Hollywood Baby Affair
Author
Anna DePalo
Reads
15,3K
Chapters
12
One
Actress and Stuntman Lovefest! More Than Movie Pyrotechnics on Display.
The gossip website headline ran through Chiara Feran’s head when it shouldn’t have.
She clung to Stunt Stud’s well-muscled shoulders, four stories up, wind blowing and helicopter blades whipping in the background—trying to act as if her life depended on it when the truth was that only her career did. After all, a gossip site had just written that she and Mr. Stunt Double were an item, and right now she needed the press distracted from her estranged father, a Vegas-loving cardsharp threatening to cause a controversy of his own.
She tossed her head to keep the hair out of her face. She’d learned Stunt Stud’s first name was Rick when they’d rehearsed, but she thought insufferable was a better word for him. He had remarkable green eyes...and he looked at her as if she were a spoiled diva who needed the kid-glove treatment.
I don’t want you to ruin your manicure.
Thanks for your concern, but there’s a manicurist on set.
They’d had a few brief exchanges over the course of filming that had made her blood boil. If the world only knew... True, his magnetism was enough to rival that of the biggest movie stars, so she wondered why he was content with stunt work, but then again, his ego didn’t need any further boosting. And the rumors were that he wasn’t who he seemed to be and that he had a shadowy, secretive past.
There was even a hint that he was fabulously wealthy. Given his ego, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d put out the rumors himself. He was a macho stuntman ready to save a damsel in distress, but Chiara could save herself, thank you. She’d learned long ago not to depend on any man.
She opened her mouth, but instead of an existential scream, her next line came out. “Zain, we’re going to die!”
“I’m not dropping you,” he growled in reply.
Chiara knew his voice would be substituted later with her costar’s by the studio’s editing department. She took perverse satisfaction in calling him by her costar’s character name. And since Rick was pretending to be her costar, and her costar himself was just acting, she was two steps removed from reality.
And one long fall away from sudden death.
Even though both she and Rick had invisible harnesses, accidents could and did happen on movie sets. As if on cue, more explosions sounded around them.
As soon as this scene was over, she was heading to her trailer for coffee and maybe even a talk with Odele—
“Cut!” the director yelled through a bullhorn.
Chiara sagged with relief.
Rick barely loosened his grip as they were lowered to the ground.
She was bone-tired in the middle of a twelve-hour day on set. She didn’t dwell on the other type of tired right now—an existential weariness that made it hard to care about anything in her life. Fortunately filming on this movie was due to wrap soon.
Action flicks bored her, but they paid the mortgage and more. And Odele, her manager, never stopped reminding her that they also kept her in the public eye. Her Q score would stay high, and it would keep those lucrative endorsement deals flowing. This film was no exception on both counts. Pegasus Pride was about a mission to stop the bad guys from blowing up the United Nations and other key government buildings.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, she ignored a frisson of awareness and stepped away from Rick.
His dark hair was mussed, and his jeans clung low on his hips, a dirty vest concealing his tee. Still, he managed to project the authority of a master of the universe, calm and implacable but ready for action.
She didn’t like her reaction to him. He made her self-conscious about being a woman. Yes, he was all hard-packed muscle and latent strength. Yes, he was undoubtedly in top physical shape with washboard abs. But he was arrogant and annoying and, like most men, not to be trusted.
She refused to be intimidated. It was laughable really—after all, her bank account must dwarf his.
“Okay?” Rick asked.
His voice was as deep and rich as the hot chocolate she wished she had right now—damn him. It was a surprisingly damp and cold early April day on Novatus Studio’s lot in Los Angeles. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Dozens of people milled around them on the movie set. “All in a day’s work, right?”
His jaw firmed. “This one is asking for more than usual.”
“Excuse me?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Have you spoken to your manager recently? Odele?”
“No, why?”
His gaze moved to her trailer. “You may want to give it a go.”
Uh-oh.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and showed her the screen.
It took a moment to focus on the newspaper website’s headline, but once she did, her eyes widened. Chiara Feran and Her Stuntman Get Cozy. Is It More Than High Altitudes That Have Their Hearts Racing?
