Scene 2
In his bathroom Mickey brushed his teeth, combed his hair, swiped a palm across his jaw line. Yup, his five o'clock shadow merited a quick shave to protect Rachel's sensitive skin. He loosened his tie and lathered up.
The unsigned contract in the inside breast pocket of his bespoke Italian suit jacket draped over the back of a chair overshadowed his anticipation of private time with Rachel. He needed more income. Commissions from his film crew and aspiring screenwriter clients didn't generate sufficient revenue to cover the expense of prime office space for his new agency.
With Monday's non-negotiable deadline to sign the commercial property lease, pressure to add an up-and-coming star, or preferably two, to his stable of clients ratcheted higher with every passing hour. Delonda, his indispensable executive assistant, believed in him, had agreed to quit her job at Herron Talent Agency and follow him to his new agency, provided he lined up enough clients to pay her salary and the bills.
Re-entering the bedroom scant minutes later, he tossed the tie onto the bed. A glance at the bedside clock radio confirmed that he'd better hurry or risk failing to intercept the enigmatic beauty and her neglected charge. Candy insisted on dragging the dog everywhere, including across the U.S.-Canada border. The paperwork must have been a bitch.
Although the warm evening didn't merit a jacket, keeping the contract close at hand did. He swung the suit jacket off the chair and slid his phone into a trouser pocket. In less than forty-eight hours Tiffany'd be back in the clutches of her conniving California manager, beyond his reach. With Garth glued to Tiff that weekend like an Offense Tackle protecting a Quarterback, Mickey aimed to convince him at the bachelor party that signing Tiffany to Mickey's new agency was in her best interest.
Everyone in Hollywood knew Halden's company produced three blockbuster films in five short years with Garth Armstrong holding the production reigns as Chief Operating Officer. Renowned as the Man with the Midas Touch, Garth had one inexplicable blind spot: Tiffany.
When sober, Tiffany habitually took calculated actions that furthered her career, including her now-floundering marriage to an award-winning director that generated a starring role. Subsequently recognized as a stunning filly bursting with talent, she appeared to be heading off track unless, well... unless someone who put Tiffany's career first and foremost reined in Tiff's drinking. If not himself as Tiffany's next agent, then Mickey had to acknowledge her career would benefit by adding Garth to her stable.
Thus prepared for his date with Candy's amusing cousin and the bachelor party to follow, Mickey exited through his room's sliding doors, vaulted the low masonry wall, and strolled across the lawn to the hotel's flagstone terrace to wait for the lovely Rachel.
Flickering flames of citronella torches kept mosquitoes at bay. A couple of dozen guests mingled, relaxed in Muskoka chairs, sipped nightcaps, murmured conversationally in the cooling night air. A waiter shuttled back and forth to the bar inside with a tray laden with brandies and glass mugs of spiked coffee. Mickey shoved his hands in his pockets and paced the length of the terrace.
Rachel. The lovely woman's naïve persona coupled with an uncanny gift for movie trivia kept him captivated. And chuckling. To survive in his business an agent needed to be astute about people -- their characters, what they wanted, what drove them, how far they might go in the entertainment industry. Few had what it took to join the elite cadre of actors, directors, cinematographers, production designers and other top talent. Agents rarely backed a dark horse. The better the odds of their clients' success, the greater the commission revenue. Business was business. No successful agent afforded the luxury of marketing a dud.
Cutthroat competition to be signed by a good agent turned many ambitious men and women desperate, aggressive, manipulative, even willing to violate their moral codes for a leg up in the industry. Mickey had had more than his share of falsely affectionate women he'd misjudged until the inevitable bleak reality check. In contrast, Candy's unsophisticated cousin trembled at his touch while attempting to keep her distance. A refreshing enigma.
Blurry movement in the deep gloom under the pines beyond the terrace caught his eye. A ghostly wraith drifted between trees beyond the corner of the building. A white ball appeared to roll at lawn level. He inhaled sharply.
Holy Hotel California. Twenty feet from the terrace, at the limits of the flickering torch light, the creepy forms halted.
"Mickey," the taller phantom hissed, beckoning with an undulating wave of an unearthly arm. "Over here."
Mickey cautiously stepped off the flagstones onto the grass. "Who are you?"
In a loud whisper laced with urgency, the taller figure entreated, "It's me, Rachel. Hurry up. I don't want anyone to see us."
"Rachel?" He swiftly crossed dew-damp lawn, entered the moonless gloom under the trees where Rachel waited, garbed in white from neck to ankles. With her blond hair, no wonder he'd mistaken her for a ghost from a distance. Mopette sprung upright on her back legs, waved short front paws in the air and yapped in greeting. "She's feisty for this time of night. What the hell are you wearing?"
