Fast Glamour Read online

  FAST GLAMOUR

  Maggie Marr

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About This Series

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Marr

  An Excerpt from One Night for Love

  This book is dedicated to Lindsy Henderson,

  Thank you for being my family and my friend.

  Chapter 1

  Rhiannon

  “Do you think Sterling will remember me?”

  “Remember you?” Incredulity and something else revealed itself on Mama’s face. “I don’t think he ever forgot you.”

  I waved my hand in dismissal and shook my head. My romance with Sterling Legend had been a teen-aged love affair—the tiniest blip on his outlandish Hollywood life—a love affair I’d never forgotten. But what about Sterling Legend? The son of the great Steve Legend? By now, years later, he’d probably bedded enough women that he might not even remember my name.

  “My darling Rhiannon, when will you realize how unforgettable you are?”

  “Spoken like a loving mother,” I said. I walked over to Mama. She lay on the couch and I sat beside her. Her fingertips wove through my hair. She’d sacrificed so much for my sister’s happiness and my own, and I felt regret when I remembered we’d both had to abandon her, and L.A., when I was fifteen and Maeve merely twelve. Our departure had seemed so necessary at the time.

  “Have you heard from Maeve recently?” I asked. My sister was somewhere in India, or Katmandu, and it was hard to keep track of her. She traveled with a wild abandon that I had given up when I was accepted to the Sorbonne.

  “She’s coming to visit,” Mama said. “She says, soon.”

  I raised my eyebrow upward. “That means before the end of the year.” My sister’s concept of “soon” was very different from mine. With Mama on crutches for twelve more weeks because of her broken ankle, I hoped that Maeve’s “soon” actually meant soon, and not Christmas, which was months away. I grasped my hair and twisted. I took a band from my pocket and pulled my hair into a knot on my head. In London, and even in Paris, my long hair didn’t bother me in the heat but here, even high in the hills of Malibu, my hair was sticking to the back of my neck. I’d been back in California for nearly a week and I still hadn’t acclimated to the heat.

  “The heat bothers you,” Mama said.

  “I don’t remember it being this hot,” I said. “Especially in spring. Was it always like this?”

  “It’s gotten much worse since you were a child. I’ve got fresh passion fruit iced tea in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

  I walked through the living room toward the back of the house to the giant kitchen that overlooked the yard and the porch and the corral that were located at the back of the property. Torrance and Bronco stood in the corral and they, too, looked tired of the early morning heat.

  “Does Amanda come up to ride anymore?” I called.

  “Sometimes,” Mama called back. “Not as much now that the gallery has opened. She and Ryan usually come out once a week. Sometimes, when she has the time, she comes alone, as well.”

  I poured the tea into two glasses and put Mama’s ginger cookies onto a plate. She had an unrelenting sweet tooth. I walked back into the living room and set everything down on the coffee table near the sofa. Mama sat with her leg raised. The cast looked uncomfortable.

  “How is your ankle today?”

  “Fine,” she said. A soft smile flitted over her face. She wouldn’t complain even if the cast were driving her crazy with itching. It simply wasn’t Mama’s way to complain. She was a protector, a mother bear, and it seemed her goal in life was to take care of us, to watch over all of us, and allow us the freedom to be who we were. Why else would she have ever allowed me and Maeve to leave her side?

  “How is your father?”

  I closed my eyes and air whispered over my lips. “How good can a frustrated Irish writer be?” I asked.

  “That well?” A small smile curled up over her lips. “He’s not happy, your dad, unless he’s feeling tortured.”

  “Then I’m surprised you two parted.” My whip of a tongue moved faster than my mind.

  “Rhiannon,” my mother said. Surprise crinkled between her brows. “Really? Are you angry still?”

  “Angry?” I sighed. “I guess no more angry than any child of parents who’ve not lived under the same roof for the last seven years.”

  “Darling, those were adult choices made under difficult circumstances. We’ve done the very best we could.”

  “I guess I didn’t imagine your separation would be forever—with you and Papa in different places, different countries and leading such different lives.”

  My mother sipped her tea. “And I suppose we didn’t think it would happen that way either,” Mama said. “Time slips away and habits become a way of life. Your father loves Ireland. And me? I love it here. A separation that was meant to be a year turned into three and then it was you, my darling, who turned that one year into seven, not I.”

  What Mama said was true. I planned to stay in California to help Mama for as long as she needed, but I had not given up my Paris apartment. California harbored many memories. Memories that prevented me from committing to a life in Los Angeles.

  “I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve been home since you moved to Europe,” Mama said.

  Ache clung to her words. She attempted to hide her loneliness with a gentle smile, but she’d never been much of an actress, at least not with me or Maeve, or even Papa.

  “You were wise to let me go.” My fingertips troubled a strand of hair that had fallen from the messy bun atop my head. “I couldn’t stay. To stay would have caused trouble that no one wanted. I had to go and you let me. For that I will forever be thankful.”

