and possibly her future career, had left the studio this morning with the wrong portfolio. That delayed a meeting with a couple of Hollywood’s heavy hitters. Now everyone was waiting for Megan to arrive with the correct designs so they could continue discussing costume concerns with the proper visuals.
Hurrying toward the villa’s entryway, her comfortable tennis shoes felt more like cement blocks encasing her feet.
No way would she let her nervousness about coming face-to-face with the producer and director get the best of her.
Failure wasn’t an option. She was not returning to Larkville. Her family might be there, but no one else. Not even Rob Hollis, her best friend for as long as she could remember; he had taken an engineering job in Austin, Texas. Her fingers tightened around the portfolio.
She stepped onto a large, tiled entryway. In the corner, a green leafy potted plant stood as tall as her. A hanging vine with fuchsia flowers scented the air. A wrought-iron tiered shelf held terra-cotta pots filled with various flowering plants.
What if film costume design wasn’t where she belonged, either? Her stomach churned as uncertainty threatened to get the best of her.
No. She had a job to do. Megan’s father had always told her to do the best job possible no matter what.
She felt a pang of grief. If only her dad were here so he could give her a much needed confidence boost. She took a deep breath to calm herself and jabbed her finger against the doorbell.
As melodic, multitoned chimes rang inside the villa, she remembered the instructions given to her by the costume supervisor.
“Hand Eva the portfolio and get out of there without saying a word.”
That would be no problem. Megan excelled at being silent and fading into the background. She’d been doing it most of her life. She’d never fit in at the ranch. Her dad had been the only one who seemed to get her and really care, but he was … gone.
A lump burned in her throat. Her dad, the larger than life Clay Calhoun, had died of pneumonia in October, seven months ago. She was on her own in more ways than one now.
The ten-foot-tall wooden door opened.
“About time.” Eva snatched the portfolio away. In her early forties with a flawless ivory complexion and jet-black hair styled into a French twist, the woman wore a black tunic, pants and heels. African-inspired jewelry added a funky and unexpected twist to the stylish and elegant clothing. “What took you so long?”
On Megan’s second day in Tinseltown, she’d learned one of the only acceptable answers for being late. “Traffic.”
Her boss’s hard, assessing gaze ran the length of Megan. Eva’s red-glossed lips pursed with disapproval. “You’re slouching. Stand straight.”
Megan did.
“Is this how you dress on the ranch?”
A plain pink T-shirt, faded capri jeans and comfy tennis shoes weren’t going to put Megan on any of Hollywood’s best-dressed lists. But her clothing wouldn’t draw any attention to her, either. Well, except for now. But she imagined nothing she wore would live up to Eva’s exacting expectations. “Yes.”
The word ma’am sat on the tip of Megan’s tongue. She’d used the term with Eva on Monday, the first day of the internship. Megan wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“I don’t suppose you have any other clothes in your car,” Eva said.
Megan had grown up on a ranch in middle-of-nowhere Texas and graduated college less than two weeks ago. All her clothing was casual except for a few of her own creations she’d never had any reason—or courage—to wear outside her bedroom. Not after being made fun of freshman year at high school for the way she’d dressed. After that happened she’d adopted Rob’s and his friends’ geek look as her own style. “No.”
“Then let’s go.” Eva motioned her inside. “Everyone’s out on the patio.”
Panic rocketed from the brown hair piled on top of Megan’s head to the tips of her canvas sneakers. She wasn’t supposed to speak, but she wasn’t supposed to stay, either. “I’m, uh, supposed to head back to the studio.”
“Not anymore.”
The cartwheels turning in her stomach would have made Larkville High’s Cheer Team proud. Not that any of those girls had ever given Megan the time of day except when they were trying to fundraise for new uniforms or a competition. “My car …”
“… isn’t going anywhere without you,” Eva said. “Come on.”
Megan stepped inside the villa. The door closed behind her with a thud.
Goose bumps covered her skin.
Trapped, except she wasn’t standing in some dark, musty, Gothic manor. This mansion was bright with big windows and gleaming floors. The air smelled fresh, flowery with a hint of citrus. The temperature was cooler than outside. Air-conditioning. That explained the goose bumps.
Glancing around the foyer, she pressed her lips together to keep her mouth from gaping in awe. To the right, an elaborate wrought-iron chandelier hung over a huge dining table that seated twenty. The living room on the left was filled with expensive furnishings and fancy artwork with huge windows that showed the breathtaking ocean view.
Eva strode across the gleaming wood floor at a rapid clip, an amazing feat considering the high heels on her shoes. “Don’t dawdle.”
Megan quickened her pace. She had no idea what was going on. Pretty much if it wasn’t illegal or immoral, she would do what was asked of her. Anything to secure a full-time position.
Eva glared back. “Don’t talk unless someone addresses you directly.”
Megan nodded. That suited her fine.
She followed her boss through glass doors out onto a massive deck overlooking the beach and ocean. A breeze carried the salty scent of the sea. The sky looked like yards of gray flannel spread out to the horizon.
The patio stretched across the backside of the house and was decorated as nicely as the interior. Seating arrangements had been set up with comfy pillow-covered chairs and chaise longues. One corner had a built-in barbecue and a bar with stools. There was even a hot tub.
Two men, who she didn’t know, sat at a table. Both wore light-colored short-sleeved shirts, slacks and dark sunglasses even though the sky was overcast.
Another man and woman, both wearing sunglasses also, stood at the railing. She recognized them from the wardrobe department. The man looked all business in his dark, tailored pants, white long-sleeved dress shirt and multicolored silk tie. The cut and line of the woman’s salmon-pink above-the-knee skirt and cap-sleeved jacket reminded Megan of a designer from Milan she’d written a paper on at college.
No one acknowledged her presence. Megan wasn’t offended or surprised. Invisible could be her middle name.
Most people had been calling her “hey, you” or “new intern” since she arrived at the studio on Monday morning. She was, in a word, forgettable. Nothing special, as her late mother continually
