Aspen Gold (7 page)

"No."

"Oh, then you're an Angel fan. My dad had a soft spot for the Angels. He was a big Gene Autry fan when he was a kid." She saw his blank look and explained, "Gene Autry owns the California Angels franchise. You're not a baseball fan, are you?"

"No. What type of character do you play on the soap?"

"A modern Southern belle with a kind and gentle heart." She dipped a finger in her champagne, then delicately sucked the wine from it. "What do you think about the reunification of the two Germanies? I'm not sure they should be allowed to stand an army."

"I'm more concerned about gun control in the States. How long have you been on the show?"

"Almost three years. Do you think the space program will actually try to put a man on Mars?"

He tipped his head to one side, his mouth quirking in a curious smile. "Why do I have the feeling that you don't want to talk about your role on the soap?"

"Maybe because I change the subject every time you bring it up?" she suggested and sipped her champagne.

"Why?"

"Because you obviously have a low opinion of daytime drama and I'd feel honor bound to defend it.

In which case, we'd end up arguing and my agent made me promise to be charming," she explained, her eyes dancing.

At last, she was coming to the point even if she had taken the long way getting to it. He smiled slowly, lazily. "Do you think you can succeed in charming me?"

"You?" In all men there was a liberal streak of vanity and false pride; the streak was even wider in actors, making them easy targets for flattery. Yet Kit was certain it would be difficult, if not impossible, to reach John Travis through flattery. There was too much irony in his eyes--an irony that controlled his judgments of himself as well as other people. "I have the feeling you're probably immune to charm."

"You could try."

Smiling, she shook her head. "I don't fancy running into brick walls." She finished her champagne and idly twirled the empty glass. "You know I'm reading for the part of Eden next week."

"I know." He could have told her she was wasting her time, she wasn't right for the part. Instead he found himself toying with a strand of blond hair that had fallen across the front of her shoulder. She had touchable hair, soft and silky-feeling.

"Good. In that case, you may as well know I'm going to get it," she said with absolute confidence.

His gaze went from her gold hair to her slender feet and back up again, silently cataloging each slim curve. Belatedly he noticed the faint dusting of freckles across her nose and wondered where else she had freckles. "You are a very beautiful woman, Kit Masters," he murmured, turning up the voltage in his smile.

She saw what was coming. "And?" she challenged softly.

"And?" He frowned.

"That line invariably leads to another. I imagine you have a whole stock of them."

Undeterred, he held her gaze. "Which one do you want?"

"One you mean, but that's not likely to happen, is it? It would require an effort on your part and I think you've forgotten how. I wouldn't let it bother you, though. Lord knows, there are plenty of other blondes who would eagerly grab any line John Travis handed them." She handed him her empty champagne glass. "Good night, John T.," she said and walked off.

He stood there for several speechless seconds, her empty glass in his hand. Then he started to laugh. It was the first really good laugh he'd had in months.

The following week John made it a point to drop by his production company's office on the lot of Olympic Pictures and catch Kit's audition. Normally he didn't sit in on first readings; he left those to Chip and the casting director and involved himself only with the callbacks. Thus far there'd been only a handful of actresses called back for a second reading.

John stood at the window in Nolan's office, taking no part in the discussion going on among Nolan, Chip, and the casting director, Ronnie Long. He looked past the

palm trees at the rounded roofline of Studio Four. There, spaceships, hotel lobbies, bordellos, and family living rooms were created out of backdrops, props, and ingenuity. The movie business was an industry of illusion.

Phony trees, phony buildings, and phony emotions.

Behind him, the casting director said, "What about Ann Fletcher? I still think she gave us the best reading of any of them."

"She's too hard." Chip pushed out of his chair and paced over to Nolan's desk. "Eden has to have a hint of vulnerability."

Nolan rocked back in his leather chair and clasped his hands behind his head, breathing out heavily as he peered at the ceiling. "Kathleen Turner, here we come," he murmured.

