director crooked his finger. She retraced her steps to the middle of the stage. Impatiently he beckoned her further forward. She approached without hesitation.
The beginnings of distaste filled Gael’s mouth as he watched naked hunger fill her face.
Somewhere in the middle of her performance she’d lost her shoes. Her bare toes breached the edge of the hardwood stage as she looked down at the director. He extracted a silver card from his pocket, traced it over the top of one foot down to her toes before laying it between her slightly parted feet.
‘This is what it’ll take, Miss Beckett. Pick it up and the part is yours.’
Gael had been on the receiving end of propositions for long enough to know what was going on. Dios mio, hadn’t he had the row of all rows with his mother only two weeks ago over just such an issue?
He expelled his breath in a quietly seething rush as he watched her slowly sink down and retrieve what looked unmistakably like a hotel room key card.
The disappointment that lanced through him was strong enough to make him question why the scene unfolding in front of him was affecting him so deeply. Perhaps today of all days, when the past seemed to be dogging him with its bitter memories, he’d wanted to be pleasantly surprised by the elusive integrity of the human spirit. To experience a pure character to go along with the pure performance that had stopped him in his tracks, touched him in ways he was still grappling with.
More fool him.
As the director’s hands moved to touch her feet Gael retreated as silently as he’d entered, his rigid gaze firmly averted from the sleazy scene unfolding on the stage.
He was looking for a fairy tale where none existed. Just as he’d once—futilely and childishly—prayed for a family that included a father who didn’t wish him out of existence.
He should know better. No. He had known better—for a very long time.
Even before he exited the building he knew those dredged-up feelings would be crushed beneath the immovable titanium power of his ambition and success. Emotional needs and futile dreams were far behind him. What he’d done with his life since that time in Spain was what mattered.
Everything else came a very pale second.
SO WHY WAS he back here mere hours later, pulling up in front of Othello? And at a time of night when there was guaranteed to be no one around?
Gael had resisted admitting it all day. But, despite the stomach-turning denouement, something about the woman’s performance itself had stayed with him. Enough to make him pass a few precious hours re-reading the carefully selected script he’d searched through thousands for before settling on two years ago. Enough to convince him to put aside his personal feelings and revisit the actress’s flawless performance.
And it had been flawless. With a true visionary’s direction she would be able to pull off the project he had in mind for his movie launch without a hitch. Help him achieve the best possible premiere for what would be the world’s largest independent streaming entity.
The project wasn’t by any means the only thing sustaining the launch, but if done right the results and the benefit to the whole conglomerate would be incomparable. His partners were counting on him to get this right. He was counting on himself to make this vision come true.
That was why he was here, approaching the front desk with little more than a surname and a firm grip on his distaste.
The receptionist looked up, did a double take that would have amused him had his mood been anything but grim.
‘Uh...may I help you, sir?’ she asked eagerly.
‘You have a student—a Miss Beckett. She was performing in room 307 this afternoon. I’d like to speak to her, por favor.’
The enthusiasm dimmed a touch. ‘Do you have her first name?’
Gael frowned. ‘No.’
The receptionist grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t locate her without a first name.’
‘You have a lot of students named Beckett?’ he enquired.
‘I can’t give out that information, or even tell you if she’s a student here or not. The thing is, she may not be. We hold outside auditions here from time to time. She may have come in with a director...’ She stopped and cast a slightly uncomfortable glance at him, probably due to his increasing irritation with her babbling. ‘Sorry, sir, but if you want to leave a card...or your contact details... I’ll see what I can do?’
The smile was re-emerging, and the flick of her hair was transmitting signals he didn’t want to acknowledge.
With reluctance, Gael extracted his card and handed it over. She glanced at it, her eyes going wider still as she gave a soft gasp. He watched, his cynicism growing, as realisation and an accompanying degree of avarice entered her eyes.
His former company, Toredo Inc., had been a serious player on the streaming media platform—a hit with students and young professionals long before he’d teamed up with Alejandro and the Ishikawa brothers to form Atlas. Since then, he and his partners had rarely left the media’s attention.
He and Alejandro had only finished their world tour scouting to find satellite partners to enter into a joint venture with Atlas a few short months ago. During that time they’d conducted numerous media interviews, which meant his face had been plastered all over the news for weeks on end. Anyone with a decent search engine knew what the Aguilar brothers looked like, and how much they were worth—and, if their search had been thorough enough, their relationship status.
From her expression, the receptionist was no exception. He watched her cast an amusingly exaggerated look round the deserted reception area before clicking on the keyboard in front of her.
‘I think you’re looking for Goldie Beckett?’ she stage-whispered.
The name brought to mind corkscrew golden curls and honey-toned skin. Surprisingly fitting. ‘Sí,’ he confirmed. The chances of the name being wrong were minimal. If it was, he could always resume the search.
The receptionist nodded. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this...but she was practising in the music room until five minutes ago. You just missed her.’
Gael stifled a curse. ‘Did you see which way she went?’
‘No, but I know she lives in Jersey, so she may be headed for the subway?’
‘Thank you,’ he bit out.
‘Uh...you’re welcome...’
She looked as if she wanted to continue the conversation. But Gael turned away, cutting short the familiar look that preceded a gentle but firm demand for something. A phone number. A favour for a friend. A personal favour. At any other time he would have been inclined to grant the mousy receptionist another minute of his time, even reward her for her help. He’d long accepted how things worked between him and the opposite sex. He gave when the mood took him. They took all the time—until he called a halt to their schemes and often naked greed.
