Page 5 of A Star is Scorned

Flynn woke with a jolt. He turned his neck and a ripple of pain shot down his arm. He clapped his palm to his neck and rubbed at a knot that had formed—a result of his odd, cramped sleeping position. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the morning bleariness and figure out where the hell he was.

He leaned his head into his armchair, and suddenly, a wave of familiar perfume crashed into him.

The worn, burnt-orange velvet of the upholstery still held the ghost of his mother’s scent.

He steadied himself, inhaling and relaxing with each breath as the memories of the previous night returned to him.

He hadn’t been able to sleep, and after tossing and turning in bed for several hours, he’d gone downstairs, fixed himself a hot toddy, and wandered into the library.

It had been ages since he’d come in here.

But the moment he’d entered the dark room last night, a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in years washed over him.

His heart rate had slowed as he observed the quiet solemnity of the library, his custom cherrywood shelves standing staunchly in rows like sentinels.

His eyes had gone straight to his favorite chair, a cozy, high-backed piece with a deep seat.

The fabric color reminded him of the view of the sunset from his back deck.

It was the only piece of furniture he’d brought with him from England when he’d moved to Hollywood eight years ago.

He’d half forgotten it was in here. What else had he forgotten these last few years?

A book slipped from his lap to the floor, and the muffled thud shook him from his reflections.

He reached down and picked it up. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson.

He gently stroked the cover, remembering the sound of his mother’s voice as she’d read the story to him when he was only a boy.

It had once been the only way his mother, Violet, could get him to go to sleep.

Some sleep-starved part of his brain must’ve remembered that old trick and brought him here last night.

He opened the cover and caressed the inscription in the frontispiece, his fingers tracing the rise and fall of the ink that had been etched there long ago.

To my dearest boy, remember, always choose joy.

For so long, those words had been imprinted on his heart.

They’d been all he had of his mother in the twenty-five years since she had left him.

The words had sent him to Hollywood, a young man determined to suck the marrow out of life.

Olivia Blount’s mention of his once-treasured story had reminded him of this inscription.

He hadn’t thought of it in so long. Touching the words now, he could feel his mother’s presence through the handwriting, and it renewed his belief that he was living his life as she hoped he would.

Well, maybe with less boozing and hanky-panky, but what a mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

All she cared about was whether he was happy.

And he was. He was just going through a fallow period. So, why did he still feel so restless?

It was that damn girl. Olivia Blount was most decidedly not Flynn Banks’s type.

A bluestocking who’d turned up dressed like a boy at one of the most glamorous nightclubs in the world.

That hadn’t stopped him from dreaming about her—the perfect pout of her rose-colored lips, the curve of her pert little bottom, and her startling eyes.

They had looked gray when he’d first ambushed her in her car, but as the sun had set, they darkened and took on a violet hue.

Yet, it wasn’t her beauty that kept him tossing and turning all night.

It was the fact that she had no idea who he was.

That she wasn’t the least bit intrigued by him.

He thought he was a good actor, exciting and interesting on-screen.

But Miss Blount had never even heard of him.

That irked him. Was he so unremarkable then?

There were only so many ways to grin, say “Avast,” and sword fight.

There were thousands of women who did know his name, who would give their eyeteeth to spend one night in his arms. Wasn’t that good enough?

What was one raven-haired slip of a girl, who, by her own admission, never went to the pictures?

His fingers were still absentmindedly tracing his mother’s handwriting when his valet, Hugh, opened the library door, making Flynn jump out of his skin.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Bloody hell, does the entire world think I’m some uncouth ignoramus?” Flynn roared.

Hugh blinked at him, refusing to let any flicker of emotion cross his face. “No, sir. It’s just that you’re usually not awake at this hour.”

“I went to Oxford, Hugh. I read English. I got a first!”

“Yes, sir, I was there. I recall.”

“Just because I’m a scoundrel doesn’t mean I’m dumb,” he muttered.

“Quite right, sir.”

Flynn thought again of Olivia Blount. She’d got him all mixed up.

