“That’s about fifteen times what I paid for the sword,” Ross commented.
“Twenty. When I want something, I do my research.”
“Have you been collecting swords long?”
“Not at all,” Farrow replied, swirling his finger around the tulip edge of his glass. “I honestly couldn’t care less about any but the Dresden sword.”
“Think that’s wise,” Ross asked, sliding the check back toward Pryce, “telling me how desperate you are?”
“Under other circumstances, no, it wouldn’t be wise at all. Giving you that much power in the negotiations would be quite detrimental. But you see, money is not all I have to offer you, Mr. Marchand. Though honestly, I can’t imagine what commodity you need more. Particularly now.”
Ross stiffened, but forced another sip of scotch. “I’m a movie producer. I always need money. And in much larger amounts than what you’re offering.”
“If I were offering to finance a film, of course you’d need more.” Finally Pryce lifted the scotch glass and took an appreciative sniff. “But what exactly is the price of saving your life?”
Ross slammed his glass down. “Is that some sort of threat?”
Men a hell of a lot scarier-looking than this one had asked Ross the very same question recently, but there was a cold malevolence in this man’s eyes that made Ross wish he hadn’t sent Nigel away so quickly. How in the hell did this guy know about his troubles? So far he’d defied the Hollywood rumor mill. The bastards riding his ass tended to keep very low profiles.
Farrow Pryce looked entirely unruffled, as if discussing the longevity of Ross’s life bored him to tears. “Calm down, Mr. Marchand. I did not come here offering you an obscene amount of money for an antique sword to insult you. And I see no need for us to work against each other when working together can be so much more beneficial. You have something I want—the sword—and I have something you need: money.”
Ross didn’t have time for this shit. He wasn’t going to play into the hands of some outsider who’d somehow stumbled onto the truth about Ross’s financial situation. Besides, the damned sword was just one more reminder of his fucked-up marriage to Lauren. He should be glad she’d taken it. Now, once the movie was over, they’d be entirely through.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have the sword anymore, Mr. Pryce. You’re too late.”
If Ross had thought the man’s eyes were icy before, he was mistaken. They were suddenly glacial. “You sold it?”
Ross snorted. “If only. It was stolen.”
“When?”
“Last night. You’re about twelve hours too late.”
Pryce immediately whipped out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button. Before Ross could stop him, he was shouting to someone on the other end about finding out whether some man named Rousseau had gotten the sword. The name didn’t sound familiar, but Ross had so many offers for the sword since he’d shown it off to his associates that he hardly kept track of names anymore.
Glancing over his shoulder at the windows to his study, he wondered why he’d held on to the damned thing so long anyway. At first he’d simply wanted to show Lauren that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. Then, when things between them had deteriorated, he’d used the antique to hold on to her. Long before he’d turned his eye toward her buxom costar, he’d sensed her moving away from him, exerting her independence in little ways that ate away at the bonds of their marriage. He’d given up so much to make her a star. And this was how she repaid him? By robbing him in the dead of night?
“Find out if and how he got it and where it is now,” Farrow snarled. “You have an hour. Don’t disappoint me.”
Ross had to admit the man had the intimidation factor down pat.
“You’re wasting your time,” Ross informed him, snatching his scotch and downing the last of the smooth liquor in one fiery gulp. “I know who stole the sword.”
“You’ve called the police?”
“No point. Proving the sword doesn’t actually belong to her is more trouble than my lawyers say it’s worth.”
“Her?” Farrow asked, his eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“My ex-wife.”
It took the man a second, but his scowl relaxed into a confident grin. “The stage producer or the actress?”
“Lauren Cole.”
He tucked the check securely into his pocket.
“Clearly, then, I am dealing with the wrong Marchand.”
He stood to leave, but Ross leaned across and pressed his hand to the man’s shoulder, forcing him back into his chair. “You’re dealing with the only Marchand who might have listened to you. That woman has wanted that sword for years. She risked her career last night lifting it from me. I could fire her ass for pulling that stunt. She’s not going to sell it to you.”
“I’ll make her an irresistible offer.”
