“Let’s see. Well, I totally f**ked up my audition for the Joss Whedon film, as you know. Second, I haven’t booked a commercial in weeks. Third, I’m pretty sure the residuals from my last toothpaste spot are going to dry up soon. Fourth, my boss at the messenger service is forcing me to take a week off without pay because I was rude—“ Reeve said, sketching air quotes around the word “—to one of his customers.”
“Ouch.”
“Fifth. Rent. Rent. Rent.”
Jill stared pensively at a cracked section of plaster on the ceiling. “You know, Reeve,” Jill said, in a voice that Reeve instantly recognized as her mastermind tone. “One of the Upper East Side cougars in my running club has a high-end escort service going on.”
Reeve laughed and sat up straight. “Seriously? You want me to be an escort?”
“Is it such a crazy thought? You’re young and hot and you can play any part. That’s what these ladies want.”
“What kind of ladies?”
“All kinds,” Jill said, in an evasive way.
“What do you mean all kinds?”
“Just that all sorts of ladies use escort services.”
“I can’t believe you have a chick in your running club who’s a pimp,” Reeve said and pushed his long fingers through his dark hair.
“She’s not a pimp, Reeve.” Jill punched him on the shoulder. “She’s a high-end madam. For dudes.” Then Jill laughed.
“Would I have to, you know, with them?”
“Go down on them?”
Reeve made a rolling motion with his hand. “That and other things.”
Jill shrugged. “Probably in some cases. I mean, some women just read Playgirl for the articles, but I’m pretty sure when you’re shelling out $500 a pop you want the escort to take care of the lady business.”
“Call me crazy, but I kind of like actually—you know—being attracted to the girl I’m making scream my name out loud.”
“Do you, Reeve? Do you make them scream your name out loud?”
Reeve raised an eyebrow playfully. “Every. Single. Time.”
Sutton Brenner had a problem. A big problem. She was on the cusp of winning a contract so hot and so coveted that any of her competitors would walk on hot coals for it. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. She’d been prepping for it, she’d been pitching for it. She knew she was the right one—the only one—- for this project.
Escorted Lives.
Who else had better credentials to find the top talent for the red-hot film based on the biggest selling erotic romance series the world had seen in ages? After all, Sutton had cast the most successful male stripper movie—It’s Raining Men—which had showered $302 million in greenbacks at the box office down on the producers. Not to mention Spread, an indie flick about a chiseled male model who falls in love with an Oklahoma house wife. That film had burst out of the festival circuit to earn both critical acclaim and a cool $112 million, ten times its budget. Sutton had even earned a nod in an industry trade magazine as “the best appraiser of male flesh and talent in all of the film community.”
She’d grinned in delight at the accolade.
But the money guys hadn’t given her the greenlight to cast “Escorted Lives” yet. Maybe they were being cautious, but then the mega-rich Frederick and Nicholas Pinkerton were known as risktakers. Sutton was perched on the edge of her chair, across the glass conference table from the British twin film financiers. They were her countrymen, and she couldn’t help but hope that her British-ness might give her a leg up. She could talk the talk about London and the Queen and footie, and they loved that. The were avid golfers too, and so Sutton had chatted them up about the relative merits of the Augusta National Club versus Pebble Beach Golf Links. Sutton didn’t know a lick about swinging a golf club, but she’d researched the hell out of the courses so she could hold her own on one of their favorite subjects—golf in America.
Would her prep work pay off?
“You’re definitely at the top of the list for Escorted Lives,” Frederick said, but his voice trailed off.
Top of the list meant there was still a list.
Damn.
Sutton needed to get rid of the list. She needed to be the only list.
Frederick glanced at his wife, Janelle. She was seated next to him, but she hadn’t uttered a word. She’d just kept her hands folded together on the table, her lips tightly closed. Janelle’s green eyes were cool and piercing. Her black hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it looked as if the skin were being stretched to her scalp. She was stone, and Sutton thought she might be practicing her best approximation of a statue. But Sutton knew Janelle was the real puppeteer here. She was the reason Frederick was rich in the first place. He’d married into her family money, and she had a hand in all the decisions he made about his films. She might not have the official title of executive producer, but everyone in the movie biz knew that a Frederick Pinkerton movie had to pass muster with the wife before he could work on it.
She was the sort of silent partner who could make or break any deal of his.
Janelle moved, leaning closer to Frederick. She whispered something in his ear.
He nodded, then spoke. “And we were thinking perhaps we could meet your fiancé. Perhaps we could all have dinner?”
Sutton tried not to look confused. She didn’t have a fiancé. “Sorry?”
Frederick’s brows knitted in concern. “I was sure I’d read in the papers that you were engaged recently.”
The papers. An engagement. Of course. Sutton was often mistaken—well, in print at least—for the Broadway actress Sutton McKenna, who had gotten engaged to her manager last week. There weren’t too many Suttons in New York show biz, hence the frequent mixups. Sutton was about to say that there’d been a misunderstanding, but Janelle piped up. “We do so love to have a family atmosphere at our company.”
Janelle gave Frederick a pointed look, and everything clicked for Sutton. Frederick had cheated on his wife over and over with many nubile young things, and word on the street was that Janelle was doing everything to keep him in line. Perhaps that included making sure he only hired attached women to work on his films?
Sutton could read between the lines. They might have mistaken another’s engagement for hers, but perhaps this was the lucky break she needed to nab the film.
She played along, holding up her ring-less hand. “My boyfriend surprised me the other weekend. The ring was just a tad bit too big, so now it’s being resized and I can not wait to get it back on my hand,” she said, mustering up all the glee she imagined a recently betrothed twenty-eight-year-old casting director might feel.