Fast Glamour Page 3

  Photos I’d taken at Venice Beach while working on the installation of my work at Amanda’s gallery were taped to the walls. Since before my return from Europe I’d been drawn to the landscape of my childhood. Especially the Malibu hills. Now the city called to me—its buildings and geography, along with the diversity that was Los Angeles—spoke with a siren’s call. New pictures formed in my mind. I could feel a new series emerging. I sat on a chair and stared at the wall filled with photos. Nighttime photos of Abbott-Kinney with multitudes of people walking, daytime photos of Venice Beach and the ocean rolling in to the shore, weekend photos of the Venice walkway filled with artists and street performers. A photo I’d taken of a homeless man on his bike with a Chihuahua balanced on the handlebars. The wall held photos I’d taken of the cacophony of light and humanity. I closed my eyes and let the vision come to me, the picture that I was meant to paint.

  “Rhiannon?”

  My eyes jerked open. Irritation raced through my chest. The jarred feeling of being unexpectedly pulled from my creative space caused an ache in my teeth. When I was yanked from the moment of creation it took a second for me to return to the here and now, to this reality. I pulled a smile to my face and turned to my mother. She stood just inside the guesthouse door with a crutch under each arm.

  “Mama, what are you doing all the way up here?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” Her lips turned down and her eyes glanced at the wall filled with photos and the blank canvas that sat before me. “You were deep into it.”

  “I was,” I said. “But I’m back now.” My tone was kind and calm. I was here to help her, which was the primary reason for my trip. “But why are you all the way out here?” I rose and walked toward her.

  “I wanted to see what you’re working on now.”

  She hobbled on her crutches toward where I sat and stared at the photos I’d taken of Venice.

  “Going from rural landscapes to urban?”

  An air of anxiety wafted about Mama. Even after years apart I could still sense her moods. Perhaps it was simply the fate of the mother-daughter relationship to forever sense how the other felt. I looked into her eyes and hers held a deep love, but also worry. She hobbled toward the couch in the center of the room. I knew better than to offer to help her. I’d been scolded enough since I’d arrived.

  “Your show was brilliant last night,” Mama said. She ran her hand over the stray wisps of gray hair that had escaped her ponytail.

  “Thank you.” I sat on the chair across from the couch. “Why do you look worried?”

  Her hands fluttered around her face like a bird’s wings. Mama was always so strong and opinionated that it was strange to see her search for her words.

  “Mama?” I leaned forward. Fear creased my face. My heart beat faster. Was there something more serious than her ankle problem? Something darker?

  “Oh, my darling, I am fine.” She clasped my hand in hers. “It’s you that I’m worried about.”

  “Me?”

  “You do remember that I was at the gallery with you last night.” She cocked an eyebrow high and tilted her head. “I’m artistic and empathetic. I paint and I know.”

  Heat crept from my heart to my chest and up to my neck. Yes, Mama would know. She would have known when she’d seen me with Sterling that the feelings I’d been unsure of had survived between us. Feelings that had remained ready to blossom and bloom when we were once again near one another.

  “You know, darling, I can survive on my own,” Mama said. “You can return to Paris.”

  “And you do know that I am now a grown woman and I don’t need to be protected?”

  Color drained from Mama’s face. Her lips parted. “I do,” she said. “But you will always be my little girl. Protecting one’s children is part of the job.”

  “I’m not involved with Sterling.”

  “But your feelings,” Mama said. “Your feelings are still there.”

  Why lie? I’d not lied when I was fifteen about the reasons I’d needed to leave for Ireland. I wouldn’t lie now as a grown woman.

  I looked out the open doors across the expanse and toward the plateau where the tree that had been our shelter and our shade stood outlined in the morning sun.

  “No, Mama, my feelings for Sterling are still there. He—”

  “He is like his father,” Mama said. Her tone was colder. Her face less happy. “I didn’t want my best friend to become involved and marry Steve Legend, and I certainly don’t want my daughter to become involved with this generation’s version of him.”

  “But you cared for Sterling … after Joanne died.”