  Her eyes glossed with tears. How hard had it been to allow two girls of twelve and fifteen to move halfway around the world?

  “I’ve missed you,” she said. I sat on the couch beside her. “I’m thrilled that you’re here and that you’re showing at the opening of Amanda’s new gallery. It’s going to be a great evening for both of you.”

  Happiness blossomed in my chest. A thrill, over the idea of my art being shown in the States, tingled through my body. I was also thrilled that Amanda was the gallery curator and, while I didn’t want to admit it, I was thrilled at the idea of seeing her brother Sterling again.

  “What time are we leaving today?”

  “Amanda is sending a car. It arrives at four-thirty. I want to get there early to take one final look before the gallery doors open.”

  “A final look? You’ve stood and stared at the art on the walls of Amanda’s gallery for the last five days. Surely there is nothing else to see.” She smiled and her voice had the wisp of a teasing lilt.

  “It is my first show in America,” I said.

  “Amanda is lucky to have you. How many offers have you turned down from New York galleries?”

  “I got a sixth request this morning.’

  “Oh, my darling,” Mama said. She reached out and clasped her fi
ngers around my hand. “I am so pleased for you. I know you paint for the love it, and I know it’s crass to admit it as an artist, but it is oh so lovely to have the world recognize one’s talent. Is it not?”

  I hated to admit it. I painted because I loved my art and I loved my talent. I craved the feeling of immersion and the loss of reality and time that overtook me during the act of creation. When I painted I was engulfed and nested into something bigger than my own singularity. But, yes, there was something that fed my ego by being wanted and recognized.

  “The ego is an unhealthy thing to feed,” I said. “We’ve both seen the havoc that an unfettered ego can produce.”

  Mama’s eyes hooded for the briefest of moments. “Just a sliver and scrap here and again isn’t so bad. But, yes, we’ve seen what can happen when the ego is out of control. It was one of the very reasons for you to go away. Was it not?” A worried look entered her eyes. “I had to stay behind, darling. You do still understand why I had to stay?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I understand the promise you made to Joanne.” My gaze met Mama’s. I didn’t want to be filled with recrimination, with resentment. Mama had done the very best she could.

  “Once you left L.A., I had no fears for you,” Mama said. “I knew you would be fine. You and Maeve had Papa and me. I want to believe that our love for both of you was a steadfast reminder of the goodness of life. But, Amanda? Sterling?” Mama shook her head and her eyes clouded with memories that crashed through her mind. “Once Joanne passed they had no one. They barely even had their father. I couldn’t have left them alone in Los Angeles. My darling, it would have been kinder to throw them into an abyss.”

  Chapter 2

  Sterling

  “Sterling Legend, if you try to make The Lady’s Regret, I will wreak more vengeance in your life than God himself.

  I pressed the palm of my hand to my cheek. Dealing with angry screenplay writers was part of my job as president of Legend Films, but this project, this script, wasn’t part of the standard Legend Films slate. This project was much more personal to me than any of the films we’d ever done. “Tom, please, listen to me, we just need a little more time. The option on The Lady’s Regret doesn’t expire until the end of the year and if we can show progress to production by end of summer—”

  “Progress to production?” Tom bellowed. “You progress anywhere with my damn script and I’ll progress my foot up your damn ass.”

  “Tom, please, we haven’t spoken but a handful of times in seven years. Since Mom and”—a sigh came from Tom came through the phone at the mention of my mother—“she left the option for The Lady’s Regret to Amanda and me. Why would she leave the option to us if she didn’t want the project to get made?”

  “She left the option to you and your sister so your monster of a father couldn’t get his filthy hands on my script. But now I’ve got you to deal with you—The Legend Part Two.” His insult stung, but the heat in Tom’s voice didn’t diminish as he plowed on, “Sterling, hear me well. When the option lapses I’m going to shred this damn script. Do you understand? No one will ever see this project again. The Lady’s Regret has caused nothing but pain for your family and mine. Have you forgotten that time—that summer filled with angry voices and bitterness?”

  I closed my eyes. There were so many things about that summer I would never forget.

  “The Lady’s Regret is cursed, Sterling, it’s cursed.”

  “Cursed? Tom, come on. How could it be—” But I was talking to a dead phone line. Tom Bliss was gone. He’d disappeared back into the ether of the Emerald Isle. He’d ranted and raved and hung up on me. I settled the phone into its cradle and sat back in my chair, gazing out the window onto the lot. To see The Lady’s Regret made into a feature film had been my mother’s dying wish, and I wasn’t about to let some Irish writer derail me from fulfilling that promise.

  “Mike Fox on line one,” my assistant Therese called from her desk outside my office door. I reached for the phone and pressed the red-blinking button. I didn’t want to make the President of Production at Worldwide Pictures wait, especially when I was after him to help me get The Lady’s Regret into production.

  “Sterling, I love the script,” Mike Fox said.

