Aspen Gold by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page A

cigarette smoke.
    "I suppose you're going to rent the place to your production company for the filming and rake in a few more bucks," Maury guessed.
    "When you film on location, there are always lodging costs," was his answer.
    "But the accommodations aren't always so plush."
    Maury grinned. "Are you gonna rent something like this for Kit?"
    John ground his cigarette out in disgust.
    Didn't the fool know that if he wanted special perks for his client, he should have made them part of the contract?
    "It isn't necessary, Maury," Kit inserted.
    "I'll stay at the ranch."
    John shot her a look, discovering he didn't like that idea at all.
    "We'll see," he said, tabling the subject as Nolan Walker and Abe Zeigler came striding across the marbled entryway to the living room.
    Both men wore sweat suits; Nolan's was, naturally, a Bill Blass design, and Abe's was the sloppy YMCA variety intended for real workouts.
    "We thought we heard voices." Nolan ran lightly down the two steps, looking trim, tanned, and remarkably fit.
    Abe plodded down behind him, looking anything but.
    "Did you guys just get here? How was the flight?"
    He stuck out his meaty hand to Chip.
    "Don't ask him," Paula inserted. "Chip had his eyes shut the whole time."
    Chip ignored her. "Where have you two been? I thought you were going to meet us at the airport."
    "We've been down in the gym working off some frustration," Nolan replied. "It seemed more productive than hanging around the airport waiting for your plane to land."
    "Sorry to interrupt," Yvonne Davis broke in. "But could I persuade you to point me in the direction of my room, John? Or better yet, considering the size of this place, draw me a map? I still have a few last-minute things I need to get done."
    "While you're at it, direct me to mine."
    Paula ran a hand through her red hair. "I need to freshen up."
    "Rooms," Abe groaned. "Did you have to mention rooms?"
    "Carla will show you to your rooms." With a nod of his head, John directed them to the woman standing quietly in the doorway, the black of her maid's uniform doing absolutely nothing to disguise her chunky figure.
    "Why? What's the problem with the rooms?" Chip asked, following up on Abe's remark.
    "Not the rooms here," Nolan explained.
    "Abe's pulling his hair out over the lodging for the filming."
    "Yeah, it looks like we'll have to put the crew up in Basalt or Glenwood Springs ... if we're lucky," Abe grumbled. "I hope you know what that means in additional transportation costs and travel time."
    "You can't put them up in Aspen?" Chip frowned in disbelief.
    "Not unless you want to play musical motel rooms. And believe me, you'd have one damned unhappy crew if they had to keep changing rooms every four or five days."
    "This conversation sounds like the beginnings of a preproduction meeting to me," Kit said, smiling as she moved past John. "If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to it and catch up with Carla."
    John wanted to call her back. Or better yet, go after her. He did neither. Instead he watched her run lightly up the white staircase after the others.
    He lit another cigarette and dragged deep on the smoke, irritated to discover she had him tied in knots. He didn't need that. He had enough problems, enough pressure in his life right now.

    He had to stop thinking about her and concentrate on the movie.
    White Lies had to be a success. He needed it if he hoped to stay on top. After a string of megahits, his last two films had been flops. True, they had made money. But not nearly enough by Hollywood standards, where any film that fails to gross over one hundred million is considered a flop.
    If White Lies didn't roll up those kind of numbers at the box office, he'd lose what power his name still had--and he'd lose control over his films. He'd be back in the fray, fighting for roles.
    Christ, he might even find himself back in the grind of a television series, like Burt Reynolds.
    Grim-lipped, he flicked the ash from his cigarette and listened