“How are you holding up?”
I looked up from the wine that I’d been swirling in the glass instead of drinking and felt my face redden.
“Oh, hi, Malcolm. Just warming up before I go to bed.”
Well, this was awkward. It was sometime around two in the morning and I’d been too keyed-up after filming to be able to fall asleep straight away. Jet lag didn’t help either. It was closer to dinnertime at home and my poor body didn’t know what to do. Grabbing the French red wine that had been left in my suite and making my way down to the inviting lounge area had seemed like a good option.
“Hope you didn’t get too bruised and battered during that last scene,” he said.
He walked over to the embroidered armchair sitting next to mine, which looked more like an antique than a useable piece of furniture. He lowered himself into it carefully, as if he was unsure whether it was meant to be sat on.
His cropped gray hair was damp, suggesting he’d just showered. It spiked up in all directions, as if he’d run his fingers through it instead of combing it. He was in his usual uniform of jeans and sweater. Tonight’s was gray.
“I feel fine,” I told him. “Just awake.” And seriously uncomfortable that the production company had decided to hire out an entire bed and breakfast instead of putting us up in a hotel. I should have just stayed in my room rather than risk running into anyone. The quaint fireplace that had been lit was too good to resist though, and I’d been enjoying the old-style furnishings and ambience until Malcolm had found me.
“I heard about you and your boyfriend. I can’t say it’s affected the quality of your work, which I admire.”
I cradled the glass of wine in my lap and attempted a small shrug. Oh boy, here we go. Before I’d left the USA, Gabe and I had carried out my plan and ‘broken up’. My new publicist had made an official statement to the media while Gabe and Faith were snapped together having dinner at an LA restaurant.
Alright, it had been more than that, but Faith had instructed me not to view the pictures. Apparently they’d shared a kiss for the photographers and I felt sick just thinking about it.
So sick that I hadn’t had any issue whatsoever with the paparazzi trailing me as I shopped in various Beverly Hills boutiques looking miserable. Made even more miserable by the fact that I couldn’t legitimately see Gabe before we flew out without making anyone suspicious.
“I’m doing OK,” I lied. “It’s good to be busy.” Why did lying feel so different to acting?
“Yeah, but Faith, of all people. I was worried you might scratch her eyes out or something on-set, but you’ve been very mature about the whole thing.” His blue eyes watched me curiously from behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
I focused on my wine again, hoping it would look like I was uncomfortable—which I was. It was much easier pretending for the media instead of a real person.
“Faith and I are good friends,” I said carefully. “And Gabe and I were over before they got involved, despite what the media is saying. Maybe she’ll be happier with him than I was.” The aftertaste of the red wine and the lies on my tongue tasted bitter.
Malcolm arched an eyebrow. “You’re a lot more forgiving than I would be. She didn’t waste any time.”
“That’s just Faith. She goes after what she wants.”
I heard Malcolm sigh. “And you’re a nice girl. I’m sorry for putting pressure on you earlier about that.”
I stared at Malcolm in surprise. “That’s OK.” It wasn’t, but I was too shocked to say any more.
“You’re an alluring combination, very different to Faith,” he said. “Super sweet, but now you’re older the camera can’t deny your sex appeal.”
Oh wow. I wasn’t uncomfortable anymore, I was mortified. “Yes, Faith and I are very different,” I replied stiffly.
“I wanted to capture that,” he said, his blue eyes still on mine. “I thought maybe if you had some fun in your personal life you’d be more comfortable with milking that sexy sweetness on camera.”
I straightened in my seat. “I’m an actress, Malcolm. My personal life shouldn’t come into it.”
“And now I’ve offended you again. That wasn’t my intention. I know I can come across as abrupt, occasionally mean, but I’m glad to be working with you, Chloe. My directing style doesn’t always win fans, but you’ve grown a lot as an actress in the last couple of months.”
I nodded and took a big mouthful of wine. Malcolm being nice to me was almost as bad as him being difficult to work with.
I stiffened when he put a hand on my leg. “Chloe, you’re young, but can I just say something? About what we were talking about earlier? Friends don’t do things like that.”
I cleared my throat and wished like hell I could get him to take my hand off my leg. “I know, but we have a movie to film and I’m doing my best to make it work.”
There. That made me sound professional, didn’t it? The truth was I hadn’t fully thought through how our little plan would impact on the appearance of my relationship with Faith while I finished this movie. That was probably why I was an actress and not a writer like my father.
Malcolm’s fingers squeezed my leg and I tried not to flinch. “I’ve been watching you, Chloe. You’re a smart girl, did you know that?”
“I . . . ” I clenched the stem of my glass tightly. I’ve been watching you . . .
I jumped up from my seat, the wine sloshing out of the glass. Several large drops soaked into my jeans, spreading like blood.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I just remembered I haven’t called my brother. I promised him I’d call hours ago and he’s probably worried sick.”
I rushed from the room.
*
“MALCOLM COHEN, YOUR director?” Marc’s deep voice sounded crystal clear despite the North Atlantic Ocean separating us.
I tightened the grip on my cell phone. “Yes,” I hissed, like I wasn’t in my hotel room and someone could hear me. “Our director.”
“Run me through your conversation again,” Marc instructed.
I did as he requested and when I was finished, I collapsed onto the bed, feeling extremely tired all of a sudden. “It was those words: ‘I’ve been watching you.’ If he hadn’t said that, I may not have suspected, but . . . but now I don’t know why I haven’t considered it earlier.”
Malcolm could be my stalker. As preposterous as it sounded, the idea fit. It made sense. Particularly after all his creepy innuendo about me being sexy when we’d been filming in LA.
Marc didn’t sound as convinced as I was. I knew that was just in his nature. He liked to investigate all options and that was his job. But I’d promised him I’d tell him if anything unusual occurred and Malcolm being nice to me, touching me, and then saying those things to me, was unusual.
“I appreciate that,” Marc said. “And it’s definitely worth looking into. I’ll start checking it out and see if it’s possible.”
Oh, it was possible. Very possible. I may have even done some amateur sleuthing work myself. Malcolm Cohen was a divorced father of two children aged eight and eleven. He was forty-three years old—older than I thought he was—and his Mr. Average baby face hid a man with interesting taste in women. After divorcing his high-school sweetheart, Malcolm had been seen around Hollywood with several women, all younger. I had to admit he wasn’t the only man in our industry who liked young women. But when I’d read that his last girlfriend had been a twenty-four-year-old actress trying to crack into the business, I knew I had to call Marc. There was no questioning I was to Malcolm’s tastes.
“When will you be in touch?” I asked Marc. I had to work with this man. As well as pretending things between Faith and I were fraught, now I had to act like Malcolm wasn’t potentially my creepy stalker.
“Soon as I can. Tell Faith. Maybe don’t tell Viktor just yet, until I’ve done further investigation. He’s staying close, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah.” No, no need to tell Viktor just yet. He’d go into commando mode if he even caught a whiff of anything to do with Malcolm. For now I’d keep my door locked while I was staying here and the rest of the time I’d be around Faith or the crew.
“Good,” Marc said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”