Hollywood Player (Hollywood Name Game Book 3)

Book 3: Hollywood Name Game

by Alexa Aston, Scott Moreland

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Suspense; Romantic Suspense; contemporary romance; Hollywood; Hollywood actor; singer songwriter; Hollywood Name Game

Synopsis

From internationally bestselling romance author Alexa Aston - Book Three in the exciting Hollywood Name Game – a stunning new contemporary romance series. Read for FREE with Kindle Unlimited!

She has zero friends . . . and is wary of men, living life as a recluse.

His only friend is 90 and when she dies, he's adrift.

Can a dyslexic actor and a shy singer-songwriter find happiness together?

Famous from the time she was fourteen, London Russell lands the cover of Sports Illustrated to cap off her modeling career. Leaving the fashion world behind, she follows her dream of becoming a singer-songwriter. Thanks to an ex-boyfriend's vicious attack on her, London becomes a recluse who turns out hits but never tours—and can't trust a man. Her life changes course when she encounters a Hollywood screenwriter and director and agrees to write the theme song for their next movie.

Knox Monroe grew up as America's darling, a child actor featured on several popular television series. After his mother's betrayal, Knox drops out of sight, returning years later to make the successful transition to adult roles. A known womanizer and loner, Knox meets London by chance. Through her connections, he winds up with the lead role in a new movie.

Will London be able to open her heart and move past Knox's player reputation? And will Knox knock down the emotional fortress that he's built around his heart?

In Hollywood, anything's possible. . .

Release date: February 10, 2021

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 262

Sample

They met in London.

Fell in love in London.

Conceived their child in London.

She held on long enough to ask him to name their daughter London.

Then she died. He buried her in London.

And was left with a sweet reminder of the beauty who’d once been his.

 

PROLOGUE

 

London Russell paid the cab driver as Jimmy, her apartment building’s doorman, opened the taxi’s door for her. He took her hand to help her out as she exited the cab, her backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Luggage, Miss Russell?” Jimmy asked, looking around.

“The airline lost it.”

That was an easier explanation than what really happened to all of the clothes and shoes that had accompanied her to the Caribbean for the Sports Illustrated gig.

“You’ll get it back soon,” he said hopefully, always the eternal optimist. Then a smile lit his face. “I downloaded your single three days ago. It’s been playing on stations everywhere nonstop. You’re really talented, Miss Russell.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.” She paused. “I need to let you know that Mr. Rossi is no longer welcomed here.”

Instantly, the young doorman’s posture and demeanor changed. His smile was replaced by a look of determination as he stood a little taller. “Yes, ma’am, Miss Russell. I’ll be sure he doesn’t get into the building.” He frowned, his brow creased in concern. “You doin’ okay?”

London hid the blackened eye behind dark sunglasses. “I’m going to be fine. Thanks for asking.”

Jimmy escorted her to the building’s entrance and opened the door for her. “I’m here for you. You need anything—anything at all—you just let me know.”

“I will.”

She hitched the backpack higher on her shoulder as she entered the lobby. Immediately, Claude caught sight of her and came from behind the desk to greet her.

“It’s good to have you back, Miss Russell. Your flat mates are both gone for the week so you have the place to yourself. Did your swimsuit shoot go well?”

She embraced Claude, who’d known her since she began modeling at fourteen.

“As well as could be expected.” That is, if you expected your photographer boyfriend to show up so hungover that he was fired—after he’d insulted three of the models and groped another one. She needed to let Claude know how serious the situation had grown.

Pushing her sunglasses up onto her head, London stared the concierge in the face. Ever the professional, Claude turned pale but kept a poker face.

“I’ve already informed Jimmy but I wanted you to know as well.”

Smoothly and perceptibly, Claude said, “I’ll be sure to inform all the staff that Mr. Rossi will never be a guest in this establishment again.” In a gesture of support, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe here, Miss Russell.”

London slid the glasses back down, not wanting any of the building’s occupants to see her this way. “I know. Thank you.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t able to claim my extra key from him, however.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Claude assured. “I’ll call a locksmith in the morning to have your locks changed and keys made for everyone who needs them.”

“Perfect. My father will be flying in tomorrow morning. He’s aware of the . . . situation.”

“Very good. May I do anything else for you tonight?”

“I plan to celebrate this job ending by ordering my usual splurge of Kung Pao from Mister Lee’s. First, I want to soak in a hot bath.”

Claude smiled, the laugh lines creasing around his eyes. “You do love your Chinese food. Especially once you’ve completed an assignment. I’ll make sure other than the delivery boy coming up that you won’t be disturbed the rest of the evening.” He returned to the desk and reached under it, bringing out a small bundle of mail and handing it to her.

“Thank you, Claude.”

London went to the elevators, ready to be home. She was glad to hear that her two roommates were gone on assignment. Constantly in high demand, it was rare for the three models to all be in residence at the same time. After the stress of the last few days, she craved solitude.

The apartment had a forlorn feeling as she entered and locked the door behind her. It made her wish she had a pet to come home to. She adjusted the thermostat and felt a swift rush of cool air seconds after she did. London dropped her sunglasses and the mail on an end table next to the sofa and slipped out of the espadrilles she wore. Scooping them up, she padded into her bedroom and tossed the backpack on her bed and placed the shoes in the closet before returning and emptying the backpack’s items so she could charge her electronics. Thank goodness she’d had the backpack with her at the beach shoot. It contained her phone and tablet and their chargers, as well as her passport. Giancarlo would’ve destroyed all of it if she’d left anything in the hotel room—including all of her clothes he’d shredded with scissors.

