Skin Deep: The O'Hurleys Read online

  “That makes two of us.” He’d found her. It seemed so incredible that he’d found her, found everything, without looking. “You’re getting cold.” Feeling the chill on her skin, he took a towel and wrapped it around her. “I guess I’d have a lot to answer to if you went to work tomorrow with a red nose.”

  “I never get a red nose.” She took a towel in turn and wrapped it around him. “It’s in my contract.”

  “Think you could take a break when you finish filming?”

  “That depends.” She smiled again. “On where and with whom.”

  “With me. We can talk about the where.”

  “I should be wrapped in three weeks. You pick the where.” She started to step from the tub, then braced herself against the wall. “Careful. We’ve flooded the place.”

  “Just toss down a couple towels.” Quinn plucked another from the shelf and let it fall to the floor to soak up the water.

  “My housekeeper’s going to love you.” Out of habit, Chantel picked up a jar of moisturizer and began to rub a light cover over her skin.

  “After we’re married, there’s going to have to be a change in the rules of the tub.” He was hooking the towel at his waist and didn’t notice the way her fingers froze in place on her cheek. “Bubbles are okay, but they’ve got to be unscented. It’s one thing for the staff to sniff, but we can’t have the kids wondering if their father wears perfume.”

  Somehow she managed to get the lid back on the jar and set it down without dropping it. “We’re getting married?”

  He didn’t have to look at her to know she’d taken three paces back. He heard it in her voice. “Absolutely.”

  Her heart was hammering in her throat, but she’d trained herself to speak clearly over nerves. “You want children?”

  “Yeah.” One by one, the muscles of his stomach knotted. “Is that a problem?”

  “I … Things are moving pretty fast,” she managed.

  “We’re not teenagers, Chantel. I think we both know what we want.”

  “I have to sit down.” She didn’t trust her legs, so she moved quickly back to the bedroom and took a chair. She held the towel together in front of her with hands that had gone white at the knuckles.

  Quinn waited a moment. The steam had fogged the wall-length mirror opposite the tub, but he could imagine her sitting there, her beauty reflected, slim, young, perfect. She was a dream, and more, she was a star, someone who lighted up the screen and created fantasies. His jaw was tight when he walked into the bedroom.

  “Looks like I pushed the wrong buttons.” Digging up his shirt, he found his cigarettes. “I thought that’s what you wanted, too.” Lighting one, he drew smoke in deeply. “I guess a husband and kids don’t go with the image.”

  She looked up slowly. Her eyes were dry, but he recognized pain, something deep and dull and lasting.

  “Chantel—”

  “No.” She stopped him with a gesture of her hand. “Maybe I deserved that.” Rising, she went to the closet and chose a robe. With deliberate motions she dropped the towel, then slipped the robe on and belted it. She linked her fingers a moment, then let them fall to her sides. “My career is important to me, but I’ve never let it interfere with my personal life—or vice versa. My work is demanding. You’ve seen for yourself that the hours can be brutal.”

  “So there’s no room for me and a family?”

  Something came into her face again. Pain again, but with a touch of anger this time. “My parents raised four children on the road. There was always room, always time for family.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She dipped her hands into her pockets, then took them out again, unable to keep them still. “First, I want to tell you that there’s nothing I want more than to marry you and start a family. Please, don’t,” she said quickly when he started to come to her. “Sit down, Quinn. It would be easier for me if you would sit.”

  “All right.”

  When he had, she drew a deep breath. “There are things you have to know before we go any further. It’s difficult, at least for me, to admit past mistakes, but you have a right to know. If I’d listened to my mother, I would have told you before. It might have been easier then.”