  “I did,” Mama said. “I cared for both Amanda and Sterling.” She placed her crutches beside her. “Amanda turned inward. She spent her time up here, with the horses and me. But her brother?” Mama shook her head. “Her brother turned outward. He spent his time as the son of Steve Legend and enjoyed every pleasure that came with being the son of a box office star in L.A.”

  Heat flushed my face. I had my own memories of Sterling. I did not want them to include the visions that my mother’s knowledge would create in my mind.

  “He’s older now,” I said.

  “Yes, darling, he is. And I love Sterling, but do not love him for you.”

  “Mama, this is premature. We’ve only just seen each other at the opening. It’s been seven years.”

  “Do you forget that I was with you? I saw your face and I saw his.” A sigh crossed Mama’s lips. “I know, darling, I know that there are some passions that never die. Desire is an inexplicable function of nature. You and Sterling may always harbor these desires. Memories of young love hold the heart fast, but you are grown and those memories need not determine your future.”

  I turned away from the intensity of Mama’s gaze and her words, and twisted my hair up into a knot. “Please, Mama, I am not a child. Do not treat me like one.”

  Her spine stiffened and though her lips were pursed with concern, her eyes softened. “It is a mother’s wish to share all she knows with a daughter and save her the pain that she experienced.” Mama grasped her crutches and pulled herself to her feet. “But you are right. You are grown and you must make these decisions on your own.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “But please remember, Sterling will always be Steve Legend’s son.”

  Sterling

  I pulled into my parking space in front of The Legend Pictures bungalow on the Worldwide lot. I’d had a restless night last night and sleep had not come easy. Visions of Rhiannon Bliss appeared in my dreams. I’d fought for sleep until, finally, at five a.m. I’d given up. I grabbed my surfboard and went down to the beach to catch some early morning waves. Even that did not bring the peace I craved. Instead, I was filled with a restlessness knowing Rhiannon was back in Los Angeles.

  I grabbed my bag and slammed my car door shut. Just then my phone beeped. I fished it from my pocket and checked the text message.

  Don’t forget dinner tonight

  Amanda wouldn’t allow me to ever forget a family event. Where did she get the energy? Her gallery opened last night and now she was hosting dinner for at least eight people, possibly more?

  What can I bring? I texted my sister and walked up the steps to the bungalow.

  Just you was her reply.

  I opened the door to the bungalow. Chitchat and friendly banter between the staff and interns usually filled the room but, instead, the heaviness of silence greeted me.

  I gave my assistant a quizzical look. “What’s up?”“Mr. Legend is waiting for you in your office,” Therese whispered. Question answered. Dad scared the hell out of his staff. He rarely came into the office and when he did it was hard for anyone to act normally.

  I entered my office. Dad lounged in my chair, behind my desk, with his feet crossed on the corner of my desk and my phone pressed to his ear.

  “No problem, Mike, looking forward to it.” His gaze locked with mine. “Next Legend film is still Worldwide�
��s. This studio is my home,” he continued.

  I stood in front of my desk with my arms crossed. I waited for him to finish using my phone, my chair, and my desk. “Great, Mike. Great. Tell Jessica I said hi and give the bambinos a kiss too.” Dad pulled the phone from his ear and placed it in the cradle. His eyes flicked up to me.

  My heartbeat kicked up. Nobody enjoyed the Steve Legend temper, especially not his children.

  “What’s this I’m hearing about The Lady’s Regret?” He clasped his hands in front of him on my desk.

  “I’m making it,” I said. “It’s our script. It’s a great piece of material. Total Oscar bait and we’ve got an open slot.”

  Dad leaned back in my chair and his gaze flicked around my office and finally landed back on me. “There’s no open slot anymore.”

  “What? What do you mean? You said you wanted to wait until the fall to go into production on the next film in the Legend series. There is plenty of time for this one right now.”

  “Changed my mind.” Anger flashed in his eyes. He wore his hard and unyielding will-to-succeed persona this morning. “Spoke to Mike Fox just now, and we start prep next week.”