She ran a hot bath, dropping in plenty of scented oil to moisturize her skin. Being a fair-skinned redhead who’d spent the last ten days on the beach, she couldn’t get enough to soften her spray-tanned skin. Soon, her clothes were tossed into the hamper and her long hair was pinned in a knot atop her head. A glass of chilled sauvignon blanc rested on the edge of the tub, the only thing she’d found in the refrigerator. London set the Jacuzzi timer and slipped into the steamy water, placing her bath pillow behind her neck. Gradually, the tension left her body as she sipped the white wine. She closed her eyes as the jets swirled the water around her.

Images of her ruined wardrobe scattered throughout the hotel room came to her. London fought to push them aside but the past few days kept replaying themselves in her whirling mind. Her gut ached with the embarrassment of Giancarlo’s abysmal behavior in front of the crew and assembled models. Then the drunken accusations he’d hurled at her once she returned to their hotel room after a long day of photography in the sand had followed. No matter what London said, her lover had only grown angrier and more out of control.

And then he’d hit her.

She’d never been struck in her life. Her father didn’t believe in spanking. She’d never played sports and been subjected to thrown elbows or kicks during practice or a game. She never had any friends growing up to argue with and she certainly hadn’t made friends with any of her fellow models the past eight years. To be hit—much less in the face with such brute force—was not only a physical blow but one that ripped her apart emotionally.

Especially from a man who claimed he loved her more than life itself.

Her screams had brought management to the room, as well as various people connected with the magazine. Sylvia Rogers, who’d taken over the photo shoot that morning after Giancarlo had been fired, summoned a doctor to examine London’s eye. Fortunately, nothing had been damaged but the severe bruising would eliminate her from the rest of the shoot.

Or so London had thought.

Instead, Sylvia very cleverly had London turn her head away from the camera in some shots. She captured London in profile on her good side in others. In another series, she allowed London to wear dark designer sunglasses, adding an air of mystery to the pictures. One pose, in particular, had London seated in the sand as the waves washed ashore, her arms and legs wrapped around her as her chin rested on one raised knee. Sylvia had shared these photographs with London, something the photographer rarely did. The older woman told London she would push for her to become the cover of this swimsuit issue. That built her confidence some, seeing the magic Sylvia had done, working around the swelling and bruising. London’s self-esteem had taken as much of a beating as anything. She was grateful at the boost Sylvia’s praise gave her.

When London opened her eyes, the water had grown tepid and the Jacuzzi had ceased. She must have fallen asleep. Getting out, she toweled off and slathered on lotion before shrugging into a short, silk kimono. Leaving her hair in its topknot, she retrieved her iPad and ordered dinner online. Thinking about food made her stomach grumble. It was already after nine. She’d eat and go straight to bed.

Her phone chimed. The text told her it would be forty minutes before dinner arrived. That would give her plenty of time to go through her mail. London returned to the living room and plopped on the sofa, curling her bare feet under her. She flipped through the mail Claude had saved for her, setting aside most of it for later.

Then she spotted a letter from her father. London emailed him regularly and they usually Face Timed once a week—but David Russell still enjoyed the old-fashioned art of letter writing and sent her a few each month. Even though he was arriving tomorrow, she reached for the letter opener and sliced open the envelope eagerly.

 

Hello, Darling Daughter –

Hope you are enjoying the white sands and crystal blue waters as you soak up a little sunshine on your latest modeling job. Just think—your first time to be in the pages of Sports Illustrated! You have accomplished so much these past few years and if I don’t tell you enough, know how proud I am of you. Not for landing the cover of Vogue multiple times or walking in runway shows in Milan, but for being true to yourself. You were thrust into an adult world at an early age and yet you have maintained your civility and positive attitude.

I will eagerly call up iTunes in the morning and download your debut CD. I can’t thank you enough for sharing some of the songs with me as you worked on them. I see your future lies in music. That would make your mum burst with pride. Megan was never happier than when she was singing. I can still see her sitting in the Bentwood rocker while you rested inside her belly. She would sing to you for hours and rub her hand against wherever you playfully kicked. Oh, my sweet girl, how I wish you could have known her, for you are very like her in ways too numerous to count.

Enough of wallowing in the sentimental. I tend to do that whenever I pick up a fountain pen—or even my brush nowadays. Did I tell you I’ll be heading back to Tuscany this fall? I have an idea for a series of landscapes. Maybe you will have time to join me for a few weeks. You always had a soft spot for Italy, especially Florence and Siena.

I’ll seal this now and mail it in the morning. I look forward to hearing your songs and bragging to others that the talented singer they’re gushing over is my precious child. For that is what you are and always will be, London—my best and most perfect creation.

                                                  Todo mi amor,

                                                  Papi

 

London held the letter close. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her father had always been more than a parent to her. He’d been her teacher, companion, and best friend. With only the two of them from the beginning, they’d lived a nomadic life, traveling from Paris to the Amalfi Coast to the far reaches of Cornwall and the forests of Germany. David Russell had painted wherever they went, schooling his daughter on the side. London spoke seven languages and was comfortable anywhere in world. Modeling had broadened her horizons even further, with shoots in the Far East, Middle East, and South America over the years.

