Aspen Gold (3 page)

"If you mean for more than a long weekend, it's been years," Kit admitted. "I always planned to, but invariably, time, money, or circumstance worked against me."

"I know what you mean, honey." Yvonne nodded. "When I left Houston, I thought I'd be back every year to visit my family in Tomball. And in the last sixteen years, I've been back maybe four times. You get so busy with your new life, you just seem to forget about your old one. I hate to think how many friends I've lost track of over the years. But it can't be helped, I guess." She set her case on the floor next to her chair.

"I guess it can't." Kit thought about Angie Martin, her best friend in high school, and felt a similar regret. Once they'd been notorious for their marathon phone conversations. They'd kept in touch off and on after Kit had moved to L.a., but lately it had been more off than on. Angie had attended the funeral for Kit's father, but they hadn't had time to exchange more than a few words.

This time, this trip, it was going to be different. She and Angie were going to have one of their famous gabfests and bitch about Angie's horrible ex-husband, maybe even giggle over her new one. Good Lord, what was her last name now that she'd remarried? Kit couldn't think of it.

"Do you realize, Kit," Yvonne's voice broke into her thoughts, "that you are living everybody's dream--returning to your hometown a big success? Kit Masters, Hollywood's hottest new star."

Kit laughed. "That's very flattering, Yvonne, and very premature. We haven't even started shooting yet."

"That may be, but--honey--I've read the script and I've seen the screen test you did.

You blew me away, Kit Masters." Tipping her head down, the publicist regarded Kit over the top of her glasses. "That's no hype either.

When this movie hits the theaters, you're going to take off so fast nobody will see your smoke."

Kit stared, more than a little taken aback by that proclamation. She remembered John's producer, Nolan Walker, had said something similar after the screen test, but she'd shrugged it off as nothing more than normal enthusiasm for the project itself. She certainly hadn't taken him seriously.

Now, with Yvonne's statement reinforcing that one, she realized that no matter how trite or corny it sounded, this movie could make her a star. She waited to feel that first kernel of excitement at the thought, that first tingling thrill of elation. Nothing.

Granted, fame had never been her goal.

She'd always pursued acting, roles she wanted to play. Not stardom. Still, she remembered the excitement she'd felt when she first read the script.

She'd been at the studio, taping an episode of the hour-long Winds of Destiny, set in a fictional southern town outside Atlanta, Georgia, a place Kit had laughingly called a mix between Peyton Place, Twin Peaks, and Mandingo.

With another scene down and only one more to do before she was through for the day, Kit moved off the pillared gallery of the Great Oaks plantation set, past the pots of fake shrubbery to the floor of the soundstage. She carefully stepped over the cables in her path and headed for the exit, her thick blond hair tamed into a smooth, simple style that suited the quiet, genteel character she portrayed.

A layer of makeup concealed the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and gave her complexion that pale, dewy soft look of a Southern woman.

As she passed the set for the Riverside Restaurant, the new center of all the clatter and confusion on the soundstage, one of the gaffers gave her a thumbs-up sign. "You looked great, Kit."

"Thanks." She flashed a smile.

"When are the writers going to let you get wise to that jerk?"

"Never, probably. But it wouldn't matter anyway. You know me--I'm Tess

Trueheart." She lifted her hands in a hopeless shrug and continued on her way, sailing out the stage door.

She managed to ignore the temptations of the caterer's table and entered the maze of corridors beyond. Minutes later, Kit breezed into the dressing room she shared with Paula Grant. With few exceptions, shared dressing rooms were a common practice for most daytime-drama productions.

"You're up next," Kit announced and immediately stepped out of the high heels, kicking them out of the way. "Time to do your next dastardly deed."

"What fun," Paula drawled, lounging in the room's sole armchair, her script open on her lap.

Kit peeled off her character's requisite gloves and longed to shed the rest of her costume as well, but she had to wear it in her next scene.

She dropped the gloves on the tweed sofa and began picking through the pile of clothes scattered over the back of it. "Have you seen my smock?"

"On the floor behind the couch," Paula replied. "Don't you ever hang anything up, Kit?"

