Chapter 1
At six o’clock in the morning, Chrystelle Bach guided the limousine down the Beverly Hills street lined with towering palm trees. For the two and a half years she’d lived in Hollywood, she’d never get used to palm trees decorated with Christmas lights.
Christmas.
She’d spent the last two Christmases away from home, away from Gwilliam Park, Colorado. Away from family and friends preparing for the holiday that warmed her heart. She scraped her teeth over her lower lip. Though she called home every week, she was too busy working three jobs to long for the small town she never thought she’d leave.
Except at Christmas.
If she hadn’t wanted to be a scriptwriter, she’d still be living in the quaint mountain town, singing Christmas carols, drinking cocoa and meeting friends at the local shops and restaurants.
The cold fingers of disappointment closed around her heart. There wasn’t much Christmas spirit in Hollywood.
If she stayed busy, she’d make it through the holidays without getting homesick. She and her roommates had become family and planned to spend Christmas morning exchanging gifts and making French toast, before they rushed off to their waitress or chauffeur jobs.
Raw and exhausted, Chrystelle stifled a yawn. She’d driven for the limousine service for the past ten days. Every night, she tended bar until two o’clock in the morning, including this morning. She had planned to sleep late, but Mr. Lowery, owner of the limousine service, had called when her head hit the pillow. He was desperate to find a driver for Quinton Fairchild, chief executive of Fairchild Films.
Quint Fairchild would have his own private chauffeur, but for whatever reason he needed a driver and she wouldn’t say no. He headed the most powerful studio in the industry, and she had the perfect script to pitch him. All she needed was a chance.
She turned the steering wheel and stopped at the end of the driveway leading to Quint Fairchild’s mansion. Her mouth fell open. Before her stood a gate that looked like the entrance to Middle-earth. The ten cameras anchored to the top of the burnished metal locked onto her every move.
She’d seen Quint once at a screenwriting conference. He seemed like a nice guy—a nice guy who lived in a fortressed Beverly Hills mansion.
A prickle of fear crept along her spine. Like the other drivers at the limousine service, she knew this job would give her access to Hollywood bigwigs. Maybe one would recognize her writing talent.
Dream on, her friends in Gwilliam Park, Colorado, had told her. Everyone in Hollywood has dreams of success.
She’d ignored the naysayers and hopped a bus to Hollywood. Some people made it. She could be one of those.
Her desire to be a screenwriter burned within her and motivated her even on the toughest of days, but today she was a chauffeur and here to drive Mr. Fairchild to his studio. If she had the chance, she’d pitch her best script. During the screenwriting conference, he’d said he was always looking for scripts, even from unknowns. He never knew when he’d strike gold.
Hope rippled through her. That gold could be the script sitting in the portfolio on the seat next to her.
Lifting her head to see past the brim of her chauffeur cap, she pressed the intercom button. “Lowery Limousine Service here for Mr. Fairchild,” she said and recited the security code.
At least her voice sounded normal. She hadn’t been this edgy since she’d pitched her latest screenplay to Steven Spielberg in an elevator at The Palacio Hotel. Of course, he called security. They threw her out.
Wherever she went, she took at least one of her screenplays with her, and showed them to every studio executive she met. So far, no one had been interested in her scripts, but this was Hollywood, and she believed in happy endings. All her scripts had happy endings.
The gate floated open. Her chest swelled. This could be her moment. When the right time came, she’d hand Mr. Fairchild her script … and hope he’d be happy to read it as he’d stated at the screenwriting conference.
Wrapping her fingers around the steering wheel, Chrystelle drove through the gate and along the tree-lined drive to the porte cochère. Her heart pounded like the drumline in a marching band.
She took a calming breath. Her hands trembled slightly, and she winced. If she was nervous, he’d notice immediately and wonder why the service sent an inexperienced driver, or worse, complain to Mr. Lowery. She’d be calm. She’d be cool. Stepping from the vehicle, she repeated the sentiments to herself like a mantra and smoothed a hand over the black suit that fit her like a rented wedding tuxedo. She opened the rear door.
Quint Fairchild burst through the studded entrance doors. His powerful build was covered in a button-down shirt and tailored slacks, and his square jaw was chiseled enough to cut glass. He fastened his cuffs as he drummed down the granite steps. Racing after him was a thin man in a gray suit juggling portfolios, a briefcase and a laptop sleeve.
Chrystelle froze and stared at the man charging toward her. The one time she saw Quint Fairchild had been at a distance. She wasn’t prepared for this Apollo-like creature whose sandy hair curled over his collar and whose blue eyes blazed. At thirty, he was the youngest chief executive officer of a major Hollywood studio. And one of the most eligible bachelors on the planet, not that he’d be interested in her.
Her heart gave one hard thud.
The man in the gray suit slowed his pace and a furrow deepened between his brows when he stared at the limo. He shifted a narrow gaze to Chrystelle.
Her blood went cold. Had she done something wrong? With a slight shake of his head, he opened the front passenger door and placed the portfolios, laptop and briefcase on the seat. The portfolio cases were similar to hers except hers had a bent corner and was much less expensive than the ones the man had carried. She couldn’t afford pricier cases, but the advisors at the screenwriters’ conference said all serious writers used them. She was a serious writer, so she purchased several, though it had required creative budgeting that month.
“What’s your name?” Quint Fairchild’s deep voice dragged her gaze away from the man in the gray suit. Quint’s eyes flashed with an intensity that sent a tumble of confusing emotions through her chest.
“Chrystelle Bach, sir.” She looked into brilliant blue eyes that rested on her in a particularly disconcerting way. She felt sick to her stomach. No fare had ever asked Chrystelle her name. This couldn’t be a good sign.
“Well, Miss Chrystelle Bach, perhaps you’d care to explain why you’re not driving the SUV I requested.” His voice was pleasant as if he were discussing the weather, but his gaze could freeze fire.
The death grip of fear sank its claws into her chest. Mr. Lowery had insisted she drive this sedan. Had he forgotten Mr. Fairchild ordered an SUV? She could understand why Quint would want an SUV. He was well over six feet tall. For someone his height, it was easier to climb in and out of an SUV.
“I’m sorry, sir.” She swallowed a yelp and stepped back to give him room to enter the limousine. She wouldn’t offer an excuse, but she couldn’t hide the disappointment dropping over her. Would driving the wrong car cost her the chance to give him her script? Even though the opportunity seemed to diminish, she had to try.
“There’s no need for you to apologize. I don’t blame you.” One side of Quint’s mouth tipped upward, but there was no humor in his eyes.