Movie Lovers

MOVIE LOVERS

HOLLYWOOD HEARTS 4

Jean C. Joachim

Mainstream
Romance

Secret
Cravings Publishing

www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

Mainstream Romance

Movie Lovers

Copyright © 2013 Jean C. Joachim

E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-765-1

First E-book Publication: June 2013

Cover design by
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Dominique

Edited by Tabitha Bower

Proofread by Carolyn Gibbs

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DEDICATION

To Ruth Joachim, my beloved
mother-in-law.
 

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank the following for
their help and support: Larry Joachim, Tabitha Bower, my editor, Sandy
Sullivan, my publisher, Marilyn
Reisse
Lee, my Book
Buddies, friends and readers who make writing books so worthwhile.

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MOVIE LOVERS

HOLLYWOODS HEARTS 4

Jean C. Joachim

Copyright © 2013

Chapter One

Grace Brewster couldn’t control her
breathing.
Alone with Gunther Quill
.
Little me with one of the biggest producers
in Hollywood
. He leaned against the corner of his desk. The sleeves of his
white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, the neck, unbuttoned. His light blue striped
tie hung loose. Grace noticed his perfect haircut and the whitest smile she’d
ever seen. Brown hair going gorgeously gray at the temples and broad shoulders
drew her attention.

No
wedding ring. No family pictures on his desk or credenza. He’s sex on wheels.

His dark brown eyes feasted on her
body, not missing one curve or her dangerously low-cut top. Suddenly feeling
naked, Grace leaned back a little in her chair, folding her arms across her breasts.
Her rich brown curls fell loosely about her shoulders. She blinked at him with the
same big, ocean blues as her sister, famous actress Cara Brewster.

“Tell me a little about your script,
Ms. Brewster. Does it have a love scene?”

She gulped, her mouth dry as day-old
bread. “Of course.”

“Tell me…no, no. Show me.” His eyes
danced as he strolled closer to her.

“Show you?” Her palms began to sweat
as she rose slowly from her chair. “How?”

“The best scriptwriters act out
their scripts. Show me. Make me feel it.” His magnetic gaze held hers.

Before she could catch her breath,
he was standing right in front of her, his chest almost touching hers. He
reached out to her locks, rubbing some fine strands between his fingers. “You
are just as beautiful as your sister,” he whispered.

Grace stepped back. “Thank you, Mr.
Quill. That’s quite a compliment.”

“Gunther. Now show me, Grace. Does
your heroine have passion for the hero?”

She nodded.

“How does she show it?”

“Well…she…uh…she…” She looked around
the room, avoiding his face.

“Does he do this?” He leaned over
and placed his lips on hers, snaking his arm around her waist. Grace’s pulse
kicked into high gear. The warmth of his kiss aroused her, but fear fought with
desire.
He’s a producer. What are you
doing? You don’t even know him. This is business.
She placed her hands on his
chest and pushed. But he was like steel and didn’t budge.

Bending down, he whispered in her
ear, “Does he make love to her?” His mouth was on her neck while he pulled her
closer.

“Mr. Quill…”

“Gunther…”

“Okay. Gunther…this is about my
script, right? This is business.”

“Of course it is. We’re only acting
out your script. Show me how she makes love to him. Make it real. I need to
feel it for the audience to feel it.”

“Shouldn’t I be doing that with
words?”

“Movies are pictures, Grace, my
dear. Action, images, are more important than words.”

“But…” Her heart beat wildly.

“Show me,” he repeated, sliding his fingers
up over her breast.

This time she shoved harder. “Wait a
minute…” she began, but words stuck in her throat.

He stepped back and dropped his hand.
The fire in his eyes turned to ice.

“Do you want me to read your script?
Do you know how many get dropped on my door every day? Hundreds. What makes
yours special? I need to know you have the passion to write a convincing love
scene.”

She stared at her fingernails.

“Grace. If you can’t convince me,
how the hell are you going to convince an audience?”

“But I thought…”

“Don’t waste my time. My secretary
has your treatment and script?” He moved back to rest against his desk.

