Adored (40 page)
Claire cursed herself for being so naive, for running down here to see him on a stupid impulse. The fact was that no story, no pictures were ever going to make him see Siena for who she really was: a frightened, confused, lost little girl, desperate for her parents’ love.
Just then Tara came in with the coffee, without knocking, still ticked off about having been asked to perform such a menial task in front of Claire and having her perceived status so cruelly undermined.
“Leave it on the desk,” said Pete, oblivious to his PA’s indignant pout. She did as she was told, then turned on her heel and left.
“So?” he said again, this time to Claire’s back.
He’d asked a question, and he wasn’t about to let her leave without giving him an answer.
“I’m with you, Pete,” she said wearily.
Kissing him with almost maternal fondness on the cheek, she left him, her cup of coffee still steaming and untouched on the desk behind her.
Las Vegas in the summertime is like nowhere else on earth. Teeming with tourists who don’t know any better than to take their holidays in temperatures that could fell cattle, as well as with the lost souls from all across America who come to forget, to try to escape their demons amid the noise and the neon and the relentless clicking and whirring of the slot machines, it’s like some bizarre science-fiction world of its own.
Siena had first come here as a child with her grandfather. Duke adored the place. He used to say he and Vegas were made for each other. She remembered watching him and his friends playing poker in one of the private rooms at Caesars Palace while she had stuffed herself on a giant tub of rum-and-raisin ice cream in the corner. She could only have been about six or seven.
Duke always wore a suit when he played cards, she remembered; he used to look like an even handsomer version of Dean Martin, with his whiskey in one hand and his cards in the other, grinning around the big cigar he always smoked when he gambled. Grandpa had made Vegas seem so glamorous, and Siena had never quite shaken the feeling that beneath all the tacky freak shows and Siegfried & Roy kitsch, it was still a place where the big players played.
Duke had been a big player back in his heyday, the biggest.
One day, Siena told herself, she would be too.
As soon as she emerged into the lobby at the Venetian, she was greeted by the blinding flashes of a thousand cameras and a myriad of strange voices, male and female, calling out her name.
“Siena! Over here!”
“How do you feel, sweetheart? Is it true you broke your ribs?”
“Have you heard from Max? Anything you’d like to say to him?”
Before she had a chance to respond, she found herself being swept up by the hotel manager, whose goons were making a valiant effort to beat back the throng, and bundled into the relative safety of his office.
“Holy shit,” she said, easing herself gingerly down into a chair. “How long have they been here?”
“Since late last night, I’m afraid, Miss McMahon,” said the manager with a pained, what-can-you-do expression. He was a very short, very round Italian with a ruddy, drink-ravaged complexion. Siena thought he looked like a human tomato and fought back a strong urge to giggle.
“We’ve done our best to keep them out of the reception area, and security has been tightened inside the hotel. But I’m afraid as soon as you step outside . . .”
“I know, I know,” said Siena. “I’m buggered.”
“Excuse me?” The tomato looked bewildered.
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Siena waved her hand dismissively. “It’s an English expression, something I picked up at school.”
The manager nodded and tried not to stare too openly at Siena’s fabulously full breasts, revealingly outlined by the clinging fabric of her dress. He didn’t normally go for models, but he thought he could make an exception in this young lady’s case.
“I guess I have to face the music sooner or later,” she said, with a sigh that wasn’t 100 percent convincing. “I think I might do some shopping, and they can get their pictures then. Get them out of the way.”
The manager had seen this act before with countless other celebrities. The brave, resigned smile, intended to say: “All I want is to be alone with my pain, but regrettably I have a public to think about.” It was all a load of baloney. Sure, the girl was upset, some guy just screwed her over. But she was also loving the attention, every last minute of it. No one came to Vegas for the privacy.
What he actually said was: “I know this must be a difficult time for you, Miss McMahon,” tilting his head with practiced, professional sympathy. “If you like, I can loan you a couple of my security guys to come shopping with you? Things could get a bit outta hand.”
“Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll need them.” Siena got up and extended her hand, which he shook politely. “It
has
been a difficult forty-eight hours, and I appreciate your concern. But I think I can cope on my own.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said the manager, admiring her back view as she headed for the door. “Not for a moment.”
For the first twenty minutes, Siena had a whale of a time. The very best antidote to heartbreak, she decided, was a wave of public adulation.
She strolled along the artificial canals, looking suitably beautiful, victimized, and brave, answering two or three questions before diving into Gucci or Prada, where the doors would close firmly behind her, allowing her to shop in peace while reporters pressed their lenses up against the glass. Then she would emerge for another short round of questioning and photographs before disappearing again.
The slightly surreal atmosphere of the whole exercise was intensified by the seamless artifice surrounding her: fake gondoliers with fake mustaches waved and shouted out to her in their fake Italian accents, beneath a fake painted sky, peppered with fake, neon-lit white clouds.
It must be incredible to wander through the Venetian on acid, thought Siena. She felt like she was tripping already.
After twenty minutes though, she was beginning to understand why they called them “the press.” So many people were swarming around her, it became quite physically intimidating, and before she knew it she seemed to have crossed the line from indulged diva to trapped rat.
The questions were also becoming more personal.
“Do you have any message for Camille Andrews?” asked one wiry little Hispanic woman who’d gotten so close to her that her bad breath was making Siena feel sick.
“Not that you can print,” she snapped, her Pollyanna image slipping for an unguarded moment.
A hundred pens began frantically scribbling.
“Do you think you can ever forgive him?” yelled a male voice.
Siena ignored that one and tried to turn left into a Ferragamo store but found herself hemmed in by a solid wall of tape recorders and cameras. Why hadn’t she taken the manager up on his offer of some muscle? She started to feel panicked.
“Do you still love him?”
The voice came from about two feet behind her. Siena swung around and searched for its owner, apparently a middle-aged black reporter, whose badge proclaimed that he was from the
L.A. Times
.
“Do you still love him?” he repeated.
She stood and stared at the man blankly for a moment, while the cameras flashed. Then, out of nowhere, she burst into tears.
The crowd went wild, pushing even closer, their raised voices babbling in an indistinguishable roar: Photographers were punching each other to jostle their way into a more advantageous position for a shot of the unfolding drama.
Oh God. Help.
Siena was sobbing and spinning around frantically on the spot, desperately looking for a way out. Just then she felt a slight easing of the pressure of bodies to her left and saw a hand, a man’s hand, being held out to her. Instinctively she grabbed it. The hand pulled her swiftly and forcefully through the throng, and before she knew it she found herself disorientated and gasping for breath inside Ferragamo, the bloodhounds mercifully shut out on the other side of the door.
Only then did she look up from the hand to acquaint herself with its owner.
She had never met him before, she was sure of that, although something about his face was eerily familiar. She guessed he was in his mid-to-late fifties, completely bald except for one small strip of closely shaved gray hair forming a semi-circle at the bottom of his head. He was immaculately dressed in a dark blue suit and a white Italian-cut shirt, and he smelled very faintly of some expensive aftershave.
He was overweight—not obese, but heavy—and not at all good-looking in any traditional sense. He had a boxer’s nose, wide and oddly flattened as if it had been multiply broken, and it looked enormous above his small, thin mouth. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and were surrounded by symmetrical fans of wrinkles. But despite these unprepossessing features, the overwhelming impression he gave was one of power and masculinity.
Her tiny hand lost in his grip, Siena was horrified to find herself thinking simultaneously that he reminded her of Duke and that she was strongly attracted to him.
“You looked like you could use some help,” he said, smiling down at her. His voice was deep and betrayed only the faintest traces of a long-lost southern accent. “I’m Randall Stein.”
Of course! Of course she recognized him. She must have been on another planet not to have gotten it right away.
Randall Stein was a legendary producer, bigger even than her father. He had made his name by funding action movies back in the early eighties, and had almost single-handedly created the action-comedy genre that went on to dominate the box office in the early nineties. Stein was also well known as a shrewd investor in real estate and on Wall Street. She was sure she’d read something in one of Max’s
Forbes
magazines about his having a personal net worth somewhere in the billions.
