yet the thought of her brought a nagging feeling of guilt and regret.

"I wish I was going to the party at the Jerome with you tonight," Laura said with a sigh. "It would be neat to see all the stars."

Bannon smiled at the wistfulness in her voice. "Look at it this way, Laura, in a few more years you'll be old enough to be my date."

"Get real, Dad." She threw him a sidelong look of admonishment. "Girls don't date their fathers."

"My mistake." He laughed and gave the front of her hat brim a tug, pulling it low on her forehead. She pushed her hat back to its former angle and laughed with him, making the moment something special between father and daughter, something to be stored away and remembered at a faraway time.

The shared laughter left a soft curve to his mouth as he cast a measuring glance at the sun, gauging the time by its position in the sky. "If we don't get these cattle moving, your granddad and I are going to be late for the party, and you're going to be late for supper with Buffy."

Immediately the three of them picked up the pace, pressing the ambling beasts in front of them into a trot.

"How many cows got away in the trees?"

Old Tom wanted to know.

"About a dozen." Bannon slapped his coiled rope at a lagging cow that briefly considered making a break for it. "I thought we'd get them tomorrow."

"But that's Sunday, Dad," Laura protested. "Our youth choir is going to sing at church and I have a solo. Aunt Sondra's coming and everything. You've got to be there. We've been practicing for weeks and weeks."

"We can't miss that, can we?" he murmured and winked at his father. "Do you think we can leave them till after church?"

"I don't know." Old Tom pretended to give the matter serious consideration. "They could get so lost we'll never find them."

Laura knew she was being teased. "You can't fool me. I know you'll be there tomorrow," she said with complete conviction, then touched a heel to the pinto and sent it cantering ahead to assume a position on the flank.

Bannon watched her for a moment, then shook his head in bemusement. "I think she has our number."

Old Tom grunted an acknowledgment, then both men lapsed into silence. For a time Old Tom watched the black-rumped cows in front of them, their chunky hips rising and falling in rhythm with their shuffling gaits. But the old roan knew the job and the trail as well as he did. Soon Old Tom let his age-mottled hands settle onto the saddle horn and let his attention wander.