Oh...crap. Another online tabloid had apparently picked up the original gossip site’s story, and worse, now Rick was aware of it, too. Heat rushed to her cheeks. He wasn’t her stuntman. He wasn’t her anything. Suddenly she wondered whether she should have sent that first story into internet oblivion when she’d had the chance by denying it. But she’d been too relieved they were focusing on a made-up relationship rather than the real pesky issue—her father.
At Rick’s amused look, she said abruptly, “I’ll talk to Odele.”
He lifted her chin and stroked her jaw with his thumb—as if he had all the right in the world. “If you want me, there’s no need for extreme measures like planting stories in the press. Why not try the direct approach?”
She swatted his hand away and held on to her temper. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Is that direct enough for you?”
He laughed at her with his eyes, and said with lazy self-assurance, “Get back to me.”
As if. In addition to her deadbeat father making news, she had to contend with burgeoning rumors of a relationship with the last stuntman on earth she’d ever walk the red carpet with.
She turned her back on Rick and marched off. The man sent a red mist into the edges of her vision, and it had nothing to do with lust. She clenched her hands, heart pounding. Her jeans and torn tee were skintight—requisite attire for an action movie damsel in distress—and she was aware she was giving Rick a good view as she stomped away.
At her trailer, she banged through the door. She immediately spotted Odele sitting at a small table. The older woman lifted her head and gave Chiara a mild look from behind red glasses, her gray bob catching the light. If Chiara had learned anything during her years with her manager, it was that Odele was unflappable.
Stopping, Chiara touched her forehead. “I took pain medication for my headache an hour ago, and he’s still here.”
“Man problems have defied pharmacology for decades, honey,” Odele replied in her throaty, raspy voice.
Chiara blurted out the gossip about her and Rick, and the stuntman’s reaction. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to actresses!”
“You need a boyfriend,” Odele responded cryptically.
For a moment, Chiara had trouble processing the words. Her mind, going sixty miles an hour, hit the brakes. “What?”
She was one of those actresses who got paid to be photographed sporting a certain brand of handbag or shoes. She glanced around her trailer at the gleaming wood and marble countertops. She had more than she could possibly want. She didn’t desire anything, especially a boyfriend.
True, she hadn’t had a date in a long time. It didn’t mean she couldn’t get one. She just didn’t want the hassle. Boyfriends were work...and men were trouble.
“We need to retain a boyfriend for you,” Odele rephrased.
Chiara gave a dismissive laugh. “I can think of many things I need, but a boyfriend isn’t one of them. I need a new stylist now that Emery has gone off to start her own accessories line. I need a new tube of toothpaste for my bathroom. And I really need a vacation once this film wraps.” She shook her head. “But a boyfriend? No.”
“You’re America’s sweetheart. Everyone wants to see you happy,” her manager pointed out.
“You mean they want to see me making steady progress toward marriage and children.”
Odele nodded.
“Life is rarely that neat.” She should know.
Odele gave a big sigh. “Well, we don’t deal in reality, do we, honey? Our currency in Hollywood is the stardust of dreams.”
Chiara resisted rolling her eyes. She really needed a vacation.
“That’s why a little relationship is just what you need to get your name back out there in a positive way.”
“And how am I supposed to get said relationship?”
Odele snapped her fingers. “Easy. I have just the man.”
“Who?”
“A stuntman, and you’ve already met him.”
A horrifying thought entered Chiara’s head, and she narrowed her eyes. “You put out the rumor that Rick and I are getting cozy.”
OMG. She’d gone to Odele with the rumor because she expected her manager to stamp out a budding media firestorm. Instead, she’d discovered Odele was an arsonist...with poor taste in men.
Odele nodded. “Damn straight I did. We need a distraction from stories about your father.”
Chiara stepped forward. “Odele, how could you? And with—” she stabbed her finger in the direction of the door “—him of all people.”
Odele remained placid.
Chiara narrowed her eyes again. “Has he said anything about your little scheme?”
“He hasn’t objected.”
No wonder Rick had seemed almost...intimate a few minutes ago. He’d been approached by Odele to be her supposed love interest. Chiara took a deep breath to steady herself and temper her reaction. “He’s not my type.”
“He’s any woman’s type, honey. Arm candy.”
