Aspen Gold Read Free Page B

Chip was making his first major movie, complete with big-name stars and a fifty-million-dollar budget. The announcement naming him as director had stunned Hollywood. Granted, he'd written a brilliant screenplay in White Lies, incorporating both a compelling storyline and broad commercial appeal. But as a director, he was regarded as too experimental, too outrè. True, his last few films had received great critical acclaim, but they'd died at the box office, an unpardonable sin in corporate Hollywood.
    As far as Kit was concerned, her future in films couldn't be in better hands than Chip's.
    Of course, she had the advantage on the moneyheads at the studios. She knew his skill firsthand. Seven years ago, she'd worked under his direction in a local-theater production of The Glass Menagerie. The result had been pure drama and pure entertainment. By the end of the show's run, she'd been playing before sold-out crowds. He was good. With this film, he finally had the chance to prove to his multitude of detractors just how talented he was and receive the recognition he justly deserved. Kit was as happy for him as she was for herself.
    A whirring hum vibrated through the cabin as the wing flaps were lowered. Chip blanched at the sound and dug his fingers into the ends of the chair's padded leather arms. Paula patted the hand nearest her reassuringly and Chip instantly grabbed it and hung on. Unable to free her fingers, Paula glanced at Kit and shook her head at the hopelessness of the man's terror.
    But the action prompted Kit to wonder again at the relationship between Paula and Chip. Sometimes they squabbled like brother and sister; at others, they seemed more like good friends; yet a few times she'd suspected they were lovers. It was odd that she didn't know. She considered Paula her best friend in Hollywood. For the last three years, they'd worked together on the daytime drama Winds of Destiny.
    John Travis leaned closer. "Will you hold my hand?"
    "Why? Are you scared, too?" She smiled, knowing better.
    "I could be," he replied, much too drolly.
    "And pigs have wings." But she slid her hand in his just the same, fitting palm to palm and linking fingers, liking the warm and simple intimacy of holding hands with him.
    At the table, Yvonne Davis shoved the last of her notes into her black crocodile case and clicked it shut. Maury Rose scooped some jelly beans out of the candy dish and settled back in his seat, his short legs barely long enough to let his feet touch the floor. A toupee of nut brown hair, sprinkled with gray to match the rest of his graying hair, covered the crown of his head.
    As usual, he wore a three-piece suit; he had a penchant for them, preferably made out of a fabric with a shine to it, like sharkskin. But the snug-fitting vest couldn't conceal that he was some thirty pounds overweight. Instead, it acted as a girdle, straining to hold in his spreading paunch.

    "Don't forget to mark down that reporter from People magazine," Maury admonished, his rapid speech pattern and faint accent betraying his New York origins. "I don't want him mistaken for a paparazzo. You got that?"
    "He's already on my press list, Mr.
    Rose." The Texas-born publicist peered at him over the top of the flame red frames of her half glasses, a thinly veiled irritation in her voice at his insinuation that she didn't know her job. "In fact, I believe I arranged for him to come tonight." But Maury was too thick-skinned for her cloying barb to register.
    Recognizing that, she turned toward Kit. "How long since you've been back to Aspen?" she asked, making an obvious bid to change the subject.
    "If you mean for more than a long weekend, it's been years," Kit admitted. "I always planned to, but invariably, time, money, or circumstance worked against me."
    "I know what you mean, honey." Yvonne nodded. "When I left Houston, I thought I'd be back every year to visit my family in Tomball. And in the last sixteen years, I've been back maybe four times.