Despite her success, she was ready to leave modeling behind. It had claimed her teenage years and beyond. The lucrative pay had been socked away so that she would have enough to live on while she tried to make it as a musician. London was fortunate that she’d connected with a record producer last spring at the Met’s Costume Institute. Chazz Bolson signed her and had worked around her modeling commitments over the past year. With her single already released and the CD, too, London had fulfilled her last modeling contract. She’d be meeting with Chazz early next week to discuss touring and the direction of her musical career.

The doorbell sounded, so she set the letter back on the end table, happy that her food was arriving sooner than she’d expected. She fished a ten out of the tip jar she kept and hurried to the door. Throwing the lock, she turned the handle and opened it, hoping to see the cute teenaged girl who usually delivered in her neighborhood. She was saving for college and then law school. London liked that the teenager had such a lofty goal at a young age.

Out of nowhere, an object came flying toward her. Before she could dodge it, a fist crashed into her nose. Pain exploded as blood spurted. London lost her balance and flew backward, her head smacking against the hardwood floor. Dazed, she blinked hard, trying to make sense of what had occurred.

The door slammed. A hand snaked around her ankle and gripped it tightly. Suddenly, she was being dragged across the floor. She began struggling, trying to kick her attacker’s legs with her free one. The hand released her. Before London could claim victory, a booted foot kicked her in the temple. She rolled to her side and groaned, immediately nauseated and dizzy. The foot smashed into her again. This time, her cheek exploded in agony.

Hands grabbed her under her arms and lifted her. London felt like a rag doll with no bones as she was tossed onto the sofa. Her head ached. Powerful throbbing in multiple places that had been injured clouded her thoughts. She rested her head against the back of the sofa, breathing through her mouth since no air could be sucked through her broken nose.

Someone muttered, “Where are they?” as he opened drawers.

It wasn’t someone. She knew who it was. Her mind refused to call him by name. She struggled to keep her good eye open. The blackened one had swollen shut again. Her nose still dribbled blood down the front of her.

“There. Finally.”

London heard the feet returning. Then her hair was yanked. New hurt rushed through her as, in the distance, she heard snipping.

“You and this fucking hair,” the voice said. He laughed. “You won’t be known for it any longer when I’m finished with you.”

She glanced down and saw long strands of hair falling to her lap and on top of the sofa’s cushions. He was cutting her hair off. She couldn’t summon the energy to do anything about it. She wanted to give up. Curl up. Cry herself to sleep.

Then anger exploded through her. He needed to pay for what he’d done. He was the one who was wrong. She had done nothing to deserve this degrading treatment. He was punishing her when he was the one who deserved to suffer.

Adrenaline poured through her. She threw out a hand and blindly felt along the end table, searching for the letter opener. Her fingers found it and wrapped around the hilt. With all the strength she had, London slammed it into him.

She leaned her head back and would never forget the look of surprise on his face. He growled like an animal and ripped the silver opener from his throat and threw it across the room.

That was his mistake.

Blood sprayed from his neck. He whimpered as he dropped the scissors and raised both hands to cover the wound. His eyes fastened on hers and darkened in rage. He stumbled and fell into her, his blood covering them both.

Then he drew in a short breath and collapsed on her. Shuddering violently, he became still.

London hurt. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe with his weight pressing against her. She thought she would die—but at least she’d outlasted him.

In the distance, she heard shouts. A loud pounding. A part of her knew the door was thrown open. Running. Rushing. More shouts. Then he was lifted off her.

“You’ll be fine, Miss Russell,” a voice reassured her.

With that, she let the darkness swallow her up.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

Five years later . . .

 

London sat patiently with her eyes closed as Dr. Park examined her face in the strong light. She’d pushed her long hair back with a headband so the plastic surgeon would have easier access. He instructed her to turn to the left and then took her chin in hand, maneuvering her head slightly in different directions. His gentle fingers felt like a butterfly softly landing. The physician released her and then she heard the clicking of his fingers on a keyboard as he recorded his observations.

“Now to the right, please.”

London moved her head in the opposite direction, and Dr. Park repeated the process.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

She did so and heard the snap of the camera that he used several times. The doctor always recorded thorough notes regarding her progress, accompanied by photographic evidence. London had liked the man’s calm demeanor since she first met him in his LA office a year after the attack. He’d convinced her to make the move to California and had performed scar reversion surgery on her damaged cheek. Dr. Park had been upfront, which she had insisted upon. He told her that facial scar surgery was performed to disguise or minimize scarring but that the disfigurement could never be removed completely. London appreciated that he didn’t sugarcoat the issue.

Leaving New York helped distance her from the events that had dominated her life since the day Giancarlo Rossi broke into her apartment and attacked her. London remained in the city long enough to testify at the trial, where her former lover was charged with three counts of assault, both first and second degree. The photographer had severely injured Jimmy and wounded Claude. The concierge had been able to dial 911 before he collapsed. His summoning the police had saved London’s life.

