Читать книгу Turn Me On - Kristin Hardy - Страница 9

“WHAT I WANT FROM YOU, honey, is sex.” Royce Schuyler, the Home Cinema vice president of programming, stared across the restaurant table to where Sabrina Pantolini sat—poised, sleek and dark like a silky cat. “You give me that, and everything else will follow.”

“Royce, honey, I’ll give you the best sex you’ve ever had.” Sabrina smiled, her eyes ripe with promise and fun. A golden topaz hung winking from a gold chain around her neck. “This documentary series is going to have people stopping to take cold showers.”

“Swingers are old hat. Don’t give me swingers.”

Sabrina snorted and pushed her short, dark hair back behind her ears. “Forget swingers. That’s practically pedestrian. I’m talking about blow job tutors, exhibitionist hotels, you name it. It’s perfect for cable—all the stuff that the networks would never have the nerve to touch, and you guys will be putting it right in the late-night living rooms of Middle America.”

“With a guarantee like that, I’m looking forward to the pilot.”

“Great. Does that mean you’re ready to sign on for it?” Her goat cheese and heirloom tomato salad sat in front of her, forgotten.

Royce shook his head and scanned the restaurant with a practiced eye. “Not yet. I want to see what you’ve got when you finish the pilot.”

“I need working capital, Royce.”

“I’m sure you do, but I can’t give it to you.” He took a drink of his seltzer water. “Right now, you’ve got no track record and no staff on board.”

Sabrina suppressed a surge of annoyance. The money she was asking for was chump change for a cable network like Home Cinema and Schuyler knew it. On the other hand, she was fortunate he was even here talking to her. If she’d been anyone else, she’d have been lucky to meet some mid-level flunky in the city offices. Instead, she was here talking with Home Cinema’s vice president of programming in a see-and-be-seen restaurant.

She had no illusions about why she was getting the VIP treatment. Her father, Michael Pantolini, had been the kind of director people talked about in hushed whispers. Even five years after his death in an auto accident, Sabrina was still connected to the Hollywood power structure through her producer uncle, her action-star cousin and her set-designer mother. Sabrina was Hollywood royalty, but if it gave her some small edge, it also made her chafe.

“I can make a better pilot if I have Home Cinema behind me,” she said in a slightly bored voice, waving across the room to an actress she knew slightly.

“Find a way to make a hot pilot on your own. That’s the mark of a good producer. Bring it to me and we’ll talk.” Royce took a sip of his drink. “Hey, isn’t that your cousin who just came in?”

Sabrina glanced over at the door where Matt Ramsay had just arrived with this month’s hot starlet on his arm. Oh yeah, she knew how this worked. Royce expected her to call Matt over and introduce them. It would up Royce’s collateral with everyone in the room to be seen talking to the big box-office hero. And maybe the next time Royce was looking to cast an action miniseries, he’d have a better chance of getting Matt. Sabrina stifled a sigh. Sometimes she found the treacly, sycophantic side of Hollywood almost impossible to tolerate.

If she were smart, she’d use Matt to work Royce and get her funding. That was how it was done in Hollywood. Sabrina wasn’t always smart that way, though. She had a feisty disposition as classically Italian as the arc of her cheekbones, her vivid coloring and the hollows of her eyelids that somehow lent an extra importance to her every expression. She didn’t want to use her family connections to make this happen. She wanted to make True Sex fly on its own. If she could have gotten away with it, she’d have used her mother’s name. Unfortunately, Sabrina Pantolini was far too well-known from her years in the media spotlight to work incognito.

Matt waved and started over to where she sat.

Sabrina sighed. “All right, Schuyler, I’ll get you your pilot in six weeks. You like it, you give me a series contract.” She rose. “Thanks for lunch.”

“SO ARE YOU AN AUNTIE YET, Laeticia?” Sabrina asked her assistant as she breezed into the office of Pantolini Productions. Offices, really, if you counted the tiny reception/waiting area as separate from the cramped room behind it. Though her offices were tucked in an old building off Hollywood Boulevard instead of in Westwood, they were hers. Besides, they were big enough in a town where all the important meetings took place in restaurants.