Holy shit.
Randall Stein.
And here she was looking like something the cat had sicked up, bruised and tear-stained and revolting. “How do you do?” she said, hastily wiping away her running mascara on the back of her right hand. Randall was still holding her left. “I’m—”
“I know who you are, Siena.”
It was that voice again. Siena felt her knees going weak. “Really?”
“Of course.” Randall released her hand and pulled up a chair beside her. The Ferragamo staff, who had all been loitering, gazing at the drama and particularly at Siena—in their world, a top model was of infinitely more interest than some dull-as-ditchwater producer—now disappeared to the other end of the store after a meaningful glance from their manager.
“I know your father. In fact, I used to know your grandfather as well, for many years.”
“Really?”
She could have smacked herself. Why couldn’t she think of anything interesting to say?
Randall smiled again. He seemed to find her embarrassment rather amusing. “Yes. But that’s not why I know you. It may have escaped your notice, my dear, but a lot of people out there seem to recognize your face these days.” He gestured to the paparazzi outside. “I enjoy looking at beautiful models as much as the next man. You could say I’m a fan.”
Siena smiled at this. She doubted very much whether Randall Stein was anybody’s fan.
“Actually,” she said, finding her voice at last, “I’m not really modeling much anymore. I’m an actress.”
Randall threw his head back and gave a great roar of a laugh. Siena looked offended. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, honey.” He wiped away tears of mirth. “It’s just that I wish I had a dollar for every beautiful young girl who’s told me that.”
“I am an actress,” said Siena again. The steeliness in her voice wiped the smile off Randall’s face, and he looked at her with renewed respect. “A fucking good one, as it happens.”
“Well,” he said, apparently somewhat chastened, “you certainly have the genes for it. But never mind all that. You look, if you’ll forgive an old man for saying so, terrible.”
“You’re not an old man,” said Siena, who hadn’t taken offense. “I know I must look a mess. I’ve been having a few . . .” She stumbled for the right word. “A few problems in the last couple of days.”
“I know,” said Randall. She looked at him questioningly. “I have a TV.”
“Oh,” said Siena. “I see. Of course.”
“Look,” said Randall, “it looks like the boys in blue have got your little fan club under control.” Siena glanced outside to see the press pack dispersing resentfully under the watchful eye of four heavily armed cops. “Why don’t you let me have one of my guys take you back to your hotel to get some rest. You really shouldn’t be out here today, not till things die down.”
“Okay,” Siena nodded. “Thanks.”
“And I’ll come and pick you up from the Venetian at around eight,” said Randall firmly, as if referring to a long-standing arrangement between the two of them.
“Oh. I don’t know,” began Siena.
“Eight-thirty, then?”
“No, I mean, you’ve been very kind and everything. But I’m really not looking for”—she blushed, trying to think of a way to say this politely—“I think I’m still in love with someone else. I’m not really ready for, you know, dating.”
She waited for him to fill the silence, but he didn’t let her off the hook. Again, he seemed to be enjoying her awkwardness.
“I’m just not interested in you in that way,” she blurted out eventually.
“Good,” said Randall briskly. “Because I have absolutely no interest in you romantically.”
“Oh. Right. Good,” said Siena, who felt oddly like she’d just been punched in the stomach.
“But I’d like to get to know you a little better. As I said, your family and I go back a long way. And you never know, we may even discuss a bit of business.”
He noticed Siena’s eyes light up at the mention of the magic word business. A girl after his own heart.
“Great,” she said, and flashed him that million-dollar McMahon smile. “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”
They shook hands again.
“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “For rescuing me.”
“My pleasure,” said Randall. “Now go get some rest. I’ll see you tonight.”
Back in L.A., Max sat on a rock high up in the hills above Will Rogers Park, with his head in his hands.
He’d had some paparazzi problems of his own.