She nodded. “You want me to read it,
don’t you?” She swallowed. “Make me want to read it. Show me your script is hotter,
smarter, better than the other five hundred waiting for me.
Convince
me to read it.” His gaze warmed.
She raised her chin to meet his stare. Lust glittered in his eyes.

“You want me to believe you come in
here dressed like that, but you had no intention of seducing me?”

A moment of clarity burst through the
confusion in her mind. If she wanted him to read her script, she was expected
to have sex with him. A sense of calm washed over her when she figured out what
was happening.
Am I that desperate? He’s
sexy. I could do worse. If he reads it and likes it, I’m in.

A war raged inside her. This script
was everything to her as she struggled to find her way as a writer in a cutthroat
business, where her sister was a queen and she was non-existent. But to
prostitute herself for it was over the top.
It’s
not like he’s married. Maybe like a hook-up? I don’t do hook-ups.

The phone on his desk buzzed.
Gunther leaned over to pick it up. “No, no. Hold all my calls.” He replaced the
receiver and turned his attention back to Grace. Like a snake who has
hypnotized his prey, Gunther slithered across the open space between them. Testing
the waters, he ran his finger down her face. “Such beauty should not go…
untasted
.”

“My script. My story. It’s about a
girl named Jackie and a guy name Brad…” The words came out in a rush.

“Tell me all, my lovely,” he said as
he drew her near. His lips caressed her neck while his hand slid the shoulder
of her blouse down, exposing her breast to his gaze.

* * * *

With a shaking hand, Grace turned
the key in the ignition of her SUV.
What
just happened?
She put her head down on the steering wheel as the motor
purred quietly.
You slept with Gunther
Quill. Idiot! You let him use you.
A wave of nausea flashed through her
belly as she jammed the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot.

When she arrived at the dance studio
for her class, Grace raced into the ladies room to throw up. Breathing heavy,
she washed her face and mouth. Weakness washed through her body.

As she leaned against the bathroom wall,
cooling her hot forehead against the tile, her instructor,
Dorrie
Rogers, pushed open the door. “Grace! Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“You’re pale as a ghost. What
happened?”

“Nothing,
Dorrie
,
nothing. I’m fine.” Grace pushed away to stand on her own as blood rushed back
to her face, and her legs began to feel steady again.

Dorrie
put
an arm around her friend. “Hey, you don’t have to come to class today. We’ll
extend your lessons.”

“I’m fine. I want to dance.” She
applied lipstick with a trembling hand.

“Don’t bullshit me, you’re not fine.”

Two other students entered,
eliminating
Dorrie
and Grace’s privacy.

“I want to dance. It’d be good for
me.”

“We’ll see,”
Dorrie
said as she pulled out a comb and ran it through her auburn hair.

“Meet you inside,” Grace said,
pushing through the door. She entered the large, sunny room with the shiny,
light wood floor. The mirrored wall shouted her image back at her so she could
see how bad she looked. Grace put down her bag and gripped the
barre
. She started slowly, stretching and bending.

Dorrie
and
the other women gathered and joined Grace in warm-up exercises. Grace directed
her focus on dancing, trying not to think about what had just happened in
Gunther Quill’s office. The smirk from his secretary confirmed her suspicion that
Gunther did this all the time. She wasn’t special, but simply another pathetic
female writer who was willing to put out for a reading, a chance to find out if
her script was the one.

Was
I good enough for Gunther? Did I capture the magic he was looking for…the
mystical quality needed to make it to the silver screen?
Anger replaced the
nausea, causing Grace to work her tense, stiff muscles mercilessly until she
pulled a hamstring. Pain shot through her and she collapsed.

Dorrie
raced over. “I told you not to dance.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Grace choked out, clutching
her injured limb.

“I’m sorry. Come over here. Let’s
get some ice on that.” She helped Grace up while the class took a five-minute
break.
Dorrie
retrieved an ice bag from the small
fridge in the corner of the room and placed it on Grace’s leg.

“You’re tight as a drum. What’s
going on?” The quizzical stare from her friend made Grace look away. No way was
she spilling the truth.
Bad enough you
did it. Now shut up about it.

“Nothing.”

Dorrie
placed her hands on her hips and shifted her weight. “Don’t lie to me, Grace
Brewster.”

