L.A. Confidential. Джулия Кеннер

you.”

      “I appreciate that,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.

      “I keep my office in New York, but I know people on the coast.” He leaned over, gesturing with the cigar. “Finding a location scout’s not a problem. Finding a scout who can get me access to the places I want to be…that’s another story.”

      She tried to play it cool as her mind raced ahead at a thousand miles an hour, trying to figure out what the devil Greg could have told him. What places in Los Angeles did he think she had special access to? “What locations are you interested in?”

      “Any place conducive to the tone of the film. Erotic. Cutting edge. Heavy on the ambience. I don’t know. Read the damn script. That’s for you to figure out.” He gestured with the cigar again. “Except for one. I’ve got one location in mind for the bulk of the story, and that’s why you’re here now.”

      “What location?” she asked, more confused than ever.

      “Greg said you’d be able to get the crew inside to film at Oxygen. If you can do that, you’re hired.”

      A numbing cold swept over her. “Oxygen?” Her voice was little more than a croak. “You want permission to film in the restaurant?”

      “You can arrange it, yes? Greg said you know the owner, Kenneth Hooper.”

      “Harper,” she corrected automatically as the room seemed to close in on her. “And yes…I know him.”

      Miller leaned back in his chair, his arms spread. “Excellent. So you can do it? You’ll be my new location scout?”

      She swallowed, knowing that the odds of Ken wanting to help her were very, very low. But she was out of options. If she couldn’t pull it off, Miller would fire her and she wouldn’t be any worse off than she was right then. But if she could convince Ken to help her…and if she could find some more locations for Miller…well, if she played her cards right, she could be back on her feet within a year.

      “Ms. Neal? An answer today would be good.”

      She looked up and smiled brightly. “Sorry. Just running through possible locations in my head.”

      “So you’ll do it?”

      She held his gaze, careful to keep an expressionless poker face. “On one condition.”

      He cocked his head. “Condition?”

      Her hands trembled, and she held them tight in her lap. “If I pull this off, I want a producer credit. Not associate producer, not line producer. Producer.”

      For a long moment he said nothing, just stared at her.

      “I want my career back, Mr. Miller.” Her voice shook, and she dropped her eyes, sure he was about to tell her to get the hell out of his office.

      Leather creaked as he shifted in his chair, and she looked up to see him looking at her quizzically. “Tyrell screwed a lot of people, Ms. Neal. But there were a lot of folks in bed with him who deserved to be screwed. If I do this for you, I’m taking a hell of a risk.”

      “I wasn’t one of the ones who deserved it. I worked my tail off for Tyrell and don’t have a damn thing to show for it.”

      He tapped his thumb against his chin, his mouth turning down into a frown. After a moment he stopped and looked at her, his expression stern. “Ms. Neal?”

      She fought a cringe. “Yes?”

      “It looks like we have a deal. Don’t disappoint me.”

      “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m really doing this. I must be a total idiot. It’s never going to work. What was I thinking?” Lisa stopped tossing clothes into her suitcase long enough to glare at Greg. “For that matter, what were you thinking?”

      Nonplussed, he leaned back against the doorjamb and popped the top on a Dr. Brown’s cream soda. “I was thinking you needed the work.” He pointed toward her bed and the pile of clothes. “They’ll travel better if you fold them.”

      She was in no mood for packing lessons, and purposefully crumpled her favorite dress and shoved it into her luggage.

      “It’s your laundry bill.”

      “I’m not worried about my clothes. I’m worried about this job.” She sat on the bed and then flopped backward to stare at the ceiling. “This is a nightmare.” Rolling over, she propped herself up on an elbow to look at him. “I’m the last person Ken’s going to want to help.”

      “The man’s going to jump through hoops to help you. You were the love of his life.”

      She cringed, knowing all too well how much she’d hurt him. “‘Were’ being the operative word.” Her eyes welled, and she flashed a weak smile at Greg. “I’m thirsty,” she lied. “Would you get me a soda?”

      He nodded, probably knowing she needed privacy more than she needed a drink, and slipped out toward the kitchen.

      With a sigh, she rolled over, dragging her pillow across her face. She’d made a huge mistake hitching her star to Drake Tyrell, and made an even bigger mistake leaving Los Angeles in the first place.

      She’d been so naive. Working for Drake had been the biggest thrill of her life, and she’d actually seen two movies come out with her name as associate producer…before her world had come crashing down.

      At the time she’d smelled success, so she’d thrown herself even more into the work, giving it every ounce of energy she had, knowing there’d be nothing left for a personal life, especially not a personal life an entire continent away. She’d had her eye on the prize, so she’d sucked up her courage and told Ken she wanted some time apart and unattached.

      She didn’t regret the decision. Not then, not now. But she’d always regretted the consequences of that decision. She’d hurt Ken, and she’d never really told him how sorry she was.

      After the breakup, Tyrell had told her that her sacrifices were worth it because she was going to be a real player someday. Lousy, lying bastard.

      He hadn’t meant a word of it—he’d just wanted Lisa in his bed and, by the end of a year, that’s exactly where she was. Ken found out, of course, since the affair was plastered all over the tabloids. Even though they’d already broken up, Lisa’s sleeping with Tyrell had hurt Ken—badly—and she hated herself for it.

      When the studio shut them down and Tyrell fled for his native Britain, Lisa was out on her own—and her production credits didn’t mean a thing. She had a scarlet T on her forehead, and it was all she could do to find work on even the lowest-budget flicks.

      Greg came back in, jarring her from her thoughts, and she sat up in time to see him flip the desk chair around to straddle. He crossed his arms over the backrest and nodded toward the diet Coke can on her nightstand. “Feeling better?”

      “You’re just too damn perceptive.”

      “I know. It’s a gift.”

      “I feel fine.” She took a sip, letting the fizzy drink work its magic. “I’m not going to be royally humiliated until later when I’m in Los Angeles.”

      “If you don’t think you have a chance, why’d you take the job?”

      “Because I’m an idiot.” She scooted backward and slipped off the bed to start packing again, this time taking more care to fold each item. After a second she sighed and looked him in the eye. “Okay. You win. I took it because it’s the best shot I’ve had in a long time.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “You just want me in L.A. so you can have the bedroom.”

      “True enough.”

      He laughed, but she knew he was only half joking. They shared the one-bedroom apartment with two others, a flight attendant and another actor/waiter.