Carole Mortimer - The Talk of Hollywood

Praise for Carole Mortimer:

‘A physically vulnerable hero and spunky heroine make a winning combination that readers are bound to fall in love with.’

—RT Book Reviews on THE RETURN OF THE RENEGADE

‘This is an excellently penned tale about family dynamics, grudges, and letting go of the past. The ending is particularly satisfying.’

—RT Book Reviews on THE RELUCTANT DUKE

‘Her strong, traditional romances, with their distinct style, brilliantly developed characters and romantic plot twists, have earned her an enthusiastic audience worldwide.’

—Dear Author on Carole Mortimer

CAROLE MORTIMERwas born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon ®. Carole has six sons: Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

Recent titles by the same author:

SURRENDER TO THE PAST

TAMING THE LAST ST CLAIRE

(The Scandalous St Claires) THE RELUCTANT DUKE (The Scandalous St Claires) JORDAN ST CLAIRE: DARK AND DANGEROUS (The Scandalous St Claires)

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Talk of Hollywood

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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‘IT WOULD appear that your guest has finally arrived, Gramps,’ Stazy said as she stood stiffly beside one of the bay windows in the drawing room, facing towards the front of Bromley House and watching the sleek black sports car as it was driven down the gravel driveway of her grandfather’s Hampshire estate. She was unable to make out the features of the driver of the car behind the tinted windows; but, nevertheless, she was sure that it was Jaxon Wilder, the English actor and director who for the past ten years had held the fickle world of Hollywood in the palm of his elegant hand.

‘Don’t be so hard on the man, Stazy; he’s only five minutes late, and he did have to drive all the way from London!’ her grandfather chided indulgently from the comfort of his armchair.

‘Then maybe it would have been a good idea on his part to take into account the distance he had to travel and set out accordingly.’ Stazy had made absolutely no secret of her disapproval of Jaxon Wilder’s visit here, and found the whole idea of his wanting to write and direct a film about the life of her deceased grandmother totally unacceptable. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to persuade her grandfather into dismissing the idea as readily—which was why Jaxon Wilder was now parking that sleek black sports car on the driveway outside her grandfather’s home.

Stazy turned away before she saw the man in question alight from the car; she already knew exactly what Jaxon Wilder looked like. The whole world probably recognised Jaxon Wilder after he had completely swept the board at every awards ceremony earlier in the year with his recent film, in which he had once again acted and directed.

Aged in his mid-thirties, he was tall and lean, with wide and powerful shoulders, slightly overlong dark hair, and piercing grey eyes set either side of an aristocratic nose. His mouth was sculptured and sensual, his chin square and determined, and the deep timbre of his voice had been known to send quivers of pleasure down the spines of women of all ages. Jaxon Wilder was known to be the highest paid actor and director on both sides of the pond.

His looks and appeal had often led to his being photographed in newspapers and magazines with the latest beautiful woman to share his life—and his bed! And his reason for coming here today was to use that charm in an effort to persuade Stazy’s grandfather into giving his blessing—and help—to the writing of a screenplay about the adventurous life of Stazy’s grandmother, Anastasia Romanski. A woman who, as a young child, had escaped the Russian Revolution with her family by fleeing to England, and as an adult had been one of the many secret and unsung heroines of her adopted country.

Anastasia had died only two years ago, at the age of ninety-four. Her obituary in the newspaper had drawn the attention of a nosy reporter who, when he had looked deeper into Anastasia’s life, had discovered that there had been far more to Anastasia Bromley than the obscure accolades mentioned. The result had been a sensationalised biography about Anastasia, published six months ago, and the ensuing publicity had caused her grandfather to suffer a mild heart attack.

In the circumstances, was it any wonder that Stazy had been horrified to discover that Jaxon Wilder intended to make a film of Anastasia’s life? And, even worse, that the film director had an appointment with her grandfather in order to discuss the project? Stazy had decided it was a discussion she had every intention of being a part of!

‘Sir Geoffrey.’ Jaxon moved smoothly forward to shake the older man’s hand as the butler showed him into the drawing room of Bromley House.

‘Mr Wilder.’ It was hard to believe that Geoffrey Bromley was a man aged in his mid-nineties as he returned the firmness of Jaxon’s handshake. His dark hair was only lightly streaked with grey, his shoulders still stiffly erect in his tailored dark three-piece suit and snowy white shirt with a meticulously tied grey tie.

‘Jaxon, please,’ he invited. ‘May I say how pleased I am that you agreed to see me today—?’

‘Then the pleasure would appear to be all yours!’

‘Stazy!’ Geoffrey Bromley rebuked affectionately as he turned towards the woman who had spoken so sharply.

Jaxon turned to look at her too as she stood in front of the bay window. The sun shining in behind her made it hard for him to make out her features, although the hostility of her tone was enough of an indication that she, at least, wasn’t in the least pleased by Jaxon’s visit!

‘My granddaughter Stazy Bromley, Mr Wilder,’ Sir Geoffrey introduced lightly.

Jaxon, having refreshed his memory on the Bromley family before leaving his London hotel earlier that morning, already knew that Stazy was short for Anastasia—the same name as her grandmother. Information that had in no way prepared him for Stazy Bromley’s startling resemblance to her grandmother as she stepped out of the sunlight.

About five-six in height, with the same flame-coloured hair—neither red nor gold, but a startling mixture of the two—and a pale and porcelain complexion, she had a wide, intelligent brow above sultry eyes of deep emerald-green. Her nose was small and perfectly straight, and she had full and sensuous lips above a stubbornly determined chin.