"Not often," she admitted, donning the sprigged cotton dress. "A lingering rebellion from being raised by a fastidious mother. The original neat freak. Everything was always put back in its proper place. Our floors were so clean you could literally eat off them." When Paula raised a skeptical eyebrow, Kit asserted, "I'm serious. She used a toothbrush to scrub around the floorboards. She even used to iron Dad's shorts. Which is probably why he switched to briefs." She walked over to their tiny, apartment-sized refrigerator for some apple juice and spotted the script on top of it.

"What's this?"

"A screenplay Chip wrote."

"White Lies," Kit read the title.

"This is the one John Travis bought, isn't it?"

Paula made an affirmative sound and rose from the chair to cross to the vanity mirror and check her makeup.

"Have you read it?"

"Yes." Paula fluffed her fiery auburn hair with the tips of her fingers. "There's absolutely nothing in there for me. What's the point of getting involved with a director who's a writer if he never writes a part for me in his scripts?"

"You like him, that's why." Kit smiled at that much-too-cynical remark.

"That has nothing to do with it." She surveyed her reflection. "This hair is a curse. In this town, a redhead is allowed to play either a hooker or a bitch. Do you know I have actually been to auditions, sat and waited my turn, watching brunettes and blondes go in to read. I walk in and the casting director stares for a full second, then accuses, "My God, you're a redhead," as if that automatically disqualified me for the part. I'll bet they never looked at a brunette and said "My God, you're a brunette."" Paula leaned closer to the mirror and checked her teeth for lipstick smudges. Satisfied, she straightened. "I'm off."

"Do you mind if I read this?" Kit held up the script.

"Be Chip's guest." Paula waved a hand in permission and crossed to the door.

Alone, Kit settled into the armchair Paula had vacated, and opened the script. Within the first few pages it was obvious the female lead, Eden Fox, was a scheming blonde who had married a much older man for his money and position, then killed him to have them for herself. A few pages farther, Kit wasn't so sure. Another ten pages and she was completely captivated by this complex and fascinating character.

"She didn't do it," Kit murmured in astonishment, the closed script in her lap. "This isn't some jazzed-up rewrite of Witness for the Prosecution, Body Heat, or Black Widow."

She threw back her head and laughed at how thoroughly she'd been fooled. Why? Because the character of Eden was so believable, so full of contradictions. Paula walked into the dressing room and Kit bounded to her feet, excited by the story, the characters, everything.

"Why didn't you tell me how fabulous this is? My God, Paula, this script is gold. And Eden--she's far from being an angel, but she's not all bad either." She stopped, spinning in a circle. "God, I'd love to play this part.

I'd kill for it."

Paula threw her a sideways look as she unfastened the rhinestone buttons on the cobalt blue cocktail dress she wore. "I always knew killing and loving could be very close together sometimes."

"Who's playing Eden? No--don't tell me." Kit waved off the question with her hand. "I don't want to know. It'll just make it worse knowing I can't have it."

"They haven't cast anyone in the part yet."

"They haven't! Are they still holding auditions?"

"The last I heard they were."

Kit didn't wait to hear more. She raced out of the dressing room and flew down the hall to the telephone. "Maury, you've got to get me an audition for the role of Eden in John Travis's new film White Lies," she rushed the minute he came on the line.

"Who's the casting director?"

"I don't know. I forgot to ask Paula."

"Travis, you say. It won't be hard to find out." He paused a moment. "That's moving into the big leagues, Kit."

"I'm going to get this part, Maury."

"Sure you are, Kit," he agreed absently. "If I'm not mistaken, Travis has a film deal with Olympic Pictures, Lassiter's company. He's throwing a big party, I heard. If I can get you an audition, I'll see if I can wangle an invitation to the party as well. You gotta work all the angles, Kit. Charm. Flirt. Whatever it takes."

"Just get me an audition and I'll take it from there." She hung up, still hugging the script.

Excitement. She'd felt tons of it. Now, faced with the possibility of stardom, she felt nothing--except maybe a little uneasiness.