The intercom buzzed, checking the outburst of denial forming on Chip's tongue. Nolan rocked forward to answer it. "Kit Masters is here for her reading," his secretary announced.

"Right." Nolan shifted through the papers on his desk until he found her composite. "Send her in."

John wandered over to Nolan's desk and hooked a leg over a corner of it, his eyes on the door when it opened and Kit walked in.

She'd dressed very simply, he noticed, in a summery white dress in some loose-weave material, cinched at the waist with a wide, leopard-patterned belt. She colored the room, putting something into it, something like a faint charge of electricity. He took out a cigarette and lit it as she greeted the others.

Turning to him, she glanced at the cigarette.

"Smoking those things will kill you, John T."

"So I've heard."

"It's your funeral." Her amused look held a touch of pity.

"Haven't you heard?" He raised an eyebrow in faint mockery. "Only the good die young."

She laughed at that, the sunniness of it lighting up the room. "And you are a bad, bad man, aren't you, John T.?"

"Totally wicked," he agreed. He was almost sorry she wasn't right for the part of Eden. He would have enjoyed matching wits with her on the set ...

among other places.

All business, Chip passed Kit a

set of stapled sheets from the script. "We're using the confrontation scene in the bedroom. If you need some time to go over it--"

Kit skimmed the dialogue on the first sheet and shook her head. "No, I'm familiar with it." She was conscious of the tiny roiling knot in the pit of her stomach. Nerves, they always gave her that little edge, a tension that pushed her to her best.

"I'll cue you--" Chip broke off the sentence and swung toward John, frowning. "Or do you want to?"

He'd planned only to watch. There was enough pressure in auditions without adding the intimidation factor of reading with an established actor. But he knew the scene and the thought of doing it with Kit Masters was irresistible.

"Why not? I'm here." He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray on Nolan's desk and straightened from it, taking the excerpted pages from the script Chip handed him. "You don't mind, do you, Kit?"

Something in his attitude told her he expected her to give a lousy reading anyway.

Good. She liked challenges; they made her sharper.

"I don't mind."

"Do you want a lead-in?"

"No." She took a deep, quiet breath and glanced through the scene. It was far from a simple one. It called for emotions ranging from ice to heat, from pride to anger, then passion. Each had to flow naturally into the other. Kit took a minute.

John watched her. She looked more like a bright-eyed ingenue than the sensuous, secretive woman the scene required. Then she turned toward him, a regal tilt to her head, her blue eyes icing over with a hauteur that took him by surprise.

"I don't recall inviting you to my bedroom." The small lift of an eyebrow echoed the cool challenge in her voice.

"An oversight, I'm sure." He delivered his line without consulting the script.

"You presume too much, McCord." She turned her back on him in dismissal.

"Drop the grieving-widow act, Eden. It doesn't suit you."

She went rigid, then visibly relaxed her body and slowly turned again to face him.

"Oh? And what does suit me? You, perhaps?"

She practically purred the words, suddenly all sultry and sexy, her eyes, her voice, her body smoldering with it and sending the temperature in the room soaring. "Is that why you came to my room tonight? To finish what we started on the mountain?"

Moving closer to him, she tilted her head back, exposing the slender curve of her throat, her lips parting in invitation, growing fuller, heavier.

"Aren't you going to kiss me, McCord?" she taunted as she slid her hands up the front of his shirt, spreading them over his chest. "Make love to me?"

He caught her wrists and pushed her hands from him. "What are you?" Her transformation to Eden was so complete, the words, the anger, the bewilderment came naturally to him.

Eden laughed, rather beautifully, and drew back from him. "Haven't you heard? I'm a murderess."

"Are you?"

Something flickered in her expression. Pain?

Bitterness? Fear? It was gone too quickly for him to determine.

"That's what they're paying you to find out," she murmured.

"I want you to tell me."

"No, you want me to make your job easy for you and confess," she replied, then gave a challenging little toss of her head. "All right, I did it. I killed my husband. I married him for his money and killed him so I could have it all to myself." Her voice was flat but her eyes were angry. "Satisfied?"

