Superstar (20 page)

"I'm going
home. I've had enough of his snide remarks for one evening."

Simon's brows
shot up. "Mark? What's the matter with him?"

"He didn't
believe you. He thinks there's something going on between us."

Simon's mouth
fell open. "He what? Oh, god! We've got to tell him the truth!"

"No way! He'll
stop us!"

"If we don't,
he'll kill me!"

She looked up
at Simon's looming bulk. "You're a bit big to be such a sissy,
Simon."

He shook his
head. "You don't understand. Compared to him, I'm an overgrown
puppy. I'm not a fighter!"

"You really
think he's going to try and murder you? Come on, Simon. Even if we
were going out, what's it got to do with him? He and I are just
friends."

Simon shook
his head again, more vigorously. "That's not..." He clasped his
brow. "Oh, shit!"

"What?"

"I can't tell
you. You've got to tell him." He gripped her shoulders.

"Let go of me.
We can't tell him. Let go!" She tried to push him away.

"Let her go,"
a soft, familiar voice said from the shadows.

Simon released
her as if she had become white-hot and sprang back. Mark emerged
from the gloom, his face expressionless.

"You don't
have to tell me. I have eyes." He frowned at Simon. "I just have
one thing to say. If you hurt her, I'll come after you, and you'll
regret it."

Carrin gaped
at him, stunned.

Simon backed
away a step. "It's not what you think, I swear."

Mark raised
his chin, his stare challenging. "What is it, then?"

"It's -"

Carrin punched
him in the ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. She glared at Mark.
"Think what you like. It's none of your business."

Simon shot her
a reproachful look. "I'm going to bed. You two sort it out."

The actor
turned and marched up the winding staircase, leaving Carrin
distinctly in the lurch, and she cursed him. Some ally he had
turned out to be. Mark gazed at her, his eyes flat.

"I'm going
home," she announced, and headed for the door.

Mark gripped
her arm and swung her to face him. "What are you up to? Simon Grey
is about the worst person you could choose to get involved
with."

His touch made
her shiver, and the truth hovered on her tongue, but she swallowed
it and said, "Stop interfering in my life. You have secrets
too."

"This is no
secret."

"It's not what
you think, either. Quit jumping to conclusions."

"I'm not
stupid."

She jerked her
arm from his grip. "Leave me alone. I'm going home." She headed for
the door again.

"How will you
get there?"

Carrin stopped
and glanced up the stairs. Simon had gone to bed without ordering
the car to drive her back to the hotel. She contemplated going
after him and asking him to, but the idea of invading his bedroom
did not appeal to her.

"Want a lift?"
Mark asked.

She bridled.
"I'll call a cab."

"You have no
intention of leaving, do you?"

Carrin scowled
and marched over to the phone on the hall table, looking around for
a phone book.

"It won't get
past security," Mark pointed out.

She headed for
the stairs, but Mark got there first and blocked her way. "I'll
take you. Prove me wrong."

She stared at
his perfect features. How could he think that she would rather have
Simon than him, if he was an option?

"All
right."

In the car,
the silence hung like a gloomy shroud. Carrin caught John's worried
glances in the mirror, and was glad when they glided up to her
hotel. John held the door for her, and she glanced at Mark,
glimpsing a strange look in his eyes before he averted them.

"Thanks for
the lift."

Mark nodded,
and she climbed out, glad of the fresh air. The desk clerk watched
her pass, and she wondered what he made of all her comings and
goings. She was always in a limousine, sometimes the studio's white
one, sometimes Mark's grey one, and now Simon's maroon one too. It
got worse. She left in a maroon one and came back in a grey one.
She smiled on the way up in the lift. His mind must be
boggling.

In her room,
she sat on the couch and stared at the wall. Mark's suspicions had
hurt. His reaction was confusing, and now their friendship was in
jeopardy. The sooner this little caper was over, and she could tell
him the truth, the better.

The following
morning was Sunday, and she phoned Simon, who sent his car for her
again. When she arrived at his house, his accusing stare rebuked
her, and she tried to ignore it.