The grinding whine of the jet's hydraulics signaled the lowering of the landing gear. A second later Kit felt the sudden drag on the plane, reducing its speed. Chip Freeman sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

Within minutes, the wheels skipped, then rolled onto the runway at Sardy Field, west of Aspen.

"I think it's safe to let go of my hand now, Chip," Paula murmured dryly. "We're on the ground."

"Right. Sorry." He released it and dragged in his first easy breath as the plane taxied off the runway toward flight-base operations. "God, I hate flying," he said to no one in particular.

"You're kidding." Paula gave him a deadpan look.

"Paula," Kit chided, biting back a smile.

"It wasn't your hand. Look, he snapped off a nail." She examined the damage. "Now I'll need a manicure before the party tonight."

"No problem," Maury inserted. "I've arranged for a hairdresser and manicurist to be at John's place at six to help Kit get ready for tonight's bash. When they're through with her, you can have the girl fix your nail."

"You never said anything to me about this, Maury,"

Kit began. "I don't need--"

"Yes, you do. You're my star." He beamed at her, a warmth softening the usual shrewd look of his face. "I want you to look like a million dollars tonight--even if Travis refused to let his production company pay you that much," he added, sending a sly look at the man beside her.

John Travis coolly returned it. He didn't think much of Maury as an agent. He never had and he never tried to hide it. "We both know she isn't in a position to command that high a price."

Maury quickly qualified that by saying,

"Yet."

"It's crass to talk about money." Chip was out of his seat the instant the plane came to a stop.

"If you think the movie business is about art, you'd better wise up, kid," Maury warned.

Chip swung back to face him. "You're right, Rose. You're dead right. For most of you, it's all about greed, grosses, and glory. But for some of us, it's still about the film. And without us, you'd be up shit creek."

"True," Maury agreed, not in the least offended.

The copilot chose that moment to emerge from the cockpit and crack the hatch door. Chip turned and went down the steps as soon as they were locked in place and the handrails were up. Paula followed him down. Maury waved for Yvonne Davis to go ahead of him and waited for Kit while she gathered up her purse and gold coat.

"That kid not only has a big ego, but he's got a short fuse, doesn't he?" Maury tilted his head back to meet her eyes. Even at five-six, she was still taller than he was.

"He does." She gave the end of his prominent nose a sharp but affectionate tap.

"So behave yourself and stop lighting it."

"Me?" He drew back in mock innocence, then chuckled and headed for the open hatchway.

Kit shook her head. "He's impossible."

"Among other things," John Travis murmured, but didn't elaborate. And Kit didn't pursue the remark. She already knew his opinion of Maury. It was old ground and she wasn't in the mood to quarrel.

Descending the steps, Kit emerged from the plane's shadow into the afternoon's brilliant sunshine. Automatically she lifted her eyes to the autumn-cloaked range of mountains, the blending of gentleness and grandeur reaching on and on, finally melting into the paint-box blue of the sky.

Always a creature of the senses eager to absorb every sight, smell, and sound, Kit turned her face to the feathering breeze and drew in the invigorating freshness of the high mountain air. It seemed charged with ozone, alive with possibilities, a trace of pine resin giving it the smell of home.

When John Travis joined her, she turned, her glance skimming the parade of executive aircraft--Gulfstreams, Learjets, and Challengers--parked wingtip to wingtip outside Aspen Base Operations. With a nod of her head, she indicated the Boeing 727 that loomed over the other private jets. "It looks like J.d.

has already arrived. There's his plane."

Paula overheard her remark. "You mean that one is Lassiter's personal jet?"

"What else?" Chip Freeman retorted somewhat caustically, leaving Kit with the impression he was still smarting from Maury's jibe. "The great man always has to have the biggest and the best in everything.

It's a mania with him."

"That's hardly a crime, Chip." Paula sent him a half-amused glance, her expression showing a smooth and worldly wisdom.

His face took on a mutinous look. "The man's an autocratic ass. He thinks he can control everything and everyone."

"Now, where would he get an idea like that?"

Paula mocked. "It couldn't be a little thing like power and money, could it?" When Chip clamped his mouth shut and looked away, she reached out in sudden sympathy and laid a hand on his arm. "Chip, it isn't smart to snap at the hand that feeds you ...