Power Play (5 page)

“No, I just think you're a very popular actress, and no actress wants to be upstaged or risk losing her adoring public to someone else. And don't forget: you
do
have an adoring public.”

“I know.” It should have cheered Monica, but it didn't.

“You have been MIA for a while,” Theresa said carefully. “Is anything wrong?”

“Just tired.”

Which was true, but it wasn't the whole story. The fact was that until now, she didn't feel like she had any juice left to give to the public, especially since—and here she felt like a horrible, bitchy snob—it wasn't the public she'd always dreamed of having. Yet the minute her status was threatened, what did she do? Scurry off to her publicist so they could figure out a way to keep her prominent among soap fans. What a hypocrite.

“Well, we need to get you untired and reinspired. Get you on board with some charity events, some film openings, have you seen dining in chichi restaurants. Doing some soap fan events would be good, too. But you already know all this, Monica.”

Monica nodded, feeling mildly chastised, which she supposed she deserved.

“What we really need, though, is to have you seen out and about with someone incredibly suave and gorgeous.” Theresa paused, biting down on the tip of her pen. “You ever hear of Eric Mitchell? He was just traded to the New York Blades. He was voted one of
People
magazine's ‘Top Fifty Bachelors,' and next week he's going to be on the cover of
New York
magazine. I cannot tell you how hot this guy is right now, both in terms of popularity
and
looks.”

Monica was horrified. “And I cannot tell you how obnoxious he is. He just did a cameo on the show. He was awful, Theresa. And he hit on me!”

“So you two already know each other—great!”

“Theresa, I am not going out with Eric Mitchell. Seriously.”

“I'm not asking you to get romantic with him. Just make people think you're a couple. Be seen with him here and there for a while. People will eat it up: the actress and the pro athlete. The public will love it, and so will the execs at
W and F
, believe me. It'll make great copy. Plus you're both so gorgeous, everyone will love the eye candy.”

Monica put her face in her hands. “Oh my God. I can't believe you're asking this of me.”

“Do you want your name on people's lips again or not?” Theresa asked, sounding irked. Why did Theresa always have to be so blunt? It was that Italian American thing. No beating around the bush. Call it like you see it.

Monica lifted her head, feeling desperate. “Of course I want that. But isn't there something else we could do?”

“Hmm. You could leave the show and enter a convent. Maybe come out as a lesbian. Or better yet, a hasbian—you know, harboring a deep, dark lesbian past, but now you're straight as a ruler with an insatiable sexual appetite for men.”

Monica scowled. “Very funny.”

“Trust me on this Eric Mitchell thing, Monica. I know what I'm doing.”

“What if he tries to hit on me again?” asked Monica.

“You can handle him.”

Yeah, by shooting him with a tranquilizer gun. “How much time would I have to spend with him?”

“That would depend on how much press you two generate.” Theresa's expression was encouraging. “Look, I've met Eric. I know he comes off as a bit of a jerk at first, but deep down, he's a nice guy.”

Monica drew back, puzzled. “How do you know Eric?”

“My husband is the assistant coach for the Blades, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” Monica had met Michael Dante a few times and liked him. He was smart and funny, the first man to destroy her assumption that all jocks were lacking when it came to gray matter.

Two famous people who are hot, the big city at night . . . how about you give me your number, and we set the world on fire
. . . Shit, could she really pretend to be involved with someone who'd actually said that to her? The thought made her contemplate throwing herself under a cab. Then again, it would give her another opportunity to act, which she loved doing.

Theresa was looking at her expectantly. “Well?”

“Fine,” Monica huffed. “But if he mauls me in the back of a limo, I'm holding you responsible.”

“I seriously doubt that will happen.” Theresa crossed her long legs, stretching her arms out along the back of the couch. “Now, we just have to figure out where the two of you should make your debut.”

“Well, there's going to be a black tie dinner at the Temple of Dendur next Friday night to honor James Dempsey.”

