Page 84 of Killer Body

“It’s a drama, based loosely on real life, ripped from the headlines, they call it. A spokeswoman for a national weight-loss program is missing, and three women vie for her position.”

A shudder passed through her, but no, she couldn’t think that way. Opportunity was opportunity. She needed to accept it, be grateful for it. “Tell me about the three women.”

“One’s divorced, a royal of some type. One’s been dumped by a media figure, and one’s an actress.”

“Just an actress?”

He sipped his water. “An actress with a weight problem.”

“Weight problem?”

An image of Shelly Winters, whom she’d met when she was just getting started, emerged in her mind. Shelly—gritty, tough and wonderful—had been a rarity, a fine actress who put her gift before her self-image. A large woman. Rochelle wasn’t a large woman; she just had a big ass, aproblemass, okay? If she played an actress with a weight problem, people would notice and figure it out. All they’d see when they looked at Rochelle McArthurwould be what Rochelle saw. Her ass. And her career would be over, if it wasn’t already.

She got in Jesse’s face, every muscle in her body tensed. “No one has ever said I had a weight problem, and no one but you and Blond Elvis has ever known about the fucking Clen.”

“Of course not,” Jesse said. “It’s television, remember?”

“I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“How you feel about it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Car-ley Steel’s playing the actress. She doesn’t have a weight problem, either.”

That one stopped her like a clanging bell inside her head. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed,” she said back to him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He’d flipped the switch in her brain. Now it was too late. She’d gone straight to bitch mode again. “Carley Steel with her Botox and her boobs, who brands herself the new Rochelle McArthur. I’ve seen you looking at her. How could you let her have this part?”

“I’m not in casting, babe.” His gaze was even, untroubled. “And there’s nothing wrong with looking, if it’s all I do. I’m no Bobby Warren, you know.”

The remark stung, as he had intended. Cruelty was always his best defense. She forced herself to look away from the penetrating gaze, and wondered if he was telling the truth, wondered also if helooked—as he put it—at Carley, and now Princess Gabby, because he didn’t like what he saw at home.

She leaned against the counter. The exercise that usually energized her had left her drained. She couldn’t ignore the waves of nagging anxiety. Something was wrong here. Jesse’s deliberate motions, even the way he held the glass of water, were too calm, like a doctor who had to tell a patient the illness was fatal, not an agent imparting good news to his client, wife or not.

“So, if I’m not playing the actress?” she began.

“You wouldn’t want that role, anyway. She’s over the hill.” Then, looking up at her, “By Hollywood’s standards, anyway. Besides, she’s the killer. It wouldn’t be good for your image, considering the similarities to real life.”

Carley Steel, over the hill? Rochelle didn’t think so.

She faced him at the bar, so close she could smell the popcorn’s now suddenly repugnant scent. “Who the hell am I playing, Jesse? Just tell me.”

Another sip of water. She wanted to smash the glass on the tile floor.

“The actress has a mother.”

He said it tenderly, his voice husky, the way it used to be when he said he loved her. “She’s important to the story line, and it’s a great part.”

For a moment Rochelle couldn’t react, couldn’t move. She’d heard him wrong. She had to have heard him wrong.

“The mother?”

He nodded, sadness, maybe even embarrassment pulling down the corners of his mouth. “It will give you a chance to stretch.”

“I’ve been stretching my whole damned life.” She slammed her fist on the tile counter, knocking the basket of popcorn onto the floor in a shower of white. “I’ll die before I play Carley Steel’s mother.”

“Your choice.”

Avoiding her tantrum, he looked down into the glass.