Chapter 1
Parties used to be Claire Finn’s reason for living. They were certainly why she kept a respectable figure, a closet full of short and sweet cocktail dresses, and a rotating appointment at her favorite salon in Beverly Hills.
Now? She never thought she would dread her own engagement party, but there she was, sitting in a conservatory with nothing more than her diminishing pride.
Today was the day she had to face facts: she was marrying Arthur Carter, and she only had herself to blame.
Looking in the mirror, she knew how she had happened upon this fate. She was a young, struggling actress with only a B-list appearance but an A-list heritage. Her grandfather was Ronald Finn, the Old Hollywood film star who had left in his wake a string of awards, blockbusters, mistresses with secret babies, and a fledgling production company that had produced some of the biggest arthouse movies of the ‘70s and early ‘80s – only a few years before Claire was born. She had never met her grandfather, since he died in ’83 from cirrhosis of the liver. He had also left much of his fortune to charity instead of bequeathing much of it to his only legitimate child, Claire’s mother.
Claire had two older siblings, and the only thing she had going for herself was what few connections the Finn name maintained. The production company had been sold off to pay some of her grandfather’s debts. What hadn’t come out of copyright in his library now only had pennies to offer her. There was much majesty to the name Finn – for God’s sake, the man had a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame – but Claire was nothing but appearances. At the age of twenty-five, she desperately needed a leg-up on the younger competition, otherwise she would be taking bit parts in made-for-TV movies for the rest of her life. Her IMDB page was a disgrace.
Arthur Carter was her in. By marrying the man her grandfather once called, “The Future of Filmmaking,” she finally had a chance to claim her spot in Hollywood.
Too bad Arthur was pushing seventy and had, at best, three of his natural teeth left. There were also numerous rumors about his torrid affairs around the world. All actresses and production assistants, of course.
Yeah, Claire knew what she was getting into. The more she looked at her reflection, the more she saw a woman who would probably get one significant role and then fall into obscurity as the trophy wife of Arthur Carter. Oh, well. At least it guaranteed a certain lifestyle that included the huge mansion in Beverly Hills and tickets to the Academy Awards every winter. Sometimes that’s all a girl really cared about.
Or so she told herself.
“Face it, dumbass,” she muttered while reapplying her mascara. “You knew this was gonna be your fate when your mother said you were pretty enough to marry off.” She slammed her tube of mascara back into her bag. To the party she would go.
The engagement agreement was only two months old, and the press had only known about it for the past month. The announcement was enough to skyrocket Claire’s SEO currency into the stratosphere, as every person associated with entertainment news speculated why she agreed to marry her grandfather’s friend. Naturally, the think-pieces about an Honest Casting Couch made her want to hurl, and the implications that desperate women would fuck any man so they could survive made Claire start going back to therapy.
As if she had slept with a man old enough to be her grandfather! As if she would start after the wedding!
“I’d rather be celibate for the rest of my life.” She fixed her hair before heading to the front of Arthur Carter’s expansive mansion in Beverly Hills. It wasn’t her official home yet, but it would be in about four months, right after their July wedding. “Separate bedrooms are already on the docket.” She pretended to mention that to a newspaper reporter. They would choke.
For now, she abated her fiancé’s nerves by saying she was old-fashioned and desired to wait until the wedding night to consummate their relationship. She had no idea what she would say after that. Maybe – and it was an intense maybe – she would like the man enough to put up with sleeping with him.
Yeah, right.
She met up with her future husband near the ballroom. The happy voices of guests getting drunk on champagne and sampling the delights of award-winning Pam’s Bakery filtered through the walls. The event coordinator appraised Claire’s choice of a simple and sophisticated black cocktail dress, since it brought out her bottle-blonde hair swept up in a Californian-approved bun and the diamond jewelry set Arthur had gifted her in celebration of their engagement.