London testified for six hours, deliberately looking Giancarlo in the face with each question she answered from the district attorney. She wanted her ex to see the hypertrophic scar on her cheek that the scissors had left behind. The thick cluster of scar tissue that developed at the healed wound’s site was raised and red. It had also become hyperpigmented, darkening in color as time passed. Even if she’d wanted to, London would never model again.

Her only disappointment had been that Giancarlo wasn’t charged with attempted murder. The DA had spouted all kinds of legal mumbo-jumbo at her but, in the end, those were the charges that his office said would stick. Pleased that he received a guilty verdict, Giancarlo would serve between five and twenty-five years. After the surgeries to repair her broken nose and cheekbone, London wanted to put as much distance as possible between her and her former lover—and the horrific memories.

Her record producer, Chazz Bolson, encouraged her to move permanently to LA to continue her music career since his production company was located there. Chazz was the one who’d arranged for London to meet Dr. Park. The plastic surgeon began with laser resurfacing to remove the upper layers of her skin with laser light, making the scar less visible. Several surgeries followed over the next two years, the first including a skin graft taken from her abdomen, which helped revise the scar.

Over time, the scar had faded. London was able to use makeup to hide most of it. From a distance, no one could tell the scar was present. It was only closer up that the flaw could be seen. To her, it was her badge of courage—of a night that she survived.

“Now eyes open, London,” Dr. Park said, bringing her back to the present.

She did as he asked.

“You’ve done everything I’ve asked over the years. Not everyone is as attentive to their follow-up care as you’ve been. I would say you’ve been my star patient.” The surgeon patted her hand and smiled broadly. “I am officially dismissing you. No more office visits. Just keep to your skin routine. Avoid the sun when you can. And always use sunscreen.”

A part of her deflated. Office visits to the kind Korean had become something she looked forward to. She would miss his sweet smile and gentle manner. Still, she wanted him to know exactly how much she appreciated him and his work on her behalf.

“I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Park. You’ve improved my physical appearance and made me feel better about myself overall. I’ll miss our appointments.”

He nodded. “I will look forward to hearing more music from you in the future.”

“I’m working on something new right now. It won’t be finished for several months but I’ll be sure to message a copy of the CD over when it drops.”

“My daughter and wife would be most happy to receive it, as would I. Thank you.”

London left the office, determined to think positively about being cleared as a patient. That’s what Dr. Allen, her therapist after the incident, would want her to do. She got into her car and stopped a moment to examine herself in the rearview mirror, turning to view her cheek at different angles. Even without makeup, the scar looked smaller and much fainter than she would have ever thought possible in those months after the attack.

She took the time to pull out her makeup bag and smooth on a light coat of foundation containing sunscreen, followed by blush. She’d already done her eyes and lips before she came to Dr. Park’s. Since she was headed to a hair appointment, she wanted to have her skin covered. London didn’t know if she’d ever go out in public without makeup again, despite how the scar had faded over the years. Makeup was the armor she wore into battle. She didn’t need a lot of it but it boosted her self-confidence.

Ready to face the world, she started the car and slipped her seatbelt on before she pulled out into traffic. Within fifteen minutes, she pulled up at the hair salon and parked. Removing the headband, she finger combed her hair into place. As she got within a block of the destination, two redheads stepped out from its door. Being a redhead herself, she always noticed other ones wherever she went.

The shorter woman had copper-colored hair that lit up in the strong sunshine. Her companion’s hair was a deep, rich auburn. They turned to walk her way. As they approached, London had the feeling she’d seen one—or maybe both—somewhere.

The auburn-haired woman touched her friend’s arm and stopped in her tracks. “London Russell?”

She wasn’t used to being recognized as she had been in New York, when she’d been at the height of her modeling career and walked everywhere. LA was a town where people drove. As it was, London rarely went anywhere. The attack caused her to stay away from people and crowds. She had Amazon deliver most every item she needed, even groceries. She would duck into a market with a hat and sunglasses on in order to pick up fresh produce once a week. Other than that, she proved to be a solitary creature. No mani/pedis. No nights out going to restaurants or clubs because she had made zero friends in California. Her life revolved around being a homebody. She composed her music. Worked on learning to play different instruments. Wrote poetry and short stories. Binged on TV series and movies from Netflix. Walked alone at odd times of the day along the beach so she wouldn’t run into too many people.

Even when she was recording, she would head straight to the studio and come home without making any stops before or after the session. Her goal was to put in a recording studio on her property and have the studio musicians come to her. If she needed them. At this point, she’d learned to play enough instruments that she could complete an album on her own. Just a recording engineer and Chazz, serving as producer, would be all she needed.

So, this tall stranger recognizing her surprised London. She hadn’t shrieked it like a fan. Her voice was well modulated and calm. It only questioned who she was.

London could tell the woman she was mistaken and move past the duo—or she could admit the truth and see what happened.

A sudden longing to have contact with someone urged her to do the latter.

“Yes, I’m London. How do you know me?”

Rich laughter bubbled from the woman. “Because I sang every song from your first CD to my son, Drew. I loved to hold him and rock and sing. It came out a few months after his birth and I adored every song on it. Then your second CD released around the time I brought my daughter, Harper, home from the hospital. She also got the London Russell treatment. In fact, she’s three now and can sing every word from both of your CDs.”

