“Are you ready to go back in?”
Cait seemed to be thinking very hard about a seemingly simple question. Finally, she shook her head. “Not just yet. I think I need another minute to cool down some and get myself together.”
“It might have been fun to watch you break his fingers, though.”
She seemed to consider that. “No. There are too many witnesses in there, too many cameras.” She shrugged casually, but there was a wry smile of resignation on her face. “I don’t need that kind of publicity this soon. Plus, it’s tacky to start a fistfight at a cocktail party. Believe it or not, I was raised better than that.”
At least her humor seemed to be returning. It was a longstanding joke between them: was the child of Hollywood royalty expected to behave better or worse than a child from political royalty? Using only the tabloids as their judge and jury, they’d never been able to come to a definitive answer as to how high or low the expectations really were.
And they’d certainly tested those expectations. Repeatedly.
He couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “I could hit him for you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s kind of you—and tempting—but I’m going to think positive thoughts that he’s learned his lesson. The funny thing is that I think that might have been more about my folks than me. He seemed pretty interested in their political leanings and pet causes.”
He understood now. Cait’s connections—and all that Hollywood money—could be very valuable to an aspiring politician, and that guy had “congressional wannabe” written all over him. “Welcome back to the business.”
She shot him a pissy look. “I never totally left, you know. Just because I haven’t been working in Hollywood, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been working.”
“On the stage. It’s hardly the same thing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t start. I’m not going to get into that argument with you.” She seemed to catch herself and her face cleared, and a wickedly innocent smile took the place of irritation. “But I’m rather flattered to hear that you’ve been keeping up with my career. That’s rather sweet. I had no idea you cared.”
Her tone rankled. There was no way he was going to let her go there. “Just because I wasn’t consulted before you were brought on board, don’t think for a second that I haven’t verified you can actually pull this off. This film is my responsibility, and Rebecca falls outside your known range.”
Cait’s jaw tightened. Oh, he’d hit a nerve with that one.
She recovered quickly, though. She always did. She stood and stepped away from the bench before turning on him. “You know, if you spent more time actually working, and less time playing beach blanket bingo in Europe, you might not have to find out what’s happening with your own projects after the fact.”
The disdain in her voice chased off any desire he’d had to play nice. Where did Cait get off acting all high and mighty? “So you’ve been keeping up with my love life? That’s kind of … sad, actually.”
“Oh, please. Would you get over yourself? The last thing I care about is who you’re sleeping with now. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. I want my career back.”
He started to answer, but stopped short as a thought crystallized. Cait had been out of the spotlight for years; she wasn’t exactly a hot commodity at the moment—famous parents or not. Folly was a great place to prove her skills, but it wouldn’t do much to restore her to the fame and glory she’d once called her “birthright.” Hadn’t he and Dolby just discussed the headline possibilities today? A bad feeling crept over him. Maybe that was part of her plan. What better way to make the cover of every magazine and have her name on everyone’s lips than to work that very Finn-and-Caitlyn angle he’d just laid plans to avoid.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. It seems like a hell of a good way to make your comeback with a bang, doesn’t it?”
He hadn’t thought it would be possible for Cait to get any stiffer, but she did. With her arms crossed over her chest, she lifted her chin again until she was practically looking down her nose at him—something she could only do while he was seated.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Being within fifty feet of me assures you every headline you want, doesn’t it?” With a casualness he didn’t really feel, but would grate on Cait’s nerves regardless, he leaned back against the railing and stacked his hands behind his head. “Once upon a time, you claimed I was good for your Q Score. Looking for a second bite of the apple, Caity?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your ego is simply unbelievable, Finn. Believe it or not, this is not about you. In fact, the very last thing I need—or want—is the kind of headlines you bring. I’ve grown up, worked damn hard to improve my craft and cleaned up my image. I take my job seriously.” She eyed him with something he could only call distaste. “Since you can’t say the same, why don’t you just go back to Monaco until this is in the can? That would be very helpful for my comeback.”
Oh, he’d definitely hit a nerve. Anger flushed her cheeks, and she gripped her tiny purse until her knuckles turned white.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an early call in the morning and should probably get some sleep.” With that, she stalked away, head held high, and wrenched open the door to the ballroom to disappear inside.
Cait still liked to get the last word. Blaming him and storming off in a huff was her usual M.O., so that much hadn’t changed. It was practically a repeat of that last night at his place. Everything had been his fault. Never hers.
He, however, had to think about bigger issues than Cait’s temper. Too many people were involved in Folly. Money and reputations were at stake. And he would not let Granddad’s glee at having Folly made be dampened by Cait and her possible dramatics. He would keep this project in line even if he had to kill people to get it done.
Finn gave himself a hard mental shake. He had to be rational about this. In the long run, Cait might prove to be a good choice for Folly. If she could pull off Rebecca, her name and potential star power could boost Folly’s box office revenues and award chances.
That didn’t mean it was going to be less of a hellish mess in the meantime, though.
Caitlyn closed her door against the heat and spread her arms to embrace the icy chill of the air-conditioned trailer. Yesterday she’d neglected to crank the thermostat down before she left and had come back to a trailer almost as hot as the outdoors. But today … Bliss, cool bliss.
Her sweaty skin felt better almost immediately, and she peeled off the dress sticking to her back and hung it in the closet. Another thing she loved about this role: the fashions of the Forties were flattering and feminine and made it easy to really embrace Rebecca’s character. In this heat, she was very glad Folly wasn’t set in an era where she’d have to wear corsets and mountainous dresses. If so, she’d be battling heatstroke about now.
In just her underwear, she went to the fridge for a bottle of water. She left the door open while she took a drink, letting the cool air from inside wash over her.
She’d been in London too long, gotten used to what they amusingly called “summer” and forgotten how stinking hot and humid summer could really be in some parts of the country.
Walter Farrell had been an assistant director under her father for many years, and had learned his philosophy about authenticity from the master. Like her father, Walter felt being in a similar setting—like this insufferable heat and humidity—would help the actors really connect with the characters, but Cait was rapidly developing sympathy for all the actors who’d worked with her father. Especially on that one film set in the jungle …
But, honestly, she didn’t