  “Tom Bliss wrote it just before Mom—” My belly clutched. I stopped speaking. No one in Hollywood expected me or my sister Amanda to be able to say more than the word “before” when referring to our late mother. There was before Joanne Legend died and after Joanne Legend died. And while we Legends went on with life, that moment in time was a demarcation in our family that informed everything that happened afterwards.

  “What kind of budget do you have in mind?” Mike asked.

  “High-end six, low-end three. I’d rather go with six.”

  “Will Steve play the male lead?” Mike asked.

  My spine straightened. My father, currently the biggest box office earner on the planet, would not play Liam, the cuckolded husband in The Lady’s Regret. I was playing high-stakes poker with the President of Production, who wanted to keep his biggest star happy and, at the same time, wanted to keep me, that big star’s son and president of Legend Films happy, as well. I carefully chose my words. “Dad has always been aware of the project,” I said.

  “Who are you thinking of to direct?”

  “Cami Montgomery.”

  “I like her. She’d do a good job with this.” Mike paused. He was thinking, mulling over the numbers, the costs, the benefits, the risks. I could hear him wondering how Worldwide could make this film and not spend sixty million dollars? With the gargantuan machine that Worldwide was, it seemed impossible to go into production on any film for less than thirty million in production costs, and then the studio had to consider another thirty million for P&A. At sixty million, The Lady’s Regret might never make a profit.

  “While I love the project and I love Steve and Cami Montgomery, how do we make this? How do we make this at Worldwide and turn a profit?”

  “Maybe you don’t make it.” I swiveled in my chair and looked across my office at the photo taken of Dad and me on set in the Amazon. “Maybe I put together the financing, you track the film and provide either foreign or U.S. distribution or both.”

  “Well, of course, you could do it that way,” Mike said. “But I didn’t think you had financing in place. I thought you wanted Worldwide to finance the film?”

  I do. Worldwide has been home to the Legend family for decades, but what I’m hearing is that Worldwide can’t make this for less than sixty million. The agents will eat you alive and demand full freight if Worldwide is involved. Right?”

  “Right,” Mike sighed. “Damn agents. Love them. Hate them. You have financiers in mind?”

  “There’s a guy out of Russia that we’re close to. This is a little girly for him but with the right cast he might bite. There’s also another equity investor I like. She’d love this script and she’s based in California.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” Mike said. “Have your foreign sales rep call my office. We’ll take foreign distribution off the table for a competitive market price. With your equity piece and some tax credits you can make your budget. But I want first right of refusal for domestic.”

  “Done.” A thrill raced through my belly. Foreign would be forty percent of my budget. Tax credits would be another twenty-five. If I could find between two million and four million in equity I was in production.

  The first time I read The Lady’s Regret I was seventeen. I remembered what the project had meant to Mom. The Lady’s Regret was to be her comeback. The film where Joanne Legend stepped out from behind the Steve Legend shadow and returned to the warmth of the spotlight. Sadly, that never happened. Mom was gone, but I could make this film. Dad’s shadow was big and had covered most of our world for a long, long time. Like many others I, too, had grown cold standing beside Dad.

  “I’ll have our foreign sales guy ring you,” I said.

  “Great,” Mike said. “And good
luck with your dad. I think there’s some bad blood where The Lady’s Regret is concerned.”

  I frowned. “Thanks Mike.” I hung up the phone. Bad blood? Cursed? Was there something else? Something I didn’t know? And did it matter? My intention was to make The Lady’s Regret without the help of my father. I grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair and my car keys from off my desk. I was late. Amanda would forgive me, but I wanted to be there to support her. To enjoy her success. We Legend kids had to stick together. Amanda and I often huddled together for warmth and support beneath the long shadow of Steve Legend.

  *

  “Dude, what is up with all these guys letting themselves get pussy-whipped?” Webber shook his head and a look of disdain covered his face. He took a long drink of cabernet.

  My gaze swept the room. This was opening night for The Amanda Legend Gallery and the renovated space in Venice was packed with people.

  “Look over there,” Webber gestured. “Dillon MacAvoy, famous ladies’ man, is married, guy, he’s friggin’ married. As in completely-off-the-market, one pussy forever. Poor guy.”

  Dillon bent toward Lane, his wife and my sister’s best friend, and she whispered in his ear. He leaned toward her and gave her a gentle kiss. The look on Dillon’s face made it clear he didn’t think being married to Lane was a burden to bear.

  “Then there’s Ryan and your sister. No offense to her, I mean she’s a fucking hot piece of—”

  My eyebrows tightened and I turned my head. “Webber, you’re talking about my sister.”

  “Oh, right, man, sorry,” he tapped me on the arm and rolled his eyes upward as if to say what-the-hell-was-I-thinking. “She’s hot and I get that they’re in love, but married? Ryan and Amanda are going to get married? What is the world coming to? Even Choo!” Webber swung his arm out and pointed toward Choo MacAvoy, Dillon’s little brother, who was standing with his boyfriend Jackson. “Even he’s paired off.” Webber shook his head and took another gulp from his wineglass.