“Perfect. The place will be swarming with paparazzi. I'll get in touch with all my contacts and let them know you'll be showing up with a delicious little surprise on your arm.”

Retired actor James Dempsey had been one of Holly-wood's brightest stars until his fortune changed—kind of like Gloria, Monica thought. Determined to keep working, he eventually landed a job in television, spending six years on a popular detective show called
Chim Chim and Jones
, about a private investigator whose sidekick was a monkey. His final acting job was on
The Wild and the Free
, playing the grand patriarch of the Deveraux clan until illness forced him to retire. Monica adored him; he was a great actor and a wonderful person. She was glad his peers would be honoring him.

“Wear something stunning,” Theresa instructed.

“As if I wouldn't.”

Monica moved to collect her bag, then stopped. “Oh, hell. I have to call him, don't I? Eric?”

“Relax. I'll handle the whole thing.”

FOUR

“You look gorgeous.”

Monica smiled at Eric's compliment, impressed that he had slid out of the stretch limo to meet her beneath the awning of her building and walk her all of six feet to the back of the waiting car. His eyes did a tour of her body, but in this case, she couldn't really complain, since that was exactly what she was angling for, though not for his benefit, but for the press. The dress was midnight blue, with a plunging neckline and a slit up the side to show off the fabulous legs she maintained through endless Pilates sessions. She'd chosen the color because it brought out her sapphire blue eyes, “the most beautiful eyes since Elizabeth Taylor,”
Soap World
had once said. She'd worn her hair up. It was loosely tousled, soft curls cascading around her face. When Gene the doorman whistled and told her she looked like “hot stuff,” Monica knew she'd nailed it. She just hoped the paparazzi agreed.

She turned to Eric. “Ever been in a limo before?”

Eric looked offended. “Uh,
yeah
.”

“Just checking. Ever seen the Temple of Dendur?”

“No.”

“It's pretty amazing. It's an Egyptian temple that has its own wing at the Met. One of the walls is sheer glass, and there's this reflecting pool . . . it's really impressive.”

“You go to museums a lot?”

“Not really,” Monica confessed, feeling a little embarrassed. Her mentor, Monty, always said you couldn't be a real artist unless you had appreciation for other branches of the arts. Monica always felt she didn't read enough, didn't go to enough concerts or dance recitals or art museums. Maybe that's why she wasn't a real actress yet. Maybe she wasn't well-rounded enough.

Since Eric had had no qualms blatantly giving her the once-over, she did the same to him and was impressed by what she saw. Obnoxious as he might be, the man looked positively Bond-like in a tux. “You look nice.”

Eric grinned. “I agree.”

Jerk. How had she let Theresa talk her into this? Two seconds in his presence, and already Monica was irritated.
Act,
she reminded herself.
Use your skills.

“You a James Dempsey fan?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Eric. “It's a bummer that he died.”

Monica blinked. “What?”

“He's dead, right? I thought this dinner is to honor his memory.”

“He's not dead! This dinner is to honor his contribution to the world of entertainment.”

“Oh. Well, that's good.” Eric paused. “Is Chim Chim going to be there?” he asked hopefully.

“You know, the monkey from
Chim Chim and Jones
.”

“I know who Chim Chim is. I don't know.”

“I hope so. Maybe I can get an autograph. My brother and I used to love that show. Chim Chim was amazing.”

“He's a
monkey
, Eric. I doubt he does autographs.”

“You're wrong. I'm sure he's been taught to hold a pen and scribble. Hell, he fired a pistol on the show.”

Monica wished she had a pistol. So she could point it at her own temple and pull the trigger.

“I remember when James was on
W and F
,” Eric continued. “He was great.”

“You actually watch
W and F
?” Monica was surprised.

“The whole team does. It passes the time when we're on the road, stuck in a hotel during the day while waiting to play at night. We watch it when we're working out, too.”

“Oh.” Monica was surprised as well as pleased. It was kind of cool that big, macho jocks watched soaps.

