“It’s all the same.” His smile was gentle and filled her with a longing she’d never felt toward any man.
Rein it in, Chrystelle. He’s only interested in your script.
The script. She’d been close to receiving a contract offer at another studio, not one as prestigious as Fairchild Films, but it was a contract just the same. The deal collapsed when the executive producer withdrew from the project. Hollywood was good at sharpening pins to burst bubbles of optimism. She’d learned to hope for the best but expect the worst while fighting to the death to save any possibility to have her television series produced. So far, death seemed the only option.
The limousine slowed to a stop. Chrystelle peered through the window to a carpeted walkway that led into a theatre with an entrance that glistened like gold. Crowds flanked the red carpet and shouted and cheered when the celebrities departed from their limousines. She’d done the same when she first arrived in Hollywood and gotten all the touristy stuff out of her system. Television crews and reporters stood alert and vigilant, ready to pounce on each celebrity walking the red carpet.
The fear climbing up Chrystelle’s throat made her want to hide in the limo until the event was over. Would one of these reporters ask her a question? She’d been so busy getting ready with Brigitte and Roberto, she hadn’t thought to ask for more details about the awards ceremony.
Swallowing her uneasiness, she turned to Quint. “What’s the awards ceremony for?”
“To acknowledge independent films that offer values as well as entertain.” He watched her as if gauging her reaction.
“Is that why you’re interested in my script? Because I’m not connected with a big-name studio?” She blinked under his intense gaze.
“That’s part of it, but what I read, I liked.” Appreciation softened his eyes.
Did he? She couldn’t forget the tabs he’d inserted into the pages. Because he liked those parts of her script or because he planned to change them? When she and Quint had their meeting, she’d find out.
The car door opened. A man dressed in livery extended his gloved hand to Chrystelle. She rested her fingers in his palm and he escorted her from the car.
Cameras flashed blinding lights into her face. Questions barraged her from both sides of the aisle. She turned right then left but couldn’t tell who had asked her what. Microphones and video cameras circled her.
“We haven’t seen you before,” a woman’s brittle voice shouted at her.
“How long have you had a relationship with Mr. Fairchild?” another reporter asked.
“Relationship?” She choked on the word. “I only just met him.”
“She loves to joke,” Quint said, sounding amused. “Keep your eyes open for more work from Chrystelle Bach.”
“Is she your new leading lady?”
“I’m afraid this lovely young woman works strictly behind the camera.” Quint’s smile was broad.
“Mr. Fairchild, can we get a picture of you with the new woman in your life?” A man holding a camera dropped to his knees in front of them.
“New woman?” Chrystelle’s throat filled with expanding fear and looked at Quint. “You need to tell them the truth.”
“One thing you’ll learn tonight—it’s the story they’re after.” Quint smiled but his eyes held cynicism. “Tomorrow, a new item will grab headlines, and we’ll be forgotten.”
“I have to set them straight. We can’t be dating. My family has to meet you first.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Then we need to make sure they do.” He looked down at her.
An odd sensation roiled through her. Was he joking or was he serious about meeting her family?
He’d never meet her family. Gwilliam Park may be close to Aspen, but people who went to the luxury ski resort never ventured to her hometown.
“You want to meet my family?” she stammered.
“Whenever you’re ready.” Quint laid a protective arm across her shoulders. “Just smile and say you’re delighted to be here.” His voice was low and soothing in her ear.
That wouldn’t be a lie. Never in her life had she attended anything half as fancy as this.
Quint guided her to a wall with gold logos emblazoned across a cream-colored background. Other celebrities surrounded her. So many faces she recognized. If only she’d brought her autograph book.
Some celebrities stood provocatively and smiled for the cameras. Others gave interviews to reporters who looked as glamorous as the stars. Why wouldn’t they? This was Hollywood.
Chrystelle was dumbstruck to be standing near so many famous people. Several came up to Quint, the men shaking his hand while the women air-kissed his cheeks. He introduced Chrystelle to everyone, and they seemed genuinely pleased to meet her. She was too flabbergasted to speak and only smiled and nodded.
Once inside the theatre, Quint rested a hand against the small of her back and guided her to a table on the dais. Her gaze swept over the table covered with white linen, crystal and gilded china.
“We’re sitting up here? Where the whole world can see us?” Chrystelle’s heart fluttered, and she drew back. What if she did something stupid? She couldn’t hide when she was sitting in front of everyone.
“I’m giving the keynote address.” He looked amused. “Don’t be shy. You’ll have a better view from up here.”
“If I’d known I’d be sitting in front of everyone, I would never have agreed to come.” Hollywood was filled with people demanding to be the center of attention. Not fade-into-the-background Chrystelle. Blending in with the scenery fit her just fine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It must’ve slipped my mind. Come. I want you to meet my parents.”
“Your parents?” she squeaked. She should have known his parents would be in attendance. If there were a good time for a Hollywood-type earthquake, this was it.
“Quint, darling.” An elegant woman with silver hair bussed his cheek.
Chrystelle’s heart thundered in her chest, and her mouth fell open. Frances Brooke Fairchild stood before her. Chrystelle stared at the woman who was even more beautiful in person, if that were possible.
The similarity between Quint and his mother was striking, though his mother’s features were more delicate. Chrystelle remembered her from her days as a Hollywood leading lady. She’d changed little from her heyday. Chrystelle loved all her movies and would sit in the theatre munching a bucket of popcorn and thinking Frances Brooke Fairchild was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.
From behind Mrs. Fairchild came a distinguished gentleman in a wheelchair. Chrystelle could only stare as Malcolm Fairchild rolled to his wife’s side.
“And who is this delightful young lady?” Malcolm smiled and extended his hand.
“Mom, Dad, I’d like you to meet Chrystelle Bach. Chrystelle, these are my parents Malcolm and Frances.”
“How do you do, young lady?” Quint’s father gave her hand a hearty shake.
“I’m fine, sir. I hope you are as well.” Chrystelle felt as if she should curtsy. Never had she been in the presence of such royalty.
“We’re delighted you could accompany Quint to the ceremony. We were certain he’d come alone as he always does.” Frances arched an admonishing brow at her son.