  “Look, if you want to tell me you’ve been with other men—”

  Her low laugh cut him off. It was strained. “Not exactly. This doesn’t fit the image, either, but I only slept with one other man before you. Surprise,” she said quietly when he simply stared. She went to stand at the window. “I was barely twenty when I met him. I was doing commercials, going to acting classes. I even had a part-time job selling magazines on the phone. I kept telling myself it was just a matter of time, and I believed it, but it was tough. Oh, God, it was so tough to be alone. Then Matt called and said he’d gotten me a test for a small part on a feature. Lawless, my first real break. The producer was—”

  “Dustin Price.”

  Chantel turned back from the window. Her hand was curled in a fist. “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “A lot of movie buffs might, but the fact is, I already know about Price. He turned up when I did a background check on you.”

  “You did a check on me?” She found herself braced against the windowsill. “On me?”

  “It’s standard, Chantel. I do a run on you, maybe somebody turns up you’ve forgotten, or forgotten to mention. Like Dustin Price. He’s clean, by the way. Been in England eighteen months.”

  “Standard,” she repeated, letting the rest sift away like sand. “I guess I should have expected it.”

  “What difference does it make now? So you slept with him. You needed a break; he could give you a break. It was years ago, and I don’t give a damn.”

  Every muscle in her body went rigid. “Is that what you think? You think I slept with him to get a part?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t care.”

  “Don’t touch me.” She whipped away from him as he reached for her. “I don’t have to sleep with anyone to get a part, and I never have. I may have made compromises, I may have given up more than I should, but I never prostituted myself.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time he took her arms, ignoring her resistance. “I’m trying to tell you that whatever happened between you and Price doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, it matters.” She pulled away and poured wine into a fresh glass. “It matters. When Matt called me to tell me I had the part, I was so happy. I knew it was the beginning. I was going places. I was going to be somebody.” She pressed her fingers to her lips until she was sure she could speak calmly. “Dustin sent me a dozen roses, a bottle of champagne and a lovely letter of congratulations. He said he knew I was going to be a star and suggested we have dinner to discuss the film and my career.”

  She drank because her throat was dry, then set down the glass, refusing to rely on wine to get her through the story. “Of course, I agreed. He was one of the top producers, riding on a wave of three box office smashes. Of course, he was married, but I didn’t think of that.” The derision was in her voice again, self-derision, self-disgust.

  “Chantel. It was years ago.”

  “There are some things you never stop paying for. I was going to be sophisticated. We were just having dinner, colleagues. God, he was charming.” The memory still hurt, but the pain was dull now, covered with scar tissue. “The flowers kept coming, the dinners. He knew so much about the business, the people. Who to talk to, who to be seen with. All of that was so important to me then. I thought I could handle it. The truth was I was just a naive young girl on her own for the first time.

  “I fell in love with him. I believed everything he said about him and his wife living together for appearances only, about the quiet divorce that was already in the works. About the two of us making the best and brightest team Hollywood had seen since the golden age. The whole thing might have run its natural course as I got a little smarter and he a bit bored, but before all that happened, I made a mistake.” She ran her damp palms down
her robe, then linked them. “I got pregnant.” She managed to swallow. “You didn’t find that in your background check, did you?”

  Rage hit, and he smothered it. “No.”

  “He had enough money, enough influence, to keep it quiet. And it wasn’t an issue for very long.”

  He was struggling, fighting desperately to understand. “You had an abortion?”

  “That’s what he wanted. He was furious. I suppose a lot of men would be when their mistress—and that’s what I was, really—turns up pregnant and threatens his very comfortable marriage. Of course, he’d never planned on getting a divorce or marrying me. All of that came out when I told him I was going to have his baby.”

  “He used you,” Quinn spit out. “You were twenty years old and he used you.”

  “No.” Strange that she could say it so calmly now. “1 was twenty years old, and I pretended I knew all the rules. I pretended very well. I made one mistake, then I made another mistake. I told him he could go to hell, but I was keeping the baby. Things got ugly then. He threatened to destroy my career if I didn’t play his way. Well, there’s no use going into what was said, except that the affair was over and my eyes were wide open.”

  “You’re still hurting,” Quinn said quietly.