The woman stuck out a hand and gave her a friendly smile. “I’m Sydney Revere.” She indicated her copper-haired friend. “This is my partner in crime, Cassie Corrigan. Her daughter, Cadence, is a few months older than my boy, and her son, Kyle, was born the same day my sweet Harper was.”

London shook hands with both of them. “It’s nice to meet you.” Hearing their names helped her realize how she was familiar with them. These two were well-known movers and shakers in the Hollywood community. Sydney was one of the few successful female directors in the business and married to the very handsome and talented Dash DeLauria. Cassie, married to an equally hot and accomplished Oscar winner named Rhett Corrigan, had carved a reputation as one of the best screenwriters around.

“I’m a huge fan, too,” Cassie said, hers eyes sparking with interest. “I hope you don’t mind us accosting you on the street and fangirling over you. Normally, we’re very laid back and not impressed with famous people. But my gosh—you’re London Russell!”

London felt a blush rising up her neck. “Thank you. I’ve followed both of your careers. Are you working on anything new—separately or together?”

“We’ve been casting for Shadow of Suspicion, which I wrote and Sydney will direct.”

“If we can find our Jennifer,” Sydney added. “All the major and minor roles have been locked up but the female lead hasn’t been nailed down yet. Filming starts soon so I’m hoping for a miracle.” She paused and looked at Cassie. “I have an idea.”

Cassie chuckled. “Sydney’s famous for this.”

“How would you like to write the signature song for the movie?” Sydney asked out of the blue.

For the first time in a long time, London found herself tempted by an idea. “Are you serious?”

“Why not?” Sydney declared. “You’ve never done it before. Adele did well with her theme from Skyfall.” She thought a moment. “We don’t have anyone to score the film yet.”

“Ooh,” Cassie said. “Would you like to take a shot at that, too, London? I love the instrumental tracks you’ve put on each of your CDs.”

Fear and elation soared in harmony. London admitted, “I’m not sure if I could do it. What would it involve?”

Cassie took charge. “Several things! But I think we’re keeping you from your stylist.”

London glanced at her watch with dismay. “I’m due inside in two minutes.”

“How long will you be in there? Please tell me you don’t want to color that beautiful strawberry blond shade.”

“No. Never,” London said. “I come in every three months for a trim. Just to fluff it up and keep the dead ends away. Maybe add a little more layering once a year. I’ll be out within an hour.”

“Then we’ll be waiting for you. We want to take you to lunch and talk shop,” Sydney said. “That is, if you have the time and don’t have any plans for later today.”

“Because lunch with us might go for a few hours. We always have a zillion and two things to talk about. We’d love to share a meal with you,” Cassie added.

If she had the time?

London was ready to jump at the chance. Not only the job that they proposed. These two women, for all their lengthy Hollywood resumes, seemed like normal, genuine people. Surprisingly, London realized she was ready to open herself up to new opportunities—and new people. Wouldn’t it be terrific if she actually made friends with the pair?

“I’m free the rest of the day. I’ll be starving by the time I finish with my stylist.”

“That’s terrific,” Cassie said. “Let me see your phone.”

London handed it over as Cassie said, “I’m inputting mine and Sydney’s numbers for you. We’ll go grab a cup of coffee around the corner. Text when you’re almost finished and we’ll swing by and pick you up.” She returned the phone to London.

“Then I’ll see you in an hour.” London waved goodbye and entered the salon. Her heart was beating fast.

“Hello, Miss Russell,” the receptionist greeted her. “I’ll let Ramon know you’re here.”

She allowed herself to be led to the back, where one assistant shampooed her while another provided a hand massage. Her mind whirled at what had just occurred. Her skin hummed with excitement, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. In a daze, she sat as Ramon snipped away. He must have realized her need to think and kept conversation to a minimum. Before she knew it, he was pulling the cape from her shoulders.

London viewed her image in the mirror. She almost looked like herself from five years ago.

“Thank you, Ramon. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch my hair.”

“I would never speak to you if you did,” he haughtily teased.

She walked to the front and handed her credit card over and then texted Cassie that her appointment was completed. After signing the bill and leaving a generous tip, London stepped outside as a silver SUV pulled up.

The window came down. “Climb in,” Sydney said from the passenger’s seat.

“We have reservations at a tearoom that we enjoy,” Cassie said as she pulled back into traffic. “It’s off the beaten path, which means you won’t see anyone you know there.”

London was embarrassed to tell them that she didn’t know anyone anyway. At least in person. She was a TV news junkie and an avid reader of entertainment magazines.

They arrived and were warmly greeted by the hostess. London insisted they order for her since they were familiar with the menu.

The next two hours were some of the nicest she’d ever had. Both women were witty and warm. They spoke of their husbands and children more than they did their work. They asked about her music and places she’d lived around the world.

“My father is a painter,” London shared. “He was forever packing his oils and canvas up and taking us somewhere new. I grew up as a nomad and was home-schooled, if you could call it that. Nothing formal. Papi taught me to read and write and then the rest was up to me. I went through different phases where I was interested in astronomy. Botany. Art history. Architecture. And I had an aptitude for languages. I speak seven of them fluently.”

“It was just the two of you?” asked Cassie.

