Aspen Gold (6 page)

"Not the rooms here," Nolan explained.

"Abe's pulling his hair out over the lodging for the filming."

"Yeah, it looks like we'll have to put the crew up in Basalt or Glenwood Springs ... if we're lucky," Abe grumbled. "I hope you know what that means in additional transportation costs and travel time."

"You can't put them up in Aspen?" Chip frowned in disbelief.

"Not unless you want to play musical motel rooms. And believe me, you'd have one damned unhappy crew if they had to keep changing rooms every four or five days."

"This conversation sounds like the beginnings of a preproduction meeting to me," Kit said, smiling as she moved past John. "If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to it and catch up with Carla."

John wanted to call her back. Or better yet, go after her. He did neither. Instead he watched her run lightly up the white staircase after the others.

He lit another cigarette and dragged deep on the smoke, irritated to discover she had him tied in knots. He didn't need that. He had enough problems, enough pressure in his life right now.

He had to stop thinking about her and concentrate on the movie.

White Lies had to be a success. He needed it if he hoped to stay on top. After a string of megahits, his last two films had been flops. True, they had made money. But not nearly enough by Hollywood standards, where any film that fails to gross over one hundred million is considered a flop.

If White Lies didn't roll up those kind of numbers at the box office, he'd lose what power his name still had--and he'd lose control over his films. He'd be back in the fray, fighting for roles.

Christ, he might even find himself back in the grind of a television series, like Burt Reynolds.

Grim-lipped, he flicked the ash from his cigarette and listened to the voices of Chip, Nolan, and Abe in the background, the sound of them reminding him of the less-than-subtle pressure he'd been getting from Lassiter on every aspect of this film from casting to his choice of director, from script revisions to the decision to shoot it entirely on location.

Lassiter. John glanced at the stairs.

He'd met Kit at the pseudo-social cocktail party Lassiter had thrown at his Bel Air estate--a party John had been commanded to attend. He'd gone grudgingly. ...

Lights blazed from every window of the sumptuous Italian-style villa, located along one of Bel Air's typically twisting roads, hidden behind high walls and screened by even thicker hedges. John swung the Ferrari around the multitiered fountain in front of the house and stopped at the door. Stepping out, he surrendered the keys to a white-jacketed attendant. Rock music came from the pool area in the rear courtyard, the blare of it filtering above muted voices and laughter. He threw a glance at the villa's Juliet balconies in front and ignored the squeal of tires as the attendant roared off in his Ferrari. With a resigned sigh, he went inside.

Chip latched on to him the minute he walked in. Totally out of his element, he tagged along while John made the obligatory rounds. The party was exactly what he expected. Dress ranged from Saint Laurent to Salvation Army; the French doors to the loggia and courtyard beyond were open wide, allowing the warm night air and the party guests to circulate freely; the driving drumbeat from the rock band by the pool underlay the talk and the laughter, the falsely hearty greetings, and the bitchy whispers.

He found Nolan Walker at the bar. The three of them took their drinks and moved off to a relatively quiet corner in the spacious living room.

"I think Lassiter must have dumped a gallon of Georgio in the pool." Nolan waved a hand at the heavily scented breeze wafting through the French doors. "That stuff gives me a headache."

"How soon can we leave?" Chip grumbled.

John had been trying to calculate that himself.

"Not yet." He spotted Lassiter moving toward them, working the crowd like a veteran politician. "Here comes J.d."

At sixty, J.d. Lassiter was tall and trim. He had a yachtsman's tan and a full head of dark hair, clipped close and neat with only a tracing of silver. As a young man he'd taken his family's small pharmaceutical company and turned it into one of the largest in the industry. From that, he moved into insurance, then computers, publishing, communications, oil, real estate, until he had more than one hundred companies under the Lasco umbrella, including Olympic Pictures.

His detractors called him relentless, ruthless, dictatorial, cunning, and egotistical; his admirers claimed he was honest, benevolent, philanthropic, and charming. John suspected the truth was all of the above--depending on the situation and circumstance.

