She stared up at the ceiling, searching for an answer in the crown molding she’d hand-selected. Like everything else in this room. Everything she’d come so close to losing this last year when she’d tried to make pictures without Dash. Audiences hadn’t wanted to see her without that buffoon making love to her, and a string of flops had earned her the dreaded box-office poison moniker.
Leda had started it, part of her personal vendetta against Joan. From the moment Joan had slugged Dash instead of making love to him, she had refused to play Leda’s game, and Leda seemingly hated her for it. Joan would never be the snitch Leda wanted. She needed press but not the type Leda offered, and she did everything in her power to stay out of Leda’s web. Maybe Leda’s reason for hating Joan was as simple as that—Leda needed her, but she didn’t need Leda. So Leda dragged her name through the mud every chance she got, trying to clear the way for a new starlet who might be more amenable to her schemes. Joan had been dismayed when the rest of the press had started tarring her with the same brush. Admittedly, the scripts for her recent films had been terrible. But she’d been so desperate to try a project without Dash, she’d agreed to them anyway.
None of that mattered now though, because this engagement was supposed to put her back on track. It was all lined up—the headline-grabbing engagement, a motion picture worth her talents finally in her grasp. Even if she did have to costar with Dash again. From the outside, her life looked like a fairy tale.
Arlene didn’t know the truth. Monty most definitely did not love her. He was fond of her, to be sure. But scandal and whispers of bigamy was not what he’d signed up for when they’d agreed to this arrangement. She wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to end this engagement before it had even begun. But she couldn’t tell Arlene any of that.
Her mind sparked into action. “We need to get ahead of this. We have almost twenty-four hours.” She stood and placed her finger in the number “one” on the rotary dial, letting the whirr of the phone spin its way to the only person who could fix this and calm her. “Harry, your office. Now.”
CHAPTER 2
Dash groaned and rolled over. He’d been facedown in his bed, dreaming about a lovely blond, but that blasted ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop. He must have drunk a good deal more than he’d thought. He’d lost track somewhere after the third gin martini. He pulled a pillow over his face, trying to drown out the noise. What had he done last night?
He’d gone out to the Trocadero and requested his usual booth. Some aspiring starlet—Judy or Betty or something or other—had approached him for advice, and he’d been happy to give it. And other things. The studio would pick up the tab and clean up any messes.
Harry wanted him to be a playboy. That’s what everybody wanted. For him to be the embodiment of his moniker, the King of Hollywood. Lothario. Academy Award winner. A man’s man who the husbands wanted to be pals with and the wives wanted to sleep with. That was his job, right? To keep selling that fantasy?
He fumbled around, making sure the other side of the bed was empty. It was. It always was. No one bothered to stick around to discover the real Dash. Whoever that was.
No one in this town was who they claimed to be. Except maybe Joan Davis. That woman was pure movie star, always had been. He snorted into his pillow. Heaven help the fool who ever thought otherwise. He rubbed his face in frustration. Why was he thinking of Joan, anyway?
He’d been having a perfectly enticing dream about a blond taking a bubble bath in an enormous champagne glass. A dream he intended to tell the studio about when he was significantly more awake and not nursing the aftereffects of a generous bartender. Maybe Harry could find a way to include a leggy girl in a champagne glass in his next picture. He rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, striving in vain to return to the dream.
But his head was ringing. He’d really overdone it last night. Was the ringing getting louder? And now someone was knocking too. Blast! Couldn’t a man have a hangover in peace?
“Go away,” he bellowed to the door. But too late. Martin, his butler, was coming in with a telephone.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but they won’t stop calling. They simply must speak with you.”
“Damn it, Martin, this is why I hired you. To get rid of whoever ‘they’ is and let me nurse my headache alone. In the dark.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, sir, that’s hardly why you hired me. At any rate, I’ve told them you’re indisposed all morning. But now it’s past noon, and they really are insisting.”
Dash sat up and blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the room. At least Martin had the decency to leave the curtains drawn. “It’s past noon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, why’d you let me sleep so long?”
“But, sir, you said—”
“Never mind, just give me the phone.” Martin did as he was asked, giving a meek little bow and backing out of the room. Blast it, Dash didn’t mean to be rude to the man. But he was paying his butler a small fortune and he had a raging headache. He’d apologize to him later.
“Hello, hello, who is this?”
“Dash, my good fellow, this is Harry.” Good God, why was the head of the studio calling him before 2:00 p.m. on a Friday? They knew he’d been out late last night. The studio made sure of it. The more times per week he was spotted at the Trocadero and written about in the gossip columns, the more money his pictures made. Thus, they had a tacit agreement that when he wasn’t making a picture, they would never call him until the afternoon.
He couldn’t wait to start this next film. Even if it meant enduring Joan’s disdain once more. He’d get to be on set again. In his element. And it would give him an excuse to cut back on the playboy act he hated. He was increasingly losing himself in it, and he needed strict call times and an intriguing script to help him scramble back up that slippery slope. The work gave him structure, order, a purpose.
“What do you want, Harry? This better be an emergency.”
“I’m afraid it is, Dash. We need you down here right away. Joan is beside herself.”
Oh. He should’ve known. He chuckled. “Ah, so she got my engagement present?”
Harry coughed. It sounded like he was trying to cover a laugh. Dash grinned.
“Well, yes, that is part of it.”
Dash rolled over and leaned on his elbow. “Well, tell her not to get her knickers in a twist. It’s been neutered.”
Now, that was definitely a laugh on the other end of the line. He could hear Joan chastising Harry. “I fail to see precisely what is so funny,” she snapped. God, she was on a tear. He was too hungover for this.
“Joanie, he couldn’t spray you! He’s had his sprayer removed,” Dash bellowed, trying to keep his shit-eating grin out of his voice.
Harry cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, it’s not actually the skunk that’s causing the stink down here.”
“Of course it’s not. I told you—”
“As you know,” Harry barged on, “Joan is engaged to Monty Smyth.”
“And? What? You want me to send a real gift?” The thought of Joan engaged to Monty, the hottest new thing on the screen, made Dash irrationally angry. And he’d rather not examine that too much. “Have publicity do it and put my name on it, I don’t care. I’m going back to bed. Whatever’s got her tail up, it’s nothing to do with me.”