Now he was yelling at Hugh, who’d been with him since Eton.

People assumed movie stars were dumb, but that was far from the truth.

He’d acted opposite mathematicians and Proust scholars.

Smart actors were better actors. They thought more carefully about their work, and their performances were more nuanced.

He had always hoped he was one of those actors.

But Miss Blount made him wonder if he’d gotten a little too comfortable.

Maybe his first day with a new costar would be good for him, prevent him from resting on his laurels (and his extremely good looks).

Hugh cleared his throat, interrupting his thoughts. “Sir, shall I bring your grapefruit and coffee now?”

“What? Oh. No, Hugh, that’s all right. I’ll eat it in the kitchen as usual. Be up in a moment.”

“Very good, sir.” Hugh politely clicked his heels together and backed out of the room.

Flynn stared down at his timeworn copy of Treasure Island, which had fallen to the floor again when Hugh startled him.

He picked it up, careful not to let the pages that had come unstuck from the binding fall to the floor.

It was silly, but holding it brought his blood pressure down immediately.

He wanted to keep it with him to carry around his mother’s reminder.

Maybe he’d bring it to the studio and leave it in his dressing room.

He felt as if he’d reconnected with an old friend and rediscovered some part of himself he hadn’t even realized was missing.

***

Flynn had just set the book on the coffee table in his dressing room when Connie, one of the girls from wardrobe, knocked on his door.

He had never slept with her. It was a pity, because she had great legs and cascades of golden-blond hair, but his one rule was to never sleep with the people whose job was to make you look good.

Inevitably, they would be upset with him—and then his costumes might start feeling a little too tight or he’d be forced into a color that didn’t suit his complexion.

He knew that made him vain, but he didn’t care.

Everyone in Hollywood was in the business of looking good, and anyone that pretended otherwise was either a pug-nosed executive or a fool.

“Mr. Banks, wardrobe is ready for you.”

“Thanks, Connie. I’ll come with you.” He gave one last look at the book on his dressing table and followed Connie to make the short walk across the lot.

“Miss De Lesseps is here already,” Connie told him. “She’s in her wig that she wears in the scene where you first meet her. Oh, Mr. Banks, it is truly absurd. Like a wedding cake on her head.”

He chuckled at that. One thing he loved about working for Evets’s Studios was the fact that they never skimped on costumes or sets. Harry could be cheap about some things, but not about how good a picture should look. “What’s she like? Is she stuck-up like other French girls?”

He was curious. It was rare to meet your costar the first day on a project together. Usually, he’d know them, either from working together before or from bumping into them around town. But Harry had said this girl was arriving in Hollywood only a few days before the start of production.

“Well, she’s not French. Turns out the studio made up that name. But she’s a darling. She’s so excited about everything. She squealed when we brought out the wig and her undergarments. Asked if she could bring her sister with her tomorrow to see them. She’s like a kid in a candy store.”

“Hmm, with a name like Liv de Lesseps, I was sure Harry had found her on a trip to Paris. But all the better. Sounds like a doll. I like her already.” Flynn Banks knew one thing with absolute certainty—getting to make movies was the best job in the whole world, and he was a lucky son of a gun.

If this Liv de Lesseps felt the same, they’d get on like a house on fire.

Not that he had any trouble setting the hearts of women of his acquaintance aflame.

His mood was already improving, the unsettling notions of the previous night quieted by the assurance that his costar sounded like a lot of fun.

“Well, let’s stop by her fitting room, and you can meet her.

She’s a natural. Evelyn says she could make a sack look good.

” Flynn’s thoughts turned again to Miss Blount and how delectable her bottom looked in a pair of men’s trousers.

They arrived at wardrobe and Connie pushed open the door.

“Her eyes! Gray in some lights, violet in others. They’ll look brilliant in Technicolor with the gowns Evelyn has designed for her. ”

Connie’s words dropped like a stone in his gut. He’d spent all night dreaming about a pair of fine eyes that matched Connie’s description—and what were the odds that two different women he met in less than twenty-four hours would have such a unique set of eyes?