Fancy Pants by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page A

outstretched one. "Francesca
Day," she said. "I hope I'm worth
the wait."

"Lloyd Byron, and you most definitely are. We met earlier, although you
probably don't remember."

"On the contrary, I remember very well. You're a friend of Miranda's, a
famous film director."

"A hack, I'm afraid, who has once again sold himself out for the Yankee
dollar." He tilted his head back dramatically and spoke to the ceiling,
releasing a perfect smoke ring. "Miserable thing, money. It makes
extraordinary people do all sorts of depraved things."

Francesca's eyes widened mischievously. "Exactly how many depraved
things have you done, or is one permitted to inquire?"

"Far, far too many." He took a sip from a tumbler generously filled
with what looked like straight scotch. "Everything connected with
Hollywood is depraved. I, however, am determined to put my own stamp
on
even the most crassly commercial product."

"How absolutely courageous of you." She smiled with what she hoped
would pass for admiration, but
was actually amusement at his almost
perfect parody of the world-weary director forced to compromise his art.

Lloyd Byron's eyes traced her cheekbones and then lingered on her
mouth, his inspection admiring but dispassionate enough to tell her
that he preferred male companionship to female. He pursed his lips and
leaned forward as if he were sharing a great secret. "In two days,
darling Francesca, I'm leaving for godforsaken Mississippi to begin
filming something called Delta Blood, a script that I have
single-handedly transformed from a wretched piece of garbage into a
strong spiritual statement."

"I simply adore spiritual statements," she cooed, lifting a fresh glass
of champagne from a passing tray while she covertly inspected Sarah
Fargate-Smyth's barber-pole-striped taffeta dress, trying to decide
whether it was Adolfo or Valentino.

"I intend to make Delta Blood an allegory, a statement of reverence for
both life and death." He made
a dramatic gesture with his glass without
spilling a drop. "The enduring cycle of natural order. Do you
understand?"

"Enduring cycles are my particular specialty."

For a moment he seemed to peer through her skin, and then he pressed
his eyes shut dramatically. "I can feel your life force beating so
strongly in the air that it steals my breath. You send out invisible
vibrations with just the smallest movement of your head." He pressed
his hand to his cheek. "I'm absolutely never wrong about people. Feel
my skin. It's positively clammy."

She laughed. "Perhaps the prawns are a bit off."

He grabbed her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Love. I've fallen in
love. I absolutely have to have you
in my film. From the moment I saw
you, I knew you'd be perfect for the part of Lucinda."

Francesca lifted one eyebrow. "I'm not an actress. Whatever gave you
that idea?"

He frowned. "1 never put labels on people. You are what I perceive you
to be. I'm going to tell my producer I simply refuse to do the film
without you."

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" she said with a smile.
"You've known me less than five minutes."

"I've known you my entire life, and I always trust my instincts; that's
what separates me from the others." His lips formed a perfect oval and
emitted a second smoke ring. "The role is small but memorable. I'm
experimenting with the concept of physical as well as spiritual time
travel—a southern plantation at the height of its nineteenth-century
prosperity and then the plantation today, fallen to decay. I want to
use you in the beginning in several short but infinitely memorable
scenes, playing the part of a young English virgin who comes to the
plantation. She never speaks, yet her presence absolutely consumes the
screen. The part could become a showcase for you if you're interested
in a serious career."

For a fraction of a moment, Francesca actually felt a wild, madly
irrational stab of temptation. A film career would be the perfect
answer to all her financial difficulties, and the