Queen of the Universe (In Love in the Limelight Book 2)

  Queen of the Universe

  by

  Geralyn Corcillo

  Cover by Sue Traynor

  Published by Blackbird Press at KDP

  Copyright © 2015 Geralyn Corcillo

  ISBN: 978-1-62678-012-5

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations, events, and locations are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Whatever Lola wants …

  Can charismatic TV writer Lola convince brooding handyman Arlen to upend his reclusive life in order to star in her show and save her career? And if she can, how will a Hollywood player like her manage a dark horse like him?

  For Ron

  and

  Stu, the reigning queen

  and for

  Pamela Allport

  Chapter 1

  LOLA

  “I need a sexy man!”

  I fling the script to the floor hard and clench my teeth. Suppressing a growl, I suck in a deep breath. I swivel to Brian, pinning him with a look that could ice Pluto. “Why haven't we found him yet? You're supposed to be the damn casting director!”

  He opens his mouth to answer but I plow over him.

  “Don't these agents get it?” I burst out of my chair and head toward the windows. Spinning back to Brian, I clench my fists so hard I'd be bleeding if I had fingernails worth anything. “I don't want some buff model who thinks stubble makes him look like a tough guy. For God's sake, Wendy Hunter is playing Celeste. Wendy Hunter! Do they think they can send us just anyone? What's wrong with these clueless agents?!”

  My heart flips into hyperdrive as I consider that my future might be in the hands of these brainless freaking agents. Agents!

  I throw myself back into the roomy upholstered chair behind my desk. I didn't actually choose this particular office chair in order to catch me mid-meltdown, but it totally does the job. I jam one sneaker to the floor to keep from careening backwards and then I lean toward Brian. “I need a man who exudes raw, dangerous sexuality. Sam Destry, the dark, brooding bounty hunter who lives next door to Celeste. Sexy is just what he … is. Your job is to find him. Where is he?”

  “He's out there.” Brian is bent over the camera, removing the SD card. He straightens up and looks at me. “And possibly coming in this afternoon.” He sits down at his laptop and inserts the card.

  I lean back, resting my elbows on the arms of the chair. “You need to step up your game,” I tell him. “Cameras roll in just over two weeks and they can't roll until we cast Sam. I don't care if you have to cruise Santa Monica and pick up every guy you see and drag him in here to read.”

  Brian finishes typing with a flourish. I swallow, knowing some incredibly lame auditions just uploaded to the main server. Where Tom will see them.

  “One of the guys we're seeing later plays Hamlet in an all-nude production,” Brian offers. “Long, lanky, brilliant, AND brooding.”

  I snatch the bottle of Evian off my desk and thump it against my palm. “Sam does not have three hours of nudity to win over an audience. Off the Beaten Path takes up forty-four fully-clothed minutes, once a week. And Sam's not even the lead!” I uncap the bottle of water. “We need a man who can melt a woman's bones with his very presence.” I take a long drink.

  “Or a melt a man's bones,” sings Ray as he sweeps into the office. He fans a set of head shots across my desk with panache. “These are your afternoon guys. Good luck. I'm off.”

  “Off?!” I slam my hand onto my desk. “It's eleven a.m. Go back to your desk, sit down, and do your damn job.”

  “Can't,” he trills, totally blowing me off. “Dentist. Gotta keep this smile killer.”

  “During AUDITIONS?! Get back to your desk and get me a Mocha Frappucino double whip. With caramel!”

  “Yeah, that's what you need. More caffeine. And sugar.”

  “Ray!”

  “You said I could go today at eleven because you'd be—”

  “Oh, shut up and get out. Go if I said go and just be back here by one!”

  “Don't forget—”

  “Go! And you better come back with Starbucks if you value your life.”

  “Yada yada yada.” And with that, Ray strolls out of the office, already texting as he goes.

  My phone jingles quietly. Ray was texting me? I glance at my phone.

  … forget about Sam for the next hour ...

  “Rrrr!” I toss my cell on the desk, in no mood for Ray's namaste crap. I need to find Sam!

  Brian watches me as he pops the SD card back into the camera. “Lola, you've been in the business, what? Twelve, thirteen years?”

  “Fourteen,” I correct.

  “Yeah, and you don't have the reputation as the writer who saves shows for nothing. Now that you've got your own series to run, I'm betting you'll do your magic.”

  “I'm no miracle worker. I'm just like every other writer with a pilot on the chopping block.”

  Brian barks out a laugh. “You dress like every other TV writer,” he says. “But jeans and a Green Lantern T-shirt don't change the fact that you look like you could be the love child of Jessica Lange and Marilyn Monroe and you got two Emmy nominations before you were thirty.”

  “Neither of which I won,” I say evenly. “And Jessica Lange is in her sixties. So thanks.”

  “I totally mean Tootsie Jessica Lange.”

  “Whatever.”

  Does Brian seriously think flattery can work on me? He's not even good at it. All he's doing is reminding me that I peaked in my twenties. And that I am no longer in my twenties!

  My phone starts to buzz and play a song as it vibrates across my desk. Baby, did you ever wonder? Wonder, what ever became—

  “Hang on,” I say to Brian as I slide my thumb across the screen of my cell and press it to my ear. “Tom.”