“An auntie? Not so far. My sister’s taking her time. Of course, that girl’s been late for everything since her own birth, so it doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Laeticia was long and slender, with gorgeous, mocha-colored skin and doe-soft eyes. When they’d met, Sabrina had wondered how a woman like Laeticia could possibly take on the production coordinator’s role of logistics, paperwork and organization, let alone survive the Hollywood meat grinder. To her surprise, the woman was ruthlessly efficient, able to alternately sweet-talk and bully as the situation demanded. Anyone who underestimated Laeticia did so at his peril.

“Patience. You know what they say about watched pots.”

“Mmmm. So how did the meeting go with the brass?”

Sabrina moved her shoulders noncommittally. “Well enough, I suppose. They want to see more. Now we just have to deliver.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard.”

Sabrina made a face at her. “Any messages or mail?”

“Your new cell phone is here,” Laeticia said, handing her a small box. “I activated it for you. Try not to lose this one, hmmm?”

Sabrina grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Laeticia picked up a pair of small pink notes. “Gus Stirling called to remind you that the night shoot on the Hollywood Hauntings project has moved to the Sunset Boulevard location.”

Augustus Stirling, Sabrina’s godfather and teacher. The thought of seeing him made her smile, though with the night shoot he had planned, they’d probably go until the sun was coming up. No sleep for her tonight, she thought resignedly. The fact that in her partying days she’d seldom arrived home before breakfast didn’t make her any happier about missing her slumber. Back then, she’d crash until three or four in the afternoon if she’d felt like it. Now, she had to rise and shine early in the morning to meet deadlines and get work done.

But Gus had taken her seriously when she’d decided she wanted to work in film and had taught her the job from the ground up. He’d been tough on her, forcing her to prove herself again and again. He wasn’t shy about working her hard and she’d be damned if she’d stop a second before he did.

“You also had a call from Kelly Vandervere, reminding you that the Supper Club is at Gilbert’s at seven.”

Nachos, margaritas and gossip with old friends. Sabrina’s mouth curved into an arc of pleasure. That much, at least, would make the rest of the night tolerable. “And?”

“Just remember, don’t get too worn out tonight. If Kisha goes into labor later, I might be coming in late tomorrow.”

Sabrina winked at her. “Here’s hoping I’m on my own and you’re an auntie.”

“Just what I need—baby-sitting and diaper-changing duties,” Laeticia muttered, but her eyes held a smile as she said it.

FIVE HOURS LATER, Sabrina opened the glass door of Gilbert’s and stepped into a bar area filled with the sound of blenders. It seemed as if half her time was spent in restaurants, she thought wryly as she passed the hostess stand with a nod. Then she turned the corner and spied the group of women seated at a table, talking animatedly, half hidden by a lattice. The usual faces.

And the usual discussions.

“Forget all this feel-good stuff. Reality is, size matters,” said a tawny-haired woman with an angular face.

“Not true.” The words were definite, the speaker dressed in a silky floral op-art blouse from the latest Dolce & Gabbana collection. “Bigger might be better, but it’s what he does with it that makes the difference.”

The first woman snorted. “Oh, come on, Cilla. The guy’s twenty-two,” she said, taking a swig of her margarita. “He doesn’t know enough to do anything with it. With them, it’s just in and out, with maybe a few hours sleep in between. At least if it’s big, he’s got a fighting chance to do some good.”

Sabrina ducked around the corner. “On the other hand, there’s a limit to size. It has to be big enough for basic purposes, but too much beyond that it just hurts.”

Six sets of eyes stared at her blankly.

“Sabrina? Good to see you, sweetie, but what the hell do you mean?” asked the tawny-haired woman, Kelly Vandervere.

Sabrina pulled up a chair at the table and signaled to the waiter for a beer. “Come on, admit it. We’ve all had to groan through getting pounded by some guy who thinks a monster boner and an ability to recite batting averages in his head is all he needs to send a woman to heaven. Size isn’t everything.” She speared a pickled jalapeño out of the bowl on the table.

“What are you talking about?” asked Cilla Danforth, an amused frown on her triangular, foxy-looking face.

