he thought bitterly, that was to be expected. She’d had hundreds of years of practice.
And probably hundreds of lovers, as well.
The thought of her with other men tied his insides in knots.
Dammit! How was he ever going to forget her?
Chapter Three
Needing a change of scenery, Mara decided to return to Southern California and mingle with the Hollywood crowd. In days past, she had met a movie producer or two, a star or two. It had been easy enough to charm the rich and the famous, to finagle an invite to a cocktail party here, an opening night there. Not only was she a beautiful woman, but she possessed the innate charisma of a vampire, something few men, rich or poor, old or young, could resist. Movie star and star maker alike, they had showered her with gifts—jewels, stocks and bonds, automobiles, vacations in exotic locales. Thanks to their generosity through the years, she now owned a fabulous home in the Hollywood Hills, a house in the mountains, and a sumptuous villa in Italy. She had always enjoyed mingling with the famous and the infamous; on occasion, she had thrown a few lavish parties herself.
Of course, the Hollywood of today was nothing like the Hollywood of the thirties and forties. Movie stars had truly been stars back then. There had been a mystery about them, a larger-than-life presence that had projected beyond their screen image. Stars like Gable and Bogart, and her favorite, the ever-appealing bad boy, Robert Mitchum. He had smoked too much, drunk too much, and she had adored him. She had been on the set when he filmed Out of the Past, totally captivated by his performance, by his broad shoulders and heavy-lidded eyes. She had once overheard him remark that acting “sure beat working.” He had been a star who defined cool. How she missed him.
Mara shook her head. Movie stars today . . . they just weren’t cut from the same cloth. Only a few of them were even worthy of the name. Most were just celebrities, rising out of nowhere, shining brightly for a few brief moments, and then disappearing just as quickly, unremarked and soon forgotten.
Mara had been in town less than a week when she heard that one of the major producers was hosting a little get-together at his palatial estate in Brentwood. Knowing she would be welcome, Mara donned a slinky white gown that was slit provocatively up one side, stepped into a pair of silver, spiked heels, and arrived at the house, unannounced and uninvited, just after ten.
The producer, Sterling Gaylord Price, welcomed her with his usual lecherous smile. Sterling was pushing seventy if he was a day, but you would never know it to look at him. No doubt a skilled and expensive plastic surgeon was responsible for shaving ten years off Price’s appearance. And everyone knew sixty was the new forty.
“Mara!” he gushed, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, “it’s been too long. Too long. Where have you been keeping yourself?” z&²
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replied with a saucy grin. She linked her arm with his as they moved from the foyer to the front parlor. “I love what you’ve done to the place.”
He beamed at her. “Alison’s a whiz at decorating.” He gestured at a tall, slender young woman with bright blond hair. “She did the whole place herself.”
“Amazing.” Mara glanced at the scantily clad Mrs. Sterling Price, who was holding court amidst a group of suntanned young men. By Mara’s reckoning, the girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, was the fifth Mrs. Price. Like all the others, she was no doubt a whiz at calling a decorator, writing checks, and bleeding Price for everything she could get before he tired of her and moved on to the next overeager starlet who was willing to trade favors for fame and fortune.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Sterling said, giving Mara’s arm a squeeze. “Maybe we can get together for drinks, just the two of us, sometime next week.”
“Maybe,” Mara replied with