TETOU WAS A FAMOUS FISH restaurant perched above the sandy beach between Eden Roc and Juan-les-Pins. Popular for many years, it was an expensive hangout for rich locals and affluent tourists—but then nothing in the south of France was cheap.
Nikki had also invited Harry Solitaire and Pierre Perez to join them. Pierre was a French actor with brooding eyes and a dreamy smile—he’d flown in from Paris that morning and was due to start work on the movie in two days.
“Pierre’s not married,” Nikki whispered as they sat down. “Not even engaged. Use a condom and go for it.”
“Will you stop!” Lara said crossly.
Pierre was as charming as Harry was persistent. Richard glared at them both disapprovingly. He was extremely protective of his ex-wife; she might be a famous movie star, but she was fragile and needed nurturing—only he knew how much.
“Why did you invite these two assholes?” he muttered to Nikki, as Lara parried the attention.
“To piss you off,” Nikki muttered back, grabbing his crotch under the long tablecloth.
She grinned. “Why? You know you love it.”
“There’s a time and a place.”
“The time is now,” she said, attempting to unzip his fly.
He couldn’t help smiling as he shifted her hand. Nikki never gave him time to think about other women; she was always up to something.
When dinner was over and they were lingering over coffee, Harry leaped to his feet. He lived for locations. A legitimate separation from his wife was one of the perks of being an actor. “Let’s go dancing,” he suggested enthusiastically. “I know a terrific place in Monte Carlo.”
“Count me out,” Lara said quickly.
“Why?” Harry persisted, his eyes saying, You like me, don’t you? You’re attracted to me—so come on, let’s get down and dirty.
“I have lines to go over,” she demurred.
“Perhaps five minutes in the casino?” Pierre suggested.
She glanced at Richard for help. He rallied immediately. Now that he wasn’t her husband he was forever her knight in slightly tarnished armor. “As Lara’s director,” he said, sounding a tad pompous, “I have to agree with her. We’re taking her home.”
“Christ!” Nikki muttered under her breath. “Why?”
“What?” Richard said irritably.
“Let her go,” Nikki insisted, glaring at him.
He returned her glare with one of his own. “Lara’s free to do as she likes. She wants to come home with us.”
“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Lara interrupted, sensing tension.
“You have an early call,” Richard said possessively. “You should come home.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Lara retorted, a glint of annoyance suddenly surfacing.
Harry got the picture and quickly helped her up, gallantly escorting her to the door. “Your ex still has a hard-on for you,” he said in a half-amused, half-pissed-off voice.
“It’s obvious,” he said as they stood outside the restaurant, the warm Mediterranean air ruffling her honey-colored hair, now freed from the excruciating curls she’d worn earlier.
She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“Oh no I’m not,” he said, grabbing her hand and running her across the busy coast road to the parking lot.
“I am not going dancing, Harry,” she said firmly.
“Don’t be foolish, Lara,” he said, still flirting. “I give you my word as an Englishman that I will not attack you.”
“I’m so relieved,” she replied with a sarcastic edge. They held a long, steady look, then the others joined them.
“Come along, sweetheart,” Richard said, taking her arm and hustling her toward his car.
Lara didn’t like his proprietary attitude, and she noticed Nikki was not thrilled either.
“You know what,” she said, loosening Richard’s grip. “I’m taking Pierre up on the casino idea. Not that I gamble, but I’d enjoy seeing the inside of a French casino. Is it like Vegas?”
Pierre smiled his dreamy smile. Harry scowled. Richard began to object, but Nikki stopped him. “Have a good time,” she said with an encouraging wink, giving Lara a little shove toward Pierre’s car. “And don’t worry, we won’t wait up!”
• •
The casino in Monte Carlo was not like Vegas at all, it was an imposing building located in a busy square close to the sea. Accompanied by Pierre and Harry, who’d insisted on coming too, Lara walked around, watching the avid players intent on losing their money. Old women in beaded evening gowns, bedecked with expensive jewels, played next to obvious rogues busy piling stacks of chips on their lucky numbers as the roulette wheel turned; steely eyed card sharks sat next to stone-faced blondes at the blackjack tables; craps, chemin de fer and other games abounded.
“It’s so . . . unbelievably grand,” Lara said, groping for the right description. “Almost from another era.”
“Rather decadent,” Harry said with a jolly laugh. “I like it!”
An alert floor manager with shoe-polish black hair and a matching dinner jacket swooped down, landing on Lara with an ingratiating smile. “Mademoiselle Ivory, it is a pleasure to welcome you to our casino,” he said in velvety tones. “Would you and your friends care for a drink?”
“No, thank you,” she said, introducing Harry and Pierre.
The manager’s whiter-than-white smile was in overdrive. “Anything at all we can get for you, please do not hesitate to ask.”
She smiled back.
“You are a wonderful actress, Mademoiselle Ivory,” the manager added, his English impeccable.
Lara dazzled him with another smile. “Thank you.”
He was on a roll. “And may I say that in person you are even more beautiful.”
Excessive compliments bothered her. Even after all this time, she still felt a deep flush of embarrassment when people singled her out. They had no idea who she really was. Nobody knew the true story—not even Richard, and he’d gotten closer to her than anybody.
“She certainly is,” Harry said, hanging in because only he knew the way to her villa, so good-bye, Pierre.
“Will you be playing tonight?” the casino manager asked. Finished with her beauty and talent, he now wanted her money.
She smiled sweetly. “Perhaps another time.” The manager drifted away. She turned to Pierre. “Shall we go?”
