“How about writing a book?” Odele asked, tilting her head.
“On what?”
“Anything! We’ll let your ghostwriter decide.”
“No, thanks. If I have a ghost, I won’t really be writing, will I?” Chiara responded tartly.
“You’re too honest for your own good, you know.” Odele sighed, and then suddenly brightened. “What about a fragrance?”
“I thought Dior just picked a new face for the brand.”
“They did. I’m talking about developing your own scent. Very lucrative these days.”
“You mean like Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds?”
“Right, right.” Odele warmed up. “We could call it Chiara. Or, wait, wait, Chiara Lucida! The name suggests a bright star.”
“How much is an Oscar worth?” Chiara joked, because her idea of becoming a big star involved winning a golden statuette.
“Of course, an Academy Award has value, but we want to monetize all income streams, sweetie. We want to grow and protect your brand.”
Chiara sighed, leaning against the walnut-paneled built-in cabinet behind her. There’d been a time when movie stars were just, well, movie stars. Now everyone was a brand. “There’s nothing wrong with my brand.”
“Yes, of course.” Odele paused for a beat. “Well, except for the teeny-weeny problem of your father popping up in the headlines from time to time.”
“Right.” How could she forget? How could anyone fail to remember when the tabloids followed the story breathlessly?
“How about a lifestyle brand like Gwyneth Paltrow or Jessica Alba has?” Odele offered.
“Maybe when I win an Academy Award or I have kids.” Both Alba and Paltrow had had children when they’d started their companies.
At the thought of kids, Chiara had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was thirty-two. She had an expiration date in Hollywood and a ticking clock for getting pregnant without spending thousands of dollars for chancy medical intervention. Unfortunately the two trains were on a collision course. If she was going to avert disaster, she needed to have a well-established career—er, Oscar—before she caved in to the public clamor for her to get a happily-ever-after with marriage and children.
Of course, she wanted kids. It was the husband or boyfriend part that she had a problem with. Michael Feran hadn’t set a sterling example for his only child. At least she thought she was his only child.
Ugh. Her family—or what remained of it—was so complicated. It wouldn’t even qualify as a Lifetime movie because there was no happy ending.
Still, the thought of a child of her own brought a pang. She’d have someone to love unconditionally, and who would love and need her in return. She’d avoid the mistakes that her parents had made. And she’d have something real—pure love—to hold on to in the maelstrom of celebrity.
“So,” Odele said pleasantly, “your other options aren’t too appealing. Let me know when you’re ready to consider dating Rick Serenghetti.”
Chiara stared at her manager. She had the sneaking suspicion that Odele had known all along where their conversation was heading. In all probability, her manager had been set on showing her the error of her ways and her earlier agreeableness had just been a feint. “You’re a shark, Odele.”
Odele chuckled. “I know. It’s why I’m good at what I do.”
Chiara resisted throwing up her hands. Some actresses confided in their personal assistants or stylists. She had Odele.
* * *
“So what’s got you down?”
Rick figured he needed to work on his acting skills if even Jordan was asking that question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
They were sitting in his kitchen, and he’d just handed his brother a cold beer from the fridge. He grabbed opportunities with his family whenever he could since he spent much of his time on the opposite coast from everyone else. Fortunately, since his current movie was being filmed on a Novatus Studio lot and nearby locations around LA, he was able to get to his place at least on weekends—even if home these days was a one-bedroom rental in West Hollywood.
“Mom asked me to check on you.” Jordan shifted his weight on the kitchen barstool.
“She always asks you to check on me whenever we’re in the same city. But don’t assume the reconnaissance runs one way. She wants me to keep an eye on you, too.”
“My life hasn’t been that interesting lately.”
Jordan was in town because his team, the New England Razors, was playing the Los Angeles Kings at the Staples Center. He was the star center player for the team. The youngest Serenghetti brother also had movie star looks, and hardly ever let an opportunity pass without remarking that their parents had attained perfection the third time around.
Rick followed hockey—family loyalty and all—but he wasn’t passionate about it like Jordan and their older brother, Cole, who’d also had a career with the Razors until it had ended in injury. Rick had been a wrestler in high school, not a hockey team captain like his brothers.
The result was that he had a reputation as the family maverick. And hey, who was he to argue? Still, he wasn’t intentionally contrary—though Chiara might want to argue the point.
An image of Chiara Feran sprung to mind. He’d been willing to tease her about playing a couple, especially when he’d thought Chiara was going along with the idea. After all, it was nice, safe, pretend—not like really getting involved with an actress. And it was fun to ruffle Chiara’s feathers.
If he was being a little more serious, he’d also acknowledge that as a producer, he had a vested interest in the star of his latest film maintaining a positive public image despite her problematic family members—not to mention staying safe if she really had a would-be stalker.
Still, being a pretend boyfriend and secret bodyguard, if Odele had her way, was asking a lot. Did he have enough to overcome his scruples about getting involved with a celebrity? Hell, even he wasn’t sure. He’d been burned once by an aspiring starlet, and he’d learned his lesson—never stand between an actress and a camera.
For a long time, he’d counted actors, directors and other movie people among his friends. Hal Moldado, a lighting technician, had been one of those buddies. Then one day, Rick had run into Isabel Lanier, Hal’s latest girlfriend. She’d followed him out of a cafe and surprised him with a kiss—captured in a selfie that she’d managed to take with her cell phone and promptly posted to her social media accounts. Unsurprisingly it had spelled the end of his friendship with Hal. Later he’d conclude that Isabel had just been trying to make Hal jealous and stay in the news herself as an actress.
The saving grace had been that the media had never found out—or cared—about the name of Isabel’s mystery man in those photos. It had been enough that Isabel looked as if she were cheating on Hal, so Rick had been able to dodge the media frenzy.
Ever since, though, as far as he was concerned, starlets were only interested in tending their public image. And up to now Chiara had fit the bill well—even if she hadn’t yet agreed to her manager’s latest scheme. After all, there was a reason that Chiara had partnered with someone like Odele. She knew her celebrity was important, and she needed someone to curate it.
But Odele had increased the stakes by referring to a possible stalker... It complicated his calculations about whether to get involved. He should just convince Chiara to get additional security—like any sane person would. Not that sanity ranked high on the list of characteristics he associated with fame-hungry actresses.
Jordan tilted his head. “Woman in your thoughts?”