"Where's the
computer?"

"In the study.
You know, you might have ruined my friendship with Mark," he told
her as she followed him down the hall to a book-lined room
furnished with antiques and a famous photographer's black-and-white
photos. "He's my oldest friend," he added. "He helped me get
started."

She switched
on the machine and took the cheque out of her bag. "When this is
over, and we tell him the truth, he'll be grateful, and all will be
forgiven."

"I hope you're
right."

Carrin started
up a graphics package and scanned in the cheque. Simon peered over
her shoulder while she removed the written amounts and sent the
blank image to the printer. It emerged a perfect replica, and she
grinned at Simon. He eyed the cheque.

"What about
the number on the back?"

Carrin flipped
over the original cheque. It had a computer number on the back. "No
problem."

She scanned in
the number and passed the counterfeit cheque through the printer
again. This time it was perfect, and Simon nodded.

"Make the
call," Carrin said. "Let's get this over with."

Looking
nervous, Simon picked up the phone and dialled. He took a deep
breath as he waited for it to be answered.

"Birdie? Simon
Grey." He paused, listening. "Yes, that's why I called you... I
wouldn't give you my soundtrack if you were the last musician on
earth, so you can sell your unsavoury goodies to whoever you like.
In fact, I know just the person. She works for a popular magazine.
I'll phone her and give her your number." He paused again, and
Carrin could hear the angry, tinny voice from where she stood.
"Mark Lord can take care of himself," Simon answered. "He doesn't
need me to... yes, I spoke to him. He said the same thing." Simon
winced as the phone was slammed down in his ear.

"Well, that's
that." He sighed. "Wait a few minutes, then it's your turn."

She nodded.
When sufficient time had passed, she picked up the phone and
pressed redial. It rang for a moment, then was picked up. A nasty,
grating voice spoke.

"Birdie."

"Mr Bird.
Samantha Jones here, Centrefold Magazine."

"Uh."

"I just got
off the phone with Simon Grey. He tells me you have a story to
sell."

The voice
sounded even grumpier. "Doesn't waste any time, does he?"

"Er, no. He
tells me it's about Janice Sharner."

"That's right.
I got pictures that'll make your eyes water."

Carrin tried
to sound excited. "I want an exclusive, Mr Bird."

"It'll cost
you."

"Money's no
problem. Whatever you want."

He grumped,
"Mighty generous of you."

"I want it, Mr
Bird. Name your price."

"I'll have to
think about it, shop around a bit."

Carrin
experienced a twinge of fear. "I'd rather you didn't, Mr Bird. I'll
offer a million right now."

"A million,
eh? I'll get back to you."

"No!" Carrin
started to panic. "Please, Mr Bird, I want this story." Simon put a
hand on her arm and shook his head.

"I can tell,"
the grating voice said. "I'll let you know."

"All right,
I'll give you my number. I don't want one of the other reporters
getting the story."

"Okay."

Carrin covered
the receiver and whispered to Simon, "What number do I give
him?"

Simon threw up
his hands. "I don't know."

"Mrs Jones?"
the sullen voice demanded. Carrin looked at Simon desperately, and
he scribbled a number on a piece of paper.

"Mrs Jones?"
the grouchy voice sounded impatient.

Carrin read
out the number while Simon made frantic signals, which she tried to
interpret.

"Okay, Mrs
Jones, I'll let you know," Birdie said.

Carrin finally
got Simon's message. "When can I expect your call, Mr Bird?"

"A couple of
days."

The phone went
dead, and she put it down with a shaking hand.

Simon gazed at
her anxiously. "Well?"

"He's going to
phone me in a couple of days. He wants to shop around first."

Simon groaned.
"You should have offered him more."

Carrin looked
at the phone number he had given her. "Whose is this?"

"No one's. I
don't know. What number could I give? Phone him the day after
tomorrow, before he calls back. Tell him you gave him the wrong
number."

"What if he
phones the magazine?"

Simon sighed.
"Then we've lost it."

