The Santangelos by Jackie Collins Page A

would be her salvation, would put her back on top where she belonged. She was talented, of that there was no doubt.
    She had to get a script, and she had to get it fast. Alejandro was full of enthusiasm now, but how long would that last? He was mercurial. He could change his mind, or someone could change it for him.
    Oh yes, it was imperative that she act immediately.
    She hurried home from Alejandro’s to her less luxurious abode—a small house off Fountain that she rented from a gay interior designer who doubled as a drag queen by night. The paparazzi were hanging around outside, as usual. She knew some of them by name, and there were times when she would arrange a setup shot and split the money with the photographer—that’s how far she had fallen.
    “Hard night out?” one of them yelled. “Same outfit as last night.”
    Ignoring the pesky pap, she hurried inside her house, took a quick shower, changed clothes, sat at her kitchen counter, and called Sam Slade.
    “Sam,” she exclaimed, relieved he’d kept the same number. “It’s Willow—Willow Price.”
    “Hey,” Sam said slowly. “Willow. Long time no hear from.”
    She gave a girlish laugh. “I know. Time goes fast when you’re having a blast.”
    They’d worked together on a low-budget movie he’d written. Sam was originally from New York and kind of geeky in a weirdly attractive way. He’d definitely liked her. She hadn’t reciprocated; underpaid screenwriters were not her thing. They hadn’t spoken in over a year, and now he was a big deal and her star had fallen. It was time to reconnect.
    “I have a work proposition I’d like to discuss with you,” she said briskly. She could almost hear him groan on the other end of the phone.
    “Sorry, Willow. My work card’s all jammed up,” he said, sounding pleasant, although not exactly ecstatic to hear from her.
    “I’m sure.” She paused, then said, “Only this is something different and really exciting, Sam.” She paused again for effect. “Remember that script you told me about, the one you’d written on spec and said that one day you wanted to direct? Well, I might have exactly the deal you’re looking for.”

 
    CHAPTER SIXTEEN
    “You’ve got to call Denver for me,” Bobby informed M.J., confronting him in his hotel room.
    “Jeez—don’t you look like dog shit,” M.J. exclaimed, adding a succinct, “Oh yeah, an’ thanks for comin’ back last night. I coulda really used your help. Like I said on the phone, I hope she was worth it.”
    “Hey,” Bobby said, confused and angry. “Nothing happened.”
    “Sure,” M.J. sneered.
    “I think I was drugged,” Bobby said, flopping down in a chair, still feeling like shit.
    “Jesus!” M.J. said, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I’ve heard excuses in my time, only you, my man, are takin’ it way too far.”
    “I’m dead serious,” Bobby said, realizing how crazy he must sound.
    “No, what you are is full of crap,” M.J. said sharply.
    “I want you to listen to me,” Bobby said, attempting to keep his cool. “I drove that girl to the hotel, and the next thing I know I’m waking up in my car blocks away, and it’s morning.”
    “I see you’ve still got your watch,” M.J. pointed out. “Your wallet too?”
    “It wasn’t a robbery,” Bobby said flatly. “I don’t know what the fuck it was.”
    “C’mon, man, whyn’t you just admit it—you got laid,” M.J. said. “An’ I’m not the one who’s gonna be runnin’ to Denver, so chill.”
    “You’re not getting it, are you?” Bobby said, shaking his head.
    “Gettin’ what ?” M.J. said, throwing Bobby a skeptical look.
    “That for some reason I got slammed, and I have to find out why. But in the meantime you’ve got to call Denver and tell her I came down with some kind of stomach bug and that I’ll call her later.”
    “What’s up with you not callin’ or texting her yourself?”
    “’Cause I’m gonna have to explain what happened, and