Eric slid closer to her. “About this date . . .”

“Actually, it's not really a date. You're my escort. I'm sure Theresa explained the whole thing to you.”

“Theresa used the word
date
.” He inched closer. “Look, you don't have to apologize for the way you treated me on the set. I knew you'd come round,” he murmured. He was doing that hooded, bedroom eye thing again. She wondered if he'd learned it from watching Royce's bad acting on
W and F
.

He was almost next to her now. Monica tensed, discreetly opening the beaded clutch she'd brought with her; inside was a small can of mace. She'd use it if she had to, so help her God she would.

“You're my escort,” Monica repeated.

“Call it whatever you want,” Eric replied with a dismissive chuckle. “The fact remains, you asked Theresa to contact me, and here I am.”

“Here you are,” Monica repeated with false gaiety. She made a mental note to fire Theresa in the morning.

 

Please
don't let him mention Chim Chim,
thought Monica as she and Eric made their way to their table at the Met. She was glad to see Gloria was at her table, as well as Devlin O'Dare, who played the newly zombified bartender in Garrett City. Unfortunately, Royce was there, too.

“Well, well,” Gloria murmured with a lewd smile, her heavily made-up eyes raking Eric's body, pausing extra long at his crotch. “Who have we got here, Monica my love?”

“Everyone, this is Eric Mitchell, my—”

“Date,” Eric finished smoothly, taking Gloria's hand and raising it to his lips. “It's a great honor to meet you, ma'am.”

Gloria looked pleased. “I love men with manners.”

Eric was amiable as he regarded Royce. “Hey.”

“Met Gar's own Laurence Olivier,” said Royce dryly. “What an
unexpected pleasure
”—he smirked as he looked at Monica—“to see you again. I guess you two really hit it off last week.”

“Yes,” said Monica. She turned to Eric. “Let's sit, shall we?” Eric nodded, pulling out her chair for her.

What happened next shocked her. Eric's demeanor was smooth as glass as he chatted with others at the table. It was as if he'd left his jerk persona behind him in the limo, somehow turning into a thoughtful, charming companion. Who was this chameleon?

To be honest, Monica's urge to fire Theresa flew out the window the second she and Eric had stepped out of the limo and walked up the steps of the museum together. Cameras clicked wildly with the paparazzi yelling out her name, wanting to know if she was dating Eric. It was frightening how natural he was in front of the cameras, pausing with her for photos, his hand holding hers, the two of them smiling. He even knew to beam at her with unabashed affection, but she couldn't think about that now. All she knew was they'd be in all the gossip columns tomorrow, along with their picture. Mission accomplished.

“Can I get you anything at the bar?” Eric asked solicitously during a break in conversation. He was unfailingly polite, no sign of the smug egomaniac she'd walked in with.

“No, I'm fine, thanks.” Small waves of guilt were beginning to lap at her conscience. It was obvious Eric was thrilled to be here, doing his best to be the perfect—well, escort. And what was she doing? Using him. The longer the evening wore on, the worse she felt. It wasn't right. She didn't care what Theresa's master plan was. When the night was over, she was going to tell him the truth and apologize.

“Darling, shall we hit the little girls' room?” Gloria said to her.

“Certainly.” Monica rose. “Be back in a minute,” she said with a light touch to Eric's shoulder. A nice theatrical touch.

Eric rose. “Perfect timing,” he murmured in her ear. “I'll go pay my respects to Chim Chim.”

Monica smiled tersely. “You do that.”

Walking with Gloria to the ladies' room, Monica worried about her friend slipping on the tiled floors. She was wearing rhinestone-studded spike heels; if she fell and broke her hip, it would all be over. Monica laced her arm through Gloria's. “Having fun?”

“God, yes. That boy toy you brought with you is
delicious
. Very nice, too. I sincerely hope your plan is to bring him home with you tonight and ravish him until neither of you can walk by the morning.”