“There’s nothing sweet about him, believe me.” He was obnoxious, irritating and objectionable in every way.
“He might not be sugar, but he’ll look edible to many of your female fans.”
Chiara threw up her hands. It was one thing not to contradict a specious story online, it was another to start pretending it was true. And now she’d discovered that said story had been concocted by none other than her own manager. “Oh, c’mon, Odele. You really expect me to stage a relationship for the press?”
Odele arched a brow. “Why not? Your competition is making sex tapes for the media.”
“I’m aiming for the Academy Awards, not the Razzies.”
“It’s no different from being set up on a date or two by a friend.”
“Except you’re my manager and we both know there’s an ulterior motive.”
“There’s always an ulterior motive. Money. Sex. You name it.”
“Is this necessary? My competition has survived extramarital affairs, DUIs and nasty custody disputes with their halos intact.”
“Only because of quick thinking and fancy footwork on the part of their manager or publicist. And believe me, honey, my doctor keeps advising me to keep my stress level to a minimum. It’s not good for the blood pressure.”
“You need to get out of Hollywood.”
“And you need a man. A stuntman.”
“Never.” And especially not him. Somehow he’d gotten his own trailer even though he wasn’t one of the leads on this film. He also visited the exercise trailer, complete with built-in gym and weightlifting equipment. Not that she’d used it herself, but his access to it hadn’t escaped her notice.
Odele pulled out her cell phone and read from the screen: “Chiara Feran’s Father in Illegal Betting Scandal: ‘My Daughter Has Cut Me Off.’”
Oh...double damn. Chiara was familiar with yesterday’s headline. It was like a bad dream that she kept waking up to. It was also why she’d been temporarily—in a moment of insanity—grateful for the ridiculous story about her budding romance. “The only reason I’ve kept him out of my life for the past two decades is because he’s a lying, cheating snake! Now I’m responsible not only for my own image, but for what a sperm donor does?”
As far as she was concerned, the donation of sperm was Michael Feran’s principal contribution to the person she was today. Even the surname that they shared wasn’t authentic. It had been changed at Ellis Island three generations back from the Italian Ferano to the Anglicized Feran.
“We need to promote a wholesome image,” Odele intoned solemnly.
“I could throttle him!”
* * *
Rick Serenghetti made it his business to be all business. But he couldn’t take his gaze off Chiara Feran. Her limpid brown eyes, smooth skin contrasting with dark brows and raven hair made her a dead ringer for Snow White.
A guy could easily be turned into a blithering fool in the presence of such physical perfection. Her face was faultlessly symmetrical. Her topaz eyes called to a man to lose himself in their depths, and her pink bow mouth begged to be kissed. And then came the part of her appearance where the threshold was crossed from fairy tale to his fantasy: she had a fabulous body that marked her as red-hot.
They were in the middle of filming on the Novatus Studio set. Today was sunny and mild, more typical weather for LA than they’d had yesterday, when he’d last spoken to Chiara. With any luck, current conditions were a bellwether for how filming on the movie would end—quickly and painlessly. Then he could relax, because on a film set he was always pumped up for his next action scene. In a lucky break for everyone involved, scenes were again being shot on Novatus Studio’s lot in downtown LA, instead of in nearby Griffith Park.
Still, filming wasn’t over until the last scene was done.
He stood off to the side, watching Chiara and the action on camera. The film crew surrounded him, along with everyone else who made a movie happen: assistants, extras, costume designers, special effects people and, of course, the stunts department—him.
He knew more about Chiara Feran than she’d ever guess—or that she’d like him to know. No Oscar yet, but the press loved to talk about her. Surprisingly scandal-free for Hollywood...except for the cardsharp father.
Too bad Rick and Chiara rubbed each other like two sheets of sandpaper—because she had guts. He had to respect that about her. She wasn’t like her male costar who—if the tabloids were to be believed—was fond of getting four-hundred-dollar haircuts.
At the same time, Chiara was all woman. He remembered the feel of her curves during the helicopter stunt they’d done yesterday. She’d been soft and stimulating. And now the media had tagged him and Chiara as a couple.
“I want to talk to you.”