  “Next week? What about the script? And the cast?”

  “The writers will write and the actors will line up. This is a Legend film, Sterling. None of those things will be a problem.” He scraped his hand across his jaw. “You won’t have to scrounge for equity and pre-sell foreign when it’s a film that I’m starring in.” His eyes pinned me. He was sending me a message.

  “You don’t want me to make The Lady’s Regret. Is it because Mom planned on doing it and then she was diagnosed—”

  Dad held up his hand to halt my words. “I don’t want to talk about it. Thomas Bliss wrote that script, and the Bliss family has been nothing but trouble for us. That’s enough for me.”

  “You’re kidding, right? After Mom died, Gayle took care of Amanda and she practically saved my life.”

  “We’ve all got our versions of the stories,” Dad replied.

  “Versions of stories?” Had he forgotten how deeply he fell into the bottle after Mom’s death? How he could have lost me and Amanda to drugs or alcohol or even worse, if not for Gayle? “Dad, without Gayle—”

  “Legend Films is not making The Lady’s Regret.”

  He stood and walked around from behind my desk. “We begin prep next week on The Legend Kills.” We were eye to eye. He was older, but the bastard was in great shape. “Don’t forget, Sterling, this is my company with my name on the door. I want you to produce my films and while you’ll always be my son I can always find someone else to make movies with.”

  Heat ravaged my chest.

  “Just to repeat myself, this company is doing The Legend Kills next. If you push me on this, if you move forward on The Lady’s Regret, don’t bother coming through that front door.”

  Dad brushed past me and opened my office door. He’d once again made certain I understood who was in charge. Usually I caved in to Dad, we all did, but this time I wouldn’t. Following my father’s orders was not the best course of action if I wanted to create a life of my own. A life that didn’t exist in his shadow.

  Chapter 4

  Rhiannon

  Sitting on a hill at the end of a quiet street in Pacific Palisades, Amanda and Ryan’s new home was white adobe with a red tile roof. Inside, the dark wood floors reflected the dimming sunlight that seeped in through the giant windows. Amanda had filled their new house with sculptures, woodwork, paintings, furniture, and fixtures all handcrafted by artisans. We’d spent so much time installing my work in the gallery over the last week that, until now, I’d not had a chance to see their new place.

  “Rhiannon, welcome,” Ryan said. He leaned forward and dusted a quick peck against my cheek. I’d heard bits and pieces of his and Amanda’s love story from Amanda, but the true details of Ryan and how he conquered his addiction were things I’d yet to hear.

  Across the room Dillon stood and talked with his agent, Webber. I’d met Webber at Amanda’s gallery opening the night before and I’d ignored his dismal attempt, late in the evening, to try and pick me up and take me home. While he wasn’t a bad-looking man with his lean physique and prep school good looks, Webber was not the type of man to whom I’d ever been attracted. He was a bit too slick, a bit too salesman, a bit too extroverted with not nearly enough introspection.

  The front door opened and when I looked in that direction my gaze locked with Sterling’s. His grim expression quickly turned to a smile when he saw me. Heat flooded me, not just desire, but also joy. My fingertips brushed over my long hair and I twirled a lock in my fingers.

  “You look beautiful.” He stood close to me. Too close for mere friendship. He leaned forward and instead of the kiss on two cheeks I’d expected his lips pressed to mine. A short gasp caught in my chest. The urge to press my body to his, to pulse my hips forward, nearly overwhelmed me. The lips were soft, not greedy, and the kiss was over in an instant, but within the kiss, behind the press of Sterling’s lips, were heat and a promise. A promise that there was much more he wanted to share. His scent enveloped me and the memory of a worn soft saddle blanket against my back crept through my mind.

  Sterling. The scent of Sterling. The want of Sterling.

  “Hey, man, about time you showed up!”

  Sterling’s lips were gone from mine. Cool air brushed across my tingling mouth. His gaze was still attached to my gaze, though his soon to be brother-in-law’s hand was pressed to his back.

  “I wouldn’t miss tonight.”

