L.A. Confidential. Julie Kenner
finger under her lip, wiping off a stray bit of lipstick. “He’s an idiot?”
“I don’t think so. The man clawed his way up from nothing to become the hottest restaurateur in Southern California. I suspect at least a modicum of savvy, if not downright intelligence.”
She bit back a snarl, not interested in analyzing Ken Harper. “Who cares? He doesn’t want to do it. End of story.”
“Is it?”
She twisted around to look him in the eye. “Why are you so intent on going after Ken Harper?”
Gavin shook his head. “I’m not. I’m intent on going after a story. Harper’s been the unchallenged king of cuisine for years, yet no one’s ever managed to get him to consent to an interview inside his restaurant. We manage that, we get ratings. We get ratings, you get a better slot.” He held his hands out to his side. “I’m only thinking of you, babe.”
“It’s only worth pursuing if there’s a story, Gavin. The man’s as dull as dishwater.” A lie, especially if they were talking about in bed. But she wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment.
“Or maybe you didn’t want to return to the place of your former defeat.”
That was another reason Gavin drove her nuts—he knew her just a little too well. “Don’t be ridiculous. We went out a couple of times, but I dumped him,” she lied. “Believe me, Ken Harper isn’t even in my league.”
“So what’s stopping you from doing the story?”
“There is no story.”
“Are you sure?”
Irritated, she spun the chair back to face the mirror and saw him watching her in the reflection. She hated admitting it, but maybe Gavin was right. Maybe Ken was hiding something. If he was, it would feel damn good to be the reporter who aired the remarkable Ken Harper’s dirty laundry.
“Or maybe you do think it’s out of your league?”
“Not hardly,” she said tightly as she made up her mind. She met his eyes in the mirror and smiled sweetly. “You want the dirt on Harper? Then that’s exactly what you’ll get.”
2
THE MANHATTAN OFFICE of Avenue F Films was more spartan than Lisa had expected. A polished metal-and-glass table served as a reception desk, and a few uncomfortable-looking chairs made up the waiting area. An Oriental-style tapestry covered one wall, while the other was decorated with geometrically shaped mirrors. At the far end of the room, frosted-glass panels separated the reception area from the boss’s lair. Overall, the room gave the impression of too much money and not enough taste.
Lisa grimaced. She wasn’t there to criticize Winston Miller’s decorating skills; she was there to interview for a much needed job. The place could be knee-deep in seventies-style shag, and she wouldn’t complain.
Her back straight, she moved forward, letting the frosted-glass door—complete with an ornately etched F—swing quietly shut. She flashed what she hoped was a confident smile at the receptionist, then waited for the girl to finish her phone call. When the petite redhead finally looked up, Lisa’s pasted-on smile had almost faded. “I’m Lisa Neal, Mr. Miller’s four o’clock.”
Apparently not one for conversation, the receptionist gestured toward one of the torture-chamber chairs, her attention now directed at her fingernails. Lisa checked her watch. Four o’clock on the dot. “Is he—”
“Running late,” the girl said, pulling a nail file from a drawer. “Just have a seat.”
Great. Lisa moved across the room toward the chairs, glancing at her reflection in the mirrors as she walked. The chin-length bob she wore had the benefit of not only being easy to fix, but of looking professional. The suit was a cheap designer knockoff, and the shoes were leftovers of her more cash-flush days. Still, the outfit was sharp enough that it bolstered the businesswoman look. Overall, not too bad, all things considered.
As much as she hated needing work, she hated even more looking like she needed work. So much so that she’d almost splurged and put a new outfit on her one credit card that still had some room. But common sense had won out. She hadn’t worked steadily in more than a year, and the money she made from temping didn’t justify a new outfit, especially when she might need her credit card to buy food.
Still, the whole dress-for-success concept made a lot of sense, and yesterday after she’d received her best friend Greg’s message that he’d landed her an interview with Winston Miller, Lisa’d spent an entire afternoon prowling the garment district for something that would at least make it look as if she wasn’t destitute. One thing she’d learned after years of working on the fringes of the entertainment industry, the more someone looked as though they needed the work, the less likely they were to get it.
Smoothing her skirt, she sat on the hideous chair, her tailbone boring into the hard metal. She pulled her Day-Timer planner out of her purse and tried to look as if she had a schedule to keep. She wished she knew more about what Winston needed, but Greg had only left a note on the refrigerator. Though they shared an apartment, they were hardly ever home at the same time, and since he was in the middle of rehearsing for an off-off-off-off Broadway show, she’d been unable to catch him before the interview.
She shot a glance toward the receptionist, who didn’t even look her way. So Lisa spent the next thirty minutes doodling and making anagrams out of her name, until she’d wasted so much time she was beginning to get irritated. Trying for haughty, she stood up, tucked her planner under her arm, and marched toward the anorexic receptionist.
The woman blinked, but didn’t say a word.
“It’s been almost an hour,” Lisa said, trying to remain polite. “I have other meetings that I really can’t—”
“No problem.”
“Great. Thanks.”
The girl poised her pen over the open appointment book. “When would you like to reschedule?”
“Oh, uh,” Lisa stammered. “I guess I’ll have to check my schedule.”
The girl raised an eyebrow and waited, and Lisa knew perfectly well that Miller’s receptionist wasn’t buying it. The question now was, did she keep her pride and walk out, or did she fall to her knees and beg?
“Well?” the girl asked, the end of her pen tapping the appointment book.
“Right.” Lisa started flipping pages. She’d reschedule for tomorrow. That way she’d lose twenty-four hours in her job hunt, but she’d save a tiny bit of pride. “How about tomorrow?”
“No go.” The girl trailed the tip of the pen down the page, then flipped over a few days. “I can squeeze you in next Tuesday.”
So much for pride. Time for some serious begging. “Um, listen—”
“Miss Neal!”
She spun toward the source of the nasal voice, thrilled to be getting a reprieve from her fib.
“Come in, come in.” Winston Miller practically bounded toward her, shook her hand heartily, then led her back into his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Been on the phone with Los Angeles all morning.”
Lisa stifled a smile. As far as she knew, there were several million people in L.A.; she doubted Miller had been chatting with all of them.
“So, Greg tells me you’re the man for this job.” He motioned her toward a cushy chair as he slid behind his desk. “I understand you’ve got quite a range of experience.”
“That’s true,” she said, wondering how much her friend had told him. She’d known Greg for almost five years, ever since he’d had a bit part in a Drake Tyrell film that she’d associate produced. Flamboyant and opinionated, Greg had a wicked sense of humor that got her through some rough times during filming,