  “Yes, but not for the reasons you might think. I thought I loved him, but as soon as the glitter washed off, I knew I never had. I called my parents. I was ready to run home and leave everything behind. I bought plane tickets. Quinn, I don’t know what I would have ultimately done once I was thinking clearly. That’s the worst of it, not knowing. There was an accident on the way to the airport.” She took a deep breath, struggling to finish. “Nothing major, the taxi driver had a couple of broken bones, and I—I lost the baby.”

  With a broken sob, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I lost the baby, and I tried to tell myself it was for the best. But all I ever could think was that it had never had a chance. I was only six weeks pregnant. Six weeks. Here, then gone. Matt pulled me out of it, got me back to work almost as soon as I was out of the hospital. Everything clicked for me then, the parts; the people, the fame I’d always wanted. All I had to do was lose a baby.”

  “Chantel.” He came to her, running his hands over her face, her hair, her shoulders. “There’s nothing I can say. Nothing I know how to do.”

  “There’s more.”

  “No more.” He started to gather her close, but she backed away.

  “When I lost the baby, there were complications. The doctors told me, well, they said it was possible I could have other children, but it wasn’t something they could guarantee. Possible, just possible, not even probable. There might never be another baby, another chance. Do you understand?”

  He took her hands. “Are you going to marry me?”

  “Quinn, aren’t you listening? I just told you—”

  “I heard you.” His fingers linked with hers and held firm. “You might not be able to have children. I want them, Chantel—yours, mine. If we can have them, that’s great. But first, always …” He bent to touch his lips to hers. “I want you. I need you, angel. The rest is up to chance.”

  “Quinn, I love you.”

  “Then let’s get married tomorrow.”

  “No.” She put her hands to his chest to hold him off. “I want you to think about this, really think about it. You need some time.”

  “I need you,” he corrected. “I don’t need time.”

  “I feel I owe it to you. Let’s leave things as they are. A few days.”

  He could have pushed. He could have won. But the hurt seemed too close to the surface just then. “A very few days. Come here.” This time she went willingly into his arms. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again,” he murmured.

  She closed her eyes, hoping she could promise him the same thing, even if she were speaking of herself.

  Chapter 12

  The day started at six and never let up. Filming began at a shack on the back lot. The interior was no more than that, a small frame building that had been used in a handful of films. For Strangers it had been given a facelift, a false front that had turned it into a rustic cabin in the woods of New England. In a climactic scene, special effects would burn it down, the fire starting under mysterious circumstances with Hailey and Brad inside.

  The interior scenes would be shot later, on a two-story set on the soundstage, but the morning was spent on exteriors. Chantel drove Hailey’s Ferrari to the deserted cabin. She was older now but still caught between the man she had married and the man who had betrayed her. The scene called for her, on the verge of a breakdown, to seek solace in the remote cabin, searching for the roots of her art, which she’d lost in the tangle of success.

  All the scenes were shot out of sequence and then would be edited together. For several hours of this shoot there was no dialogue. She was filmed unloading her art equipment, setting an easel on the narrow porch, walking through the door and out again with costume changes. There was a long, lingering close-up of her leaning on the porch rail with a cup of coffee in her hand. Without words, Chantel could use only her face to show the turmoil her character was feeling.

  She painted on the porch, sketched on the porch steps, planted flowers. Through posture and gestures and by relaxing the set of her face, Chantel showed her character’s gradual healing.

  From the sidelines, Quinn watched her and felt his pride in her grow. He didn’t know the story, but he understood the woman she became for the cameras. And he began to root for Hailey.

  There was a poignant scene in which Hailey sat on the porch and poured out her heart to a stray dog. It was the examination of a life, with all its flaws, its wrong turns, its regrets. Even when it was reshot to change the angle, the emotion generated remained intense. Quinn saw more than one member of the crew wipe their eyes.

