Redemption (4 page)

“Oh, hey, Matt. I thought you were at your office.”

“I am at my office. I’m working at home today.” Matt nodded toward the two women. “These left over from last night, or did you recruit a new batch? And why are we serving them drinks at this hour of the morning? It’s not even lunchtime,” he said, taking the glass nearest him and sniffing its contents.

A.J. squinted against the full morning sun. “They’re breakfast mimosas. You want one?”

“No thanks. I see you’re still celebrating,” Matt said dryly, the bubbles in the drink erupting as he swirled the liquid. The ink on A.J.’s divorce papers was scarcely dry, a divorce A.J. hadn’t wanted. Matt realized he had simply turned to booze and bimbos in an attempt to dull the pain, but there was a limit to self-indulgence. Matt had served time in the same institution, and when his time was up—six months, to be exact—his family had, lovingly and firmly, pushed his butt squarely back into reality.

And now, ten years later, Matt was as immune to the insidious disease of self-indulgence as he was to diphtheria, though all around him in Hollywood it seemed to flourish. Hard work, he had found, both in the gym and on the set, worked a lot better than any drug yet invented.

He dumped the drink into the pool, then tossed a couple of beach towels to the perfectly matched centerfolds posing on his redwood lounge chairs.

“Time to go, ladies.” Matt hooked his thumb toward the door. “And be sure and pick up your clothes on the way.” He plucked another goblet from A.J.’s grasp, gave it a frown, then poured the pale liquid into the deep end. He would have to get the damned pool cleaned now. No telling what refuse had ended up in there during the impromptu party A.J. had thrown last night. Matt had stayed away, preferring the company at the billiard bar he had just opened to joining in his houseguest’s party.

One of the women paused in front of him on her way toward the door and trailed a nail suggestively across his chest. “A.J. said you might give us an autograph later,” she purred. “Leonardo DiCaprio once signed his name right here.” She stroked her right breast suggestively. “Too bad you don’t have an ‘i’ you could dot,” she said, punctuating the words with a sexy giggle.

Matt tucked his tongue into his cheek and pretended to be intrigued by the suggestion. “Why, that’s real smart of you, knowing how to spell my name and all,” he said in his best Montana drawl. “But I better warn you—there’s a female inside who’s the real jealous type, and she’s got teeth that can rip through shoe leather.” He gave the silicone breast in front of him a look that could pass for regret, then took the towel still dangling from her hand and draped it over her shoulder. “You’d better hurry—she’s almost finished with her breakfast.”

Not sure if they’d just been insulted, the two blondes—at least one of them was a natural, Matt noticed—scurried off, throwing an identical pair of pouty looks over their shoulders as they disappeared inside.

Matt gave a sharp whistle, then shouted, “Sadie! Come on, girl, let’s go for a swim!” A biscuit-colored missile of fur came charging onto the patio, aimed straight toward him, pink tongue dangling from the grinning mouth. Matt grabbed Sadie’s front paws as they reared up, gave them a wag, then set her down firmly. “Watch that, or I’ll start looking into obedience school!” he warned, meeting her adoring gaze head on.

“And a minute ago you were threatening to sic her on…” A.J. scratched his unshaven chin thoughtfully. “You know, I can’t remember what they said their names were. Started with an ‘S,’ maybe. Sherry…Cherry…Did they look like twins to you?”

Matt sighed as Sadie splashed into the pool, spraying water on his pants leg. “Oh, hell. You’ve got to get a grip on this. Why don’t you go call Maggie, see if you can get the kids this weekend? I’ve got to go to Philadelphia. You can have them over here.”

A.J. shook his head, a morose expression crossing his face. “She’s taking them to Carmel to meet his parents. The wedding’s next month.”

“Aw, fuck,” Matt swore sympathetically. Thank God he had learned his lesson when it came to women. They had no equal when it came to ruining a man’s life, and until he found one that he was sure wasn’t capable of sending him to a shrink, he would fork out his affection on sloppy-tongued canines and women like Annie, whose interest in him was purely sexual.

“Oh, what the hell,” he relented. “Let’s have a beer. It’s almost lunchtime anyway. I’ve got a meeting later, though—Karen and Marty are coming over. We’re deciding on the locations for
Lyin’ Hearts
before I head out east.”

“Already? I thought you didn’t start filming until after Christmas.”

“Yes, but we need to know where we’ll be shooting so we can pin down the schedule. Once the contracts are signed, we can start planning shots, draw up the storyboards.”

A.J. shook his shaggy head in mock amazement. “Contracts? Storyboards? You’re gonna lose your street cred once TMZ figures out America’s Hottest Actor isn’t just another pretty set of pecs. Steven Spielberg know you’re horning in on his territory?”

“For now that’s still our dirty little secret. At least until we pull the wrapper off GrayWolf.”

A.J. let the glum look settle. “Next thing, you’ll be a movie mogul and politicians will want to crash our parties.”

Matt laughed, then whistled for Sadie. “I’ll go get that beer. You want one, or are you planning to drink that sissy stuff?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll take a beer,” A.J. said, then tipped up the glass and swallowed the rest of the mimosa. “Just getting my vitamin C,” he muttered, following Matt inside.

Behind him Sadie scrambled out of the pool, her morning swim over as suddenly as it had begun. She paused for a fierce shake, painting the smooth Mexican tiles with pool water, then hurried after the man in her life.

