“It’s finished.” Quint handed her the phone. His broad smile revealed perfectly even, white teeth.
“My life?” Everything she ever wanted, to be a Hollywood scriptwriter, had been shredded and tossed into the wind for taking a chance.
“Your life?” He narrowed his eyes. Clearly, he doubted her sanity. “Your job.”
Oh, God.
“Mr. Lowery agreed to hold your fares ...”
She didn’t hear the rest, because now she understood. Mr. Fairchild was going to ruin her career. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to face whatever consequences Mr. Lowery has prepared for me.” Maybe he didn’t wield the same power as Quint, but he could still destroy her life. “If you’ll give me my script—”
“First, we’ll have a meeting, then you can have your script.”
Fear rose inside her. “Why are we having a meeting?” Her toneless voice seemed to float somewhere outside her body.
“Come now, Miss Bach. This is what you’ve been working toward. How many producers and agents have you pitched this script to?”
“Dozens.” More like hundreds, but who was counting ... besides her? And how many offices and hotels had she been thrown out of? Too many to count.
“That’s probably on the low side.” The corners of his mouth softened.
In that moment, he didn’t look like an influential producer capable of ruining people’s lives. Disturbing heat at that thought pumped through her. He looked human ... and nice, almost like he could be someone’s friend.
She hiccupped. He couldn’t be her friend. He was too powerful.
“Your goal since coming to Hollywood has been to get this script into the hands of someone who could produce it,” Quint said. “You’ve done that. You put the script into my hands.”
“Only because I thought ...” Her voice trailed off.
“Let’s go to my office.” His fingers skimmed her elbow.
“Why?” The surge of heat storming through her scooped air from her lungs, and she froze. Her mind dug through what Quint had said and searched for understanding but found none.
“To discuss your script.” He looked at her, surprised. “Do you have an agent?”
“No, I’ve tried to find one, but no one wants to represent me.” Her shoulders bowed and she gave an involuntary shiver in the cool air. “Yet.”
“Let’s talk. If we reach an agreement, I’ll contact a friend who’ll represent you. We can discuss this indoors, where it’s warmer.” He tipped his head toward the front steps, indicating she should precede him.
“What about the limo? I can’t leave it here. Mr. Lowery already thinks I’ve done something bad. If I leave the car and something happens—”
“I’ll make sure someone takes good care of your car.”
“But I’m supposed to be driving people around. Mr. Lowery is going to wonder where I am and what I’m doing.”
“He and I already agreed that I’d pay him more than if you chauffeured ten people today. Trust me, he’s very happy. Shall we?” He inclined his head toward the entrance.
She’d run out of arguments, though she was certain Mr. Lowery would have a few comments. Quint seemed reassured that he’d appeased her boss, but he didn’t know Mr. Lowery. If he fired her, she’d look for another job. If there was one thing she was good at, it was looking for jobs.
She moved past Quint into a delicately lit lobby. A smiling woman wearing a headset appeared, holding a tray of bottled mineral water.
“Nothing for me just yet, Nina, but thanks.” Quint’s smile was pleasant. “Would you care for something?” He lifted a brow at Chrystelle.
Her throat felt thick and hot. If she swallowed anything, she’d choke. “No, but thanks.”
Nina gave a slight nod. Chrystelle never saw her leave. She stood next to Quint nodding and smiling and then the space where she stood was empty.
“My office is on the sixth floor.” His smile made her blood roar. He extended his hand, indicating she should accompany him to the mirror-plated elevator bank located past a waterfall spilling down a wall into a rimless pool.
She winced at her reflection—short and stumpy in a black uniform with stalks of blond hair poking from her chauffeur’s cap. If she worked here, she’d hate seeing her reflection every time she moved through the building but catching glimpses of herself all day long would make her cut out her requisite Saturday night double fudge sundae with her roommates.
The lift was a fast ride. The doors opened to a lobby where six assistants sat at glass desks and talked into headsets or worked on computers. All were blond, slender, and looked as if they’d stepped out of a Rodeo Drive store. One rushed to Quint. She tapped her tablet and recited phone numbers, messages and appointments. He only nodded. When she finished, she rushed to her desk and spoke into her headset. All the talking, all the noise, all the activity—Chrystelle didn’t know how anyone got any work done, but everyone typed and spoke very fast.
On the other side of the lobby, ceiling-high double doors drifted open. Quint strode toward the entrance. Chrystelle followed but turned in circles trying to take in the massive administrative chamber, the assistants, and the artwork that looked like museum pieces. When she stepped into an office the size of a football stadium, the doors drifted closed. Silence pulsed inside the room—a stark contrast to the clamor outside the doors.
Chrystelle took in the framed posters of Quint’s movies and photos of Quint standing with movie stars, directors and politicians. He looked casual and relaxed, as if socializing with friends. Of course, they’d be his friends. He was a Hollywood bigwig. On one wall was a mural of iconic stars from Hollywood’s golden days.
“Wow!” Her voice was a raw whisper. Heat radiated through her chest, her gaze flicking from one photo to the next. Never had she been around someone who knew so many famous people. Never mind that she was staring at photographs. Aside from her elevator pitch to Steven Spielberg, the most famous person she’d met was her screenwriting teacher, and only because fifteen years ago he’d written the script for her favorite movie.
“Wow, what?” Quint gave her a curious look.
“You know so many famous people.” Chrystelle’s jaw hung so low she could barely speak.
“That impresses you?” Surprise flickered over his chiseled features.
“How could I not be?” Sheesh! She sounded like a starstruck hayseed, which she was, but he didn’t have to know that. Though, it had to be obvious. “But since you and all these people live in the same town, I’m sure it’s hard not to know them. Like my hometown. I know almost everyone there.”
“Where is your hometown?” Quint’s business demeanor turned warm and friendly.
“Gwilliam Park in Colorado. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
“True.” He spoke softly, his eyes gentle. “But now I have, and now I can say that I’ve met someone from Gwilliam Park. Are you ready to discuss your script?”
“Right. That’s why I’m here.” She offered him a wan smile. He hadn’t invited her into his office to make idle chitchat.
“Have a seat.” Quint gestured to a driftwood conference table surrounded by tufted chairs. “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”