"Please, Mickey. Keep your voice down. When we get far enough away from the guests, I'll explain." Rachel turned her back on him and unerringly wove between the trees on a heading for the lake, dragging a reluctant Mopette on the leash behind her.
Mickey swatted at the mosquito snacking on his neck. "I asked for this," he complained to no one in particular.
When their feet sank into sand at the water's edge, Rachel stopped. Mopette's ears perked high. Her body shook with excitement. Despite the late hour she seemed to have gained a second wind. Yipping happily, she strained on the end of the leash on point, nose at the water.
"Oh no, you don't. One bath today was enough." Rachel slapped a mosquito burrowing its stinger into one cheek. "The bugs sure are vicious tonight."
"Let's try the dock," Mickey urged with an outstretched hand. "The night breeze off the cooling lake discourages mosquitoes."
Rachel accepted his grasp. They walked hand in hand the length of the long wood plank dock to a wide platform where, during the day, white wooden Muskoka chairs provided lounging guests with an unobstructed view the length of the lake. Soothing sounds of chirping cicada insects, Mopette's snuffles and water lapping at the wooden structure drained the tensions of the day. Overhead millions of pinpricks of light in an inky blanket cocooned them in a private universe.
"I've only seen stars like this in Wisconsin," he said.
"On your fishing trips?"
"That's right. Of course, I was with the guys. Tonight I'm with you."
At his side, her slender fingers entwined in his, Rachel's face reflected starlight. Even enveloped in the preposterous oversized robe, her lean figure radiated unconscious sensuality. It'd been months, maybe a year, since he'd felt so attracted to a woman. Her enticing lips tempted him beyond a man's endurance. He angled his head to press his mouth against hers.
Rachel released his hand, retreated a couple of steps to duck his kiss, pulled Mopette on a short leash with her. "Mickey," she began, then hesitated as Mopette deked around her in an attempt to sniff the water, wrapping the leash around her legs in the process.
Given the signals she'd been sending, Mickey wondered at Rachel's withdrawal. She hadn't brushed away his hand encircling her thigh under the dinner table, had on the contrary seemed to enjoy it. An obvious explanation occurred to him. His gut clenched. He never knowingly poached another man's woman. "Do you have a boyfriend?"
"No," she admitted. "But I can't get involved with a guest-- I mean to say... a wedding guest. At least not in public."
He dismissed the weak excuse, imagined she'd taste finer than the scotch awaiting the groomsmen in the Muskoka Room. "One kiss under the stars, Rachel. You're attracted to me. I know women."
"It's not that I don't want to kiss you, Mickey, truly, but someone might see us." She glanced nervously in the direction of the third floor Bridal Suite windows, their curtains open, the illuminated interior a searchlight slicing the darkness.
Mickey advanced to close the distance between them. "We're two hundred feet from the hotel. No one will recognize us."
Rachel retreated. "We absolutely cannot fool around out here," she squeaked. "Seriously. Mopette needs to do her business and return to Candy. She'll be waiting." She lifted her face to the starry sky. A whisper of a regretful sigh escaped. "Although it is romantic."
Mickey took that as a yes. He advanced another step. At the same instant Mopette tugged on the leash. Rachel teetered on the edge of the dock, then disappeared into thin air, plummeting backward with a shriek and crash into the water loud enough to wake the dead. Mopette catapulted airborne at the end of the leash, her surprised yelp and splash an echo.
Mickey rushed to the edge of the dock. "Rachel!" Her head broke the surface, wet hair gleaming dully, arms flailing. Mopette paddled at full throttle nearby, too busy to yap.
"Save the dog!" Rachel coughed. Chilling gasps rent the air before the heavy weight of the sodden robe dragged her down into the black depths.
To hell with the dog. Mickey leaped off the dock, landing dress shoe-shod feet first into cool water next to the last spot she'd surfaced. He filled his lungs, dove deep, swung his arms in blind searching arcs. Precious seconds slipped by until frantic fingers penetrated a forest of slimy weeds rising from the bottom of the lake and encountered cotton. He fisted the fabric and, kicking with adrenaline-fueled energy, lunged for the surface.
Rachel's head popped above the surface for the second time. She sputtered, hacked up water, and sucked in air. Relief along with welcome oxygen flooded his aching lungs. He inserted arms under thrashing shoulders and clutched her heaving chest to his, thereby supporting her head and shoulders above water. Heart pounding, his legs scissoring like strokes of an engine, he'd never been so scared in his life.
Then another danger emerged. She weighed a ton. The heavy wet robe threatened to drag them both down into a watery grave like a cement overcoat.
"The robe has to go." He loosened the tie with one hand and managed with difficulty to strip off the deadly soaked fabric. Under it, his hands encountered nothing but wet skin.
She was naked.