Page 32 of A Star is Scorned

When the studio car dropped Livvy off at Flynn’s Malibu mansion, she could hardly believe her eyes.

The entire stone driveway was lined with glowing jack-o’-lanterns, and a flurry of construction paper bats were taped to the stucco wall of the house.

The jack-o’-lanterns continued around the perimeter of the property, and she had no doubt that if she followed them, they would lead all the way to the beach.

She suddenly felt very small and out of place in her green Peter Pan costume, the gravel of the driveway pressing through her elfin shoes.

“‘Second star to the right and straight on till morning’,” she muttered, taking a breath and squaring her shoulders.

She passed through the arched doorway lined with colorful tiles and approached Flynn’s oak front door, which stood open. A breeze blew in from the water, and she hugged her thin little cardigan more tightly around her as she scurried inside.

“May I take your coat—er, sweater?”

Livvy was shocked to find award-winning screenwriter Arlene Morgan, dressed as a rather fetching witch, working the unofficial coat check. “Miss Morgan?”

“Technically, it’s Lamont now. But on scripts, it’s still Morgan.”

That was right. Livvy remembered now. Arlene Morgan had married rising star Don Lamont earlier this year in a quiet ceremony in her parents’ backyard. She’d read about it in one of Judy’s copies of Silver Screen Secrets.

“Oh, I just wanted to say how much I admire your work,” Livvy stammered, so nervous she could barely get the words out. “I love to read, and your script for Reno Rendezvous made me realize that movies are just as much a storytelling art form as novels.”

Arlene darted her head around, making a show of looking for onlookers.

“Don’t say that too loud in here, the house that piracy built.

” Livvy laughed. It should come as no surprise that Arlene Morgan was a quick wit, but it caught Livvy off guard all the same.

“Besides, aren’t you starring in a swashbuckler right now? ”

Livvy blushed. “Yes, it’s my first picture. I’m Liv de Lesseps, but you probably already know that.”

“Well, let me tell you a secret, Miss De Lesseps. Swashbucklers are my favorite!”

Livvy giggled and handed over her sweater. “They’re mine too.” They tittered together. “I hope my movie won’t disappoint.”

“Based on what Flynn’s said, I’m sure you won’t.” Livvy wanted to ask what Arlene meant by that. She’d said you, not it. Had it been a slip of the tongue? Or was Arlene hinting at something? How much had Flynn been talking about her with his friends? It was a terrifying and thrilling thought.

“Um, has he told you—”

“That he’s in love with you?”

Livvy froze in her tracks. So Flynn hadn’t told his friends about the PR relationship. He’d kept them in the dark and protected the ruse. But saying he was in love with her? That seemed to be laying it on a bit thick. Arlene carried on, not noticing that she had rendered Livvy mute.

“Of course he didn’t tell us that. But it’s obvious to those of us who know him well. Enjoy the party!”

Arlene turned and hung Livvy’s sweater in the foyer closet, clearly signaling that this conversation was over.

Livvy slipped into the living room, feeling like she’d bumped her head on something on the way in.

Flynn was in love with her? Or at least his friends seemed to think so.

That couldn’t possibly mean that the man had real feelings for her.

The idea was preposterous. Perhaps he was just really convincing whenever he talked about her.

Not looking where she was going, she accidentally bumped into someone’s back. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she started, only to nearly swallow her tongue when Joan Davis turned around to face her.

“Oh, you must be Livvy!” Joan grabbed Livvy’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length, taking her in. “Oh my goodness, are you Peter Pan?”

Livvy nodded, unable to find her voice as she let the scene around her filter into her brain. Dash Howard stood behind Joan; they had been dancing until Livvy collided with them.

“Dash, go get Flynn. This is too good.” As Dash stalked off, Joan returned her attention to Livvy. “Wait till you see him, darling. Did you plan this together?”

“Uh, no.” Livvy hadn’t the scarcest idea what Joan was talking about.

She let herself take in the rest of the room.

A live band was in the corner, playing a rollicking rendition of the Charleston.

She did a double take. Was that Benny Goodman on clarinet?

Flynn hadn’t been joking when he’d told her his Halloween party was the event of the season.

Everyone who was anyone in Hollywood was packed into this room, drinking a ghastly looking green beverage out of punch glasses, smoking, and having a hell of a great time.

It was shockingly normal. Except that you could spit in any direction and hit someone more famous than God.

“Pan!” bellowed a British voice that made Livvy feel like she’d swallowed an entire bottle of pixie dust, a shimmery, fizzy sensation suffusing her whole body. She looked down to make sure her feet were still on the ground.

The owner of the voice rounded the corner from the kitchen, and in the place of Flynn Banks was Captain Hook in all his mustache-twirling glory.

Flynn was sporting a massive curly dark wig, on top of which was perched an ostentatious hat with a large black feather protruding from the brim and curling down into Flynn’s face.

Above his full lips, he had painted a false mustache.

The only way she recognized him was by the unmistakable twinkle in his blue eyes and the mischievous smirk in the corner of his mouth.

And the live capuchin monkey perched on his shoulder, whose eyes lit up at the sight of her.

The monkey leapt to the floor and sprinted to her, climbing her leg until she made a perch for him with her forearm. “Hello, Rallo, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The monkey grinned, and she giggled at the awful sight of his bared teeth as he climbed her arm and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Don’t you steal my girl,” Flynn called out. It made Livvy laugh, and she patted Rallo on the head. She was overcome by the sensation of bubbles floating through her chest.

It was ridiculous, really. She’d been so frightened of coming tonight.

Doubtful that she could control whatever she felt for Flynn.

Uneasy about the party guests’ wilder side.

