Director's Cut Read Free Page A

that—”
    â€œOf course not. I asked you; you didn’t ask me. When is it?”
    â€œA week from Monday night.”
    â€œThe next exit is mine,” Catherine added calmly.
    â€œNuts, I wasn’t paying attention.” I checked my mirrors. Getting over to the exit lane would require the help of several kind drivers or some pushy driving on my part. I planned on the latter, signaled, and began a steady merge to the right. To my surprise no one honked. Such is driving in Southern California.
    After I successfully elbowed my way to the exit, Catherine said, “You’d do great in New York. It takes attitude to drive there.”
    â€œIt takes body amour to drive here,” I said. “Would a week from Monday work for you? What about the play?”
    â€œThe theater is dark Monday and Tuesday. I’m free that night. I might have to show up a little late if they call me to Hollywood for a script meeting, but I should be back by late afternoon.”
    â€œWe’re holding it at the Spaghetti Warehouse. It begins at six o’clock.”
    â€œShouldn’t be a problem then. Take the exit and stay right. It’s not far.”
    I did as instructed. I also made a note to call Nat as soon as I could. Natalie Sanders is my campaign manager and the last-minute addition of movie star Catherine Anderson would thrill her and send her scrambling to get word out. I just made her life much more difficult.
    I felt good.

Chapter 3
    T hat’s odd,” Catherine said as I turned into the long drive that led from Virgil Street to her house.
    I had successfully negotiated the freeway off-ramp and pressed the large SUV up the hill to the rarified air of Oak Crest Knolls, one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in Southern California. I live in a three-thousand-square-foot house built by my late husband. It sits right on the beach. Most consider it a luxury house—I know I do—but in the “The Knolls” it would be considered a starter home.
    We had just driven through the land of Mercedes, Humvees, and homes one could buy beginning in the low seven figures. It was the area of the city that if you had to ask how much it cost, you didn’t belong. It was also a land of political hostility toward me. I was persona non grata here. Last year, the residents felt their five- and ten-thousand-square-foot mansions deserved the prestige of a Santa Barbara address. They petitioned to be annexed by Santa Barbara city and found open arms and smiles, and why not? Homes that large on five-acre lots could bring in a lot of revenue.
    I wasn’t keen on letting my city lose the revenue and surrendering a few square miles of prime property to boot. I led the fight against the homeowners’ association and the city to the north. The entire council backed me on it. It was one of the few times we’d agreed on anything. Since then, the residents have harbored a well-oiled hatred toward me. I had learned to live with it. I couldn’t help noticing that many of Garret Kinsley’s contributors had addresses from this little section of paradise.
    â€œWhat’s odd?” I asked as I pulled along the drive.
    â€œThe limo.” She pointed. A black, stretch Lincoln Town Car sat on the sweeping drive in front of the house.
    I hadn’t noticed it. My eyes were glued to the monster before me. A massive, two-story, French country chateau sat—no, loomed before me. I wasn’t certain what I expected. A large home, sure, but this stunned me. It stood like a castle on a bare lot. Landscaping was in place but had yet to fill out the grounds. Thin trees seemed intimidated by the gentle breeze: ground cover lay in clumps as if gathering strength for the job that lay before them. A year from now, the property would be verdant beyond anything I’m capable of imagining.
    â€œWhat about the limo?”
    â€œEd didn’t answer his cell phone when I called, so I tried the