Once More With Feeling (6 page)

Slowly he relaxed his fingers, then released her. “The same old story,” he murmured. Turning away from her, he carefully drew out a cigarette and lit it. “You still give until I'm halfway mad, then pull away from me.” He took a long, deep drag. “I should have been better prepared for it.”

“You're not fair. I didn't start this; I never wanted . . .”

“You wanted,” he tossed back furiously. “Damn it, Raven, you wanted. I've had enough women to know when I'm holding one who wants me.”

She stiffened against the ache that was speeding through her. “You're better off with one of your many women, Brandon. I told you I wouldn't fall at your feet this time, and I meant it. If we can have a professional relationship, fine.” She swallowed and straightened the hair his fingers had so recently caressed. “If you can't work with things on that level, then you'd best find another partner.”

“I have the one I want.” He tossed his cigarette through the open window. “We'll play it your way for a while, Raven. We're both professionals, and we both know what this musical's going to do for our careers.” He started the engine. “I'll take you home.”

Chapter 5

R
aven hated to be late for a party, but there was no help for it. Her schedule was drum tight. If it hadn't been important that she be there, to rub elbows with Lauren Chase and a few other principals from the cast and crew of
Fantasy,
she'd have bowed out. There were only two days left before the start of her tour.

The truth was, Raven had forgotten about the party. Rehearsals had run over, then she had found herself driving into Beverly Hills to window shop. She hadn't wanted to buy anything but had simply wanted to do something mindless. For weeks there had been nothing but demand after demand, and she could look forward only to more of the same in the weeks to come. She would steal a few hours. She didn't want to think about her mother and the clean white sanitarium or song lists and cues or her confusion over Brand as she browsed through the treasures at Neiman-Marcus and Gucci. She looked at everything and bought nothing.

Arriving home, she was met by a huge handwritten note from Julie tacked on her bedroom door.

Party at Steve Jarett's. I know—you forgot. IMPORTANT! Get your glad rags together, babe, and go. Out with Lorenzo for dinner, we'll see you there. J.

Raven swore briefly, rebelled, then capitulated before she stalked to the closet to choose an outfit. An hour later she was cruising fast through the Hollywood Hills. It was important that she be there.

Steve Jarett was directing
Fantasy.
He was, at the moment, the silver screen's boy wonder, having just directed three major successes in a row. Raven wanted
Fantasy
to be his fourth as much as he did.

The party would be crowded, she mused, and looked wistfully at the open, star-studded sky. And noisy. Abruptly she laughed at herself. Since when did a noisy, crowded party become a trial by fire? There had been a time when she had enjoyed them. And there was no denying that the people who haunted these parties were fascinating and full of incredible stories. Raven could still be intrigued. It was just that . . . She sighed, allowing herself to admit the real reason she had dragged her feet. Brandon would be there. He was bound to be.

Would he bring a date? she wondered. Why wouldn't he? She answered herself shortly, downshifting as she took a curve. Unless he decided to wait and take his pick from the women there. Raven sighed again, seeing the blaze of lights that told her she was approaching Jarett's house. It was ridiculous to allow herself to get tied up in knots over something that had ended years before.

Her headlights caught the dull gleam of sturdy iron gates, and she slowed. The guard took her name, checked his list, then admitted her. She could hear the music before she was halfway up the curving, palm-lined drive.

There was a white-jacketed teenager waiting to hand her out of the Lamborghini. He was probably a struggling actor or an aspiring screenwriter or cinematographer, Raven thought as she smiled at him.

“Hi, I'm late. Do you think I can slip in without anybody noticing?”

“I don't think so, Ms. Williams, not looking like that.”

Raven lifted her brows, surprised that he had recognized her so quickly in the dim light. But even if he had missed the face and hair, she realized, he would never have mistaken the voice.

“That's a compliment, isn't it?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said so warmly that she laughed.

“Well, I'm going to do my best, anyway. I don't like entrances unless they're on stage.” She studied the sprawling, white brick mansion. “There must be a side door.”

“Around to the left.” He pointed. “There's a set of glass doors that lead into the library. Go through there and turn left. You should be able to slip in without being noticed.”

“Thanks.” She went to take a bill out of her purse, discovered she had left it in the car and leaned in the window to retrieve it. After a moment's search, she found a twenty and handed it to him.