“Money? She’s got more than she needs, believe me.”
Farrow’s grin curved his sharp cheek. “There are other ways to persuade someone to part with a valuable.”
At this, Ross’s chest clenched. He knew a threat when he heard it, even when couched in a deviously benign tone. He might be totally pissed off at Lauren, but she was the principal player in his latest soon-to-be blockbuster film. If something happened to her, the movie wouldn’t get made, and without his anticipated income from the box-office receipts, he might never get himself out of the financial hole he’d fallen into.
“Now, wait just a minute, Pryce. My ex-wife might be a total pain in my ass, but I won’t stand by while you—”
The man held up his hand. “Calm down, Marchand. I know she’s your meal ticket.”
He dropped his overly sophisticated demeanor, chugged back the scotch and slid the glass toward the decanter for a refill. Ross sensed that now was the time to negotiate. Clearly, the man knew things. If word got out that Ross Marchand was hip deep in debt to people who’d shoot you dead and steal your cannoli without a backward glance, many of his more respectable investors would cross his name off their guest lists quicker than he could say Roman Polanski. His smarter move would be to work with this guy—or at the very least, to make him think he was willing to strike a deal.
“Why do you want this sword so badly anyway?”
Farrow Pryce assessed him quickly, then, apparently deciding he was worth the trouble, leaned forward and spoke in an even tone. “Have you ever heard of an organization called the K’vr?”
Ross searched his memory and came up empty. “Should I have?”
“No,” Pryce replied. “And no amount of research by your butler will yield much information, either. He certainly won’t be able to connect me or my millions to the organization, though I assure you I wouldn’t have a penny without the legacy of the K’vr. It’s an organization devoted to…well, let’s just say we’re devoted to the acquisition of great power.”
“What kind of power?”
“The kind of power you conjure in your movies, although you have to use computer-generated effects.”
In the span of the next ten minutes, Farrow Pryce wove a tale straight from a high-budget B movie. A wicked sorcerer named Rogan. A Gypsy curse. A missing source of unimaginable power that had been sought for centuries by people like him who believed Rogan’s legacy would bestow the means to world domination. When he was through explaining how the sword could very well be the hidden magical source of unimaginable power, Ross applauded.
“I have to say, Pryce, this goes down in history as the most innovative pitch I’ve ever heard. You had me going there for awhile,” he said, pouring himself another measure of scotch. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen this coming. “But as fascinating as your story is, and as resourceful as you’ve been in setting up this meeting, the idea’s not right for me. I already have the Athena franchise for fantasy films. But if you want to type up a treatment, I’ll keep it on file.”
Farrow glared at him. “I’m not an aspiring screen-writer, you idiot!” He shot to his feet. “I know all about your sour deals and the fact that if this next Athena film loses a single penny, you’ll likely see that ocean at a much closer range after being fitted with cement loafers. I need that sword. I’ve waited my entire life to inherit the power of my forefathers, and I’m not waiting any longer. You’re going to get that sword for me, do you understand?”
The sound of a throat clearing alerted Ross to Nigel’s appearance. The butler didn’t say a word, but the way he stared at Pryce spoke volumes.
The man was for real—and he was dangerous. “You’re serious?” Ross asked.
Farrow calmly returned to his chair. “Deadly serious. Now”—he gestured to Nigel, calling him closer with the wave of his hand—”we have some planning to do, you and I. Nigel, is it? Do ensure that Mr. Marchand and I are not interrupted. And perhaps you can call around and discover the location of his former wife? I believe she and I have business to execute, and Mr. Marchand will be our intermediary.”
Ross cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant to drag Lauren into his mess. He’d gone to great lengths to protect her so far, if for no other reason than because he’d invested so much in the Athena franchise—money he couldn’t afford to lose.
But she’d made a serious mistake in stealing that sword. Now it looked like there was nothing Ross could do to keep her out of trouble—in fact, it looked like he would be a pawn in dragging her down unless he could figure out how to double-cross this K’vr wacko. without getting himself killed in the process.