  Before lunch they had wrapped a number of scenes, including a short, vicious argument between Hailey and Brad on the porch. During an hour’s break Chantel took a quick, necessary nap, then shored up her energy with fruit, cheese and a protein drink before going to the soundstage for the interiors.

  The set was as rustic as the outside of the cabin had promised, but there were a few of Hailey’s paintings on the wall. The props included a large carved music box that had been a wedding present from her husband. The earlier tension was back in her character as Chantel opened the box and let the strains of the “Moonlight Sonata” out.

  Dissatisfied with the way the scene was going, Chantel and the director went into a discussion on mood and motion.

  “What do you think of our little story?”

  James Brewster appeared beside Quinn. The two of them watched Larry Washington bring Chantel a glass of juice.

  “Hard to say when you see it chopped up this way.” Quinn kept his eye on Larry as the young man hovered around Chantel, ready to jump at the tiniest gesture. “But I expect it’ll sell. It has it all—sex, violence, melodrama.”

  “You don’t write a bestseller by leaving them out,” Brewster said easily. “Of course, Hailey is the key, the hinge. What she does, what she feels, affects every character. When I started the book, I thought I was telling a tale of betrayal and birth. But it became a story of how one woman—and what happens to her—determines the destiny of everyone she touches.” He broke off with a laugh. “It sounds pretentious, and perhaps it would be without Chantel. She is Hailey.”

  “She does make you believe,” Quinn murmured.

  “Exactly.” Pleased, Brewster gave a quick nod. “As a writer, there’s no greater reward than watching one of your characters come to life, particularly one you feel strongly about. I nearly killed her in the fire, you know.”

  Quinn stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  Brewster laughed again and drew out a cigarette. “You’re a very literal man, Mr. Doran. I meant I nearly ended the book here, in this cabin, with Hailey losing everything, including her life, in a fire set by the only man who really loved her. I found it
impossible. She had to go on, you see, and survive.”

  They both watched as the stage was set for the next take. “An extraordinary woman,” Brewster murmured. “Every man here is just a little bit in love with her.”

  “And you?”

  A wry smile in his eyes, Brewster turned. “I’m a writer, Mr. Doran. I deal in fantasies. Chantel is very much flesh and blood.”

  At the assistant director’s signal, the set fell silent and filming began again.

  Quinn watched Brewster carefully. The writer seemed less nervous than he had in the early days of shooting. Perhaps he was pleased with the progress. It was Larry Washington who seemed on edge now. Chantel’s assistant was never still for long, was always moving from one spot to the next. Did the tension Quinn felt on the set come from him? It was there. Quinn sensed it sparking the air, something nervy and desperate. Yet, everywhere he looked, people were going about their jobs with the drum-tight efficiency the director insisted on.

  Perhaps the tension was just within himself. There was plenty of cause. Chantel was still just out of reach, not yet ready, or not yet able, to commit herself. When a man who had lived his life avoiding commitments finally found one he wanted, he was bound to be impatient. So Quinn told himself as he watched Chantel listen to the music box with pain and indecision in her eyes.

  Were her thoughts on him, he wondered, or was she in character? Her talent made it nearly impossible to separate the actress from the role.

  Every eye was on her, but she was alone, in a cabin in the woods, at a turning point in her life.

  “Cut. Print. Wonderful.” Mary Rothschild straightened from her position behind the camera operator. “Really wonderful, Chantel.”

  “Thanks.” She drew a deep breath and tried to shake off the emotion that had carried her through the scene. “I’m glad I don’t have to do that again.”

  “We’re going to go to the confrontation with Brad.” As she spoke, Mary began to knead Chantel’s shoulders. “You know what you’re feeling. You still want him. After everything he’s done, everything you know, you can’t quite remove yourself from the young woman who fell in love with him. You want to love your husband, you’ve tried, but the only thing you’ve managed to do is hurt him. You’re on the edge of your life here. You know if you go with Brad, you’ll never survive. Yet you’re drawn.”