Heartthrob (3 page)

Jed took a deep breath, careful not to let his hope get out of control. If he let himself get too elated, he’d have much farther to fall if he failed. It was better to feel nothing at all. It was true he’d never soar into the heights, but he’d also never sink into complete despair.

He took a deep breath, firing up the movie star smile again as Annie came out of the back room.

“Mr. Strauss will see you now, Mr. Beaumont.”

“I
found our location.” Kate sat on the bed in her Columbia, South Carolina hotel room, tucking the phone under her chin so she could reach down to unlace her boots. “A little town called Grady Falls. It’s perfect, Victor. It’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s this little antebellum plantation museum, preserved by the Historical Society that no one ever goes to. They’d let us shoot both exteriors
and
interiors for next to nothing. The town has one motel, with about twenty trailor hookups alongside it. Across the street is this incredible little restaurant—the Morning Glory Grill. It’s owned by these two ladies, Edna Rae and Sally, who can cook unlike anything you’ve ever tasted in your life. I’ve started preliminary negotiations to take over the Grill instead of setting up a dining tent for food service—we’d save money that way, too.”

“I got some good news, too,” Victor told her. “I found Laramie.”

Kate froze, her boot in her hand. Laramie. She shook herself, tossing it onto the floor. This was good news. This odd feeling of premonition she was having was only due to complete fatigue.

“Did you get the videotape I couriered to you?” Victor asked. “I sent it last night—you should’ve received it by now.”

Kate looked at the package she’d brought up with her from the front desk, the uneasy sensation getting even stronger. “You found our Laramie last night, but you’re only calling to tell me about it today?”

“Yeah, well, I know you, and I know until you see this tape you’re not going to believe that—”

“Wait.” Kate’s premonition was growing into a chillingly bad feeling. “Why are you playing games? Why aren’t you just telling me the name of the actor you’ve found?”

“Did you or didn’t you get the tape?”

“I got it.”

“Play it, Katie. Then call me back.” With a click, Victor—the rat—hung up on her.

“I’m hating this.” Kate unwrapped the tape and carried it across the room to the VCR. “I’m really, truly hating this, Victor.”

She’d spent the entire day either tromping through the South Carolina underbrush or driving to a new location, where she’d tromped through the underbrush some more. Her feet hurt from walking, and her butt hurt from sitting in the car. She was hungry and sweaty, and she wanted a shower and room service and a tall, cold drink—not necessarily in that order.

She was scared to death that the face she was going to see on this tape belonged to an actor who would be absolutely inappropriate for the role of Virgil Laramie. She was scared this face was going to belong to Rod Freeman, who was a fabulous actor but fifteen years too old, or Jamie Layne, who was fifteen years too young. Or, God help her, what if the Internet rumor that she’d heard in Grady Falls hadn’t been a rumor after all, and Jericho Beaumont’s was the face that would appear on the screen?

Kate turned on the TV and set it so the VCR would play. There was only blue for several long moments. And then the tape gave a visual burp, and a picture came on.

It was a man, and he was sitting in a chair. The lighting was bad, and he was blurry, but she recognized the background as the New York casting office she’d gone AWOL from just yesterday.

The focus improved, and the man in the chair was recognizable, too.

He had shoulder-length dark hair, a long, almost square face that angled suddenly at his jawline, narrowing into a strong, tapered chin, and an exquisite, elegantly shaped mouth. It was the kind of mouth any red-blooded woman would give a good long second glance—and then spend the next ten years dreaming about kissing.

But it was his eyes that truly set him apart. They were hazel—a gorgeous mix of green and light brown with a darker ring at the outer edge of the iris. His eyes were the focal point of his face. They seemed to glow with his intensity, even in the bad lighting of the casting office.

The man in the chair was indeed Jericho Beaumont.

Jericho Beaumont. Nominated for four different Oscars—two in the same year.

Jericho Beaumont. He’d dominated at the box office for close to two years, and then he’d fallen from grace, struck down by his addictions to drugs and alcohol. No one had known that he’d been playing the rehab game for years—or if they’d known, they’d ignored it. He’d dry out, clean up—until the temptation grew too great, and then he’d slip back to his old ways. Apparently, allegedly, he was completely clean now. But in Hollywood, as he attempted to make a come back, there were dozens of bets being made as to exactly how long it would be before he slipped again. Not
if
he slipped again, but
when.

Jericho Beaumont. Six years ago, he’d been voted
People
magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” Those six years
that had passed had only served to improve him. His face was fuller, with more lines and more character, his dark good looks more broodingly, dangerously intense. He still had that trademark scar just above his left eyebrow. It marred the perfection of his face, somehow making him even more good-looking. The camera still loved him. He was, undoubtedly, the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.

Kate pushed a button on the VCR, and the tape stopped.

She picked up the phone to call Victor back, but didn’t finish dialing. She cut the connection, cursing Victor, cursing Jericho Beaumont, but mostly cursing herself.

As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t use her veto power to exclude Beaumont without watching the tape.

She pushed play and turned up the volume.

Beaumont’s voice was smoky and rich, thickened with an outrageously authentic-sounding southern accent. But of course it sounded authentic—Beaumont had been born and raised in some backwoods Alabama town.

“It’s not what you think,” he said quietly, both his voice and the movement as he very, very slightly shook his head carefully understated. “I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for you.”

“I don’t understand.” Victor’s voice read the line from offscreen.

Beaumont was silent for a moment, and even though he didn’t move a muscle, he succeeded in letting her see everything that Laramie was thinking. Should he tell the truth? Should he say anything at all? Should he just give up and go get another drink?

Kate’s heart was in her throat. He was Laramie, her Laramie, come to life before her very eyes. Three lines and one pause, and he
was
Laramie. She couldn’t breathe.