“Look at my charming little filly making her grand debut at the rodeo.” Art held out an age-spotted hand for Claire to take. All right, all right, so he looks relatively good for a seventy-year-old who doesn’t take care of himself. It helped that for every hamburger he ate, he received another manicure or a visit from the personal trainer. Still, Claire kept a respectful distance after receiving a kiss on the cheek. “I’m gonna have to saddle this one!” The event coordinator politely ignored her client as she touched up Claire’s hair for their grand entrance into the ballroom. “Lots of young Hollywood men at this party looking to score with whatever pretty mare they can find.”
“I always love it when you compare me to horses, Art,” Claire said with an Orange County smile.
“You should! Horses are gorgeous, useful, and cost a heckuva penny. Your grandfather used to say that there was nothing like a friendly filly to make the county fair a sweet experience.”
“I’m sure he said it exactly like that.” How many pennies did I cost, Art? Claire knew that some money had to grease her mother’s wheel. It was Gloria who brokered this marriage contract, after all. As the original penny-pincher of the fair Finn family, Gloria was not above demanding at least half of the promised funds up front. Her oldest son wanted to buy another house in Malibu, after all.
“Ready?” The coordinator put her hand on the ballroom door handle. “Now remember to smile for the cameras! You’re showing up on People magazine next week!”
Claire wrapped her arm around Arthur’s at the last moment. It was the only way to genuinely smile without wanting to twist her nose up at the scent of his aftershave.
They were ushered into the ballroom before Claire could see past the flashing camera lights and hear anything beyond the raucous cheers of their esteemed guests. Arthur had invited everyone from his production offices and half of the A-list stars he knew. Well, Claire didn’t see George Clooney among the faces, but she did she that fake-ass Stephanie May who was doing her damndest to make a comeback from her fake age scandal.
What a winning guest list!
“Thank you so much for coming to my, I mean our engagement party!” She pumped a fist into the air, making sure everyone had a grand view of the rock on her left ring finger. At least Arthur had terrific tastes in jewelry. Or maybe that was his assistant with the great taste. Either way, I’m making it onto the lists at the end of the year!
For the next half hour, Claire stayed close to her fiancé and mingled with the press and the guests who simply had to see her ring and hear stories of how they met and fell in love. The truth had been kept from everyone, including the actors. The official story Arthur’s PR department came up with was, “We met in his offices when I went to discuss a possible acting contract. I decided to turn that down, but I did not turn down an offer to go out with Art. From that first date, he had me hooked! The age difference doesn’t mean anything to me!”
Claire was such a good actress that she could still recite that verbatim.
Oh, there were still the loose ends to tie up. Like the prenup and the fact she had yet to meet her future stepson.
At least he’s not an actual kid. Jacob Carter was barely older than Claire, but had already cemented himself as one of the foremost behind-the-scenes men in Hollywood. He had the official title of screenwriter, but Arthur also admitted that his son played a big hand around the office and was prime to take it over whenever his father felt like retiring. Yet the only photos of him in the mansion were at least fifteen years old, and whenever Claire Googled him, she turned up fuzzy old photographs and more pictures of Jacob’s ex-girlfriends than any of the man himself. He probably didn’t look much better than his father, honestly, so no photographers gave a crap.
Whatever. Just as well she didn’t know what the man looked like. Claire had enough on her plate trying to remember the people coming up to shake her hand and offer her their sincere – and sometimes not so sincere – congratulations.
She didn’t get a break until the last old shit with a trophy wife winked at Arthur and showed himself out of the party. The blond woman with fake tits following him smacked her gum between her teeth and never said a word to Claire.
“Could get you a pair like those,” Arthur said, leaning in toward his fiancée. “I know the man who did them. Old pal of mine from Stanford.”
“Mine are all natural, Art.” What would Claire do with fake F-cups, anyway? Last she checked, her body didn’t exist to make Art happy. “Don’t tell me you’re the kind of guy who would eschew a decent pair of natural breasts.”
“I won’t know until you let me find out, honey.”
Claire ignored that. “Think it’s time for us to mingle separately, Arthur. Don’t want the press thinking we’re so attached at the hip that we’re fake.” That was the word of the day, wasn’t it?