  “Lola!”

  My neck muscles tighten. Tom's big sunny greeting. Doesn't mean a thing. His salutations are always over the top, no matter what he's about to say. But they never go anywhere, so I like letting his echoing words just hang there for an empty second.

  “Tom,” I say again. “What's up? We're in the middle of auditions.”

  “I'm having a meeting with Wendy in a few minutes,” he announces, as if I've just won a brand new car. Once again he stops talking, but no applause and squeals of joy fill the gap.

  “Fantastic!” I smile hard enough to edge out the knot in my stomach. I'm not ready for Wendy to stick her oar in and start making waves. Not until I've locked down Sam.

  “She wants to see the auditions we've got so far for Sam,” Tom tells me. “America's favorite actress is anxious to know who her new leading man will be.”

  “Perfect,” I agree with gusto, flying right into the jaws of the beast. I pray that Tom stays true to form and backs off the second he realizes he's not the fly in my chardonnay. “I'm really depending on Wendy's take. Her insight into her craft is unparalleled. Ask her to look especially keenly at the second and fourth auditions from this morning. But you know, it was such a good crop, I'm sure Wendy is going to adore every one of them.”

  “Well,” Tom says, slipping into his schoolmaster voice, “I'll mention what you said. But Lola, that's not really her job.”

  I bite my lip and catch my breath as if I'm going to say something but think better of it, channelling the appropriate chagrin through the phone.

  “Lola,” he continues, more fatherly now, even though I'm three years older than his preposterously inexpe
rienced thirty-two, “Wendy Hunter doesn't come with a multi-million dollar price tag because she's so willing to help out the crew.”

  The crew? I created the damn show and he's calling me the crew? Like superstar diva Wendy Hunter is the reason I get to work on this show, and not the other way around!

  I decide to control the churning in my blood before everyone on the crew is out of a job. One. Two. Three.

  I give a little laugh. “Au contraire. We're here to help Wendy sparkle more brightly than ever. It's our job to give her whatever she needs because when she shines, the show shines, and the network shines.”

  “I'm glad you feel that way. Because what she needs right now is someone to play Sam to make her shine off the charts.”

  Okay, gloves off. “No, not someone. She's Wendy Hunter. She needs the perfect guy. And Brian and I are closing in.”

  “She's getting nervous. And she's not the only one.”

  “It's not nerves, Tom. It's adrenaline. The kind that rushes through you just before your finesse forward sinks a three-pointer and wins the game at the buzzer.”

  A few minutes later when I tuck the phone back into my pocket, I notice Brian staring at me. “You despised guys two and four. You said guy two reminded you of a sunflower wearing pedal pushers. Whatever that means. But it wasn't good.”

  “Wendy Hunter ...” wants everything until you tell her that she might like it. But I can't help but notice the dewy glow in Brian's eyes. “Wendy Hunter,” I say, “ isn't just a wonderful actress and an excellent judge of acting talent. She's also an amazing communicator. She'll look at two and four and she'll make Tom understand that we haven't found Sam yet and we need to keep looking. I'm not going to risk the casting of Sam just because Tom Glenn wants to sign off so he can leave early for a Duran Duran reunion concert on Friday.”

  “I hear you,” Brian agrees. “But it can't be good to mess with the studio exec's weekend.” He clears his throat. “So, maybe, uh … maybe, since Wendy is going to be on the lot anyway, maybe she can come to a few auditions this afternoon, give some input, and help speed things up.”

  I stand up like Wesley at the end of The Princess Bride, trying to strike a sense of menace. “I don't need input.” I look right at Brian. “Nobody knows how to cast Sam better than I do. I created the guy.”

  Brian looks away and I walk toward the windows. I stare down at the empty parking lot below. “He's what Celeste wants,” I say quietly, “but can never have.”

  “Maybe Wendy ...”

  I shut my eyes and command myself not to react. “There's no point to involving Wendy until I've found the guy I want.” I try to make my voice sound almost blasé. “All we've seen so far are models and bodybuilders.” I take a deep breath and speak clearly. “I don't want any of them.”

  I open my eyes as an old blue pick-up parks in front of the building. I move closer to the glass, scarcely believing what I see.

  A man looking to be in his thirties gets out of the truck and strides across the pavement. Scuffed boots, worn jeans, rangy build. He looks dark and dangerous, cool and wild.

  It's Sam.

  My Sam.

  I can't breathe. “I want him.”

  Chapter 2

  ARLEN

  He should never have taken the job. She—no, her assistant Ray—had been giving him the run-around for weeks. His gut told him that Lola Scott must be batshit crazy, and he made it a rule—a really easy rule to follow—to avoid freaks and tornadoes.

  Jesus! She and Ray even had him coming to a studio for the first meeting. A studio! When he was going to be working on her house. But every time they rescheduled, they threw a little more money his way. Money that would be a damn nice bonus this summer.

  Arlen slowed down mid-stride.

  Summer. This whack-job diva better not fuck everything up. He needed her house's renovation with its ideal time frame—he needed it like crack. He'd work like a dog from now through May and June, get done by July. If her highness would just stand still long enough to meet with him, he could get the job started. And his plans could still come off without a hitch.

