Superstar (29 page)

"And if he's
not?"

He shot her a
hard look. "Then we won't even finish the film."

Carrin
turned away and gripped the window ledge, staring at the swarms of
media outside. In the reception area, someone had switched on a TV,
and she could hear the anchor-woman.

"Mark
Lord, one of Hollywood's most celebrated stars, was rushed to this
hospital not half an hour ago. Sources say that he was involved in
an accident on the location of his latest film, Deadly Games. At
this time, we don't know how serious his injuries are; only that he
was brought in unconscious with some sort of trauma to the head. As
soon as we know more, we'll keep you updated, but for now it's back
to the studio."

Harold
grunted, and Janice inspected her nails, muttering, "At least it's
good publicity."

Carrin turned
to glare at her, and Harold snapped, "Shut up, Janice."

For what
seemed like an eternity, they sat in silence. Carrin stood by the
window and sipped her cooling coffee, not tasting it. Warren paced,
then sat down again. Harold crushed his empty cup and pushed it
into the rubbish bin with unnecessary force. Janice chain-smoked,
undoubtedly worried about the movie being abandoned. A nurse
brought in a weeping woman and made her to sit in the corner, where
she sobbed, reminding Carrin that Mark was not the only one in the
hospital.

At last a
blue-garbed doctor walked in, glancing around at the group. "Which
one of you is a member of Mark Lord's family?"

They all
stood, except for the woman, and Harold said, "We're with him. He
doesn't have any family."

The doctor
grunted. "Okay. Well, he's not in any danger. He has a nasty scalp
wound on the back of his head, which required some stitches, and a
concussion. There's no fracture to the skull, or any internal
bleeding. Nor is there any damage to his neck or spine."

They sagged
with relief, and Carrin approached the doctor. "Can we see
him?"

He shook his
head. "He's still unconscious."

"I'd like to
see him, anyway."

"I'm sorry.
Maybe when he wakes up."

He left before
she could argue. Harold stood up and stretched, looking much
happier. Carrin sat down, the intensity of her relief making her
legs shaky again. Janice stubbed out her cigarette.

"Well, I'm
going home," she announced, and rose. Harold eyed her, then went
with her; since she had arrived in his car, he had to take her
home. On the hospital steps, lights lit the doctor as he gave the
media the good news. Harold and Janice ran the gauntlet of flashing
cameras and shouted questions and drove away.

Hours ticked
past. Harold returned, and the two lesser directors left. Warren
made some phone calls, and Carrin tried not to wear a hole in the
dull brown carpet. Finally, the doctor returned.

"He's awake,
if you'd like to see him." Carrin jumped up, and the physician
continued, "Only two of you."

Carrin sent
Harold a pleading look, and Warren said, "I'll stay here. Go ahead,
Carrin."

The doctor led
them along several sterile white corridors with harsh neon overhead
lights, to a private room decorated in beige and white, where Mark
lay in the bed by the window. He looked asleep, and she crept to
his side, pulling up a chair. Harold hovered at the bottom of the
bed. Glossy hair poked through the top of the bandage that swathed
Mark's head, and he looked pale and sick. The hospital staff had
washed off the dirt and fake blood, and a hospital gown covered his
chest above the sheet.

"Just a few
minutes," the doctor warned as he left.

Mark opened
his eyes and spotted Harold, then Carrin beside him. "Hi."

Harold beamed.
"Glad to have you back. You gave us quite a scare."

Mark closed
his eyes and smiled faintly. "Sorry."

"It wasn't
your fault," Carrin said. "The stunt co-ordinator made a
mistake."

Mark opened
his eyes again and looked at her. "I know. I guess I realised that
about the same time as I hit the rocks."

"How do you
feel?"

"I have a
headache."

She glanced at
Harold. "Can't they give you something for it?"

He sighed.
"Yeah, they did, that's why I'm so sleepy."