“Yes. My mother . . . she passed away when I was born.” London paused and then decided to open up. “I never tell others this but she was critically injured in a bombing attack targeting the Underground in London. Papi was escorting her to her last doctor’s appointment. The paramedics couldn’t save her. She used the last of her strength delivering me in the Marble Arch station.”

Sydney placed a hand over London’s. “I lost my mom when I was eight. To breast cancer. It seemed like the end of the world to me, growing up without her. I realize now I was lucky to have her in my life as long as I did.”

Cassie took London’s other hand. “And my mother is colder than mackerel and never gave me the time of day. She’s still alive back in Texas but we’re no longer in contact. I doubt we ever will be.”

London looked back and forth between them. Her eyes misted over. She felt warmth and friendship and a community with these two individuals.

“I’m lucky to still have Papi,” she said. “We talk all the time, no matter where in the world he is.”

“Then you’ll have to introduce him to us the next time he visits you in LA,” Sydney said. “You can come out to our beach house in Malibu. We can swim and grill burgers.”

Cassie’s eyes gleamed. “Who knows? Maybe we could introduce him to Nadine. She’s my mother-in-law and raised four kids on her own. She’s vibrant and passionate, and I would love to see her find someone. Maybe your dad could be the man for her.”

London laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she had. “I would love to play matchmaker for Papi.” She hesitated. “I would also love to build a friendship with you both.” She swallowed. “I assume you know what happened to me. I . . . I don’t really spend time around people. Today’s lunch? I can’t tell you the last time I shared a meal with anyone.”

Sydney squeezed her hand. “That was years ago, London. Not even worth mentioning. You’ve put out new music since then. You look simply amazing. And I hope you’re considering what we discussed earlier. Cassie and I would love for you to write the music for our film. Are you up for the challenge?”

Cassie leaned down and lifted her tote bag to her lap. She pulled out a bound manuscript and handed it to London.

“In case you haven’t decided. Here’s a copy of Shadow of Suspicion. We’d like you to read it. See if it inspires you in any way.”

London accepted the screenplay. “I’m so nervous right now.” She took a deep breath. “Even before I turn the first page, I’m going to tell you yes. I’ve been wanting to find a new challenge. It seems like fate meeting the two of you this morning and finding out you’d like me to participate in your project.”

“That’s incredible,” Sydney said. “Read it, then we can toss some ideas around after you do so.”

London looked down at the script in her hands. “I can’t tell you how excited I am. I’ve been a loner since . . . since the incident . . . and I’m ready to move on to a different phase in my life. This opportunity will be the start of a new chapter in my life.”

“If only finding an actress to play Jennifer would be as easy as finding you to compose the music,” Cassie said. “Rehearsals start in three weeks. I’ll admit that I’m growing nervous.”

“Let’s grab the check and drop London back at her car,” Sydney said. As she picked up her purse, a phone rang inside it. Sydney reached in and pulled it out. “Hmm. It’s Ken. Wonder what he wants? Hi, Ken. What’s up?”

Cassie turned to London. “Ken Cameron is playing Mark McCoy, the lead in the film. He and his wife, Melanie, are friends of ours. This is the first time I’ve written a screenplay with Ken in mind. I think he’ll be fabulous as a Secret Service agent.”

“I still watch late night repeats of him in Crime Time,” London admitted. “He really lights up the big screen, though. I’m glad he was able to make that transition when so many others can’t.”

“I understand, Ken. You know Dash and I—and Rhett and Cassie—are here for you. No, please don’t worry. Let us know when you get there.”

Sydney’s face had turned pale. She dropped the phone back into her purse. “Ken’s dad was diagnosed this morning with terminal cancer.” She paused. “He has three months to live. Ken and Melanie are flying to Atlanta this afternoon. They want to spend as much time as they can with him.

“Ken’s dropped out of the movie. We now need to cast our hero and heroine.”

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Knox slid into the end of the pew beside the other pallbearers. The small, hushed chapel in the Boston church smelled of lilies—Agnes Whitten’s favorite flower. Her death shouldn’t have felt so unexpected yet it took him by surprise all the same. Maybe because Agnes never confirmed to him that she was ill, despite her growing weakness and obvious weight loss. Her health had never been a conversation they’d chosen to have. Instead, both of them ignored it and focused on the time they’d had together.

The minister entered and greeted those in attendance, followed by a short prayer. A young woman in a navy sheath walked shakily to the microphone and lifted it from the podium. Despite her obvious nerves, she did a soaring, heartfelt rendition of Amazing Grace. When she finished, their eyes met. Knox nodded at her in approval.

Then he rose and walked to the front, pulling out a sheaf of papers which contained the eulogy he’d written. Labored over, was more like it. He was unfamiliar with death and this one had knocked the stuffing out of him, as Agnes would’ve said with a chuckle. As an actor, he should have memorized it and not fiddled with the pages but his grief at her loss dominated his thoughts these past three days.

Looking down at the pages he’d printed out and set on the podium, the words began to blur before they became like snake-like. Panic flared. This was not the time for his dyslexia to kick in. Plus, the tears in his eyes weren’t helping matters.

Without a word, Knox refolded the pages and replaced them in the inner breast pocket of his dark Hugo Boss suit.

“I did have a eulogy prepared,” he finally said, “but Agnes would’ve chided me for that—so I’m going to wing it and speak from my heart.” He took a cleansing breath and gathered his thoughts.