Pierre took her arm. Harry moved protectively in on her other side. Together they escorted her to the door.
Lurking on the steps outside the casino were several paparazzi. They sprang into action, yelling her name, flashguns bursting with light all around her.
Automatically she shielded her eyes, as Harry quickly distanced himself, making it appear that she and Pierre were a couple.
Great, Lara thought, now I’ll be all over the tabloids. She hated being linked to someone she hardly knew. Last month she’d been in the same restaurant as Kevin Costner, and the supermarket rags had written they were planning marriage!
The paparazzi chased them all the way to their cars. Harry was furious; he couldn’t make his move without being photographed. His wife was a jealous woman who wouldn’t appreciate late-night photos of him and the delectable Ms. Ivory getting into a car together, while she sat at home in Fulham with two under-five children and his seventy-six-year-old mother. He had no choice but to allow Lara to go with Pierre.
However, all was not lost. He had a plan. Jumping in his rented Renault, he stuck close behind Pierre’s car as they moved off into traffic.
As soon as he was sure they were not being followed, he began honking his horn and flashing his lights, forcing Pierre to pull over.
“What’s the matter?” Lara asked, as Harry leaned in the window.
“Richard insisted I drive you home,” he said. “I promised I would.”
“Why?”
“Because Pierre will never find the house.”
“Of course he will.”
“Do you have the address?”
“No . . .” she said, hesitating for a moment. “But it’s in St. Paul de Vence. I’m sure I can direct him.”
“There’s a hundred twists and turns up there. You’ll have to come with me, otherwise you’ll be driving around all night.”
He shrugged as if he didn’t care. “Listen, luv, whatever you want.”
What she didn’t want was to be lost in the hills with a French actor she hardly knew. “You’re right,” she said, reluctantly getting out of Pierre’s car and into Harry’s.
Pierre was not upset. It was late and he was tired—too tired to try scoring with an exquisite American movie star who would probably reject him anyway. Besides, his real preference was men—a secret he’d managed to keep to himself, not wanting to ruin his blossoming career as a leading man.
Lara waved good-bye to Pierre, settling back in the passenger seat of Harry’s Renault. She closed her eyes and decided she must have been crazy to leave the security of Nikki and Richard to run around Monte Carlo with a couple of actors. Why did she always manage to do the wrong thing?
For a moment her mind drifted and she thought about Lee Randolph, her former boyfriend. Lee was a genuinely nice guy—admittedly not the most exciting man in the world, but he’d satisfied her needs.
What were her needs?
Someone to cuddle up with. A warm body in the middle of the night. Occasional sex. Companionship.
Christ, Lara, you sound as if you’re seventy-five!
She frowned.
Harry glanced over at her. “Don’t look so happy,” he chided.
“I was thinking.”
“What about?”
“My ex-lover, if you must know.”
“Did you dump him?”
“He dumped me, actually.”
Harry laughed disbelievingly. “That’s impossible.”
“Told me he couldn’t take the heat.”
“You have to be joking.”
Harry considered the possibilities of a red-blooded male actually dumping Lara Ivory. It seemed highly unlikely. “Why would he do a thing like that?” he asked at last. “Was the fool brain-dead?”
“Too much attention,” Lara said wryly. “And all directed at me.”
“You need to be with a fellow actor,” Harry said confidently. “We know how to share.”
Sure, Lara thought. The only thing actors know how to share is a scene, and then they’ll kill for the close-ups.
She’d met enough megalomaniac actors in her time—all different and all the same.
The movie star with the polished pecs and the wry humor. He was addicted to steroids and only slept with models.
The macho action hero with the slit eyes and thin smile. He got off beating up on women and sexually abusing them—but only if they were below the line and couldn’t fight back.
The popular black star who only considered busty blondes candidates for his extremely large waterbed.
The charismatic king of comedy with the enormous dick who was currently screwing his children’s nanny.
And the “serious” New York actor who could only get it up for transvestites.
Ah yes, movie stars, a charming, well-adjusted bunch.
While she was busy with her thoughts, Harry seized his opportunity. Swerving the car to the side of the road, he leaned over, pressing his warm lips down on hers.
“Harry!” she exclaimed, managing to push him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Words tumbled from his mouth in a senseless torrent as his hands went for her breasts. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lara . . . so gorgeous . . . the first time I saw you . . . my wife’s a cold fish . . . we never sleep together . . . maybe a couple of times in the last year . . . my cock bums for you . . .”
She slapped him hard across the face—a theatrical gesture, but one that seemed to work.
“Good God!” he exclaimed, stopping his extended grope.
“Harry,” she said, sounding more calm than she felt. “Get control of yourself. I do not get involved with married men, so kindly start the car and take me home.” He slumped away from her like a rejected fool. “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive,” she continued, her voice softening. “But everyone has to stick to their principles.”
Her smooth words soothed him. “Sorry, Lara,” he muttered, quite abashed. “It won’t happen again.”
You bet it won’t, she thought. ’Cause this is the one and only time I’ll find myself alone in a car with you.
“I’ll forget if you will,” she said quietly, saving his damaged pride.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and drove her to the villa, where Richard waited at the front gate, standing outside like a protective father.
“Wasn’t sure you had your keys,” Richard said, glaring at Harry.
Lara marched into the villa without a word to either of them.
Men! If only she could find one worth keeping, then maybe she’d be happy.
Or would she?
Could anyone make her forget the dark memories of her past?
Could anyone make everything all right?