Beautiful People (32 page)

    They were driving to the villa where Darcy would be staying for the duration of the filming. A quick call to Mitch had pinpointed the location.

    "You haven't checked in there yet?" The agent had sounded concerned.

    "Not yet, no," Darcy confirmed gaily. "But we're on our way."

    "We?"

    "Me and, um, Christian."

    "Christian!" Mitch yelped in horror.

    He'd been right to fear the worst in Puccini's. The slimiest, most calculating asshole in Hollywood—and a hard-fought title that was—had struck again. Of course he had.

    Mitch could have kicked himself. If only he was more of a calculating asshole himself. He'd been insane, hopelessly optimistic or just plain wrong to think that his latest protégée, dewy-eyed, new to Tinseltown, unaware of its ways, could in any way withstand Christian Harlow on a full-scale charm offensive.

    He'd been even more insane to have hoped, as he had, that once Belle discovered Christian was in
Galaxia
too, they could somehow pick up where they had left off. Or vice versa; Belle, brought back from the career dead by her Shakespeare stint, was a more enticing prospect for Christian now, after all. But not as enticing as Darcy obviously.

    Mitch clenched his fists with frustration. Darcy and Christian together was the worst possible scenario. Complicating it was the fact that his client still had no idea that Belle, the woman who had publicly stolen her boyfriend, was in the film. Mitch had been keeping the news from her in the hope that he would think of a way to break it acceptably. He was aided in this by the standard Jack Saint practice of keeping the cast of his films a mystery until the very last minute. Of course, there were rumours, but Darcy did not appear to have heard any. By the time she did, hopefully, she would be too far committed to
Galaxia to withdraw when sh
e finally found out.

    Mitch moaned and clutched his head. Because this, messy though it was, was not all, of course. Not by a long way. The final piece of unexploded ordnance was the prospect of Belle's reaction on discovering Christian and Darcy together on set. Mitch winced; he could almost hear now the shrieks of both his clients shouting about each other down the phone.

    "Well, you've got a shoot tomorrow, in Florence," he managed to grind out to Darcy from between clenched teeth. "Some kinda shoe thing."

    At least that would keep her out of Harlow's way for a day, Mitch thought. The delay in principal photography, in Darcy's case, wasn't only irritating, it was downright dangerous. He could imagine Harlow oiling himself up and parading about by the swimming pool, flashing those persuasive teeth at his giggling client. Or Belle, pushing Darcy right in that pool and holding her under, or perhaps the other way round…

    He took a big bite of jelly doughnut and swung his chair round to his window. Between the blinds, his eye caught the streetsweeper again, shuffling happily down the sunlit sidewalk. Mitch experienced a new surge of heartfelt envy. Who'd be a Hollywood agent?

    Irritated in Italy, Darcy slipped her mobile back into her pocket. What right did Mitch have to spoil her party? If, at the very back of Darcy's mind was the niggling thought that she had given in too soon, slept with someone she hardly knew, and that such behaviour was not to her credit, Darcy forced it away. She deserved some fun, after all that had happened with Niall. She must grasp the moment, gather the rosebuds, enjoy herself. Live a little—or even a lot. She was a big star, after all, as Christian kept saying. Or about to be one.

    "Everything okay, doll?" Christian beamed at her, knowing perfectly well that it wasn't. He could well imagine what that fat creep Mitch Masterson had said.

    "Fine," Darcy beamed back. Christian looked, Darcy thought, like a young god. She felt a rush of sudden desire, even after all the desire she had just felt and which had been sated, over and over again. He had made love to her in positions she had not realised possible, raised her to heights of pleasure so intense they had almost been pain. As starburst followed starbust behind her eyes, she had become lost in sensation. Time, space, and even identity had melted away.

    "Hey!" Christian shouted, taking a hand off the wheel. "Italy really suits you. Your hair looks great against that blue sky."

    Delighted, Darcy shook the black mane that was whipping her rather painfully across the face.

    "And the dark green of those trees really matches your eyes," Christian yelled, trotting out his second most useful endearment. You just changed the name of the place—Italy, New York, California, wherever. It worked every time, as it had here.

    Perhaps too well. You could see in her eyes that she wanted more. Christian was worn out, however. Darcy might look composed, but she had been a fireball in bed. It wasn't only her breasts that were real. Every other bit was too, and it had all needed attention. Clearly she had been making up for lost time.

    "Are we anywhere near?" he called above the wind. He needed to deposit her at this villa, go home, and recover.

    Darcy looked confused for a moment, then remembered the instructions. She crouched forward as they hurtled along, looking anxiously about her. The turn off to the villa should be coming up soon. Yes, here it was.

    "There!" she pointed frantically, yelling over the scream of the wind. But Christian was still hurtling forward, certain, it seemed, to overshoot it. He flashed her a grin and, with a twist of his biceps, a jerk of the wheel, a mighty screech from the tyres, the car pivoted at full tilt on two wheels and hurtled up a lane along which a wall ran as far as a pair of gateposts. "Villa Rosa," Darcy read. "Here we are," she yelled to Christian, as they shot past.

    A mighty pull of the brakes, again a screech of tyres, and then silence. A flood of birdsong entered the space where before there had been only the roar of an engine. Darcy, heart racing and head thumping from where it had just smashed back against the seat as they stopped dead, took a deep, relieved breath. Of course, Christian knew what he was doing. He was in control. But in any other hands, that speed, that turn…well…

    The powerful, sweet scent of roses drove out the reek of petrol fumes in her nose. Surprised, Darcy realised it must be coming from the villa garden. How absolutely perfect. The Villa Rosa smelt of roses.