Carrin looked
at Harold as Mark's eyes closed again, and he jerked his head at
the door. Reluctantly she rose and followed him out, looking back
at Mark's sleeping face. His pallor made the contrast with his hair
and lashes stark, giving him a fragile quality, which his strong
bone structure belied. He looked a lot younger than thirty-four
years.

Harold led the
way back to the waiting room, where he told Warren the good news.
They persuaded Carrin to leave with them, since there was no point
in staying at the hospital. They would visit again the next day,
Harold promised, but for now Mark needed his rest. Carrin longed to
stay at his bedside, just to watch him breathe, but reluctantly
agreed.

On the
hospital steps, a barrage of media met them with glaring lights and
shouted questions about how the accident had happened. The security
men held them back, and Warren took Carrin to the car while Harold
stopped to answer the questions briefly. He soon joined them in the
car, and they pulled away, leaving the frustrated news' crews with
no one to harass. The limousine dropped Carrin off at her hotel,
where she flopped onto her bed, exhausted.

Chapter
Thirteen

The following
day, flowers and cards filled Mark's room. Nurses brought in extra
tables to hold all the well wishes, and some of the names on the
cards were legendary. An endless stream of people came and went
during the visiting hour, and the phone beside Mark's bed never
stopped ringing. He looked better, sitting up, his pallor gone.
Carrin perched on a chair beside his bed and watched him greet his
visitors. At the end of the hour, he looked tired, and she had not
had a chance to talk to him at all. The nurse shooed out the last
of the visitors, and Carrin left with them.

The next day
was a little better. The volume of flowers had increased, and the
room was like a floral jungle, but there were fewer people around.
Simon came and stayed for the hour, so once again, Carrin hardly
spoke to Mark. By then, he was growing fidgety with the enforced
rest, and said that he would be released the next day. The huge
bandage had dwindled to a small dressing on the back of his head,
and from the front he almost looked normal. Harold did not visit,
and Mark said he was filming the location stunt work, which was
good. Carrin wondered why he was so concerned with the film. Surely
it was up to the producers to make sure it went ahead?

On the day of
his release, she did not go to the hospital, deciding that there
were enough people vying for his attention already, and she would
just add to the crowd. She watched on TV as he left the hospital in
a wheelchair, to his obvious disgust. A crowd of well-wishers, fans
and media pushed at a swaying barrier of security guards and
policemen. The orderly stopped the wheelchair beside Mark's
limousine, where John held the door and took Mark’s bag. Mark waved
to the crowd before sliding into the car without answering any
questions or signing any autographs.

Carrin switched off the TV and stared into space. Should
she go and see him? Would he still be angry with her?
Maybe she should
give him time to simmer down. Her heart yearned for his company,
however, overriding her more sensible urge to stay away for a
little while.

Carrin put it
off until after lunch, then the longing to see him became too
strong, and she ordered a taxi. When she gave the driver the
address, he raised his brows and studied her with pitying eyes.

"Press?"

"No. A
friend."

"Really? Must
be nice to have Mark Lord for a friend."

"Yes, it is,"
she agreed with a smile.

"Is he fully
recovered?"

Carrin
answered the curious driver's questions, happy to give him the
pleasure of a little insight. She knew what it was like to be an
outsider, unwelcome in the private world of the superstars.

As they drew
nearer to the Beverly Hills mansion, he warned, "The gates will be
crawling with paparazzi. Are you sure you can get in?"

She had not
thought of that, and shrugged. "Well, if I can't, you'll have to
drive me back to the hotel."

Carrin had
never had to deal with Mark's security before. Every time she had
come here, it had either been in his car or Simon Grey's, both of
which were allowed in. Her heart sank when the crowd of paparazzi
at the gate descended on the taxi as it pulled up.

"Are you a
friend of Mr Lord?"

"Can you tell
us about the accident?"

"Aren't you
Carrin York, the screenwriter?"

Following Mark
and Simon's example, she forged her way to the security camera that
watched the gates. Beneath it was a box with a button and a
speaker. She pressed the button, trying to ignore the clamouring
around her. The questions became more provocative as the press
tried to goad her into answering them. After a moment, a voice
spoke from the box.

