in the hope of catching a killer shot. The car moved off.
‘You’re so patient with them,’ Chloe said, tying her hair back. ‘I can never be arsed.’
‘’S no big deal.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Come on, I’ve got the house to myself this afternoon.’
Nate brightened. He was a little worn out after a marathon bedroom session that morning, but he’d never been able to resist Chloe. ‘Sounds good, babe.’
Chloe gazed across at her boyfriend and felt her heart swell. Nate Reid was her hero–the night they’d met was proof of that.
So what if she caught him checking out other girls from time to time, it didn’t matter. It was her he was committed to and that was the important thing. Right? Relationships required work–she knew that from her own experience. You couldn’t just give up if you loved someone. And she loved Nate Reid. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.
Los Angeles
The man on top of Lana Falcon let out a low groan as he slipped a hand between her legs. She could feel his growing hardness, hot and thick against her skin. At the sudden quickening of his breath, a rhythm she knew so well, she could tell he was desperate to be inside her. ‘I want you now,’ he whispered hoarsely, his hand diving under her ass and pulling her up to meet him. Only when his fingers found the gusset of her modesty underwear and he momentarily slipped himself in did she bite down hard on his bottom lip.
‘Ow!’ Parker Troy pulled back, a hurt expression on his face.
‘Cut!’ the director called, not noticing. ‘Lana, that was perfect. Real authentic. It’s a wrap, people.’
Lana raised her arm and the wardrobe girl came rushing over, covering her with a gown. The crew made a polite attempt not to notice her knock-out body as she shrugged on the thin material. She had requested a closed set–as she did with all topless scenes–but even so every last one of the guys was fighting down a raging hard-on.
‘That was excellent,’ said Sam Lucas, striding over. The director was a rotund, shiny-headed bald man in his late fifties with thin, very round glasses. ‘You’re bringing something exceptional to this role–that was a hard scene to get right.’
It was certainly hard, Lana thought. She tried not to notice that Sam’s eyes, disconcertingly enlarged behind the lenses of his glasses, kept darting to her breasts. Gritting her teeth, she decided to forgive the transgression–Sam was one of the industry’s die-hard movie elite and thousands of actresses would kill to be in her position. Eastern Sky, a historical romance set in 1920s China and Sam’s directorial comeback, could earn her an Award.
‘Thanks, Sam,’ she said, wanting to get dressed. ‘It means a lot to have your support.’ When he didn’t respond she asked, ‘How are the dailies?’
‘Good,’ said Sam, meeting her eyes momentarily before they slid back to the main attraction. ‘Real good.’
Lana folded her arms, mortified that her nipples were standing to attention. Couldn’t they make these gowns a bit more substantial? She couldn’t tell if it was because she was under scrutiny or whether she was still hot from Parker’s touch, but whatever it was, Sam Lucas was drinking it in. He might as well be licking his lips for all his discretion.
‘Well, I’ll, uh, be with you first thing,’ she said hurriedly, relieved to see the wardrobe girl returning with a clipboard and an efficient smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Sam, back to business. ‘Call-time nine o’clock.’ And he headed off in the direction of his assistant.
Ten years in this town and she still wasn’t used to it. Men who thought she owed them something, thought her body was a kind of recompense. She’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.
‘Can I get you anything, Ms Falcon?’ the girl asked, noticing Lana’s anxious expression.
‘Thanks, I’m OK.’ Lana gave a friendly smile as they made their way back to base camp. It saddened her to think the girl was too afraid to continue the conversation, as if Lana belonged now to a world in which people couldn’t converse without fear of tripping up. Her marriage to Cole Steel was lonely. She missed friendship, especially the easy intimacy that women shared. It was why she had embarked on the reckless affair with Parker Troy: she craved the warmth.
Lana stole a quick glance over her shoulder and caught her co-star chatting to crew, his dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He had a slightly pug nose and his jaw was chunky in a Matt Damon-type way. At twenty, he was younger than Lana and somewhat airheaded, but she wasn’t in it for the conversation. This was a mindless, red-hot, dangerous romance–barely a month old–and one she had to conceal from her husband at all costs. Parker had been foolish, getting carried away on set today: never mind that she was fucking him in her own time–when they were filming it had to be on her terms. All it took was one witness to bring the whole thing crashing down, and nobody would pay a higher price than her.
At her trailer Lana showered, changed into sweat pants and drank a litre of water. She checked her watch, wondering if Parker would call. Come on, baby, she thought, I’ve got pick-up in five. When her cell buzzed, she snatched it up.
It was Rita Clay, her agent. Rita was legendary in Hollywood, a tall, strikingly attractive black woman in her late thirties and one of LA’s top ball-breakers.
‘Hey, movie star, how was the shoot?’
Lana ran a hand through her hair. It was good to hear a friendly voice that told it like it was. On a sea of bullshit, Rita was one who managed to stay afloat. ‘Good. What’s up?’
‘Come to lunch.’
‘I’ll have to check my schedule—’
‘It’s done. Friday, twelve-thirty, Campanile.’
Lana laughed. ‘Fine.’ Rita talked as fast as she worked.
It had been the same when they’d first met. Lana had been seventeen when she’d walked into Rita Clay’s downtown office, had possessed the poise and determination of someone unafraid to lose. If the place she was running from couldn’t break her, neither could this big, bad industry. She didn’t talk about the past and Rita didn’t ask–it didn’t matter where she’d come from; it mattered where she was going.
‘You’ve got talent and you’re beautiful,’ Rita had said after their meeting, grinding out a cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Believe me, it’s rare. We’re going straight to the top, sweetheart.’ Her agent had gone on to secure a string of small but carefully selected TV deals, and a little over a year later Lana had landed her first break: a starring role in one of America’s most beloved sitcoms. Since then she’d gained precious credibility in a couple of cleverly positioned independent films, and in the months that followed LA’s casting agents were over her like a rash.
‘And don’t forget Kate diLaurentis’s dinner party next week,’ said Rita, dragging her back to the present. ‘I know it’s not easy with the Cole situation.’
‘Hmm.’ Lana felt a crunch of dread. Kate diLaurentis was a ruthless actress in her forties with balls of iron and a face full of Botox. She was also Cole Steel’s ex-wife.
‘My advice? Conserve your energies,’ Rita said matter-of-factly. ‘She’s invited press so you and Cole are gonna have to look the part.’
Lana closed her eyes, giving in to the alternate notes of exhaustion and fear that his name evoked.
‘You still there?’
‘I’m here.’ She checked the time and started to get her bag together. Cole’s driver would be turning up in minutes and she couldn’t be late for