“Thank
you!
Raven,” he enthused as she turned away. Then he called to her, “Ms. Williams?” Raven turned back with a half smile. “Would you sign it for me?”

She tossed back her hair. “The bill?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed and shook her head. “A fat lot of good it would do you then. Here.” She dug into her bag again and came up with a slip of paper. One side was scrawled on, a list of groceries Julie had given her a few weeks before, but the other side was blank. “What's your name?” she demanded.

“Sam, Sam Rheinhart.”

“Here, Sam Rheinhart,” she said. Dashing off a quick line on the paper, she gave him the autograph. He stared after her, the twenty in one hand and the grocery list in the other, as she rushed off.

Raven found the glass doors without trouble. Though they were closed, the sounds of the party came clearly through. There were groups of people out back listening to a very loud rock band and drifting around by the pool. She stayed in the shadows. She wore an ankle-length skirt and a dolman-sleeve pullover in a dark plum color with silver metallic threads running through which captured the moonlight. Entering through the library, she gave herself a moment to adjust to the darkness before groping her way to the door.

There was no one in the hall immediately outside. Pleased with herself, Raven stepped out and gravitated slowly toward the focus of noise.

“Why, Raven!” It was Carly Devers, a tiny blond fluff of an actress with a little-girl voice and a rapier sharp talent. Though they generally moved in different circles, Raven liked her. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Hi, Carly.” They exchanged obligatory brushes of the cheek. “Congratulations are in order, aren't they? I heard you were being signed as second lead in
Fantasy.”

“It's still in the working stage, but it looks like it. It's a gem of a part, and of course, working with Steve is
the
thing to do these days.” As she spoke, she gave Raven a piercing look with her baby blue eyes. “You look fabulous,” she said. Raven knew she meant it. “And of course, congratulations are in order for you as well, aren't they?”

“Yes, I'm excited about doing the score.”

Carly tilted her head, and a smile spread over her face. “I was thinking more about Brand Carstairs than the score, darling.” Raven's smile faded instantly. “Oops.” Carry's smile only widened. “Still tender.” There was no malice in her amusement. She linked her arm with Raven's. “I'd keep your little collaboration very tight this time around, Raven. I'm tempted to make a play for him myself, and I guarantee I'm not alone.”

“What happened to Dirk Wagner?” Raven reminded herself to play it light as they drew closer to the laughter and murmurs of the party.

“Old news, darling, do try to keep up.” Carly laughed, a tinkling bell of a sound that Raven could not help but respond to. “Still, I don't make it a habit to tread on someone else's territory.”

“No signs posted, Carly,” Raven said carelessly.

“Hmm.”
Carly tossed back a lock of silver-blond hair. A waiter passed by with a tray of glasses, and she neatly plucked off two. “I've heard he's a marvelous lover,” she commented, her eyes bright and direct on Raven's.

Raven returned the look equably and accepted the offered champagne. “Have you? But then, I imagine that's old news, too.”

“Touché,” Carly murmured into her glass.

“Is Brandon here?” she asked, trying to prove to herself and her companion that the conversation meant nothing.

“Here and there,” Carly said ambiguously. “I haven't decided whether he's been trying to avoid the flocks of females that crawl around him or if he's seeking them out. He doesn't give away much, does he?”

Raven uttered a noncommittal sound and shrugged. It was time, she decided, to change the subject. “Have you seen Steve? I suppose I should fight my way through and say hello.”

It was a typical enough party, Raven decided: Clothes ranged from Rive Gauche to Salvation Army. There was a steady drum beat from the band by the pool underlying the talk and laughter. The doors to the terrace were open wide, letting out the clouds of smoke and allowing the warm night air to circulate freely. The expansive lawns were ablaze with colored lights. Raven was more interested in the people but gave the room itself a quick survey.

It was decorated stunningly in white—walls, furniture, rugs—with a few vivid green accents slashed here and there. Raven decided it was gorgeous and that she couldn't have lived in it in a million years. She'd never be able to put her feet up on the elegant, free-form glass coffee table. She went back to the people.

Her eyes sought out Julie with her handsome Italian millionaire. She spotted Wayne with one of his bone-thin models hanging on his arm. Raven decided that the rumors that he would design the costumes for
Fantasy
must be true. There were others Raven recognized: producers, two major stars whom she had watched countless times in darkened theaters, a choreographer she knew only by face and reputation, a screenwriter she had met before socially and several others whom she knew casually or not at all. She and Carly were both drawn into the vortex of the party.