Carrin used
Simon's small guillotine to cut out the false cheque, fighting a
sense of impending doom. "How on earth did a man with such a
terrible voice become a singer?"

"He isn't a
singer. He does rap."

"Right." She
put the cheque in her bag and handed the real one to Simon. "Well,
all we can do now is wait."

"Yeah. Have
you heard from Mark?"

"No, have
you?"

He shook his
head. "He's really pissed off."

"Well, let him
be. It's his fault for jumping to conclusions and not believing us.
Why's he so suspicious, anyway?"

Simon looked
sheepish. "He knows me."

Carrin smiled
and tapped him playfully on the chest. "Then it's all your
fault."

"You shouldn't
make light of it. He's a deep man."

Carrin shook
her head, turning away to hide her expression. He was not only
deep, she longed to tell him, he was a beautiful, deceitful brute.
Simon had his car take her back to the hotel, where she sat in
solitary gloom and stared at her drawings of Mark.

Chapter
Nine

The next day,
on the set, Mark treated her with icy politeness that froze her
blood and made her act just as coldly towards him. Warren and
Harold watched them worriedly as they went over the changes in the
script.

Harold was
pleased with the new script, and handed a copy to Janice with the
sarcastic comment, "Even you can manage that."

The actress
pouted and shot Carrin a killing look, but the obvious friction
between her and Mark consoled the actress. She did manage the few
lines, although Mark's consummate performance of his much larger
dialogue far outshone her. By lunchtime, Harold was smiling, the
scene wrapped. Janice flounced into her dressing room, and moments
later, Mark followed her. Soon everyone became aware of raised
voices coming from the room. They grew louder and louder, Mark's
raised in anger, Janice's high and hysterical. When a mighty crash
followed, Carrin hurried towards the door, Helen's battered face
looming in her mind.

Harold grabbed
her arm and swung her away. "Uh uh. I wouldn't, if I was you."

"He might hurt
her," Carrin protested.

"Mark? You
must be kidding. The only thing he's likely to hurt is her ego, and
that can take it."

She winced at
another crash of breaking glass.

Harold smiled.
"That's Janice throwing things around. Mark's the one more likely
to get hurt, but he's pretty good at ducking."

Just then,
Janice emerged, banging the door behind her. She looked flushed and
angry, but otherwise unharmed, to Carrin's relief. Mark sauntered
out as Janice slammed the door on her way off the set. He wiped a
trickle of blood off his brow, and Harold hurried over to him.
Carrin started towards him too, but the icy lash of his eyes
stopped her. Harold examined the scratch on the actor's
forehead.

"She got you,
huh?"

"With a paint
pot." Mark looked at the blood on his fingers.

Harold
clicked his tongue. "It's just a scratch. Once it's stopped
bleeding they can cover it with make-up."

Mark nodded
and sank into a chair. "I'm afraid she won't be back today."

Harold
shrugged. "That's okay. We'll do the fight scene between you and
Martello. The set's ready."

Mark went to
wardrobe to change, and the crew moved the equipment to another
set. This time it was the fire escape of a narrow back alley, where
Jason Talbot would fight Martello, a mafia enforcer working for the
same don who had sent the woman assassin after Jason's mafia
client. The scene required Mark and his stunt double. There were
close up shots of Mark fighting, then he would freeze, and his
stunt double would step in to be thrown down the fire escape or
through a window. The scene was complex, demanding perfect timing
and placement. Carrin watched with her heart in her throat as Mark
did some dangerous-looking fighting with the supporting actor who
played Martello. She was glad when the day ended, and no one had
been hurt.

Back in her
hotel room, she went over the script again to take her mind off the
impending meeting with Birdie. The phone's ring made her jump, and
she cursed and picked it up. The desk clerk informed her that a Mrs
Reed was there to see her.

For a
moment Carrin could not think who Mrs Reed was, and then she
remembered. "Olivia! Send her up, please."

A few minutes
later, there was a tapping on the door, and she opened it to find
Olivia, accompanied by a bellhop. The retired writer brushed past
her, looking grim.

"Hello,
Carrin." She flung herself into a chair.