“You make a good point. My publicist did say something about keeping a good mix of togetherness and separation. It’s a new age of relationship dynamics, or so I’m told.” He took a swig of his champagne. “I’ll always be a bit old-fashioned, I suppose.”
“Good for you,” Claire muttered. “I think I see some of my friends over there. I’m gonna go say hi, so they don’t think my upcoming married life has made me a bitch.”
“I collect horses, not dogs, Claire-Bear!”
She shuddered to hear that name. Gross. God, so gross.
In truth, she didn’t recognize any of the people on the other side of the ballroom. They were either Arthur’s acquaintances or professional party-goers hired specifically to flesh out the guest list. Either way, Claire was under no duress to talk to them, unless they were super intent on making their acquaintance known with her.
They weren’t. Good.
Yet there was one man in attendance who continued to catch her eye. At first, Claire thought she knew him. Why else would she always look back at him again, and he always looked at her as if they should know each other? My God. I would remember someone like him. The guy in question was around Claire’s age, with chestnut brown hair cut close to his scalp and a few facial hairs adding character to his chin and cheeks. The way he carried himself implied he was completely comfortable in the presence of Hollywood elite. Whenever he happened to make eye contact with Claire, she immediately thought that those were the most beautiful brown eyes she had ever seen.
He was the opposite of Arthur’s dull gray eyes and duller, formerly-blond hair. Even this young man’s physique claimed he would age more gracefully than Arthur had. Just my luck. I’m engaged to marry a swine herder when Prince Charming is right here making eyes at me. Wasn’t that how it worked? Claire had spent half her life looking for love. When she finally gave up and decided to marry for money instead, she came across the kind of guy who made her heart race.
And other things race, but she tried not to think about that while at her own engagement party.
It became increasingly difficult, however, when guests continued to ask her – in their own, niggling ways – what the hell she saw in Arthur. Besides his money, of course. Because why would someone young and pretty like Claire marry an aging producer unless it was for money and a career advancement?
God. Everyone knows what a farce this is. Claire had to pretend to be in love with Arthur. She had to put up a front that batted her eyelashes in his direction and left trails of parched kisses all over his grizzly, wrinkly cheek. When it came to men of a certain age, Claire’s opinion on making love to them was when I’m that age as well. Preferably, after she had grown old with them.
Claire took a break from the façade when she went to claim a soda from the open bar. There, she encountered the young, mysterious guest who had caught her eye more than once as she made the rounds at her party.
“Oh,” she said, as they reached for a napkin at the same time. “Excuse me.”
She politely looked away and let him have a napkin first. The man hesitated before snatching one of the crimson-colored pieces of paper and saying, “No. Excuse me. I should be deferring to the woman of honor at her engagement party.”
Claire blushed. The napkin wrapped around a small handful of mixed nuts. The man did not get a drink. “I’m afraid we’ve never met before. I’m Claire Finn. Do you know Arthur?”
They shook hands. The man had such a firm grip that Claire delightfully allowed her hand to stay within his grasp. “You could say I know him. He’s the reason I’m here.”
Claire laughed. “Of course! Do you work with him?”
The man cocked his head. A mischievous grin crossed his youthful face. He can’t be that much older than me, though. He was definitely an adult. Young, but solidly in his twenties. His suit screamed work more than fun, and that kind of handshake only came from experience working with men who expected a certain attitude before agreeing to a meeting. Hollywood may have had its own rules in many ways, but that wasn’t one of them.
Still… how could he be so effortlessly boyish, yet mature enough to know to say, “Arthur and I go way back. He helped me get my start in the industry.”
“Oh! So, are you a producer too?”
“Working on it. I mostly work on indie films. Guess you could say I work in that branch of the company. You wouldn’t have heard of me, though.”
“You sure? I love indie films.” God knew Claire had auditioned for half the ones filming in California. Even got parts in a couple of them! Not that those films went anywhere… and one of them included her taking off her top before the villain gassed her to death…
“I’m sure.”