    She unbuckled her seat, heaved herself out, and hurried to the black wrought-iron gate. But the beautiful garden, whose scent filled Darcy's nose and which suggested ordered rose-beds, fountains, and manicured lawns, was nowhere to be seen. She looked on horticultural carnage: a cut-up mess of flowers and leaves and a stretch of churned-up grass. Churned-up grass, mud, devastated bushes, and roseheads everywhere.

    Darcy turned to Christian who, unrestricted by any seatbelt, had leapt out immediately to follow her. "What on earth do you think has happened? It looks as if someone's landed a helicopter on it."

    Christian hardly heard her. He, too, was looking on a bonechilling sight, albeit not the same one. Standing on the patio was a creature he recognised. And who recognised him, moreover. A tiny brown dog with big pointy ears began to run back and forth agitatedly, emitting as it did so a series of shattering barks. Its protruding black eyes were trained directly on him. The slightest element of doubt was removed by the fact it wore a collar so full of diamonds you could see them glittering from the gate.

    "No one would land a helicopter in a rose garden…" mused Darcy.

    Oh, no? Christian could think of someone with a dog like that, who was more than capable of landing a helicopter in a rose garden. Belle had never had green fingers. Gold fingers, more like.

    "I, um, gotta go," Christian muttered, pushing hastily past her in his way back to the car.

    She turned, her eyes wide with alarm. "You're not coming in?"

    "Sorry. Gotta go home, look at the script again."

    Christian had opened the trunk of the Ferrari and was almost throwing Darcy's few bags—still bearing their British Airways firstclass tags—onto the road. He dived back into the driver's seat. There was a burst of thunder as the ignition struck up. "I'll call you," he yelled, reversing with a screech and hurtling down the road. Within a few seconds, he had turned the corner and was gone, leaving only a blue cloud of exhaust fumes hanging over the sunny road.

    Darcy, blinking after him, noticed a yapping noise. She looked round to see that a small, brown, big-eared dog with a glittering collar and a loud, irritating yap was racing over the mangled rose garden towards the gate, a murderous expression in its horribly protruding black eyes.

    "Sugar! Baby!" A thin woman in a short black dress with long blonde hair, red lipstick, and enormous sunglasses was picking her way in high black heels over the shattered bushes after it. "There, there," she was calling, exclaiming in annoyance as her sharp spike heels sank in the mud. "Come back to Mommy! What's the problem, sweetie…?"

    Mommy spoke, Darcy registered, in a babyish voice with an American accent. Suddenly, all her scattered thoughts and senses came rushing together.

    She knew this woman. She had seen this hair, these sunglasses before. She might even have seen this dog. Pored over them for hours, in fact. On the front page of several newspapers.

    This was Belle Murphy. Belle Murphy. The plastic doll. The woman who had stolen Niall while she had been away in L.A. Who had precipitated a personal and professional crisis.

    For a second, Darcy pictured herself either punching Belle in the face or turning on her own, flat, flipflop-shod heel and striding away in a magnificent gesture of contempt and rejection.

    A pointless gesture, however, in both cases. Belle's face looked so thin and sharp she might cut herself in the first instance and in the second she had no transport; the main road at the bottom was long, hot, and dusty and, moreover, she had nowhere else to stay. This was the villa which had been booked for her by the film company.

    But she had not realised she was sharing it with Belle Murphy; that Belle Murphy was in Galaxia too. Mitch had not mentioned it. On purpose? Darcy wondered darkly now. Particularly after what he had said about Christian, she was beginning to wonder if Mitch really did have her best interests at heart. Perhaps, like Christian, she should change agents annually. "Keeps 'em on their evil, grasping toes," he had laughed.

    For a second, Darcy teetered on the edge of abandoning Mitch, the film, Jack Saint, and incipient stardom, and returning to London. Only the knowledge that this inevitably meant abandoning Christian too drew her back. She then reflected that there was nothing to return home for anyway. Largely thanks to the woman in front of her.

    Belle had gained the gate by now and retrieved her pet. It was of course annoying and uncomfortable to have to walk this far in heels only ever intended for the few steps between limo and lobby. But Sugar would obviously respond to no one else. And now she had got this far in pursuit of him she would have to answer the gate too.

    Of course, strictly speaking, that miserable old bat of a housekeeper was there to perform any menial tasks, but she'd disappeared in a sulk some time ago. OK, Belle admitted to herself, so she'd messed up a few plants, but the garden would grow again, what was the problem? That's what gardens did.

    A cross-looking dark-haired girl was staring through the ironwork, right at her. Belle met the hostile look with an equally hostile one of her own and looked her up and down, unimpressed. Ordinary-looking, tall with black hair that lacked a single highlight, and wore a yellow dress of no recognisable designer, unless it was some years-ago Roland Mouret number. She was also very pale and not particularly thin. And that, of course, was the telling detail. Not thin, so not someone important. Very obviously none of the people rumoured to be acting with her in
Galaxia
. Not Cate Blanchett or Nicole Kidman. Definitely not Jack Black, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Russells Brand or Crowe.

    There had been so many rumours about her co-stars, none of which had been confirmed. Mitch had been particularly pathetic on this score, pleading endlessly the iron control Jack Saint exercised over every aspect of his films. "No one really knows. They won't until he wants to tell them."

    "But you're a goddam agent, you're supposed to be on the inside track," Belle had stormed. "Is it true that Christian's in
Galaxia
?"

    "I really have no idea," Mitch had replied carefully.

    "Christ," she exploded. "The only inside you know anything about is the inside of your goddam refrigerator."

"Can I help you?" Belle now asked Darcy disdainfully. "Are you a housemaid or something?"

    She was taken aback when the other snapped. "I'm not a housemaid, thank you very much. I'm an actress."

    English accent, Belle thought. But she wasn't Kiera Knightley, Kate Winslet, or Helen Mirren. And what other English actresses were there?