  Arlen wrenched open the door as if he wanted to rip down the whole building. He charged up the stairs to her office.

  Time to get this party started.

  Chapter 3

  LOLA

  I fly out of my office and race past Ray's empty desk, heading for the top of the stairwell.

  SMACK!

  I bounce back and see that I just slammed into him.

  Into Sam.

  He had to have taken the stairs two at a time to get up here so fast. This guy is rushing toward something that he knows, deep down, is right.

  “Jesus. Are you okay?” He looks concerned, but not that concerned.

  Oh, my God. He's already in character. My knees almost buckle.

  I remember to keep my voice brisk. “I'm fine. Come to the office.”

  I turn to head back but he calls out from behind me. “I'm here to see Lola Scott. Do you work for her?”

  I turn around and smile, holding out a hand to shake. “I am Lola Scott. You are ...?”

  He just stares at me. “You're Lola Scott?” He peers more closely, as if trying to see if I have a scratch on my retina. “THE Lola Scott?”

  “I assure you there's only one.”

  “You're the woman in charge?” He's looking all askance at my faded tee and worn jeans.

  I let my smile unfurl. Why not? This guy is a kick. “I'm the showrunner. Yes.”

  “Showrunner.”

  “Yes,” I say easily, deciding I can work with his level of inexperience. “I'm the writer who created the show, and I'm pretty much in charge of everything. From casting, to shooting, to editing. I run the show. Showrunner.”

  He's nodding but looking at me as if he's thinking about what he's going to make for dinner tonight. Seriously? He's losing interest in the details of the show? He really IS already in character for my aloof bounty hunter. Either that or ...

  I tilt my head and scrunch my eyes à la Alicia Silverstone. “Is this your first time working in TV?” I place a reassuring hand on his arm.

  He jumps back, making me feel like I just burned him with a curling iron. He puts his hands in his back pockets and looks at me with such blatant … examination, like he recognizes me from a WANTED poster in the post office. “That's a weird way of putting it,” he says. “But yes, this is the first time I've been to a studio.”

  “Mmmm,” I muse. Fresh blood. Makes it easier.

  “Look,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets and looking around as if to find the nearest exit. “You seem really busy. Can we just do this?”

  “Yes,” I practically chirp, standing to attention. “Did you bring pictures and a résumé?”

  He gets still. “No. I sent everything to Ray. Three weeks ago. That's why I'm here. Were you hoping to see something you didn't see then?”

  “I'll be honest with you,” I decide to say. “I'm hoping you knock my socks off.”

  “What?”

  “We can fill in the details later, but so far, you've really nailed it.”

  “Nailed what, exactly?”

  “The image is perfect,” I practically coo. “Very Aragorn meets Wolverine.” I look him up and down, then slowly start to circle him. “I like the beard,” I tell him. “More than five-o'clock shadow, but clipped close enough to see the planes of your face and the cut of your jaw. Good choice.”

  He backs away from me, turning to stay face to face with me. “Lady ...”

  “You've got that roguish, brooding thing going,” I murmur, getting lost in the intense, bordering-on-angry, look on his face. “Those dark eyes are killer.”

  His lips part but he doesn't say anything. Score. The guy can really pull off silence.

  “Hmmm,” I say, considering.

  “What now? What the hell is going on?”

  I look up into his face. He seems like he seriously just fell off the truck, making le
verage points useless with him. This blade runner with the soul of Pollyanna just dropped into my lap and I have to handle him right.

  With sincerity.

  “It's nothing we can't work around,” I say, brushing it off with a laugh. “It's just that you're a little older than I had in mind.”

  “Old?” he squawks. “I'm only thirty-two!” He takes a step closer. “And I know what I'm doing. Isn't that what really matters?”

  I catch my breath. I think he saw it, but I don't even try to shake off the shivery feeling. This man knows exactly what he wants. To be Sam. My Sam. “Thirty-two can totally work,” I assure him.

  He steps back with the barest hint of a nod.

  “And you're okay with partial nudity?” I ask.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Relax,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I just mean taking your shirt off. Maybe once in a while. But nothing gratuitous. Only when necessary.”

  “Look, I don't care how hot it is, I don't strip at work.”

  “When you see how much money is in it for you, I think you'll change your mind. And there's no sex. Not at first, anyway.”

  “That's it.” He spins on his heel and heads to the stairwell.

  “Wait!” I call, rushing to get ahead of him, blocking the door to the exit. “It's okay if you're afraid you won't look perfect. Colin Firth totally panicked like that on the set of Circle of Friends. We'll get you on a daily fitness regimen so that when the time comes, you'll have nothing to be shy about.”

  “Listen,” he begins, his voice galvanized with more authority than I'm used to from auditioning actors. “You need to get out of my way and let me leave. You've clearly got some guy-in-a-tool-belt fantasy, and I'm telling you up front, I'm not interested.”

  My head snaps back the tiniest fraction before I stop it. “Tool belt? You mean, like, to carry a gun?”

  “A GUN?!” His eyes are almost popping out of his head.