"No press." It
said in a flat, bored tone. Carrin recognised John's voice.

"John, it's
me, Carrin," she shouted over the hubbub.

The camera
above her whirred as it turned towards her, and she looked up at
it. The gates clicked, then, with a faint whir of electric motors,
the huge gates swung open. She hurried back to the taxi and climbed
in, fighting with the press for possession of the door as they
tried to detain her. Shutting it, she sat back with a sigh of
relief as the taxi drove through the gates with a spurt of gravel
and crunched up the long, tree-lined driveway. Looking back, she
found the reporters hanging around the gates. Apparently they knew
better than to trespass on a superstar's property. In front of the
house, she paid the taxi driver and climbed the steps. Rita opened
the door with a broad grin.

"Hi, Miss
York. He's in the study."

Carrin had
noticed the subtle difference in the treatment of friends of stars
and those who were not. Those who were not had to wait in the
lounge while the maid announced them, then were shown onto the
patio or wherever Mark happened to be. Friends were shown in
immediately, since there was no question of their welcome. To her
relief, Rita led the way to the study and knocked. A gruff reply
came from within, and she pushed open the door.

"Miss York,
sir," she announced, then smiled and retreated, closing the door
behind Carrin.

Mark looked up
from the book on his lap. He sat on one of the comfortable chairs,
dressed casually in a T-shirt and jeans, a cup of coffee on the
table before him.

"Hello,
Carrin." There was no enthusiasm in his voice, and his smile was
slight.

"I hope you
don't mind me dropping in," she said. "I just wanted to see how you
were."

"Not at all.
Have a seat. Coffee?"

"Yes, please."
She settled on a chair, studying him. He looked quite well, maybe a
bit tired. "I had no chance to speak to you at the hospital; there
was always a crowd around."

He raised a
brow. "What did you want to speak to me about?"

A cold
sensation spread through her chest at his polite tone, which
sounded as if she was unwelcome. Evidently he was still peeved
about the argument. She plunged ahead, determined to make amends,
for she wasn't going to lose his friendship.

"I
wanted to say I'm sorry for arguing with you about the make-up. I
was wrong; I should have left it to the experts."

The maid
entered with a second cup of coffee, and Carrin wondered how she
had been told of the need for a second cup. Mark waited until she
had left.

"Is that all?"
He didn't seem impressed with her apology; apparently he wanted
more than that.

She continued,
"Well, I know you were very angry about it. I saw you arguing with
Harold afterwards. You probably wanted to kick me off the
production." She smiled, hoping that he would find it amusing, but
he stared at her unnervingly, and her hands shook. "I hope it
didn't contribute to the accident, I felt terrible afterwards. I
blamed myself for upsetting you."

He hesitated.
"Harold wanted to kick you off the location. He feels we can do
without you now. You've fulfilled your obligation, and the movie's
almost finished."

Carrin stared
at him, stunned.

He looked down
at his cup. "That's what we were arguing about, just before the
accident. I refused to let him get rid of you, because if he did,
you'd run off back to Africa, and I still have something to prove,
don't I?"

She gulped and
shook her head. "You don't have to prove anything. I don't care
about that. It bothered me at first, but since then I've got to
know you better. If you did do it, I'm sure you had a good reason,
and if you didn't, then there's no problem."

Mark had
started shaking his head at her first words. "I intend to prove it,
not only for you, but also because I have a bone to pick with
Helen. She's not going to get away with that little stunt."

"You won't
hurt her?" she blurted, and instantly regretted her words.

Mark glared at
her. "Far from it. Now, if you've finished your coffee, I'll have
John drive you back to your hotel. I'm rather tired."

The brush-off
was unexpected and hurtful. She swallowed a massive lump. "I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

He shrugged.
"I know what you think of me, so it didn't come as much of a
surprise."

Carrin
searched for the words to make amends without giving away too much,
but found none. Instead she drained her coffee.