"I'm glad I found the three of you together."

J.d. Lassiter stopped before them, his smile wide, his eyes cool. "Have you cast the female lead yet?"

"We're still auditioning," John replied evenly. "We haven't found the right actress for the part yet, but we will." Assuming she existed other than in Chip's mind.

"I have some good news for you," Lassiter announced.

"We could use some." He lifted his drink, toasting the comment.

"Kathleen Turner will be available through March

--and she likes the script. We should be able to sign her up for--"

"In what part?" Chip frowned.

"The lead, of course."

"She can't play Eden." Chip shook his head in firm rejection. "She isn't right for the part."

"Not right for the part?!" The words practically exploded from Lassiter. "We're talking about Kathleen Turner, for God's sake."

"I don't care if you're talking about Kathleen Turner or the Queen of Sheba. She isn't right for the part," Chip insisted stubbornly.

"Eden is a woman of mystery, of secrets and deep sensuality. We need an unknown for this role--not some actress the public has seen in a half dozen other roles, including feeding her husband [email protected]è made from the liver of his pet dog."

"An unknown? You can have Kathleen Turner and you want an unknown?" Lassiter challenged, then swung toward John. "Have you explained the facts of life to him, Travis?"

"I've tried."

"You'd better try again. And while you're at it, remind him this is not one of his artsy-fartsy films." He took a step to leave, then stopped and pointed a finger at Chip, stabbing the air. "You have two weeks to find your Scarlet, then I'm signing Turner." He walked off.

"He can't do that," Chip muttered, red from the neck up. "He has no right--"

"You're wrong, Chip. He has fifty million of them." John downed a hefty swallow of Scotch.

Two years ago no one would have dared to issue an ultimatum like that to him, or to criticize his director. Today he had to stand there and take it.

The knowledge stuck in his throat and the Scotch didn't dislodge it.

Chip shoved his drink glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and stalked off. John didn't try to stop him.

"There's no business like the movie business, is there?" Nolan swirled the cubes in his glass. "At least now I remember why I never liked tightrope acts when I was a kid."

"Especially the ones that don't have nets."

"Right." Nolan took a sip. "Are you about ready to leave?"

"I'll be damned if I'll go now," John stated. "Lassiter wanted me here and I'm staying."

Nolan chuckled. "I like your style, Travis." He clinked his glass against John's. "I truly do."

Smiling, John took another drink of his Scotch. Over the rim of the glass, he saw her walk in--a mane of honey blond hair flowing past her shoulders, a gold chain interspliced with pearls and crystals around her neck, a white silk blouse and pleated trousers draping her slim figure. She crossed the grand gallery with an easy and breezy stride, her heels clicking on the highly polished black granite floor. She scooped a glass of champagne off the tray of a waiter and made a spinning turn that was natural and graceful. He briefly wondered whose wife or lover she was. She had the look of the typical blond and beautiful hangers-on, without the talent or skill to make it in the business where people attached themselves to someone important so they could be part of the scene.

She stopped and planted a kiss on the cheek of a young male actor, starring in his first television series, an actor touted to be this season's hunk.

"... what do you think?"

John turned back to Nolan. "Sorry, I missed that. What do I think about what?"

"Our potential Scarlet over there."

"Which one?"

"The blonde who just walked in."

"She's an actress?" John took another look, this time watching for the self-conscious gestures, the affected poses, the body language that said "Notice me"--language used by every actress he'd ever known. But there was no indication, not even subtly, that she was "on." In fact he had yet to catch her looking around the room to see who was there. Curious, he thought, and wondered if she was that green or that confident.

"Who is she?"

"Her name's Kit Masters. I glanced through her bio this afternoon. She's scheduled to read for us sometime next week." Nolan rattled the cubes in his glass. "For a change she looks like her photo."

"Any experience?" He reached for a cigarette, then remembered Lassiter didn't allow smoking and stuffed his hand in his pocket.

"The usual." Nolan shrugged. "A string of commercials, bit parts in some bad B movies, a couple of horror flicks for Corman, and a few pilots the networks never picked up."

