with The Proud and the Passionate, remained stunned by the loss of their beloved director. Brad had appeared to be in perfect health, with the energy and physique of a much younger man. However, he had vigorously protected his private life, so it should not have come as a surprise that he’d kept his illness a secret.
Jewel missed him terribly. They had clicked the first day on the set when, at the end of the shoot, they’d hunkered down in her dressing room with a bottle of Cristal champagne to toast the launch of the show. They’d gotten slightly drunk, bared their souls about their hopes and dreams and goals for their careers and bonded in a special way. Brad had made it easy for Jewel to display the raw emotion that her role as Caprice Desmond demanded. With him, she’d been able to lose herself in her character and give her heart and soul to the camera without inhibition or self-conscious worry.
A swell of sorrow came over Jewel, but she refused to let it build.
No one will ever replace Brad, she sadly mused. But he’s dead and as difficult as that is to accept, I have to press on. I just hope to God that whoever steps in measures up to the standards Brad set.
After handing her silver Lexus sedan over to the parking attendant, Jewel stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced around. The trendy eatery on Rodeo Drive was a convenient meeting place for Jewel and Fred, as it was halfway between his home in Beverly Hills and her house in Brentwood. The white stone, multiterraced building was buzzing with activity on all three levels, packed with impeccably dressed people as well as tourists in casual clothing, cameras primed to snap photos of someone famous.
Jewel gave her gem-studded jeans a tug, fluttered the wide sleeves of her gauzy black top and touched her Chanel wraparound sunglasses for security, bracing for the paparazzi that she had no doubt were lurking nearby. She swept her eyes over the people sitting at the linen-draped tables nibbling zero-calorie endive-arugula salads and drinking pastel vitamin waters. She saw familiar faces and strangers, too. And in her mind’s eye she also saw fans, the people who appreciated her work, followed her career and were eagerly awaiting the conclusion of the cliffhanger story line that had been so abruptly interrupted by Brad’s untimely death.
Just as she’d suspected, a photographer rushed over and squatted down in front of her, initiating his usual clamor for a photo. She obliged, fluffing up her loose curly hair, striking a flirty, sexy pose with both hands on her hips and easing a pouty smile onto her lips. Jewel grinned and waved at the camera as well as at the curious onlookers who began moving forward, eager to see saucy Caprice Desmond—the character she loved to play and the public loved to follow—in the flesh. While maintaining her public-perfect pose, Jewel graciously accepted pens, pencils and pieces of paper that were thrust at her, happy to scribble “Love, Caprice” on each one.
When the Bon Ami hostess managed to push through the crowd to escort Jewel to her table, Jewel laughingly called out, “No more autographs. I’d like to eat lunch now, okay?” The crowd fell back, the photographer stood. With a quick wave, Jewel made her exit and walked up a short flight of steps to the outdoor patio where Fred was waiting, BlackBerry handheld pressed to his ear, a glass of white wine nearby.
Jewel gave Fred an airbrushed kiss before sitting.
“Just be a sec,” he told her, index finger raised.
“Take your time,” Jewel whispered in a breathy voice, before asking the server to bring her a Perrier water and lime. She settled into the white wrought-iron chair across from her producer and then glanced down at the street-level entry to the restaurant. People were milling around, waiting for their cars and chatting before saying goodbye.
Scanning the crowd, she was struck by the design on the back of a man’s shirt. The swirling collage of red, blue, yellow and green came together in what looked like an eagle, wings spread. It seemed oddly familiar. The man wearing it was talking to a parking valet and gesturing with his hands. Jewel tilted forward to get a closer look, but he disappeared inside the restaurant, so she put it out of her mind.
Some struggling actor, she decided. Hanging around the restaurant, hoping to get the attention of a director or a casting agent. She knew his type. Los Angeles was full of men and women like him—obsessed with creating a splashy impression, so they’d be noticed and, hopefully, offered a movie role. He’s probably a menswear salesman wearing a store sample, she mused, ripping her gaze from the street below just as Fred finished his call and the server placed her water on the table.
“So, tell me. Who’s our new director? I’m so ready to get back to work.” Jewel plunged right in, taking a sip of her drink.
Fred Warner slipped his handheld into the inside pocket of his beige linen suit and adjusted his tan silk tie. “Yeah, well, everyone is.” He sat back, lowered his chin and gave Jewel a look that lasted long enough to let his silence send a message of reassurance. Fred Warner, executive producer of The Proud and the Passionate, was fifty-two years old, two inches shy of six feet tall and startlingly corporate in both appearance and demeanor. His hair was silver, full and impeccably styled. His jewelry was real, understated and tasteful. He wore suits crafted by European designers and hand-made monogrammed shirts and insisted on being chauffeured around town in a white Bentley luxury car that reflected his status as a man with power and money.
“The network has decided to bring in Taye Elliott. He’ll fill in as executive director to take us through May sweeps.”
“Hmm, I don’t know him. What’s he done?” Jewel asked.
“New to daytime but comes with good credentials,” Fred replied.
“Yeah? Tell me more.”
“Youngish…well, younger than Brad. Midthirties. Divorced. No kids…he made a point of informing us of that. Said he’s free to work round the clock, if we need him.”
“Mmm-hmm. But what’s he been doing, if not daytime?” Jewel asked, eager for the professional credentials of the man she’d start working with on Monday. “Lifetime movies? Hallmark? A&E?”
“Nope. Nothing like that.” Fred tasted his wine, a silver eyebrow arched. “Ever heard of the Terror Train series?”
Jewel shook her head, confused. “No…they sound like teenage action/slasher flicks.”
Fred started to reply but stopped when the waiter arrived to take their order. He glanced at Jewel, who shook her head. Suddenly, eating was the last thing on her mind.
“We’ll order later,” Fred advised the young man, turning back to Jewel. “Basically, you’re pretty much on target. Action movies have been Taye Elliott’s forte. He did stunt double work for a lot of A-list actors…Wesley Snipes, Denzel, Will Smith.”
“Oh, he’s black?” Jewel commented, impressed. She could count on one hand the number of African Americans behind the camera in daytime television. This guy must be pretty damn good to have been tapped for a job like this. Suddenly, she was more eager than ever to meet him.
“Right. He doubled for Mario in that scene where he jumps off the roof of that skyscraper in The First Real War. Fantastic work. He won the award for best action movie star at the World Stunt Awards. Did you see that movie?”
Jewel shook her head no.
“Anyway,” Fred continued, “a few years back, Taye injured his spine in a car crash, decided to give up stunt work and try his hand at directing. Took on the Terror Train series…independently financed films that went straight to DVD.” Fred fiddled with a gold cuff link shaped like a half-moon, eyes locked on Jewel. “He did a heck of a