Ever since the news broke, a posse of press had been camped outside the beach house, waiting for him to emerge, like the groundhog. He’d had a hell of a job shaking them off yesterday, on his way to try and see Siena at the airfield.
That was the only small mercy he could think of in this nightmare so far: At least the press hadn’t been there to witness Siena dismissing him like some disobedient dog. She wouldn’t even look at him, let alone listen to his apology.
He’d been expecting anger, hysterics, and tears. Instead he got clinical, almost disinterested rejection. Which was far, far worse.
After much pleading by Hunter, the LAPD had finally shown up last night and gotten rid of the photographers at the house, but by eight this morning, they were back in barely depleted force, yelling inane questions at him from the street: Had he talked to Siena, did he blame himself for the crash, were he and Camille now a couple?
One cheeky bastard even had the audacity to stick a note under the front door, offering Max a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an exclusive on his side of the story, plus more if he was prepared to be filmed flying to Vegas to try and reconcile with Siena. What sort of tragic gold digger did these people think he was?
Hunter had suggested that the three of them—Tiffany had flown down from Canada last night to give both the boys some much needed moral support—escape for a long hike in the wilderness to try to talk things through in peace. The atmosphere at home was unbearable, like living through a siege.
So it was that, after some more nifty driving by Max, they had shaken off their pursuers, and were now sitting, exhausted but undisturbed, high up above the canyon.
“If I could just make her see me,
listen
to me,” Max was saying for the umpteenth time that hour, “I know I can turn this around. I mean, who throws everything away over one stupid mistake? Who does that?”
Tiffany thought privately that a lot of people did that, especially with a “mistake” as big as Max’s, and that she herself would probably be one of them. But she tried to sound encouraging. “Maybe she just needs some space?” she suggested. “She hasn’t had much time to get her head around it yet, has she?”
Max ran his fingers through his hair despairingly. “Oh God, what the hell have I done? How could I have been so
stupid
?”
Hunter sat down beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said kindly. “You couldn’t have known the girl was going to leap on the phone to
The National Enquirer
.”
“I should have treated her better,” said Max miserably. “I was just thinking about myself, and how I’d betrayed Siena, and what a bloody fool I’d been. Maybe if I’d treated Camille with more respect, she wouldn’t have done the dirty on me.”
Hunter and Tiffany caught each other’s eye. Neither of them contradicted him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t throw me out of the house.” Max looked ruefully at Hunter.
“Come on, man, give me a break.” Hunter squeezed him tighter around the shoulders to emphasize his point. “I could never do that to you, and you know it. We all screw up every now and then.”
“You don’t,” said Max honestly.
“Oh, don’t you believe it!” Tiffany joked, desperate to lighten things up a bit. She’d never seen Max so down. “Hunter has his dark side.”
All three of them had to laugh at that. Santa Claus had more of a dark side than Hunter.
“Seriously, though,” said Max, picking up a loose pebble and hurling it violently across the canyon and into oblivion, “I know you always thought I wasn’t good enough for Siena. No one was good enough for her. And you were right, man. You were totally right.”
“Yeah, well,” Hunter began, “she is pretty special.”
Tiffany couldn’t believe her ears. “Whoa, whoa, now hold on a minute, honey.” She knew she was on dangerous ground saying anything against the saintly Miss McMahon, but she couldn’t allow Max to shoulder all the blame for the problems in their relationship. “What Max did was terrible, I think we can all agree on that.” Max looked down at his sneakers and nodded. No one could hate him more than he hated himself right now. “And I’m not making any excuses for him,” she went on. “But Siena was no angel either, so let’s not rewrite history here. She could be mean and selfish, she was
always
flying off the handle at you.” She looked at Max. “It’s bullshit to say you didn’t deserve her. You have so much to offer, and you put up with a lot of shit from that girl. We all did.”
Hunter was frowning throughout this little speech, and Tiffany waited for the inevitable defense of Siena. Sure enough, it came as soon as she stopped talking.
“I hope you’re not implying that Siena
deserved
any of this?” He looked as close as he ever got to angry. “That she brought it on herself in some way?”
