Angling toward her, he addressed the concern that had risen to the top of his list. “I’ll admit I have dozens of questions I’d like to ask, but I’m not going to pry. There is one I’d appreciate an answer to, though. You used a boxing analogy for the visit from your agent—and from what I overheard, I got the impression he’s the forceful type. He didn’t use any . . . physical . . . pressure to try to convince you to fall in line, did he?”
Her startled expression, followed by a short burst of laughter, eased his mind on that score.
“Simon, get physical? Perish the thought. He might damage one of his designer shirts or jackets.” Then her humor faded. “His methods are all psychological—a much more sophisticated . . . and effective . . . approach to pressuring someone to bend to your will. He’s a master manipulator.”
Zach narrowed his eyes. “You pay this guy, right? He works for you?”
“In theory. But certain Hollywood agents—including Simon—have God complexes. They believe they’ve saved you from the hell of anonymity and are primarily responsible for your success. They use this misguided conviction to create guilt and self-doubt in susceptible clients, many of whom have fragile egos. Yours truly included.”
Katherine Parker had self-esteem issues?
Not from what he’d read online.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone with a fragile ego.”
She called up a sad smile and drew a curved line in the sand with the toe of her shoe. “I’m an actress, remember? We’re experts at putting up a convincing front. But Simon knows my story, as well as my dreams and insecurities and fears. He long ago learned my hot buttons.”
“Why do you stay with him?”
“He has excellent connections and knows how to line up jobs. I didn’t begin to get decent parts until I signed with him. If you read my career history, you know I’ve had a role on a TV series for several years. He got me that gig, which is the role that gave me financial security . . . and is opening the door to bigger opportunities.”
“Like the one he’s dangling in front of you now.”
“Yes.” She stretched her legs out in front of her and hunched forward. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Very little—but I got the feeling it was a major movie.”
“It is.”
“I also got the impression you’re dragging your feet about signing.”
“I am.”
Hoping she wouldn’t bolt, he tiptoed into what could be restricted territory. “It can be hard to think straight in the midst of grief.”
At her blank look, his spirits took an uptick. Apparently her relationship with Jason Grey hadn’t been as serious as the articles had implied.
“Oh.” The confusion on her face cleared. “You mean Jason?”
“The stories I read said the two of you were a couple.”
She shook her head. “Not true. Our relationship was a stunt Simon dreamed up to get us both more media attention. Jason was his client too. He thought spicing up our images would generate more press, and a romance fit the bill. I went along with the plan under pressure, but I never liked the whole setup. Jason had a number of serious issues—including a drug problem—and I was about to back out of the arrangement. In fact, Jason, Simon, and I had an argument about it at the wrap party.” She swallowed. “Six hours later, Jason was dead.”
“And you were in the spotlight because the two of you were linked—leading to insinuations about your potential connection to drugs.”
“Yes. Talk about irony. I wouldn’t touch drugs for a million dollars.”
Reassuring to know she’d never succumbed to one of the vices rampant among the Hollywood set—and in society in general.
“But you were cleared.”
“By law enforcement. Speculation continues to flourish in the gossip rags, however. That’s one of the reasons Simon wants me to accept the role in this picture ASAP. He thinks it will shift attention away from the negative situation with Jason and get me a more positive spin in the media.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I agree his argument has merit, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Careful, Zach. Let her set the pace or she’ll close up tight as a threatened sea anemone.
“You have other concerns?”
Her throat worked, and when she turned toward him there was a sheen over her blue irises. “This has to stay between us.”
“Goes without saying.”
Her respiration grew shallow, as if she was on the verge of hyperventilating, and a few tiny beads of sweat popped out above her upper lip. “I’ve never told this to anyone, but I’m . . . I’m not certain anymore about . . . that the dream I’ve spent my life pursuing is . . . that it’s the right one.”
The admission came out so soft and shaky, he had to lean close to catch the words before the wind snatched them away.
Ignoring the keep-your-distance warning strobing across his brain, he took her hand again. Locked gazes with her. “I’ve been there, Katherine. I know what you’re going through.”
“That’s why I-I told you. I don’t think anyone else would understand—especially Simon. I want time to think, but show business doesn’t work that w-way. Deals don’t stay on the table long. As he reminded me, the clock is ticking. If I do sign on for this movie, though, I’ll be plunged back into all the craziness. That isn’t . . . it’s not . . .” She sucked in a ragged breath. “That wasn’t the kind of life I wanted when I set my sights on an acting career.”
“What did you want?”
“Affirmation and security.”
Based on her swift response, it was obvious she’d given the question a lot of thought.
But her reply raised other questions.
He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand. “You seem very certain about your motivation.”
“I am.” She watched a sandpiper scuttle along the surf line, dodging waves. “It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out that growing up dirt-poor can have a lasting impact on your life.” Dipping her chin, she scuffed out the smiley-face line she’d toed into the sand earlier.
“Define dirt-poor.”
“I was always hungry. Our apartment was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. All my clothes came from thrift shops—and my classmates took great delight in ridiculing them.” A flash of remembered pain echoed in her eyes.
His heart hurt for her. “Kids can be cruel.”
“Yeah—and I wasn’t their only target. They also made fun of my mom’s job. She had dyslexia and never finished high school, so she spent her life cleaning office buildings. I know she loved me, but with her evening and weekend work schedule, I didn’t see much of her. It was hard, exhausting physical labor—yet her wages were barely sufficient to provide us with the bare necessities.”
“Like milk.” Now her comment last week made sense.
“Yeah. Among other things.”
“I take it your dad wasn’t in the picture.” He waded carefully into what could be murky waters.
Her features hardened. “He was for a while—but he drank too much and couldn’t hold a job. Mom supported us. He walked out when I was ten. We didn’t miss him.”