“Agnes Whitten was my best friend. I know that sounds crazy because I’m twenty-nine and she was eighty-nine, but it’s true. Everyone here knows Agnes was a prolific writer for decades. She wrote board books for babies. Dystopian adventure for teens. She published science fiction. Romance. Paranormals. Mysteries. She never seemed to run out of characters to create or stories to write.

“Her favorite genre was a new series of thrillers, her last project. That’s how Agnes came into my life.”

Knox paused, willing the tears not to fall.

“After nineteen standalone thrillers, Agnes came up with Seth Walker, a mix of James Bond and Jason Bourne, with a little bit of John McClane’s humor thrown in on the side. This trilogy is the one she went out on—at the top of her game—and I couldn’t be prouder to have been associated with it. Not because it brought me fame and money to play a bad-ass like Seth Walker—but because I gained Agnes Whitten’s friendship in the process.”

He scanned the crowd of mourners and saw that some nodded their heads.

“Agnes loved to laugh.” Knox smiled at the memory. “She had a big, bawdy laugh that came from her belly, one she never held back. That was one of the best things that I loved about her—that laugh—and her wicked sense of humor. Also, her compassion. Her generosity. The kindness that was deeply ingrained in her soul.

“She never had children of her own but she remained childlike for nine decades. Always caught up in curiosity at the wonders in the world. The Agnes I knew scarfed down Gummi Bears, adored sipping craft beers, had the biggest collection of shoes east of the Mississippi, and played a mean hand of poker. Her lipstick was always persimmon. She ate Chinese food every Friday night. She knitted hats for underprivileged newborns to wear when they left the hospital.”

Knox swallowed, praying he’d get through the rest of what he wanted to say.

“I’ve never met anyone quite like Agnes Whitten. Fascinating. Passionate. Smarter than anyone else in the room. I probably never will again. I’m forever grateful she came into my life and became my friend. By doing so, she taught me what friendship is all about.”

His eyes passed over those gathered and he assured them, “Agnes wouldn’t want us to mourn her passing but rather celebrate her long life. Because of that, I’m inviting you to her favorite pub, O’Malley’s, which is only two blocks from her house. Come tonight at seven to raise a glass and share a memory of the woman who meant so much to so many.”

He pressed two fingers to his lips and lifted his hand and eyes to the heavens in a silent tribute to the woman who’d been mother, friend, mentor, and confessor to him.

Knox returned to his seat on trembling legs. As he sat, a weight lifted from him. A part of him knew Agnes had heard what he’d said and approved. She would want him to go on and do great things.

He had a lot to live up to if he was going to try and please her.

And himself.

The rest of the funeral passed in a blur. Before he knew it, people rose and filed by the casket in a show of respect. Then it was time for the pallbearers to return Agnes’ body to the hearse. She hadn’t wanted a burial and graveside services. Instead, she would be cremated.

The group of men rose from their row and went to the front of the chapel. They lifted the casket and returned it to the waiting hearse outside the church.

“Knox?”

He turned and saw Gavin McNulty. The gray-haired attorney was nearly as old as Agnes had been. Knox joined him.

“A wonderful eulogy, Son. Agnes would’ve enjoyed it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gavin pulled an envelope from his pocket. “This is for you, Knox. Agnes wanted you to read it before her will was read.” The lawyer handed it to him. “Be at her house in an hour. I’ll read the will then.”

“All right.”

Knox returned to his rental car and slid behind the wheel. He wondered what the letter contained. He sat a moment. Once opened, he’d never hear from Agnes again. Never see her beautiful penmanship floating gently on a page. He waited, savoring the last contact from her before he opened it.

 

Knox –

After all the emails and Face Timing and long conversations in person, it’s come down to this final letter between us. That makes me sad in a way. You’ve been the son I never had and I cherish my friendship with you.

I’ve been dying for several months. Only Gavin knew. We were lovers many years ago but we discovered we were better suited being dinner companions whose conversation flowed freely. I’ve trusted him most of my life—much as I trust you, dearest Knox.

You know I never married and had a family. So, I created one, over and over, in the pages of my books, along with characters that became as real to me as anyone I knew in real life. Other times, I found a family when I viewed a television program that caught my eye. Most people can be snobs about TV but I found it a nice way to pass the time and relieve my cramped hand after a long day of work. Writing is a lonely pursuit and I sometimes was drawn to the people who came into my living room on a weekly basis.

I remember you from your very first show. You were a precious toddler back then. I’m not sure why I was taken with you. Maybe it was your bright blue eyes, so full of mischief. Then I watched you grow up, as all America did, on your second TV series. I know that time in your life still brings back painful memories for you but it was from watching all the scrapes you got into and out of as first a boy and then a teenager that made me laugh aloud continually.

You know I wrote my Seth Walker books with you in mind. Who knew it would become a Hollywood franchise? You had doubts you could play such a role once I insisted that the studio offer it to you. I sold them the rights to the first book in the series with the stipulation that you would be allowed to read for the part before anyone else. If you took it, fine; if not, they would have been free to select another actor to be their Seth. My heart told me you were capable of so much and you proved me correct. Imagine not only my delight in seeing Seth brought to life on the screen but my pleasure in becoming dear friends with you while that unfolded.

