Part 156 (1/2)

Glamour, my a.s.s, he thought as he stood on the studio lot. The sun was

high and hazy. The air-quality index was in the disgusting range, even

for L.A., Michael thought. The producers had decided it would make good

press to invite some of the fans to observe a few days' shooting, play

extras, fill in the background. Security had enough trouble keeping the

mobs back behind a police line. Now, with people free to mill around

what stood in for a London cross street, every muscle had to stay on

alert.

Then there she was. Angie Parks. The l.u.s.ty, busty movie queen who

redefined the term hot s.e.x. The press had already fallen gleefully on

the irony of P.M. Ferguson's ex-wife playing the role of Brian McAvoy's

ex-lover.

Men broke into sweats as she walked by in her snug skirt and cotton

blouse. Her hair was brushed srooth, puffed at the crown, tipped up at

the ends in the fas.h.i.+on of the early sixties. She smiled at the fans-a

friendly gesture, but more aloof than a wave. After a huddle with her

director and her co-star, they were set for the first run-through.

It was simple enough. Jane and Brian were walking down the dingy

street, arms tight around each other's waist. There was a sense of

romance as well as intimacy. As the morning wore on, they repeated that

stroll for different camera angles, for close-ups when Jane's face was

tipped adoringly toward her lover's.

It wasn't until the lunch break that Michael noticed Angie staring at

him. Abruptly his collar seemed too tight and his brow, under the shade

of his cap, pearled with sweat.

He watched her murmur something to one of the a.s.sistants that hovered,