It was more than he'd expected. "How long has she been at it?" John continued to study her. She looked relaxed, natural, her manner fresh and free. Above the din of voices, he heard her laugh, not the sexy, throaty sound most actresses cultivated, but a laugh that was sunny and honest.

"I'm not sure. I think her credits went back about eight years."

"That long." If she had any talent at all, she should have made it by now. John decided she was another one of those who came to Hollywood believing that being blond and beautiful was enough.

"Do you think she can play Eden?" Nolan smiled even as he asked the question.

"With that face?" John gave a slow shake of his head. Her face was too open, too easily read. There was no mystery there, no hint of dark secrets, no smoldering sexuality, none of the things that were the core of Eden's character.

"I wonder why she isn't over here buttering you up and making her bid for the part," Nolan murmured curiously.

"Let's find out." John deposited his drink glass on a lacquered side table and started across the room.

The young actor spotted them first, and immediately stood a little straighter, unconsciously flexing his shoulder muscles in an attempt to assert his own importance.

"Hello, Mike." Nolan extended a hand in greeting. "We wanted to stop by and congratulate you on your new series."

"I hear it's a winner," John lied.

"Thanks." The actor preened a little and tried not to look too flattered. "Hopefully it will do for my career what Vegas Heat did for yours," he said, referring to the television series that had launched John Travis to stardom fourteen years ago.

"It can happen," he said, then let his glance stray to the blonde, silently prompting an introduction.

Taking the cue, the actor laid a hand on her shoulder. "Have you met Kit Masters? She and I go back a few years. We did a pilot together for Paramount."

"Miss Masters." He inclined his head to her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr.

Travis." Kit lifted her champagne glass in acknowledgment, absently noting that John Travis in the flesh was not that much different from his screen image of a hard, polished diamond who didn't mind playing it rough. He exuded an aura that was a little aloof, a little arrogant, and devastatingly charming. She decided it was the fascinating bones and angles in his face, on the lean side and smoothly chiseled, with the merest suggestion of creases in his cheeks, nothing about it too perfect, nothing too handsome. "I've admired your work in films for years. You're very good."

It was truth, not flattery, although his acting ability had received little recognition within the industry. In the tradition of Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Cary Grant, and more recently Paul Newman and Clint Eastwood, he was a behavioral actor, skillfully

absorbing each role into his own persona and shaping the mannerisms, voice, and intelligence to blend with his own--and doing it all so smoothly that most didn't see it as acting but as simply playing himself. Kit didn't agree.

"Thank you." John paused a beat, expecting her to continue her campaign of flattery. When she didn't, he gestured to Nolan. "Nolan Walker. He heads up my production company."

"Which is another way of saying, I do the lion's share of the work." He bowed over her hand.

"Ms. Masters."

"I've seen your name on the credits, Mr.

Walker."

"That's some consolation."

"I'm glad." There was laughter in her eyes, and intelligence, too. They were an extraordinary color, John noticed, a deep shimmering blue--like a high mountain lake.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your work, Miss Masters," John said, giving her another opening.

"Kit plays Marilee in the soap Winds of Destiny," the actor inserted, wanting back into the conversation.

Kit observed the flicker of disdain in that lean face, a reaction she'd encountered many times. She could be either amused or offended; as usual, she chose to be amused. "I never guessed you were a snob, Mr. Travis."

Nolan Walker choked on his drink and quickly retreated, coughing into his handkerchief. "Excuse me, I think I see my agent," the actor mumbled and escaped as well.

Alone with her, John tried to figure out whether this was some new tactic. She'd definitely gotten his attention. He couldn't make up his mind if he was irritated or intrigued. He certainly wasn't bored.

"I'm not exactly a snob, Miss Masters."

"Then what are you, exactly? Never mind."

She laughed and waved off the question. "Maybe we'd better talk about something else. Did you hear that the Cubs won today?" She sipped her champagne. "The Cubs won today. I like saying it." She glanced at him. "I'll bet the Dodgers are your team."