âJust how much do you know about horses?â
âEnough to know what I want to work with in front of the camera.â
She could already see the headlines: Kelleran Killed By Kick To Head. Actor Dragged To Death. âAnd just what would that be?â
âAn animal thatâs going to be still when I want it to be still. To respond the way I want it to, to move the way I want it to move.â
He leaned forward a bit, not enough to make her feel as if he was crowding her, but enough to make her want to take a step back. She held her ground.
âSomething with a little life in it,â he said. âA little fire. A little backbone. I donât like things to come too easy.â
Suddenly she wasnât sure they were still talking about horses.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terry McLaughlin spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drama and history, to a variety of students before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When sheâs not reading and writing, she enjoys travelling and dreaming up house and garden improvement projects (although most of those dreams donât come true).
Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.
Dear Reader,
The first time I saw a movie at the cinema, I was six years old. I remember I wore my Sunday dress, and I got to stay up past my bedtime. As I sat in that dark, cavernous cinema absorbed in Disneyâs Sleeping Beauty, I fell in love with more than the sparkling fantasy, the breath-robbing danger and the fairy-tale romance on the screen. I fell in love with the movies.
I simply adore watching larger-than-life characters live their larger-than-life stories, all played out on a larger-than-life canvas.
And Iâm sure a nice, fat dollop of my film-fed dreams has dropped into this story. I hope youâll find movie star Fitz Kelleran every bit as fun to know as he was to write.
Iâd love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my website at www. terrymclaughlin. com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at PO Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95502, USA.
Wishing you happily-ever-after reading,
Terry McLaughlin
CHAPTER ONE
FITZ KELLERAN WANTED TO VAULT over the side of his Ferrari 360 Spider convertible, the way a thirty-four-year-old movie star should, but all he could manage was a creaky-kneed wobble out the door. Had he ever been this tired? Oh, yeahâ¦last night. Same time, same place, same worn-out reasons.
He braced himself against the leather upholstery for a moment and let waves of disgust break over him. Disgust with the rock music throbbing from the balcony of his Malibu mansion and the strangers framed in the tall windows, sipping his booze. Disgust with himself for the music, the moochers and his careless tolerance of it all.
God, what a mess. He sure had a talent for it. But someone had to keep the fast food on all those tabloid press tables. Might as well be John Fitzgerald Kelleran.
He straightened and winced at the catch in his lower back. Bucking hay wasnât the kind of exercise regimen Hollywood trainers recommended. A soak in the hot tub would loosen him up a bit, but heâd still be feeling some twinges come tomorrow morning.
Good. He welcomed the pain. The little creaks and cramps, the dried sweat and streaks of dirt, the specks of alfalfa and manure that clung to his work shirt and jeans made him feel somehow cleaner and more alive, more real than heâd felt in a long while. Gramps had always said there was nothing better for the inside of a man than the outside of a horse.
Samantha, his current lover, would hate it. Sheâd take one look, one whiff, and toss her $10,000 rhinoplasty in the air.
âNo romp in the hay tonight for this cowboy,â he muttered, shoving the car door shut.
And did he really care? Not anymore. Sheâd siphoned off enough celebrity from their relationship, and heâd satisfied his craving for her particular flavor. Time to rustle up the backbone to end the affair. Later tonight, when they didnât have an audience, heâdâ
No, not tonight. Sheâd headed into the valley at noon to tape her guest spot on The Tonight Show and dine with her new agent, basking in the glow of her televised glory. No, he wouldnât dim her spotlight. Not tonight.
âDamn.â Fitz angled his wrist beneath the beam of a security lamp and squinted at his Rolex. Too late to catch Lenoâs opening monologue, but heâd sure better catch Sam. If he didnât, thereâd be hell to pay. Up-and-coming starlets demanded close-up focus on every detail of their self-absorbed lives. Tonight, for one last time, heâd play the supporting role.
He took a deep breath, chuffed it out and shouldered his way through the exotic tiled entry.
âDude.â
âHey, Max.â Fitz nodded a greeting at Samâs yoga instructor and edged past him, swinging by the wet bar to snag a Corona.