“Of course I’m not saying that,” Tiffany snapped. “I just don’t think we should let Max start to feel that he’s somehow not worthy of Siena, like she’s some kind of saint. Because she’s not, Hunter. She’s not, okay?”
Max groaned inwardly. He could see Hunter’s face clouding over. That was all he needed, to have him and Tiffany at each other’s throats again over Siena. Before hostilities could escalate any further, he jumped in. “Look, this is all beside the point. What we have to figure out is, what am I going to do now? How am I going to get her back?”
Hunter looked at him pityingly. It obviously hadn’t sunk in yet. “Max, I’m not sure there’s a whole lot you
can
do,” he said. “It’s up to Siena if she’s going to forgive you, or at least try to work this out. But I gotta tell you, when I saw her yesterday”—he paused, looking for the kindest way to phrase it—“things didn’t look too good. You really hurt her, man.”
Max stood up purposefully. “I know. I know I did. But I have to see her, I have to at least try and explain.” He turned from Hunter to Tiffany and back again. They both looked highly doubtful. “Oh, come on, you guys,” he said. “Have a little faith would you? Faint heart never won fair lady, right? I don’t know how, but I’m telling you, I’m going to do it. I’m going to get her back.”
Later that night, Siena was sitting opposite Randall, gazing out across the Las Vegas skyline and feeling more than slightly drunk. The view from the roof terrace was quite incredible.
Anxious not to suffer any more unwanted press attention, Randall had taken her to a private apartment—on loan from a friend, he said—where the most incredible table had been laid for two in the fortieth-floor roof garden.
Her initial reaction had been panic: Candelabra, white linen, silver service, and total privacy were not the usual ingredients of a business dinner. The scent of the bougainvillea alone was enough to make her feel faint, and the illuminated azure blue of the pool behind them lent the whole place a summery, romantic air.
But Randall seemed so sure and relaxed that she couldn’t really say anything. She had already made a fool of herself once today by blatantly accusing him of coming on to her. Besides, after he had come to her rescue so gallantly, the least she could do was accept his hospitality without being churlish. After all, how many up-and-coming young actresses wouldn’t kill to have dinner with Randall Stein?
Dinner itself had been delicious—lobster tails in garlic butter, wonderfully juicy rosemary-encrusted lamb, and lemon mousse for dessert. To her surprise, Siena had found she was famished, wolfing down all three courses greedily. She had always read in magazines that men found girls with big appetites to be a turnoff, but Randall seemed delighted. Judging from his waistline, she assumed him to be another food lover.
She had also been drinking champagne to wash it all down, in blatant disregard of doctor’s orders. Apparently, alcohol disagreed with her medication, but she hadn’t had
that
much. In fact, she was sure that Randall had drunk the second bottle almost completely by himself.
Well, pretty sure.
In any event, the ensuing haze of alcohol-induced contentment enabled her to banish all thoughts of Max and that fucking girl from her mind completely. Which, as far as Siena was concerned, was the object of the exercise.
“Coffee?” asked Randall, leaning across the table and taking Siena’s hand. She permitted the gesture. All that champagne had really loosened her up. “Or perhaps you’d like another drink?”
“No, God no.” Siena shook her head. She was very conscious of the warm, slightly rough touch of his hand, and the unmistakable jolt of desire it triggered in her. Unconsciously, she began stroking his wrist with her thumb. “I think I’ve had more than enough. The city’s swaying.”
“Coffee, then,” said Randall, pulling his hand away just when she’d hoped he wouldn’t, and signaling to their very own private waiter. “I don’t want you to be too far gone. We still have that business to discuss.”
Inexplicably, Siena felt her spirits fall at the mention of business. She gazed dazedly out over the twinkling lights of Vegas, apparently lost in her own thoughts. Randall carried on. “Perhaps I should start by saying that I know more about you than I let on this morning.”
“Oh?” said Siena, woken momentarily from her reverie.
