A Holiday Fling Read Free Page B

unreliable men—came and went.
    But maybe there would never have been a right time. Not only did they live in different countries, but both were ambitious, committed to succeeding in a brutal industry. They had done well, particularly Greg, who had hit the top of his field while not yet forty. Good directors of photography could go on for decades, and Greg would.
    Actresses had a much shorter shelf life. In the last year there had been two movie roles she had really wanted, but failed to win. Nor was she likely to find another television series as successful as Still Talking , since that had been one of the rare conjunctions of great writing, directing, and perfect casting. Her career had peaked, and the future held mostly playing character roles and mothers.
    She wouldn’t mind that, as long as she continued to work. Television offers still came in now and then, and she could do more theater work. Stage makeup and distance from the audience could preserve the illusion of youth for years. But her days as a glamorous, sexy young thing were numbered.
    Even if they hadn’t been, she was tired of working so hard all the time. Eighteen-hour days, five a.m. calls, having to maintain her looks with the grim thoroughness of a pilot maintaining his airplane—sometimes she thought that digging ditches would be easier. Though certainly less satisfying.
    Plato twined around her ankles insinuatingly. "Are you saying it’s supper time?" She bent and scratched his head. "If Greg and I decide to have a fling for old times’ sake, you won’t be able to sleep on the bed for a few nights."
    The cat blinked his luminous golden eyes complacently. Even if he was briefly exiled from the bed, he would still be there after Greg left. "Mrrrowr?"
    She smiled wryly and scooped him into her arms, carrying him toward the kitchen. Her career was in decline and her private life a desert, but feline hunger was eternal.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    Greg emerged wearily from customs at Heathrow. Rather than take Jenny up on her offer of a ticket, he had used his frequent flyer miles for a business-class seat that made the long flight from Los Angeles almost bearable. Since Jenny had said he’d be picked up, he glanced around, looking for a driver with a sign that said marino.
    He was dodging around a woman when a familiar husky voice said, "Have I changed that much, Greg?"
    Startled, he looked down and saw Jenny’s vivid blue eyes under a stylish drooping hat. Her shining dark hair was pulled back and tied with a scarf that matched her blue and green sweater, and she wore little if any makeup. The effect was casually elegant, in an unobtrusive way that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention.
    Damn, he’d forgotten the power of those eyes at close range. Just looking at her made his heart accelerate and his palms cramp. Afraid he was staring like an idiot, he said, "You do incognito pretty well."
    "I try." She took his arm with easy friendliness and began guiding them through the airport crowds. "When you got your Oscar, I saw that the beard was gone, but you’ve taken off quite a chunk of hair since then, haven’t you? This is a nice length for you."
    He fought down the impulse to run his fingers self-consciously through the expensive haircut he had acquired the day before. Though handsome was out of his range, he could manage presentable. "I got tired of being taken for a terrorist. With straight black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin, I attracted way too much attention at airports."
    "I can see how that would be a nuisance. You do look rather Mediterranean, which makes sense if your ancestors are Italian."
    They had never discussed family backgrounds all those years ago. "Only my great-grandfather was Italian. The rest of me is American mutt. The first Marino married an Irish girl, their son fell for a Lithuanian, my mother is Scottish and Norwegian, and there’s some Cherokee in there somewhere, too."
    "Americans are so interesting . I’m boring old