“I still didn’t catch your name.” Claire accepted her Coke from the bartender with a smile. “If you’re a guest at my party, I should know your name.”
The man hesitated. “Jake.”
“Well, Jake…” Claire couldn’t stop grinning in his direction. What’s he doing to me? I’m acting like a fool. Didn’t she have enough self-respect to keep from flirting with another man at her engagement party? Sure, it wasn’t a love match she got herself into, but would it be so bad to refrain from flirting with guys until Arthur was old enough for a nursing home? “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I try to make a point to meet the men closest to Arthur. That includes those under his employ.”
Jake looked as if he were on the verge of uproariously laughing. What was so funny? Did Claire have a run in her tights? Could he see her nipples through her dress? Did her old childhood lisp make a sudden return, and she hadn’t noticed? Why do I care what he thinks of me? Not like Claire was trying to impress this guy. What was the point?
She knew where this madness led. Having a crush on him. Pining after him. Thinking about him when she touched herself in the loneliness of the bed she kept far away from Arthur.
“Did I get something on my face, Jake?”
He slowly shook his head.
“You sure about that?”
Jake bit his lip before finally saying what was on his mind. “Trust me, Claire. If you had something on that beautiful face of yours, I would notice.”
She giggled. Ah, damnit! Blush, giggle, look away! The unholy trifecta of expressing interest in a guy!
“Tell you what, Claire.” Jake popped one of the nuts into his mouth. “I’ve got some people I need to say hi to. If I see you around later, let’s have a chat.”
“Okay,” she squeaked.
He winked at her. “See you later. Enjoy your party.”
Claire was too giddy to immediately go back to pretending to be the doting bride, full of love and sexual attraction for her husband. In fact, she was so infatuated with a man she could never have, that she excused herself to the bathroom so she could have a few minutes to regain her composure and come to grips with herself and her shit situation.
“Hey,” she said to her reflection. The water closet was so tiny that she could flex her elbows against the door and kick her heels against the toilet behind her. But at least it gave her some privacy. Enough to let her splash water on her face and say, “You know what you signed up for. Don’t be a stupid, slutty bimbo who thirsts after the first hot guy to cross your path after your engagement goes public.” She wasn’t even thinking of Arthur – not really, because she knew the only reason he wanted to marry her was so he could access her tight ass – but of her reputation. Scandal could be an effective way to drum up interest with the public, but it wasn’t enough to get her good roles. She’d be type casted as Half-Naked Woman Who Gets Killed for the rest of her twenties. After thirty? She’d be lucky to get a bit part on a daytime talk show. Ongoing cash, but not enough to save her soul.
Her grandfather hadn’t worked his ass off in Tinsel Town so his granddaughter could do that to her own acting career. Claire was better off working as a tour guide. Honest work for shit pay, but honest work nonetheless.
She stepped out of the bathroom to find a small line. After apologizing, Claire hustled down the hallway in the hopes of finding some respite from the party.
She settled in one of Arthur’s downstairs offices that he only used for entertaining Hollywood guests. The real shit was upstairs in another office: this place was decorated to show off his wealth, production experience, and the assorted acquaintances he had made over the years. He held no qualms showing off a photo of his first wife, either. Carmen Carter had been a bigshot star in the late ‘70s, with a string of blockbuster movies that showed off her natural charms – including that busty chest that Arthur had probably fallen in love with when he was a younger shit in the business.
That marriage had ended over a decade ago. The rumors were that Arthur cheated on her so much that she finally had a meltdown and went into seclusion. Carmen hadn’t made a movie in twenty years.
Claire sat in one of the corner leather chairs and helped herself to one of Arthur’s candies on his desk. She was conveniently located next to his private bathroom.
The bastard had left the door ajar.
“That’s it, baby.” Claire almost choked on her candy when she heard Arthur’s wheezing voice. “Think the stuff’s kicked in. That’s it. God bless those little pills.”
Claire slowly turned in her seat. The door was ajar enough for her to catch an eyeful of young, firm skin. Some young blonde tart – like her! – already had her legs spread around Arthur’s waist.