“Let it alone,
Dorrie
.
Let it alone.” Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
Shit! I’m not
gonna
cry. No tears. None.

The minute
Dorrie
saw the misting, her tone softened. “I’m sorry, Grace. What can I do?” She
crouched down to be eye-to-eye with Grace, who was sitting on the floor.

“Nothing. I told you. Let it be,
Dorrie
.” Grace grimaced as she pushed up to a standing
position and limped out of the room. Once in her car, she blasted the radio,
opened the windows, and raced down the highway to the home she shared with her sister
on Benedict Canyon Drive.

Once inside, she poured a screwdriver,
grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen plus a handful of ice, threw that in a paper
towel, and hobbled out to the deck that surrounded the swimming pool. She
lowered herself into a chair and placed the cold pack on her aching muscle. She
washed down two pills with her drink and sat back. The sun warmed her chest and
the tightness coiled inside her began to loosen.

Within fifteen minutes, the pain in
her leg had subsided and she had drained her glass. Feeling grubby after her
encounter with Gunther, Grace took a shower. Under the hot spray, she relaxed
even more. Emotion gathered in her and tears flowed. She propped her head up against
the tile and sobbed.

* * * *

Day after day, Grace checked her email,
not once, but twenty times. Still no message from Gunther Quill about her
script.
How long does it take to read a ten-page
treatment?
She bit her nails, did laundry, swam laps, and avoided her dance
class while she waited. As more days passed with no word, tension grew. Grace
exercised at home to relieve the pressure.

While hiding from the world soothed
her and allowed her to dodge too many questions from friends and family she
didn’t want to answer, she knew she couldn’t escape
Dorrie’s
caring curiosity for long. Before a week was out, her friend called. “When are
you coming back to class?”

“When my leg is healed,” Grace lied.

“Really? How come I don’t believe
you?”

“I can’t help that.”

“We’re friends. What could be so
terrible that you can’t tell me?”

There was silence.
That I prostituted myself to sell a script?
She chewed her lip.

“Whatever it is, please call me.
Let’s have dinner. I’m worried about you, Gracie.”

Hell,
I’m worried about me, too. No morals.

“I’ll call. I promise.” Grace hung
up the phone. She padded over to her computer to check her inbox for the one-hundredth
time that day. This time, it was there. A message from Gunther. She held her
breath as she opened it.

Dear Ms. Brewster,

Thank you for submitting your script to Regency Hill Productions.
Unfortunately,

it’s not what we’re looking for at the present time. We hope you will
submit your next one to us, and we wish you well in your screenwriting career.

Sincerely,

Marsha
Durward

Assistant to Gunther Quill

Grace screamed as fury welled up
inside. Feelings of worthlessness washed through her.
He didn’t even have the decency to reject me himself. Used his
assistant. I’m a stupid fool. He just wanted to get laid.

Checking her phone, she discovered a
series of texts from her sister.
Cara!
Need to hear your voice. But I can’t tell you why. You’ll be ashamed of me.
With
a badly shaking hand, Grace dialed through a flood of emotion.

“Hi,
Pook
—” Cara stopped when she was met with uncontrollable
crying. “Grace? Gracie, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Grace took a couple
of deep, shuddering breaths to calm herself. She couldn’t speak.

“Please, darling,
what’s wrong?” Cara asked.

Silence. Grace tried
to catch her breath but couldn’t.

“Gracie, listen.
Listen! You get on a plane and get out here right away, Grace Brewster.
Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

Finally, she found
her voice. “You can’t, you can’t…” Gracie dissolved into tears again and hung
up. When she could control her emotions, she yanked a small suitcase from the
closet, threw in some clothes, and closed up the house.
Cara’s right. I’ve got to get out of L.A. I need her.

Grace sat down at
her computer and purchased a one-way plane ticket to New York. She made a
sandwich and packed it in her purse before calling a taxi. She munched on an
apple while she sat by the front gate, texting.

Will be
on the nine o’clock red-eye tonight. What’s your address?

Seconds later, she
received a reply.

The
Stanford, Seventy-Fourth and Central Park West. I’ll send a car for you.

Driver’s
name is Bobby. Send me your flight number. Miss you so. Can’t wait to