Well, there was that.
Frankie started to move, but I stopped him with my hand on his arm. “Frankie?”
He paused. “What is it, princess?”
“When we started this arrangement, you said you just wanted someone who looked the part to attend things with you so you could date discreetly.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Why did you pick me?”
His gentle hand squeezed mine. “You’re genuine,” he said. “You think you’re a plaything, a pretty bauble to flash in front of people, but inside, you’re the real deal.”
I let go of him. I hadn’t expected him to say anything like that.
We scooted around to the back of the car and ducked outside. “Jenny will buzz you when she needs you,” he said to Brandon, his driver.
Brandon nodded and closed the door.
The air was cool and still, a near-perfect early spring night. The circle and lawns were strewn with cars of people who hadn’t bothered with the valet. The mansion towered over us like a plantation house. I never got used to the places some of these Hollywood people called home.
Frankie held my hand as we headed up the stone steps. I struggled with the dress since it didn’t let my knees go more than a few inches apart. I couldn’t afford to blow out a seam at this late hour. I had people to impress.
And a man to seduce in front of the paparazzi.
A doorman opened the front entrance, and we passed into the opulent house. The muffled sound of the band playing outside penetrated the indoors.
Ahead were two curving staircases. Between them was a hall to another part of the house. To the right, two tall white doors were thrown open to reveal what could only be called a parlor, full of elegant sofas and paintings. A few men lounged there, smoking cigars. One of them waved at Frankie and gestured him over.
“You go on back and get a drink,” he said to me. “Look things over. I’ll be around.”
“Of course,” I said, my heart skittering. Did he really expect me to find someone to cheat on him with? What if no one was interested in lowly me?
I smoothed my dreadlocks and continued through the house between the stairs. Apparently I made a wrong turn, because I wound up in the industrial-sized kitchen packed with catering staff.
“You need help finding the party?” a handsome man in a black vest asked. His blond hair flopped boyishly over his forehead. College student, I’d guess. Might as well work these rusty flirting skills on him.
“Can you show me the way?” I asked. If the photographers caught me with this one, I could already see the headline: Pink-maned beauty ditches film mogul for busboy.
Actually, they probably wouldn’t even mention me. It would be all about Frankie, what his heartache might do for the film that was about to come out. Frankie claimed they weren’t interested in him, but I knew better. Anything movie related was big.
“I’m Andy,” the boy said, and extended an elbow.
“You have time to escort me?” I asked.
“Of course. I have to pass through and collect empties anyway.”
I took his arm and he led me out of the kitchen and back to the hall. This time we turned left and wound our way through the house.
“No wonder I got lost!” I said.
“Someone should have taken you back,” he said.
We arrived at a sunroom decked with white wicker furniture with bright blue cushions. Tucked in a far corner, a couple sipped from wine glasses and kissed. Judging from the age discrepancy and the blond perfection of the stacked girl, she was probably an actress moving in on someone she thought could get her a part.
It happened. It wasn’t as common as people believed, but young new arrivals to Hollywood still felt that was how the movie business worked.
In reality, it was a lot of who you knew. The casting agents were as critical as anybody. Directors and producers didn’t always get who they wanted. The A-list stars were often attached to a project before it even got funded. And nobody would risk a twenty-million-dollar production budget on someone untested just because she banged them in a back room. It was ludicrous.
“Here you go,” Andy said, reaching to open a back door.
The noise hit me, loud chatter and glass clinking and a band playing a passable rendition of “Tell Me Something Good,” not that anybody could compare to Rufus.
Andy let go of my arm and picked up a tray full of dishes from a stand tucked into a dark corner. “Enjoy yourself,” he said.
I stood rooted to the ground, taking it all in. I had been to a fair number of parties like this, often in big houses, sometimes in hotels, but the spring weather had only recently turned nice enough again for backyard parties.