Нора Робертс - Hideaway

“I could take her to Big Sur now,” Hugh suggested. “I can commute when I’m needed for postproduction work.”

“No.” Cate stood in the doorway. “No Big Sur, no Ireland, no anywhere.” She shook her head as Hugh moved to cover the tabloid with a script. “I’ve seen it, Grandpa. You, all of you, can’t protect me forever.”

“Wanna bet?”

She walked to Lily, squeezed her hand. “I know I made a mess of this. I did,” she insisted before all three could protest. “I should’ve stood up to her. If there’s ever a next time, I will.”

“There won’t be. The restraining order’s nonnegotiable,” Hugh told her.

“I’m fine with that. I hope like hell she breaks it so she’s back in prison. But I’m not going to let her make me a coward, and she did. If she wants this—this shitpile of publicity, she can have it. I know we’re getting another damn shitpile of reporters pushing for my side, my statement.”

“You’re not talking to the press about this.” Aidan walked to her, took her by the shoulders.

“No, I’m not. I won’t give her the satisfaction. Everyone here, every one of you gave me what I needed to get out of that room all those years ago. And every one of you gave me what I need to do what I have to do now. I told Joel to accept the offer. I’m doing the film.”

“Cate.” Gently now, Aidan brushed a hand over her hair. “I’m not sure you know what you’d be exposing yourself to. Even with security, even if they agreed to a closed set, there’ll be more stories, more photos.”

“If I don’t do it, there’ll be more stories, more photos, because it’s already out I was having a meeting on just this when she barged in. I walk away from this, she wins.”

After touching a hand to her father’s heart, she lifted her arms. “You, all of you can tell me I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, but I am ashamed. I need to do this for myself, to prove I can no matter what she throws at me. It’s not a movie anymore, or a project or a part. It’s how I feel about myself. And right now? I feel small.”

Aidan pulled her in, rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I won’t stand in your way. But we have to work out what precautions to take.”

“Publicity like this brings out the loonies,” Lily pointed out. “I can be proud of you, and I am, for taking a good grip on your own life. But we’re going to protect you.”

“I’ll take the bodyguard, I’ll use a car and driver. I won’t go anywhere alone. For now, it’s here and the studio.”

“Now I’m pissed off all over again.” Her face stony with rage, Lily dropped into a chair. “The girl’s hitting eighteen now, Hugh, for Christ’s sake. We should all be worried about the bad boy she thinks she’s in love with, the clubs she’s sneaking into.”

“I hope to get to all that.” Cate managed a smile. “Maybe a little late on the schedule.”

While Cate focused on preproduction, Charlotte made the circuit.

God, she’d missed the cameras, the lights, the attention. It didn’t matter when she sat in hair and makeup before her segment on a talk show whether she felt disapproval or fascination in the air.

She was on!

She knew how to play the part. After all, she’d had seven years to refine it. Remorse over what she’d done, grief over what she’d lost, the faint, shaky hope for a second chance.

And just a thin line snaking through that pushed the real guilt on Denby and Grant.

They’d lied to her, terrified her until she’d done a terrible thing.

Before her interview—a third-tier gossip rag, but cover story—she perused her wardrobe.

She needed new clothes, a star’s wardrobe, but at the moment, she needed to stick with the simple. Not quite dull, she thought, scowling at the meager selection in the small closet in the crap house she rented. She could never go all the way to dull, but simple, clean lines, no flash had to do for now.

So … the black leggings—she’d worked out like a fiend in prison to keep her shape—the scoop-neck tunic in soft blue.

No bold colors.

Laying out the choices, she sat down at the desk—the crap house came furnished—she used as a makeup table, switched on the good makeup mirror she’d invested in.

She needed a flash tan, but the pallor worked for now. As soon as she could spare a couple weeks, she’d have a little work done. Nothing drastic, but she was sick and tired of looking at the lines.

As with the mirror, she’d invested in good skin care products, good makeup. It didn’t pay to be cheap. And she’d made a little extra doing makeup for other inmates on visiting days.

She spent an hour perfecting her face. The pure, no-makeup look took skill.

While she dressed, she rehearsed—and she plotted. This current run of interviews and appearances wouldn’t last. She’d have to take one of the offers on her table. Lean pickings—straight to video for two, and the third wanted her to play some lunatic in a B slasher that had her cut to ribbons in the first act.

Bullshit on that.

Maybe she could find a way to juggle both other offers, get things rolling again. And that would boost up more press.

Make some connections. If she could find a man who’d back her career—and get her out of this crap house—she’d really be riding again.

An old, rich man, she considered. All you had to do? Lay them right, and you lived like a queen.

She couldn’t get pregnant this time to pull another man into marriage—too late in the game for that even if she could stomach the idea of another kid. But sex, with generous doses of flattery, adoration, and whatever bullshit worked could do the trick.

She’d find one, the right one this time, one without all those sticky family ties and interference.

But in the meantime …

As she used a perfume sample on her wrists, her throat, she thought of Cate.

Maybe she hadn’t ever wanted the kid, maybe she’d seen Cate as a means to an end—but she’d treated that selfish, ungrateful girl like a princess.

Beautiful clothes, Charlotte thought as she walked out into the tiny living room with its ugly navy sofa, its hideous lamps. The best clothes, a professional nursemaid. A nanny—and fuck that Nina sideways. Hadn’t she hired a top designer for the kid’s bedroom? Bought her the sweetest little diamond studs when she’d had the brat’s ears pierced?

She made one mistake—and it wasn’t even really her fault—but one mistake, and the Sullivans try to make her into a monster.

She looked around at the beige walls, the secondhand furniture, the view of the street barely steps away from the front door.

Her eyes shimmered with tears of self-pity. For years, she thought, she’d honestly believed nothing could be as bad as prison—the sound of cell doors locking shut, the smell of sweat and worse, the menial work, the disgusting food.

The utter loneliness.

But how much better was this?

Cate had a few hours—hours—in a room, and for that Charlotte had seven years in a cell, and now how much longer in this horrible house?

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.

She felt herself sinking toward depression, then heard the knock on the door. She blinked back the tears, put on the brave yet sorrowful face she’d perfected.

And hit the mark for her next scene.

In her trailer, Cate poured two glasses of sparkling water. “I’m so glad you’re here, Darlie.”

“Like I said, I had a meeting, and thought I’d swing in. How’s it going?”

Cate, wearing the fuzzy pink sweater for her next scene, sat with Darlie at the little table. “It’s good. Steve, he’s—well, he’s just an awesome director. He can really pull it out of you. The two playing my brothers—especially the younger one—they’re just terrific. And they’re a serious riot. Plus, I have my own quirky BFF this time, and she makes me laugh on set and off.”