There were dozens of greetings to exchange, along with hand-kissing and cheek-brushing, before Raven could begin to inch her way back toward the edges. She was always more comfortable with one or two people at a time than with a crowd, unless she was on stage. At a touch on her arm, she turned and found herself facing her host.

“Well, hello.” Raven smiled, appreciating the chance for a tête-à-tête.

“Hi. I was afraid you weren't going to make it.”

Raven realized she shouldn't have been surprised that he had noticed her absence in the crowds of people. Steve Jarett noticed everything. He was a small, slight man with a pale, intense face and dark beard who looked ten years younger than his thirty-seven years. He was considered a perfectionist, often a pain when shooting, but the maker of beautiful films. He had a reputation for patience—enough to cause him to shoot a scene over and over and over again until he got precisely what he wanted. Five years before, he had stunned the industry with a low-budget sleeper that had become the unchallenged hit of the year. His first film had received an Oscar and had opened all the doors that had previously been firmly shut in his face. Steve Jarett held the keys now and knew exactly which ones to use.

He held both of her hands and studied her face. It was he who had insisted on Brand Carstairs as the writer of the original score for
Fantasy
and he who had approved the choice of Raven Williams as collaborator.
Fantasy
was his first musical, and he wasn't going to make any mistakes.

“Lauren's here,” he said at length. “Have you met her?”

“No, I'd like to.”

“I'd like you to get a real feel for her. I've copies of all of her films and records. You might study them before you begin work on the score.”

Raven's brow rose. “I don't think I've missed any of her movies, but I'll watch them again. She is the core of the story.”

He beamed suddenly, unexpectedly. “Exactly. And you know Jack Ladd.”

“Yes, we've worked together before. You couldn't have picked a better Joe.”

“I'm making him work off ten pounds,” Jarett said, plucking a canapé from a tray. “He has some very unflattering things to say about me at the moment.”

“But he's taking off the ten pounds,” Raven observed.

Jarett grinned. “Ounce by ounce. We go to the same gym. I keep reminding him Joe's a struggling writer, not a fulfilled hedonist.”

Raven gave a low, gurgling laugh and popped a bite of cheese into her mouth. “Overweight or not, you're assembling a remarkable team. I don't know how you managed to wrangle Larry Keaston into choreographing. He's been retired for five years.”

“Bribes and perseverance,” Jarett said easily, glancing over to where the trim, white-haired former dancer lounged in a pearl-colored armchair. “I'm talking him into doing a cameo.” He grinned at Raven again. “He's pretending dignified reluctance, but he's dying to get in front of the cameras again.”

“If you can even get him to do a time step on film, you'll have the biggest coup of the decade,” Raven observed and shook her head. And he'd do it, she thought. He has the touch.

“He's a big fan of yours,” Jarett remarked and watched Raven's eyes widen.

“Of mine? You're joking.”

“I am not.” He gave Raven a curious look. “He wants to meet you.”

Raven stared at Jarett, then again at Larry Keaston. Such things never ceased to amaze her. How many times, as a child, had she watched his movies on fuzzy black and white TV sets in cramped rooms while she had waited for her mother to come home? “You don't have to ask me twice,” she told Jarett. She linked her arm in his.

Time passed quickly as Raven began enjoying herself. She talked at length with Larry Keaston and discovered her girlhood idol to be personable and witty. He spoke in a string of expletives delivered in his posh Boston accent. Though she spoke briefly with Jack Ladd, she had yet to meet Lauren Chase when she spotted Wayne drinking quietly in a corner.

“All alone?” she asked as she joined him.

“Observing the masses, my dear,” he told her, sipping lightly from his whiskey and soda. “It's amazing how intelligent people will insist on clothing themselves in inappropriate costumes. Observe Lela Marring,” he suggested, tilting his head toward a towering brunette in a narrow, pink minidress. “I have no idea why a woman would care to wear a place mat in public.”

Raven suppressed a giggle. “She has very nice legs.”

“Yes, all five feet of them.” He swerved his line of vision. “Then, of course, there's Marshall Peters, who's trying to start a new trend. Chest hair and red satin.”