Matt’s office looked more like that of a cattle baron than an A-list actor. Only a few relics of his thirteen-year career hung on the walls: a movie poster from
Night Hawk
, the first film he had starred in; a framed photograph of him with Robert Redford, taken at the signing of environmental legislation designed to protect stretches of the Western mountain ranges; and a framed copy of his very first review, in which his performance was compared unfavorably with that of the bird playing opposite him.

Behind the Mission-style desk, Matt leaned back, studying the location photos in his hand. Marty Baker, the location manager, looked on, eager for a reaction, while Karen, the production designer for
Lyin’ Hearts
, took the photos that Matt handed to her, glancing at them. She’d seen a similar set already from Marty’s updates.

Though most of Matt’s roles so far had been heavy on action,
Lyin’ Hearts
would be a change of pace. A romantic comedy, it would rely on wit rather than weapons to make an impact. And not only was Matt starring in the film, but his fledgling production company had chosen this project for their first picture, and he had given himself the task of directing.

His balls were definitely on the block. He’d be risking his credibility for a low-budget, high-brow comedy. But the script was worth the risk, the film Matt envisioned worth protecting from outside scrutiny before it even got off the ground.

Amazingly, they had managed to keep news of the project from the press so far, which is one reason they were meeting in Matt’s home instead of his office in Burbank. Officially, he was “taking a much-needed break from filming.”

As an independent, their budget was low. So low, in fact, Matt himself was working for merely a share of the profits. If word got out that last year’s top-drawing actor was even associated with the film, the budget would have to be bumped up, as everyone from suppliers to the film crew would demand a larger chunk off the top.

The pile of photos on the desk was growing as Matt examined, then discarded each one. He looked up, an eyebrow lifted in mild surprise. “I won’t even ask how you managed to get into the ladies’ room, Marty,” he said. “Just tell me if it’s as big as it looks. I hate shooting in cramped quarters.”

“You could build a theme park in there,” Marty replied. “And I’ve already asked for permission to use the chairs as props.”

Matt studied the photograph closer. The delicate chairs—French Provincial was his uneducated guess—would provide the perfect contrast for the rough character he played in the film. He tossed the photo to Karen. “What do you think about that? It would save us some money on set decoration, wouldn’t it?”

Karen was responsible for the total look of the film, from the design of the sets, to the wardrobe, makeup, and hairstyles of the actors. Matt intended to let her have the final say. Having been on sets where directors constantly second guessed every decision, he had decided his strategy would be to hire the best and then let them do their jobs.

Karen barely glanced at the photo. “They’ll do. And that fountain there…” She pointed to another photograph, lying face up on the table. “I think it would be perfect for Scene Twenty, where Luke and Jane have the argument.”

“It would have to be rewritten, but you’re right, it would be the perfect backdrop.” Matt glanced at the photo. “What’s it supposed to represent, anyway? Some kind of goddess?”

“Fortuna, Roman goddess of Fortune.”

“Is that right?” Matt grinned. “Let’s hope she’s smiling on us. I think we’ve got our prime location right here, Marty. Get the contracts signed. I want to be able to get in the place next week while I’m in town.”

“We’ll have to film in the evening, after the store’s closed. I tried feeling them out about shooting in the daytime, but unless we blow our budget—”

“No problem. The shots will all be indoors, anyway.” It would be hell on the crew, but sometimes after-hours shoots were necessary, especially for low-budget films. “Why don’t you schedule it for the first few days we’re there? We’ll all still be on California time. That’ll give us a cheap edge.”

Marty nodded, jotting down the instruction on his notepad.

Just as quickly, the rest of their decisions were dispensed with. Marty and Karen left, leaving Matt alone with Sadie, who snoozed under the desk. Though he knew pre-production was a crucial part of the process, he itched to get the actual filming underway. It wouldn’t begin for another two months, right after Christmas. If he was lucky, he could get in a few weeks at his ranch in Montana, the place he still considered home. The beach house in Malibu, an honest-to-God bachelor pad now that A.J. had moved in, was more a shelter for strays than home.

His latest stray was starting to wear on his nerves. A week in Philly wouldn’t be so bad, provided he managed to keep his presence there a secret. To avoid attention, he had recently begun sporting the occasional disguise. With a week’s worth of beard stubble, a pair of dark Ray Bans, and a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, he could pass for nondescript. Plus, the name “Roscoe Arbuckle” on the guest register never stirred interest at the better hotels.

He propped worn lizard-skin boots on the desk. He could just imagine the field day the tabloids would have if they knew he had played host to two naked nymphets last night. Though he had developed a Teflon skin over the years, he still hated the invasions of privacy that dogged him.

That was one reason his relationship with Annie worked so well. As a gospel singer who’d recently gone country, she had no wish to have her name associated with Hollywood’s former bad boy. Consequently, she had worked harder than he to keep their affair a secret.

Contrary to popular belief, he’d never been as totally lacking in morals as everyone had assumed—not that it mattered much anymore. The scandal that had erupted in the early days of his career had turned out to be only a momentary stain on his reputation, dismissed with a “boys will be boys” shrug.

He had even managed to forgive himself, though occasionally, usually after a few beers, he still reflected on the whole sad affair.

The phone on his desk buzzed. It was Pam, his assistant. “I’ve faxed you the latest rewrites, and your press agent called. You’re on
Letterman
next month—I went ahead and made the travel arrangements. Oh, and the new
GQ
comes out around then—you’re on the cover, remember? Should I call security and have them send over more bodyguards?” she added, her voice only half-joking.

Matt sighed. With fans sometimes thick as deep-woods mosquitoes, he had reluctantly begun traveling with a couple of beefed-up “friends.”