Page 38 of Blood Stone

Garrett straightened in his seat, facing her squarely. He raised a brow. “It was leverage, to bring you to this table. And it worked, didn’t it?” He held out his hand, and the assistant smoothly inserted a thick wad of bound paper into it.

He placed the paper on the table in front of Kate. “I thought we might as well get this over with in one meeting.”

She looked down at the neatly drawn-up agreement, her eyes widening, and anger building in her features. If Roman hadn’t warned her that Garrett would do this, he would have thought her genuinely furious. It was a stunning performance.

Kate appeared to contain her anger. Her jaw clenched. Only her eyes showed the furnace of fury inside her. “My standard terms are one percent of net US profits, first theatre release only.”

“Net? And have your accountants inflate expenses to the point where there’s no profits left to be had?” Garrett shook his head. “Gross, world profits, for theatricalandDVD and Blu-ray releases.”

Kate’s mouth opened. “You’re fucking kidding me! Sauvage isn’t worth that, even at his normal price tag! You’re only putting in five million, Garrett.—”

“Andbabysitting expenses.”

“Even so, that’s chickenfeed compared to my up-front investment. Asking for a cut on the gross on the DVD and Blu-ray is just plain rude. It’s not like you’ll be pulling anything close to your share of the weight to justify it.”

“I can help in more ways than just bringing Sauvage on board,” Garrett replied. His tone was calm. She was barely lifting his pulse.

Why not? Roman stared at him, wondering what aces Garrett had up his sleeve.

“I don’twantyour help.” Kate’s voice was low and hard.

“You need it,” Garrett said flatly. His face was neutral. He wasn’t reacting to her at all. He’d said it at the start: He knew she was pissed. He placed his hand on the table, just like Kate’s, but his was calming, soft. “Most of your labour has disappeared because of Labour Relations. They either aren’t allowed to work anymore, or they’ll be too scared to come back to the lot. You’ll get a fraction of your regular crews back, and you’re supposed to start principle photography in a week.”

“That’s what agencies are for,” Kate shot back.

“You think they haven’t heard about your troubles by now?” Garrett replied. “You’re marked, Kate. They’ll have trouble finding people for you, too. But I can help smooth that over. I’ll be able to get you the skills and bodies you need.”

“You don’t know one end of a lens from another. How the fuck do you figure you’re going to find me skilled labour?”

“I know people who do know lens. And costumes and lighting. And more. It’s all about who you know. And I know a lot of people.” His smile was warm. Reassuring.

Damn, but he was good.

Kate shook her head disbelievingly. “You know people? You’ve been in this town for three weeks, Garrett. Even I don’t know that many people.”

“I know people,” he assured her. He glanced at his watch, then at the assistant. Annette waved at one of the men that Roman had picked out earlier. This one was sitting close by the fire exit. The man got up and opened the door.

Patrick Sauvage stepped through, and the security guard stepped up alongside him as they headed for the tables. Heads began to turn. Elbows nudged. This was laid-back, seen-it-all Los Angeles, but it was Patrick Sauvage walking through the bar. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at Patrick Sauvage go by.

Kate, hyper-sensitive to the arrival of any star, turned her head, her radar alerted.

“Fuck,” she said, and glared at Garrett.

“I know people,” Garrett replied, with a small smile.

Everyone at the table was watching Sauvage’s approach now.

Roman had to admire Garrett’s sense of drama and timing. If he had meant to make an impression, he had achieved it. Even he was having a hard time not being impressed by the glittering star heading their way.

Patrick Sauvage was six foot three, broad shouldered, and although the public had speculated for years, no one had officially pinned down his age. Roman figured he was in his early or mid-forties, but blessed with a youthful appearance. His real age gave him a maturity, though, that lent gravitas to roles in which younger actors would have a hard time making audiences take them seriously.

Dark hair, dark eyes and a chiselled jaw, along with the famous eight pack physique and more infamous ass cheeks that had appeared inside woman’s magazines across the globe whenever he went swimming on a public beach...Patrick Sauvage was made for the physical roles. But he was also classically good looking, so he could pull off historical roles, contemporary roles...whatever he was wanted for.

He tended to piss off most of the A-list actors, because he could also act, so they couldn’t laugh at his performances and dismiss him that way. He had trained in London, and he had been honing his skills through the years with private coaching. He was a master at accents.

Kate was right. Sauvage was perfect for Murad, except that he was flaky.

His personal life was not just a shipwreck; it was a museum in ode to marine time disasters. Four wives and at least three serious relationships had broken up publically and loudly. And then there was the fact that Sauvage liked to inhale or drink a lot of his spare income and the resultant disasters from that.