“I promised Sarah I’d look out for you,” he finally said. “If you’re married to me, then you won’t have to marry Reg Brooks. I won’t touch you, Jane. I swear. This
wouldn’t be that kind of marriage.” He paused, forcing a smile. “Unless you want it to be—I mean, someday, when you’re old enough and you decide you want … babies.
If
you want babies …” He stared down at the floor for a moment, temporarily lost, momentarily slipping into another place or time. After several perfectly timed beats, he looked up. “God knows you’re just a girl—you’re not ready for anything like that now, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be, but … that’s a problem for the future. Right now I’m struggling to find solutions for here and now.”

The videotape gave another visual burp, and Beaumont was sitting on the floor now, leaning back against the wall, long legs bent, knees up in front of him. His worn-out jeans were loose-fitting, but the way he sat made the denim hug the powerful muscles of his thighs. He held a coffee mug in his long, graceful fingers and took a sip.

“Tell me your name,” Vic said from somewhere offscreen. Kate knew that they were doing an improvised scene.

“Laramie,” Beaumont drawled. “Virgil Laramie.”

“Isn’t it a little early in the day to be drinking, Mr. Laramie?”

Beaumont barely looked up. “It’s never too early. ’Sides, this way I’ll be totally drunk by dusk. That’s my goal in life, you know. Never to be sober when night falls.”

“Didn’t your wife’s sister, Jane, just ask you for help?” Vic asked.

Beaumont’s hands tightened slightly on the mug. “Jane. That girl is trying to get us all hung.” He laughed, but there wasn’t a bit of humor in it. “I don’t care what promises I made her sister. There’s no way in hell I’m risking my neck to smuggle a wagonload of Negroes past those pattyrollers.”

“Pattyrollers?”

“Pattyrollers. Patrollers,” he said. “The sheriff thinks he’s the law in these parts, but he’s wrong. The patrollers
run everything. They’re judge and jury. Even with a signed pass, they’re just as likely to kick the hell out of you as not. And that’s riding alone, not with a wagonload of damned runaways.”

He was silent for a moment, and again, Kate could see subtle emotion flickering across his face.

He looked up then, directly at where she imagined Vic was sitting. “If I don’t help her, Jane is going to take the wagon herself, isn’t she?”

“You tell me.”

Kate hit the off button and sat down on the edge of the bed. Jericho Beaumont was good. He was beyond good.

He had become Laramie. Without the help of costumes or makeup or lighting, he had quietly slipped into Laramie’s tormented soul. He’d done his research, too. Pattyrollers.

She lay back on the bed and stared up at the hotel room ceiling. One minute slid into two as she tried on the idea of letting this movie, her baby, this project of her heart and soul, ride completely on the shoulders of Jericho Beaumont.

Jericho too-drunk-to-remember-his-cue-lines Beaumont. The horror stories she’d heard from the producer of one of his last major studio movies were terrifying. Jericho had shown up late. He’d shown up without his lines learned. He’d shown up drunk. He hadn’t shown up at all.

Yes, that had been over five years ago. But the things he’d done were hard to forget.

Her hunger was completely gone—she was nauseous now instead.

The phone rang.

She rolled over and picked it up, not even bothering to say hello. “I can’t do it. I can’t hire him.”

“Come on, babe! Are you nuts?” It was Victor. “He’s
brilliant.
”

“He is brilliant,” she told him. “He’s a magnificent, utterly brilliant actor. I’m not disputing that.”

“He’s starving for this part, Katie. He actually came to an open call.”

“So?”

“So he swallowed his pride in order to—”

She cut him off. “No, we’re not casting Jericho Beaumont, Victor. No. Absolutely not. Find someone else.”

“Katie, watch the tape again.”

“I don’t need to watch the tape again.” She worked to keep her voice from becoming too loud. “Because this isn’t about talent. It’s about whether or not we can afford to hold production for two days, or two weeks, while Beaumont goes off on some binge.”

“Do you want Susie McCoy for the part of Jane, or not?”

Kate blinked at the sudden change of subject. “You told me there was no way we could get Susie. That her father wouldn’t agree to less than one and a half million.”

“Yeah, well, I just got off the phone with her agent, who told me she’s in for union scale.”

“What?” Susie McCoy was a fifteen-year-old with a huge amount of talent, who had been underutilized in every one of the ten movies she’d made since she got her first break at age six. Kate had written the part of Jane with the young actor in mind. “That’s so amazingly great!”

Victor dropped his bomb. “On the condition that we cast Jericho as Laramie.”

She could have Susie McCoy if she took on Jericho Beaumont. Oh, God.

“No,” Kate said. “I’m sorry, Victor, but as much as I want Susie, I can’t—”

“With two name actors providing box-office draw, we can start shopping for distributors today,” Vic said. “We’re almost guaranteed success. We could even afford to go
over budget—in case Jericho needs drying out halfway through the shoot.”

“Oh, God!”

“We don’t need to make any decisions now,” Vic told her. “Think about this, watch the tape again, kick it around for a few days, and we’ll talk when you get back to New York. Love you, babe. Later, okay?”

“No,” Kate said. “Not okay. I’m not casting Jericho Beaumont in my movie.”

But Victor had already cut the connection. Kate hung up the phone and lay back on the bed again. She stared at the ceiling for all of ninety seconds, and then she sat up, rewound the tape, and, cursing herself soundly, watched it again.

“She’s watching it right now,” Jed said, telephone tucked beneath his chin as he paced across the New York hotel room. “I know it. I can feel it.”

“Why this movie, Jed?” David asked. David Stern’s family had moved to Alabama when he was a sophomore in high school. After living in the Deep South for nearly twenty years, he still sounded as if he’d just stepped off of a New York City subway. And he still called Jed by his given name. “And, by the way, have you been to a meeting lately?”