"No."

"Too bad. That's all you're going to get."

"It isn't good enough."

"Go to hell," she flashed.

He smiled. "Ladies first."

Her hand arced toward his face. He caught her wrist, stopping her fingers short of their target.

He stared into her face. Her expression was angry, her eyes vulnerable. The climax of the scene called for him to haul her into his arms and kiss her.

"Good." Chip's voice intruded before John could put the script words into action. A pity, he thought, and released her wrist, all the impulses still rushing through him.

Kit threw back her head and released a long breath, feeling the tension and the character of Eden drain out of her, missing the look John Travis and Nolan Walker exchanged and the barely perceptible nod John gave in response to Nolan's unspoken question. Turning, she gave the pages from the script back to Chip, every instinct telling her she'd done well. Very well.

"Thanks. It's a great part." She flashed Chip a smile. "It really is."

Chip nodded his head and stared, saying nothing.

Nolan Walker came out from behind his desk. "You did a good job, Ms. Masters."

"Thank you."

"Will you be available for a callback?"

"Of course." Inside, she was still soaring, still high from the adrenaline rush. She needed to get out, to feel the sun on her face and wallow in this feeling of near-victory. "I'll look forward to hearing from you," she said to all four.

Not even certain her feet were touching the floor, Kit walked out of the office, beamed a smile at Nolan Walker's secretary, and sailed down the flight of stairs to the first floor of the bungalow-style building. Before the reading, she hadn't let herself think about how much she wanted the role, how much she needed it, how much it could mean.

Now, it just might be hers. Her lips were dry and her heart was pounding. It was all she could do to keep from hugging herself with glee. She didn't hear John Travis come up behind her as she approached the front door.

"I want to talk to you." He opened it.

"Sure." She walked into the sunlight, the air fragrant with the scent of bougainvillea spilling over a wall. She tossed her hair back, releasing another sigh, more of relief this time. "Lord, but I'm glad that's over. My mouth is so dry I could start my own cotton factory."

"Let's grab a cup of coffee." He motioned in the direction of the commissary a block and a half away, more intrigued than ever by this bright-eyed actress who bore no resemblance at all to the bitter, pained, volatile character she had portrayed so convincingly moments ago.

"Do you mind if we go somewhere else? I'm too keyed up. I need to keep moving."

"Okay by me."

"Good. We can take my car." She dug her keys out of her purse as she crossed the grassy verge by the curb and walked around the hood of an older model MG Midget, a white convertible with red seats. It suited her.

She slipped into the driver's seat and deftly swung her legs in. John had to do a bit more maneuvering to get his long legs to fit in the small space.

"Are you too cramped?"

"Not if I cut my legs off at the knees."

Her eyes sparkled with laughter. "You have a sense of humor. I'm glad." She smiled and inserted the key in the ignition. "Your seat will go back a little more. The catch is underneath."

"Got it." He gained another two inches of much-needed room for his legs.

The engine sputtered hesitantly, then rumbled to life. He shifted slightly in the bucket seat, stretching one arm along the back of it and hooking the other along the window. He remained silent while she pulled away from the curb and onto the road. He waited until they had left the studio lot before he resumed the conversation.

"What are you doing on a soap?" In his opinion, she had too much talent for that.

Considerably more than he'd given her credit for.

"That's easy." She smiled, enjoying the sensation of the wind blowing through her hair as the little MG zipped through traffic. "It's a well-written show and a steady job. At least, it was. I found out this week, my character is being written out. Which means I'll be back pounding the pavement and going to cattle calls." She spied a set of golden arches at the next corner.

"Do you like French fries?"

"I guess so. Why?"

"I love them and McDonald's has the best. I can never make myself eat before an audition and I'm always starving afterward." She whipped the car into the lot and went to the drive-through, ordering a jumbo fry and two black coffees. She took a deep, appreciative smell of the aroma coming from the sack before she passed it to him.

"It's enough to make your mouth water."