It was Sabrina’s turn to look blank. “Tackle. Aren’t you?”

Laughter rose around her. “Apartments,” said Kelly, wiping her eyes. “We were talking about my little brother’s new apartment. Only someone with your filthy mind would think we were talking about dicks.”

“Sorry. It was the thought of all your dirty minds that made me assume you were talking about sex,” Sabrina said with dignity, taking her beer from the waiter. “So if you’re not talking about it, does that mean that nobody’s getting it?”

“Do you guys realize we’ve talked about sex every single week for the past five years? You’re obsessed. Let’s do something else for a change.” Dark-haired Thea Mitchell, dressed in her perpetual black, scooped up salsa with a chip and crunched it.

Cilla and Kelly looked at each other. “I like talking about sex,” Kelly offered.

“Yeah. It’s the next best thing to having it,” tossed in Delaney Phillips, a corn-silk blonde in a candy-pink lace camisole and a black choker. “I bet you’d change your tune if we just set you up with a man. We could do Trish, too, while we’re at it.”

“No way.” With her curly red hair skinned back from her face and no makeup, Trish almost managed to disguise her gorgeous bone structure. “I’m on dating sabbatical, remember? That’s why I hang out with you guys—to live vicariously.”

“Well, somebody’s got to be getting it.” Sabrina looked around the table.

“Possibly,” Cilla said. “Paige had a date the other night, I know, because she wouldn’t go to the gym with me.”

Cool and patrician, Paige gave a graceful shrug. “Nothing much to tell. He was just my escort to a fund-raiser.”

Five heads around the table perked up. “Spill it,” Kelly demanded.

Paige shook her head and the blond layers of her expensive haircut swished and settled perfectly. “His name is Landon, and—”

“That should have sent you running right there,” Cilla interjected. “Never date a guy with a trust-fund name. I know these guys, Paige. You’re just asking for death by boredom.”

“Says the trust-fund kid herself,” Trish jabbed lightly.

“I don’t have a trust fund.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, a chain of department stores.”

“The stores belong to my dad.” Cilla twisted her chunky amethyst David Yurman cocktail ring. “I’m just a working stiff like the rest of you, remember? Anyway, we’re not talking about me. The guy sounds like a preppster. Where did he grow up, Paige?”

“Greenwich, Connecticut.”

“I rest my case,” Cilla said smugly.

“He was nice enough. Smart, well-informed.” She paused while the waitress set plates of quesadillas in front of them. “Good job in the legal department at Fox.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Delaney wrinkled her snub nose. “Get to the good stuff. How did he kiss?”

Paige aimed a chilly look at Delaney, who merely grinned.

“Give it up, Paige. We’ve seen you cleaning the bathroom in your underwear.”

The cool look evaporated and Paige laughed. “I knew I was out of my mind when I moved in with you guys back then.”

“Are you kidding? We taught you how to have a good time. Now tell us about the kiss,” Kelly ordered.

Paige eyed them. “Too wet. Too much tongue, too quickly.”

“Sounds like a first kiss,” Thea muttered, taking a sip of her iced tea.

“Was that how your first kiss was?” Cilla asked her. “That’s too bad. Mine was pretty good. Jason Stilton, third grade.”

“Third grade?” Paige raised an eyebrow.

“He was precocious,” Cilla said.

“Or someone was,” Delaney said. “I didn’t get my first kiss until eighth grade. “Jake Gordon, boyfriend number one.” She sighed a little dreamily.

“I don’t remember the name of my first kiss, but I bet the location’s got you all beat,” Kelly wagered.

“I’ll bite,” Sabrina said. “Where?”

“On the Matterhorn at Disneyland.”

“The Matterhorn?” Sabrina reached out for a slice of quesadilla. “You know the make-out ride was the Haunted Mansion.”

“Hey, you take what you can get when you can get it.”

Delaney snorted. “And when can you get it on the Matterhorn? Try it there, you lose some teeth.”

“You know the part where you’re getting pulled up the first hill? My girlfriend and I had met him and his buddy in line, so he was sitting behind me in the bobsled. I leaned back to say something to him and wham, full tongue and everything.”