Six
Helen Talbot strode onto the soundstage, clutching the file that contained what might be her last chance to salvage this film. Plucking off her Roberto Cavalli sunglasses and sliding them like a headband into her seriously-in-need-of-new-highlights hair, she opened the folder and scanned the head shots one more time.
Production on
Wrath of Athena
was set to start in a few days, and as of last night the film was without a leading man. Again. The role was clearly cursed, though she wasn’t ready to let anyone in on that secret yet. She was working her way into becoming one of the most sought-after casting agents in the industry, and one cursed role could ruin her career.
Helen had already presented dozens of perfectly sculpted paragons of male perfection to the director and the production team. Though the character amounted to little more than eye candy for the film’s leading lady, no one had been good enough. And even though Helen was excellent at her job, she wasn’t the cause of the hiring glitch.
Lauren Cole, the star, was being a big pain in the ass.
Which Helen considered both telling and ironic, since the woman had been nothing but easygoing and cooperative in the past.
“Hey, Marco,” she called out to the security guard who stood, arms folded across his chest, watching a gaggle of grips adjusting the lighting equipment overhead.
The pudgy man turned and eyed her suspiciously.
“Helen Talbot, remember?”
His expression didn’t change.
“The casting director on our sweet little project here?”
Finally recognition dawned in his eyes. She wouldn’t have bothered except that Lauren insisted everyone in management on her films play nice with the crew. And today she needed Lauren in a good mood. A very good mood.
“Sorry, Ms. Talbot,” the security guard said with an apologetic smile. “It’s been a long night. I’m just about to clock out, but I wanted to, er, wait around and see if everything was all right.”
Helen eyed the man narrowly. “Why? Did something happen?”
She’d been on the lot for less than fifteen minutes. Definitely not long enough to pick up on any gossip. If ever the stars were aligned against a film production, it was this one. Not only was Mercury in retrograde again, meaning there were bound to be technical issues up the wazoo, but the fact that the divorce between the primary talent and the executive producer had become final only a few days before shooting did not bode well.
Not that Helen wanted Lauren to stay married to the freakishly controlling Ross Marchand, but she was counting on this film’s making it to the big screen on time and under budget. The Athena movies were by far the biggest films Helen had ever worked on. With this, the last production, and the studio watching her with eagle eyes, she had to make all the right choices or she’d find herself back to casting small-budget indies, or worse…having to return to acting.
Marco glanced sideways. Twice. Helen followed the direction of his stare to the workout room where Lauren spent inordinate amounts of time playing with her weapons and ensuring that her trainers, who hopefully had stock in prescription painkillers, earned every dime they were paid.
“Marco,” she said, straightening to her full five-foot-seven-inch height. “Tell me what’s wrong this instant or I’ll have you tossed off this lot.”
He slung his hands into his pockets and shifted nervously. “It’s Ms. Cole. She came in late last night.”
“Came here? Why? What time?”
“Just before midnight. Not sure why. I guess she wanted to work off some frustration, you know?”
Helen nodded. Yes, she knew, and so did every other person who stood in the supermarket line and had the literacy level of a turnip. The divorce had been splashed on every tabloid headline for weeks.
“Okay, so she came to the studio to work out late. What’s the problem?”
Marco’s mouth twisted and his shoulders hunched upward, as if he were afraid to say.
Helen patted his arm lightly and turned on her best smile. “It’s okay, Marco. You know Lauren and I are friends. If she needs something, I’m the woman to get it for her.” She gave the folder she now held against her chest a possessive squeeze. First and foremost, Lauren needed a new leading man. In more ways than one, in Helen’s opinion.
Marco leaned forward. “She stayed all night.”
“Really?”
That was unusual behavior, even for Lauren. She had a top-notch workout space in her house. Why would she come here when filming hadn’t even started? It wasn’t like she had an early morning call.
Marco’s eyes darted left and right. “She hasn’t come out. Her car is still in the parking lot.”
Helen stepped close and gripped Marco’s arm a little tighter, her voice a whisper as her stomach cramped with worry. “Are you sure she’s okay?”