Or worse, that Flynn’s friends and Hollywood acquaintances would find her lacking in some way.

Or that they’d immediately see through their charade, and the jig would be up.

Arlene Morgan seemed absolutely convinced Flynn was head over heels for her—a thought perhaps even more terrifying than the notion of being found out.

But all her anxieties vanished at the sight of a little monkey.

Flynn ran to her and swept her up into a hug, twirling her in a circle. Livvy had the stray thought that this must be what flying felt like. Rallo gnashed his teeth and leapt down, scurrying out of the room.

“Oh, this is marvelous!” crowed Flynn. “Brilliant! Who told you?”

“Who told me what?” He set her down and kept his hands on her waist.

“That I was going as Captain Hook tonight. Your costume is too, too perfect.”

“No one told me anything. Judy suggested that I be Peter Pan, and Connie in the wardrobe department offered to help with my costume.”

“So it’s a coincidence?” Flynn marveled. “Splendid!”

A kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight in Livvy’s chest as Flynn continued to hold on to her, clearly delighted by their accidentally coordinated costumes.

“Clearly a sign that we’re meant to be,” she joked, her voice warbling a bit with nerves. All those around them laughed, including Flynn. Livvy heard someone mutter something about Flynn being “a changed man” behind her and silently patted herself on the back.

Then Flynn assumed a fighting stance, brandishing his hook as if it were a rapier. “En garde, Pan!”

Livvy felt every set of eyes in the room that wasn’t already looking in their direction turn to them. She’d intended to make a brief appearance at the party, smile for some photos, and go home to wait for Judy. But something told her the night had just taken a turn.

“Um…” She removed the tiny faux dagger from the belt around her waist and brandished it limply.

But before she could blink, Joan Davis wrested a rapier from a display on the wall and tossed it at Livvy. “Catch!”

Livvy lifted her arm just in time to grip the fine brass handle of the sword. Its firm, cool presence in her hand filled her with a renewed courage. She grinned, winked at Joan, and mirrored Flynn’s stance. “Might I remind you, Hook, that it is Pan who always wins the battle?”

“Not this time.” Something wicked flashed in Flynn’s eyes as he drew out a rapier hanging from the belt at his side. She attacked, but he parried with his hook, sliding it down the length of the metal blade as it shrieked at the contact.

The other guests parted, making a wide circle around Flynn and Livvy so they could watch.

But Livvy only had eyes for Flynn, his ridiculously oversized hat feather taunting her.

With one swift movement, she swirled her rapier out of the curve of Flynn’s hook and raised it in a circular motion, slicing off the tip of the obnoxiously large feather.

She zigzagged back to knock his hat all the way off with the point of her blade.

The party guests broke into a combination of gasps and applause.

“You do like removing my wardrobe with your sword,” Flynn teased. She blushed, realizing that the tittering jocularity spreading through the room had just been amplified by his comment. She needed to answer him.

“Hush! You’ve managed to convince the press that I’ve reformed you. You don’t want them getting the wrong idea, do you?”

The crowd roared with laughter, and she breathed a little easier.

She’d intended it as a warning to Flynn, a reminder that they were supposed to appear chastely in love.

He should avoid referencing scandalous activities that hadn’t even occurred between them.

And never will, she thought a bit mournfully.

But the guests were enjoying this dance between them.

Perhaps she should give them the show they so clearly wanted.

Returning to the basics of her fencing training, she furiously attacked, backing Flynn up until he was nearly against the wall of the living room. Then she produced the tiny dagger she’d slipped back into the holster of her belt and threw it at him, pinning his red velvet coat to the wall.

“I did try to warn you that Peter Pan always wins,” she crowed, enjoying the admiring murmurs that were traveling around the room.

He attempted to tug the handle of the blade out with his hook to no avail, then raised his hands in surrender. “All right, all right.”

But she continued to advance on him, extending the point of her blade until it notched itself in the dimple in his chin.

He gulped. “B-bad form,” he choked out. She smiled.

Those were Hook’s exact final words in J.

M. Barrie’s novel. It wasn’t something she’d expected him to know.

But then she remembered the night they’d first met.

He’d said that Treasure Island was his favorite novel.

It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he had a fondness for Peter Pan too.

She gently moved the tip of the blade up, caressing his cheek with it. A little zip of electricity ran down her spine at how unexpectedly intimate the gesture was. He raised his eyebrows, but he still looked unsettled. “Livvy…remember, it’s the crocodile, not Peter Pan, who kills Hook.”

The room laughed at that, but he looked more nervous than she’d ever seen him, and she wanted to relish this moment. She’d regained the upper hand, if only for this brief interlude, and she wanted to bask in it.

“Oh, I know, but there aren’t any crocodiles to be had in Malibu.

” She increased her pressure on the blade ever so slightly, watching as it bit gently into his cheek, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to change the color of his complexion.

“Besides, I like you better as Flynn Banks.” She slid her blade under the center part of his wig and pulled it off his head, flinging it into the crowd.

Someone whooped with excitement as they reached up and caught it.

“Piracy looks better on you as a blond.”

His jaw dropped at her words, and she threw her blade at his feet. She put her hands on her hips and struck the pose that hundreds of actors playing Peter Pan on stages around the world had assumed.

But the false bravado that had overtaken her while she was dueling Flynn was quickly dissipating. She resisted the urge to clock the number of extremely famous faces in the crowd who were very likely staring at her. She was entirely uncertain what to do now.

But Joan and Arlene, who had apparently abandoned her duties at the front door, wrapped their arms around her. “Congratulations!” Arlene cooed, while Joan pulled her toward the kitchen, adding, “Let’s get you a drink.”