His fingers were still absentmindedly tracing his mother’s handwriting when his valet, Hugh, opened the library door, making Flynn jump out of his skin.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Bloody hell, does the entire world think I’m some uncouth ignoramus?” Flynn roared.
Hugh blinked at him, refusing to let any flicker of emotion cross his face. “No, sir. It’s just that you’re usually not awake at this hour.”
“I went to Oxford, Hugh. I read English. I got a first!”
“Yes, sir, I was there. I recall.”
“Just because I’m a scoundrel doesn’t mean I’m dumb,” he muttered.
“Quite right, sir.”
Flynn thought again of Olivia Blount. She’d got him all mixed up. Now he was yelling at Hugh, who’d been with him since Eton.People assumed movie stars were dumb, but that was far from the truth. He’d acted opposite mathematicians and Proust scholars. Smart actors were better actors. They thought more carefully about their work, and their performances were more nuanced. He had always hoped he was one of those actors. But Miss Blount made him wonder if he’d gotten a little too comfortable. Maybe his first day with a new costar would be good for him, prevent him from resting on his laurels (and his extremely good looks).
Hugh cleared his throat, interrupting his thoughts. “Sir, shall I bring your grapefruit and coffee now?”
“What? Oh. No, Hugh, that’s all right. I’ll eat it in the kitchen as usual. Be up in a moment.”
“Very good, sir.” Hugh politely clicked his heels together and backed out of the room. Flynn stared down at his timeworn copy ofTreasure Island, which had fallen to the floor again when Hugh startled him. He picked it up, careful not to let the pages that had come unstuck from the binding fall to the floor. It was silly, but holding it brought his blood pressure down immediately. He wanted to keep it with him to carry around his mother’s reminder. Maybe he’d bring it to the studio and leave it in his dressing room. He felt as if he’d reconnected with an old friend and rediscovered some part of himself he hadn’t even realized was missing.
***
Flynn had just set the book on the coffee table in his dressing room when Connie, one of the girls from wardrobe, knocked on his door. He had never slept with her. It was a pity, because she had great legs and cascades of golden-blond hair, but his one rule was to never sleep with the people whose job was to make you look good. Inevitably, they would be upset with him—and thenhis costumes might start feeling a little too tight or he’d be forced into a color that didn’t suit his complexion. He knew that made him vain, but he didn’t care. Everyone in Hollywood was in the business of looking good, and anyone that pretended otherwise was either a pug-nosed executive or a fool.
“Mr. Banks, wardrobe is ready for you.”
“Thanks, Connie. I’ll come with you.” He gave one last look at the book on his dressing table and followed Connie to make the short walk across the lot.
“Miss De Lesseps is here already,” Connie told him. “She’s in her wig that she wears in the scene where you first meet her. Oh, Mr. Banks, it is truly absurd. Like a wedding cake on her head.”
He chuckled at that. One thing he loved about working for Evets’s Studios was the fact that they never skimped on costumes or sets. Harry could be cheap about some things, but not about how good a picture should look. “What’s she like? Is she stuck-up like other French girls?”
He was curious. It was rare to meet your costar the first day on a project together. Usually, he’d know them, either from working together before or from bumping into them around town. But Harry had said this girl was arriving in Hollywood only a few days before the start of production.
“Well, she’s not French. Turns out the studio made up that name. But she’s a darling. She’s so excited about everything. She squealed when we brought out the wig and her undergarments. Asked if she could bring her sister with her tomorrow to see them. She’s like a kid in a candy store.”
“Hmm, with a name like Liv de Lesseps, I was sure Harry had found her on a trip to Paris. But all the better. Sounds like a doll. I like her already.” Flynn Banks knew one thing with absolute certainty—getting to make movies was the best job in the wholeworld, and he was a lucky son of a gun.
If this Liv de Lesseps felt the same, they’d get on like a house on fire. Not that he had any trouble setting the hearts of women of his acquaintance aflame. His mood was already improving, the unsettling notions of the previous night quieted by the assurance that his costar sounded like a lot of fun.
“Well, let’s stop by her fitting room, and you can meet her. She’s a natural. Evelyn says she could make a sack look good.” Flynn’s thoughts turned again to Miss Blount and how delectable her bottom looked in a pair of men’s trousers. They arrived at wardrobe and Connie pushed open the door. “Her eyes! Gray in some lights, violet in others. They’ll look brilliant in Technicolor with the gowns Evelyn has designed for her.”
Connie’s words dropped like a stone in his gut. He’d spent all night dreaming about a pair of fine eyes that matched Connie’s description—and what were the odds that two different women he met in less than twenty-four hours would have such a unique set of eyes?
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer, because there she was. Miss Olivia Blount. Or, he supposed he should call her Liv de Lesseps.
“You little liar,” he muttered, suppressing a grin that he felt turning up the edges of his mouth. He didn’t know whether he was more irritated or amused. Her eyes met his in the dressing room mirror. He pitched his voice up several octaves in imitation and gave it a ridiculous breathiness that he was well aware sounded nothing like her. “‘Oh, I don’t go to the pictures very often. I’m more of the literary type.’ Literary type, my arse. That was some act you put on last night.”
Liv, Olivia—whatever the hell her name was—had the decency to blush and look down at her feet, causing her wig,which had to be at least a foot and a half high, to tilt dangerously forward on her head. Connie, confused by Flynn’s sudden outburst, had frozen in the doorway while Evelyn, the best costume designer on the Evets lot, scrambled to catch the wig and right it on top of Olivia’s head. Evelyn’s mouth was full of pins, and Flynn winced, hoping she didn’t accidentally swallow one of them. But Evelyn was an old pro when it came to mishaps during fittings, and the wig was quickly back where it belonged with no harm done.
Evelyn faced him and put her hands on her hips. “Flynn Banks, Miss De Lesseps has been in Los Angeles for less than forty-eight hours. Yet somehow, you’ve already slept with her?”
“Absolutely not,” Olivia scoffed, while Flynn simultaneously rolled his eyes and said, “She should be so lucky.”
He and Olivia met each other’s eyes once more in the mirror, and they broke out laughing together, dispelling the tension in the room.
