Madison Meyer slid into the booth at one of her favorite Italian restaurants, Scarpetta, careful of her extra-short hemline. “Did you miss me, Professor?” she asked coyly. She had excused herself to the powder room to reapply her lipstick. Men had a tendency to stare at her lips when they were coated in cherry red.
Richard Hathaway smiled at her from across the table. “Terribly. And you missed the dessert tray. The waiter was a minute into his elaborate descriptions before I finally pointed out your absence. I think there might be an inverse correlation between basic common sense and the ability to go on and on about a tray of food. But I did ask him to come back once you returned.”
“I love it that you use terms like ‘inverse correlation’ in everyday conversation.”
When she first got the letter about Under Suspicion, she’d had a fleeting hope of reconnecting with Keith Ratner. At one point, they’d been so well matched. Both actors. Both driven. Both a little bit sneaky. Maybe she could finally get Keith to love her the way she had once loved him.
But now she wasn’t the least bit interested in Keith. She’d always thought that his connection to AG was a gimmick, as if the do-gooder, Bible-thumping image would compensate for the he-might-have-killed-his-girlfriend stigma. But nope, apparently he really was a changed man. Good riddance.
Then it turned out that Keith wasn’t the only former flame at this little UCLA reunion. The years had been kind to Richard Hathaway. If possible, he had even gotten better with age. Of course, the millions of dollars he’d earned certainly didn’t hurt. He had the kind of money that made A-list actors feel broke. Plus he was smart. There was a reason all the female students had been so drawn to him in college.
She was trying not to get her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it. He was planning to return to Silicon Valley in a couple of days. She just needed to plant the seed that she was available to go with him if he wanted company.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said breezily, “my agent wants me to audition for a play in San Francisco. It’s a small production, but a few movie stars are interested in the lead, so it will get plenty of attention.” There was no play, of course, but she could always tell him later that the funding fell apart.
“Sounds like a good opportunity.” His gaze wandered around the restaurant. “I’m starting to think that waiter’s never coming back. The desserts really did look spectacular.”
“I’ll be going up next week,” Madison continued. “You know, if you want to get together.”
“Sure thing. Let me know what hotel you’ll be at, and I’ll find a restaurant nearby.”
Well, dinner was better than nothing. Madison could swing a couple nights in a hotel if it meant a chance at landing a man like this one. “Oh, speaking of hotels, I almost forgot to tell you: Laurie Moran saw you leaving my room today. I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”
“Not much of a cat: we’re two consenting adults.”
“True, but it still feels a little naughty, doesn’t it?” Madison took another sip of the red wine Hathaway had ordered without even looking at the list. It tasted expensive. “Anyway, you wouldn’t believe how out of control her production has gotten. Did you see there’s an arrest warrant out for that guy from Keith’s church? Plus I heard some of the crew at the hotel saying that Dwight had that house in Bel Air seriously wired up for surveillance. Totally creepy, right?”
“Surveillance?”
“Yeah, and not just normal security cameras, either. Like hidden cameras and microphones in every room. I know he was your friend and everything, but that seems pretty stalkerish. Made me remember how he used to look at Susan all weird and dreamy in college. Did you know him to be the type to spy on people without telling them? Maybe it was his way of having control. Ah, here he is!”
The waiter was back, and as Richard promised, the choices looked delicious. She never ate dessert—sugar was a surefire way to bloat, which the camera magnified tenfold. But maybe she’d allow herself just one bite of that amazing-looking chocolate torte.
The waiter was midway through his tour of the tray when Richard suddenly dropped three hundred-dollar bills on the table. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid my stomach is having troubles.”
“Sir, is everything okay?” the waiter asked. “I can call for medical assistance if it’s serious.”
“No.” He was standing up already. “I just—I need to go. Can you please make sure she gets a cab?” He was stuffing fifties in the waiter’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you tomorrow. And, please, if it’s not too forward, I’d like you to stay with me when you come up for your audition, okay? It’s a ways from San Francisco proper, but we’ll get you a driver.”
He blew her a kiss, and then he was gone.
The waiter looked at her apologetically. “So, should I call you that cab?”
“Sure. But first, I’ll have the chocolate torte. And a glass of your best champagne.”
Twenty years ago, Richard had stood her up for a date, and look what happened. She’d won a Spirit Award. He may have left tonight’s dinner early, but he had invited her to his home. He had called her Maddie.
Before he knew what hit him, she’d have him wrapped around her little finger. Madison Meyer Hathaway. It had a nice ring to it.