“I might get someone temporarily. At least while Carreen’s still down.” He smiled at Irv. “It’s not as if I don’t get any publicity. I’m in the media all the time, whether I like it or not. Even though I pay Becky Bloss to keep me out of the news.”
Irv clucked like an old Jewish grandmother. “You need someone all the same. I know it’s hard to make that kind of decision with Carreen indisposed but we need somebody on board, Rhett. With your movie coming out soon and no new ones on the horizon, we need to keep your name in the trades, in People, even on TMZ. Remember, there’s no such thing as bad publicity and you need lots of it. We need this baby to stay hot until mid-February at least. March would be better.”
Rhett took a seat in the chair in front of the desk. “What’s next, Irv? I finished Fireball this summer and haven’t done anything all fall. I’m getting restless.”
Irv shook his head. “Nothing’s come through, Rhett. At least nothing you’d want to read. It’s all trash these days. Besides, we’ve got your image to protect.”
He laughed. “Come on, Irv. What image? I do action movies. I blow things up, chase bad guys, and shoot drug dealers. You can’t tell me not one decent action adventure’s on the horizon.”
Irv pursed his lips. “Not the quality we want. You’re the one who’s always telling me it’s gotta have a story. Relax, Rhett. Look forward to Fireball’s numbers. Your last movie opened at number one and stayed there for three weeks. With this being a holiday release, I’m sure it’ll do even better. Relax. Spend some time with your family at Christmas. And for God’s sake—hire an assistant. You were late to that GQ shoot last week because you forgot about it. An assistant would keep on top of things like that.”
“And a housekeeper. I need one of those, too. A cook would be nice.”
Irv frowned. “Did Consuelo go back to Mexico again?”
Rhett nodded. “I’m not taking her back this time. End of story.”
“Shall I contact my housekeeper’s agency? I can get you set up, big guy.”
He decided to remind his agent one more time about scripts. “No, I’ll get a housekeeper. Just send me something to read, Irv. Anything, okay? I don’t mind switching genres. In fact, I’m ready to break out and try something new. You know—flex more than my muscles.”
Irv pulled out a sheaf of papers, ignoring Rhett’s request to send him something in a new genre. “Here’s the beer deal you need to sign. You’ll shoot it in Japan a week into January. It’ll only play there but there’s an option for a few European countries that we can exercise. I’ll get the shooting details sewn up and let your assistant know,” he said pointedly.
He indicated where Rhett should sign. Rhett scrawled his name seven times.
“This’ll pull in three mill, Rhett. Piece of cake.”
They shook hands and Rhett left Irv’s office. He stopped to visit with Julie a minute.
“Like the new place, Jules?”
She smiled. “What’s not to like? Irv’s a partner in the hottest new agency in town. He gave me a twenty percent raise, which my almost sixteen-year-old son has decided should go toward a car for him. That is, if he passes his driving test. And if I can afford the insurance.”
Rhett whistled. “Kenny’s almost sixteen? Now, I know I’m getting old. He was in single digits when I signed with Irv.” He raised his eyebrows. “So, will you get him a car?”
Julie groaned. “You sound like Kenny now. All men are alike.”
He smiled. “We have to stick together. Tell him hi for me.” He looked up and saw Ray Pearce turning the corner. The man was worse than a fan on the street. He always wanted Rhett to go with him to a Lakers game or a restaurant opening or any high-profile place they could be seen at and get their picture together. Ray lived for publicity.
Julie motioned him to follow her and they took off down the hall, stepping into the breakroom.
“Stay here. I’ll head him off. Give me thirty seconds then come out of here and turn right. An unmarked door at the end of the hall will lead you out the back way.”
“I owe you, Jules.” Rhett flashed her a grin.
“You sure do. Ray Pearce is an asshole.” She smiled sweetly and walked back out.
Rhett turned and saw a tall brunette sipping from a mug. A short blonde stood at the microwave, waiting for it to beep.
“Merry Christmas, ladies.”
The brunette stepped in front of him. In a low purr, she said, “I could be the best present you ever unwrapped, Rhett.”
He laughed. “I’m on Santa’s naughty list this year. No presents for me.” He left the breakroom and followed the route Julie suggested, deciding to head down the stairs and avoid the elevator. Somehow, he took a turn too tightly and missed the step. Rhett grabbed for the handrail to keep from falling. As he grasped it in one hand, he felt his ankle turn and groaned. He righted himself and tested the ankle gingerly, sucking in his breath at the zing of pain.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “Just a terrific day all around. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get mugged on the way to my car.”
He limped down the remaining flight of stairs, glad he was near the bottom. He hobbled through the lobby with as much dignity as he could muster. At least he’d lucked out and landed a parking place in front of the building after the earlier gas disaster.
Slipping on his Ray-Bans, he exited the building and walked slowly to the car, hoping no paparazzi hung around. He placed a hand on the hood of his car for support and stepped off the curb, circling around to the driver’s side. Before he unlocked his door, he heard a woman scream something about her dog and tires squealing. Rhett twisted around just as some clunker smacked into his prized convertible.
CHAPTER 3
Cassie squeezed her eyes closed as she plowed into the vehicle. An awful crunching noise sounded, metal grinding against metal. No airbag exploded because the car didn’t have one. She bounced off the steering wheel as her heart slammed against her ribs. The guy that had stepped out couldn’t have survived the impact. What did they call it—vehicular manslaughter? She would go to prison for the rest of her life. This would be the final nail to hammer into the Cassie Coffin. She’d taken a life and would give up her own in payment. Forcing her eyes open, her jaw dropped in amazement.
The guy was alive.
Granted, he was draped across the trunk of some foreign-looking convertible but she hadn’t crushed the life out of him. Somehow, he’d managed to spin around, quick reflexes saving his life. He came upright and limped a few steps. Great. She must have nicked him. He leaned against the car—what was left of it—and held a hand to his forehead as he turned to stare at her.
Her adrenaline spiked. She’d totaled his very expensive car. Cassie had the feeling the stranger was about to tear her apart. She would meet him in the middle and grovel. Maybe turn on some tears for good measure. Hadn’t Jolene told her that men hated themselves when they made women cry?
Cassie unhooked her seat belt and tried to get out of the car. The door wouldn’t budge. Great. She’d have to go back to climbing in through the passenger’s side as she had last month when the Civic went through a temperamental stage. Or maybe not. She glanced around and saw the crumpled hood, steam rising, and watched as the sedan shuddered, giving up the ghost.