“Nothing like jumping in at the deep end,” Trish said.

“Shocked the heck out of me. I was thirteen. I thought kissing was about lips. Then we got to the top of the hill and the ride started.”

“You didn’t keep kissing, did you?”

“God no. We’d have dislocated our necks, or at least lost our tongues.”

“Well, I don’t know about the first kiss, but my best kiss is still Carl Reynolds, that guy I dated last year,” said Cilla, reaching out for a pickled carrot.

“I thought you said he was a waste of a human being,” Paige objected.

“Oh, he was. But he was still a great kisser,” Cilla said.

“My best kisser was the guy I went out with last week, I think,” Kelly threw in. “Of course, that’s always subject to change,” she said with an appraising glance around the room. “What about you, Sabrina?”

“What, best kiss or first kiss?”

“Best kiss. First kiss is too easy.”

Sabrina took a thoughtful drink of her beer and set it down. “Stef Costas, the first time we kissed.”

“Definite waste of a human being,” Kelly said decisively.

“But a great kisser.”

SABRINA OPENED HER PURSE and pulled out a couple of bills to toss on the table. “Okay, that’s all for me.”

Delaney stared at her. “It’s only nine-thirty.”

“I’ve got a night shoot starting in an hour,” she explained.

“A night shoot?” Kelly might have worked for Hot Ticket magazine for her day job, but as near as Sabrina could tell, she was never off shift.

“For the Hollywood ghost documentary. We’re going to the Château Mirabelle, where Elaine Chandler overdosed. Supposedly there’s a cold spot in her room and guests who’ve stayed there swear they’ve seen an apparition.”

“Brrr. That’s creepy,” Trish said with a grimace.

“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.” Kelly gave her an amused glance.

“I’m not so cynical that I don’t believe there are things out there we don’t understand.”

“Hah. You just pretend to be a cynic. Deep inside, you’re a mushy romantic,” Kelly corrected, pulling her plate forward with relish. “I’m the cynic. Forget about Mr. Right. Me, I’ll settle for Mr. Right Now. It’s a lot less trouble,” she said, eyeing the waiter speculatively. “What I don’t believe, Sabrina, is that you, with your multimillion-dollar trust fund, are playing the working schlep. In your shoes, I’d quit in a minute.”

Trish broke in. “You are so full of it. You’d report for Hot Ticket for free and you know it. Where else would you have official license to poke into things that don’t concern you?”

Kelly ran her tongue around her teeth. “Okay, guilty as charged. But seriously, Sabrina, why work so hard if you don’t have to?”

“You know why. I want to work for myself.”

“So do it. You’ve got the bankroll,” Paige pointed out, patting her mouth with her napkin and setting it on the table.

“That’s my family’s money, not mine. Plus I don’t have the know-how, or at least I didn’t. You know the deal I made with Uncle Gus—I work, he teaches.”

“But you have worked,” Trish protested.

“She’s right, Rina,” Thea said mildly. “You’ve been at this for almost five years. Whatever happened to that idea you were talking about for a cable documentary?”

Should she say something or would she jinx herself? “Funny you should ask,” Sabrina began, a ridiculously broad grin spreading across her face. “I’m just about ready to start shooting.”

A chorus of congratulations erupted around the table.

“What does your family think?” asked Cilla, who knew a thing or two about family legacies, having grown up in her father’s retail empire.

Sabrina slanted her a dry look. “You know what my family thinks,” she said. “That I’ll give it up sooner or later for a party.” She permitted herself a mischievous smile. “Or at least that’s what they’d think if they didn’t know the topic of the documentary. If they did, they might be a little less than thrilled.”

“What is the topic?” Paige asked, curious.

Sabrina pursed her lips. “Kinky sex, of course.”

Kelly hooted. “Tame, Pantolini. Show me a film that’s not about sex.”

“Wait till you see this one,” Sabrina promised, eyes alight with fun. “Sex clubs, exhibitionists in the act, blow job tutorials. Tonight’s my last night working for somebody else. Come tomorrow, I get rolling on True Sex, coming soon to a cable station near you.”