“You’re a hardworking young woman.” His deep voice was like a soothing stroke across her cheek.
“Like a lot of other people. Los Angeles is an expensive place to live. The competition is fierce. People everywhere want to become famous movie stars or famous something in the movie industry.”
“True.” His eyes softened in a way that showed a gentle side of him but also reflected sadness. “Los Angeles isn’t an easy town to live in. Why do you stay?”
“I believe I write scripts that can be made into movies and television shows people will watch.”
Quint’s gaze grew intense. “Why is that? Granted, I haven’t finished reading this script, but there’s no sex, no violence, no car chases.”
“Are you sure you read my script?” She’d talked to enough people in the entertainment business to know they didn’t always say what they meant. Some had ulterior motives. Quint hadn’t struck her as that type, but people in Hollywood weren’t always as they appeared. “The series is set in the late nineteenth century.”
“I know it is. I was trying to make a joke. I guess that’s a sign I shouldn’t try to resurrect my stand-up comedy career.” His mouth curved.
“You were a stand-up comedian?”
He shook his head. “I see I need to be careful about what I say around you. You take everything literally.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Why would you say something you didn’t mean?” Maybe he wasn’t so different from the others.
He leaned back into his chair. “You’re right. I should say what I mean and I’m about to.”
Her stomach churned. Why had she been so direct? If she’d kept her mouth shut, she might have received some positive feedback on her script.
“It’s okay. Whatever you have to say, I can take it.” Her chest tightened, and she held her breath.
“Good. Now back to my question. Would you like to attend the awards ceremony with me tonight?”
“You want me to drive you?” He couldn’t mean as his date. Chauffeuring him and whichever movie star he chose to squire made more sense.
“No, not as my driver. I want you to accompany me, be my companion for the evening.”
Chapter 4
“Companion?” Chrystelle didn’t like the sound of that word and gave him a wary glance. She’d met several people since she moved to Los Angeles who had taken companion-type jobs. She hadn’t wanted to know the details and hadn’t asked any questions, so she didn’t know exactly what those positions entailed. Unfortunately, her imagination filled in the blanks.
“Don’t look troubled.” His laugh was reassuring. “I don’t want anything from you, only your company. I have to attend the awards ceremony. As you heard, my mother expects me to bring a date. Like you said, at this late notice I’ll have a problem finding someone among the many movie stars I date. You don’t have plans for the evening—”
“I may,” she blurted out. Did he really want to take her as his date to the awards dinner? They’d just met. He had to know hundreds of women, and she was sure each one would gladly accompany him, except Florence. She didn’t seem too happy with him. And what about the assistants working outside his office? Granted, they weren’t movie stars, but they were just as pretty as movie stars. No one would ever mistake Chrystelle for a movie star. “If a restaurant needs me to work tonight, I can’t pass up a job opportunity.”
“If you did work, how much money would you make?”
“Oh, no, I’m not taking your money.” Her heart galloped inside her chest. She didn’t want to know that this man who produced her favorite television shows was a typical Hollywood schmuck.
“I don’t recall offering you any.” He lifted a brow.
“Sorry.” A hot flush washed over her. There she went again reading too much into someone else’s comments. “If I work tonight, I could make several hundred dollars. One night I made a thousand because I tended bar in an exclusive nightclub. If that happens, that’s a good thing, because then I’d have money left over after I pay my share of the rent. Even if I didn’t need money, I couldn’t accompany you to the ceremony. This”—she swept her hands over her chauffeur uniform—“is the nicest thing I own.”
“What do you wear when you’re bartending or waitressing?”
“Most of the restaurants want me to wear black jeans and a black T-shirt. I’ve plenty of those.” She gave a bleak laugh.
“If your wardrobe weren’t an issue, would you be my date for the evening?” The sincere look in his eyes made her heart soften.
If she had a dress, she’d accompany him, but she’d never own anything that would fit into his world. Hollywood producers and movie stars were glamorous. She was small town through and through.
“I think you should stay on your mother’s good side and invite one of your movie star friends. After all, mothers are important,” she said.
“I quite agree. Making my mother happy has always made my life easier.” His mouth tipped in a half-amused, half-chagrined way.
“Since I don’t have anything to wear, there’s no point in discussing this further.” Too bad. It would’ve been an experience she could tell her grandchildren ... if she ever had any. She’d have to have children first and because she didn’t date, that prospect seemed dim.
“If you did agree to attend the ceremony with me, we could continue our conversation regarding your television series.” His eyes were bright with interest.
“We could do that anyway. We could talk before you have to leave.” She hoped he’d agree to that. “Then I need to get back to the limousine service before Mr. Lowery has a meltdown.”
“He’s being handsomely compensated, so don’t worry about him. As we were discussing, if your wardrobe weren’t an issue, would you accompany me tonight?”
“Sure. Why not?” She gave a desultory wave of her hand. No harm in saying yes to a completely hypothetical situation.
Quint pressed the intercom.
“Yes, Mr. Fairchild?” came Bernice’s voice.
“Wait.” Chrystelle bolted upright. Alarm raced over her nerve endings. “What are you doing? We were just talking, right? There’s no way you want me to attend an awards ceremony with you.”
“I believe we arrived at an agreement.” He seemed amused at her discomfort.
She went rigid. What had she agreed to?
“Bernice, please ask Mr. Brown and his wife to my office.”
“Yes, Mr. Fairchild.”
“Who is Mr. Brown? Why is he coming here?” The panic climbing inside Chrystelle made it impossible to breathe.
“You’ve probably heard of Roberto Brown, one of the most famous makeup artists to work in Hollywood. His wife, Brigitte, is equally famous for her wardrobe styling.”
Bitter discomfort worked its way up Chrystelle’s throat. “I assume they’re not coming here because you want to discuss the wardrobe and makeup for my television series.”
The double doors to Quint’s office swept open. A tall man with a pencil mustache and a slim woman wearing a tailored black suit, her blond hair arranged into a French twist, strode into the room. Talking at once, they greeted Quint. Their gazes flicked to Chrystelle and their enthusiasm faded.