“Yes,” he said enigmatically. “And this afternoon I had my L.A. office fly me up a tape of the pre-screen version of
The Prodigal Daughter
. I watched it twice, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?” Siena’s face lit up. She was deeply flattered that someone as powerful as Randall Stein should take such an interest in her work, particularly after he’d dismissed her that morning as just another model wannabe. Instinctively, she tossed back her hair and pouted at him, giving him the very best angle of the face that had made her a small fortune. Notwithstanding her bruises, she looked breathtakingly sexy. “What did you think of it?”
Randall took a sip of his freshly poured espresso. “I thought it was predictable and a little bit derivative.”
She flushed with indignation and humiliation. He had set her up for that, the little shit.
“Oh, did you?” she said, standing up unsteadily and gathering up her purse with as much dignity as she could muster. Fucking asshole. If he thought she was sticking around to be insulted, he could stick it up his fat billionaire ass. “Well, I’m afraid you’re alone in that opinion,
Mr.
Stein. The other critics have been universally impressed with my performance. In fact, I’ve been inundated with scripts already, and
The Prodigal Daughter
doesn’t even open for another week. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she turned on her heel, “it’s been a long day, so I think I’ll get back to my hotel and make a start on some of those scripts before I turn in. Thank you for dinner.”
“Sit down,” said Randall. He took another sip of his coffee, utterly unperturbed. “Don’t be such a spoiled child.” Siena hesitated. The only other person who had ever spoken to her like that was Max. “If you’re serious about this business,
Miss
McMahon,” he mimicked her, “you’ll have to learn to listen to criticism without being so damn petulant about it. You didn’t let me finish.”
Scowling warily, Siena sat back down.
“I did think it was predictable. You’re making some silly mistakes.” She opened her mouth to speak again, but he ignored her. “But I also think you have potential, huge potential. With your looks and your name, you could go a long way.”
It was exactly what Siena didn’t want to hear.
“Yeah? Well, fuck my looks!” she said, shaking her head in anger. “And fuck my stupid name. I’m only interested in making it on the back of my talent.”
Randall smiled. God, he could be patronizing. “I see,” he said. “Unfortunately,
I’m
only interested in making money. If we’re going to do any sort of business together, you may as well get that straight right now.”
Leaning over the table he grabbed her arms and pulled her face close to his. For one awful, confusing moment, she thought he might be going to kiss her.
Instead, he began talking with an urgency and an authority that forced her to listen. “Do you know how many girls out there have ‘talent,’ as you call it? And by the way, I hate that word. How much talent does it take to pretend to be someone else? You’re an actress, sweetheart, not a rocket scientist.” Siena sat motionless. “I’ll tell you. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Maybe even millions of people can do what you do, Siena. And all of them are competing for the attention of guys like me. So how come it’s you sitting here and not them, huh?”
Siena assumed correctly that it was a rhetorical question.
“Because you’re different, that’s why. You’re lucky. You have something they don’t—the McMahon name. And if you don’t use it, then you’re a bigger fool than you look.” He was holding her so tightly, his fingers were leaving livid red imprints on the flesh of her upper arms. “You need to think long and hard, baby, about what it is you actually want.”
“No I don’t,” said Siena on autopilot. “I know what I want.”
Although at that moment, her statement couldn’t have been less true. She found Randall’s physical closeness both unnerving and arousing. She had rarely encountered anybody with a stronger will than her own, and she had absolutely no idea how to handle it.
“Do you?” asked Randall. “Because if you’re going to bleat on about talent, you might as well take up a fulfilling career in the theater in some butt-fuck nowhere little town in the Midwest and be done with it.” He released her and sat back in his chair. “But if you want something more than that”—he signaled to the waiter to refill his coffee cup—“if you want to be a real star, like your grandfather was . . .”
“I do.” Siena’s eyes lit up despite herself. “I do want that.”
“Then you’re going to have to make some changes,” said Randall, a new harshness in his tone. “Big changes.”
“Such as?” She was intrigued.
“Such as quit dragging yourself down with some deadweight loser of a boyfriend.”