Rick turned to see Chiara’s manager. In the first days of filming, he’d spotted the older woman on set. She was hard to overlook. Her raspy, no-nonsense voice and distinctive ruby-framed glasses made her ripe for caricature. One of the crew had confirmed for him that she was Odele Wittnauer, Chiara’s manager.
Odele looked to be in her early sixties and not fighting it—which made her stand out in Hollywood. Her helmet hair was salt-and-pepper with an ironclad curve under the chin.
Rick adopted a pleasant smile. He and Odele had exchanged a word or two, but this was the first time she’d had a request. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a proposal.”
He checked his surprise, and joked, “Odele, I didn’t think you had it in you.”
He had been propositioned by plenty of women, but he’d never had the word proposal issue from the mouth of a Madeleine Albright look-alike before.
“Not that type of proposition. I want you to be in a relationship with Chiara Feran.”
Rick rubbed his jaw. He hadn’t seen that one coming. And then he put two and two together, and a light went off. “You were the one who planted that story about me and Chiara.”
“Yup,” Odele responded without a trace of guilt or remorse. “The press beast had to be fed. And more important, we needed a distraction from another story about Chiara’s father.”
“The gambler.”
“The deadbeat.”
“You’re ruthless.” He said it with reluctant admiration.
“There’s chemistry between you,” Odele responded, switching gears.
“Fireworks are more like it.”
Chiara’s manager brightened. “The press will eat it up. The stuntman and the beauty pageant winner.”
So Chiara had won a contest or two—he shouldn’t have been surprised. She had the looks to make men weak, including him, somewhat to his chagrin. Still, Odele made them sound like a couple on a C-rated reality show: Blind Date Engagements. “I’ve seen the media chew up and spit out people right and left. No, thanks.”
“It’ll raise your profile in this town.”
“I like my privacy.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“I don’t need the money.”
“Well,” Odele drawled, lowering her eyes, “maybe I can appeal to your sense of stuntman chivalry then.”
“What do you mean?”
Odele looked up. “You see, Chiara has this teeny-weeny problem of an overly enthusiastic fan.”
“A stalker?”
“Too early to tell, but the guy did try to scale the fence at her house once.”
“He knows where she lives?” Rick asked in disbelief.
“We live in the internet age, dear. Privacy is dead.”
He had some shred left but he wasn’t going to go into details. Even Superman’s alter ego, Clark Kent, was entitled to a few secrets.
“Don’t mention the too-eager fan to her, though. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. “Does Chiara Feran know you approached me?”
“She thinks I already have.”
All right then.
He surmised that Odele and Chiara had had their talk. And apparently Chiara had changed tactics and decided to turn the situation to her advantage. She was willing to tolerate him...for the sake of her career at least. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d already had one bad experience with a publicity-hungry actress, and then he’d been one of the casualties.
Still, they were in the middle of the second act, and he’d missed the opening. But suddenly things had gotten a lot more interesting.
Odele’s eyes gleamed as if she sensed victory—or at least a chink in his armor. Turning away, she said, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”
As Rick watched Chiara’s manager leave, he knew there was a brooding expression on his face. Odele had presented him with a quandary. As a rule, he didn’t get involved with actresses—ever since his one bad episode—but he had his gallant side. On top of it, Chiara was the talent on his latest film—one in which he had a big stake.
As if on cue, his cell phone vibrated. Fishing it out of his pocket, Rick recognized the number on-screen as that of his business partner—one of the guys who fronted the company, per Rick’s preference to be behind the scenes.
“Hey, Pete, what’s going on?”
Rick listened to Pete’s summary of the meeting that morning with an indie director looking for funding. He liked what he heard, but he needed to know more. “Email me their proposal. I’m inclined to fund up to five million, but I want more details.”
Five million dollars was pocket change in his world.
“You’re the boss,” Pete responded cheerfully.
Yup, he was...though no one on set knew he was the producer of Pegasus Pride. He liked his privacy and kept his communications mostly to a need-to-know basis.
Right. Rick spotted Chiara in the distance. No doubt she was heading to film her next scene. There was someone who treated him more like the hired help than the boss.
Complications and delays on a film were common, and Rick had a feeling Chiara was about to become his biggest complication to date...