I thank you for being in my life, Knox. You humored an old lady with charm and grace. I’ll miss our tếte-à-tếtes but know I’ll be watching over you—hopefully from inside the pearly gates! I fully expect to see your career continue to blossom in new directions. More than that, my fondest wish is for you to find a lovely woman to share your life with, preferably one not sixty years older than you are.

Prepare yourself, Knox. My estate has exclusive rights to the character of Seth Walker and there will be no more movies for you as Seth. The studio will want to fight tooth and nail but I want the three books I wrote to be the only ones that you film. No half-done manuscripts for Seth exist. No notes or ideas for future movies in the series. The studio (and my estate) have made a fortune on this franchise and so it ends here. I don’t want my name (or yours, for that matter) associated with sub-standard work that some studio hack might produce.

I wish you all the best in life, my dear. Push yourself to reach your dreams. Learn to trust again. Find love. Live well. And have some Gummi Bears for me every now and then, will you?

                                                  With much love and affection,

                                                  Agnes

 

Knox held the precious pages in his hand, the last he’d ever receive from Agnes. Who knew an eighty-nine-year-old woman would steal his heart? She’d spoiled him for anyone who came after her. He slipped the letter back into its envelope. This would be something read many times over in the coming years, a recurring treasured visit with the woman who’d meant so much to him and taught him so much—including to believe in himself.

Starting the car, Knox took the familiar route to Agnes’ place in Back Bay. As he pulled up in front of the vintage house, he idly wondered who would live here one day. He’d spent many nights under this roof when he wasn’t filming. Maybe he’d buy it himself and keep it as a reminder of the great lady.

Getting out, he saw James Duncan pacing on the sidewalk. Knox had a good relationship with the studio executive but he knew Duncan wouldn’t be happy to learn that the possibility of more Seth Walker movies had ended for Cetus Studios.

“Knox.” Duncan offered his hand. “Nice job with the eulogy.”

“Agnes meant the world to me. I’m going to miss her. I only hope I’ll accomplish a fraction of what she did during my lifetime.”

Duncan nodded, a smile playing on his lips. “I definitely see more Seth Walker films in your future.”

Knox ignored the comment and started up the sidewalk to the front door. The two men entered the house, greeted by Agnes’ longtime housekeeper, Annie.

“Oh, Mr. Knox. Miss Agnes would’ve been so proud of you today. Please, come into the great room. There’s coffee if you’d like some.”

They followed Annie and were seated on a striped sofa. Three others were already present. Knox recognized Carolyn Boxer, the head of a women’s shelter in Boston that Agnes had donated a portion of her royalties to every time a new book released.

Gavin cleared his throat. “Everyone’s here so let’s begin.”

As the lawyer read the will, Knox couldn’t help but smile. No boilerplate template for Agnes. He could hear the author’s voice and spitfire spirit in every word spoken. She made generous donations to several charities, including the American Cancer Society and a few local animal shelters. Another sizeable amount made sure that Annie would be taken care of for the rest of her life for services rendered over the years.

It didn’t surprise him when Agnes left her house to a trust that Carolyn Boxer would head. Agnes’ sister had been a battered wife and Agnes always supported organizations benefitting women who were victims of domestic violence. Her home would be turned into a shelter for women who fled abusive situations, along with their children. More funds were designated for job training for these women.

Then Agnes’ will addressed what her letter had warned Knox about.

 

I specifically stipulate that no additional films be made using the character of Seth Walker, my sole creation, in whom I retain all rights. I’ve written no storylines regarding Seth Walker and want this character’s journey to come to a conclusion with the release of the upcoming third film. Since I own the rights, James Duncan, don’t waste your time or your studio’s money fighting me on this issue. You can’t win and Knox would refuse to play Seth even if you could find a way.

 

Knox avoided glancing at Duncan, who was seated next to him, but he knew the Hollywood mogul was upset by the impatient foot tapping that went into overdrive.

Gavin McNulty continued reading the last of the will.

 

Finally, I leave the bulk of my estate beyond what other bequests have been previously mentioned—including but not limited to—my stocks, bonds, real estate investments, and books’ rights and royalties to my sweet friend, Knox Monroe. It’s also my fondest wish that Knox take Bunker Hill, my golden retriever, into his home.

 

“You’re set for life,” Duncan murmured loud enough for Knox to hear, displeasure evident in his tone.

Shock reverberated through him. Agnes, thanks to her investments and book income, was worth countless millions. Stunned, he looked to Gavin.

“This concludes the reading of Agnes Whitten’s will. Thank you for coming.”

Knox rose, unaware that those gathered began filing out of the room. Then Gavin touched his sleeve.

“Are you all right?”

“Dazed and confused, I’d say,” he replied.

“We can meet tomorrow if you’d like to discuss the extent of the estate and how to manage it. I’ll give you a call to arrange that,” the attorney said.

“Fine.”

Knox dropped back onto the sofa, lost in thought. Suddenly, a blur caught his eye. Agnes’ golden retriever stopped in front of him. Bunker stood tall and straight, his tail wagging, and what Knox determined to be a grin on his face.

Knox smiled back. “Hello, Bunker.” He scratched the dog between his ears. “Looks like it’s you and me now, buddy.”