“Diva X”

She expected the brooding intensity of the eight-by-ten she had seen in Bernie’s office, so when her leading man arrived at the table reading, Ellie didn’t recognize him.

Nobody dressed up for the table read, of course. Ellie herself was in a blouse and pedal pushers with her hair in a casual twist (this after a handful of costume changes with “unaffected” in mind) and hardly stood out as the secretive siren she had been hired to play. She hadn’t a clue that the cast was complete until the director called everyone to order and chairs around the folding table were gradually filled.

She took one beside Patrick Swain and leaned in to accept the light he offered on seeing the cigarette in her hand. “Dinner’s at my place,” he said.

“What?”

“Unless you’d rather cook for me at yours.”

Ellie deliberately blew smoke into his face. He fanned at the cloud and tipped her a grin that earned a smirk in return. An old acquaintance—they had worked together more than once—he was always flirting with her and couldn’t possibly have heard about her split from Tony the previous night.

“Okay, everyone, let’s get started.” The director stood to address the cast. “Most of you know me. For the few who don’t, I’m Ted Hamilton, the guy you’ll hate most in the world by the time we’re done shooting. Introduce yourselves, please, and include the part you’re playing in the film. Eleanor, you’re up.”

Ellie obliged, tapping ash into the nearest tray, her gaze fixed on the end of her cigarette rather than meeting the eyes of anyone else at the table. Pat went next, then Margie Hunter—another familiar face—and a couple of others who made no impression before she heard his name and realized the error in feigning nonchalance. She caught her lashes flicking upward, dipped them too quickly, and wondered what the hell she was doing, behaving like a schoolgirl with a secret crush. Seward was a Hollywood nobody. She was the star of the film, for God’s sake; hers shouldn’t have been the panicking heart.

She made herself wait through another name before she lifted her gaze, this time to touch politely on the actor directly across from Swain. Since Dane Seward sat next to him, it seemed completely natural for her gaze slip one over except that when she made her move, she found him staring straight at her and it was almost impossible to conceal her disappointment.

He wasn’t a smoking gun at all. The man in the chair next to whomever was younger than his publicity shot suggested, handsome in a monied Gold Coast manner, with a shock of light brown hair falling across his brow, and he wore a crew neck sweater that belonged on an Ivy League campus rather than a cavernous soundstage in Los Angeles. Not Ellie’s type in his wildest dreams, he looked frankly amazed at finding himself in a room with a goddess of the silver screen.

As the thought crossed her mind, Seward smiled at her. It was sweetly boyish and utterly charming. Vera would have lunged across the table. Ellie fought the giddy swoop of a heart catching itself before it hit bottom.

Bernie Goldblatt, I am going to kill you.