  While his words were a polite phrase meant for a host or hostess, Sterling’s look told me more, much more. He wanted to be with me tonight. I wanted to be with him. Our desires had not died; they’d merely been dormant. Now with the heat of our nearness this want between us roared to life.

  “Ryan, ask Rhiannon to come to the kitchen,” Amanda called from the far side of the house. “Have her bring Sterling’s flowers and wine.”

  I looked from Sterling to Ryan. “Looks like I’ve got my orders.” Sterling presented me with the flowers and his gaze never left my face. I politely curtsied. The heat of Sterling’s gaze warmed my back as I left them and walked through the kitchen door. I exchanged the baritone of male laughter for the light tinkle of female giggling.

  “Rhiannon!” Amanda said and clasped me in a hug. “You remember Lane?”

  “I do.”

  Lane was a beautiful woman made all the more gorgeous by the love that pulsed between her and Dillon.

  “The show last night was brilliant.” Lane’s smile lit up her entire face. I understood why she and Amanda had become such good friends. Lane, while being married to one of the biggest male stars in world, remained unaffected and kind and generous. The catty attitude that I’d seen from a number of girls in school before fleeing Los Angeles for Ireland was not part of Lane. I knew from Amanda that Lane hadn’t grown up here but, still, being married to such a successful actor could change a person. The power inherent in the position of “wife of” could make them into a caricature of themselves and turn them into mean, spiteful women. I’d learned that Amanda had experienced that sort of corruption with Kiley.

  “Thank you,” I said. I took my glass of wine. I wasn’t good at small talk. Quiet seemed to envelop me when I was presented with people I didn’t know. I retreated to my inner world, to the pictures in my head. Language seemed to escape me when I stood around at a party. I preferred to skirt the edges and keep to myself as much as I could.

  “Lane and Dillon bought Malibu #9,” Amanda said.

  I raised my eyebrow and tilted my head and a small smile creased my face.

  “The yellows and oranges,” Lane said. She closed her eyes as if viewing the painting in her mind. Her eyes opened and again held that bright inner light. “Spectacular.”

  “It makes me happy that you enjoy the painting.” I dipped my head and sipped my wine.

  “Rhiannon’s not so big on being
in the spotlight,” Amanda said. She pulled a platter from the refrigerator and set it onto the marble island. “I had to threaten bodily harm to convince her to have a show in the first place.”

  “Not true,” I said. I reached for a bit of blue cheese on the platter. “At least, not all of it. There was no bodily harm threatened. Although I will admit to”—I took a bite—“not particularly enjoying being the center of attention.”

  “Does that come from Gayle or Tom, do you think?” Amanda asked. She pulled a plastic container filled with dip from the refrigerator.

  I crunched through a sliced red pepper. “Maybe from both? Although Mom did act when she and Joanne first moved to Los Angeles. Her painting came after Maeve and I were born.”

  “And Tom?”

  “He’s a writer so he’s an introvert by nature, but I’ve seen him light up in a room when a crowd is discussing how brilliant his words are.” I smiled. My tortured Irish writer father liked to be alone but he also enjoyed his friends at the pub.

  “Maybe the more you show, the more you’ll get used to the attention?” Lane’s voice contained a hopeful lilt. She had surely come to understand the rigors of the spotlight having recently married such an in-the-press man.

  “Maybe,” I said. I didn’t believe I would ever seek out the spotlight. I preferred to be left alone with my brushes. Of course, if lucky enough to be invited to show, I would attend the gallery openings for my work. It was a brilliant gift for any artist to experience the public viewing and enjoying their work. To think otherwise was just selfish and silly fear.

  “How is Gayle?” Lane asked. “She’s got such a beautiful place. I recognized parts of it in the painting we bought last night.”

  “The doctor says the cast will come off in another eight weeks and then she’ll have to do some physical therapy, but she should be fine. She’ll regain full use of her ankle.”

  “Thank goodness,” Amanda said. “I can’t picture your mother anywhere else and I can’t imagine her at the ranch unable to get around.”