Aztec Sun Page 2

  “And you shall,” Salazar promised grandly. His pronunciation was crisp, almost brittle. Sandra deduced that he’d learned English young, but it wasn’t his first language. “First, let me show you around. When we’re all done with the tour, I have some publicity material I want to give you.”

  She pulled out her notepad, jotted the time and date on the top blank page, and then wrote, Salazar: Rafael Perez—the soul of the company. “All right,” she said, clicking her pen shut. “Show me around.”

  They left the air conditioned building for the parking lot. A gust of hot, dry air whipped Sandra’s hair across her face; she shoved it back behind her shoulders and pretended to be interested as Salazar talked about the new movie. “Melanie Greer—well, as I’m sure you know, she’s on her way to becoming a major star. Young, beautiful, and more talent than she knows what to do with. Most of her work has been in television, but we at Aztec Sun are honored to have her receiving her first big-screen star billing in one of our films...”

  Standard publicity bullshit, Sandra thought wryly. God knew how she was going to generate a legitimate story from it.

  He introduced her to the three workers unloading electrical equipment from the van. They were wiry young men in T-shirts, jeans and headbands, and when she asked, one told her, “Si, it’s good working here. Rafael Perez, he’s one cool dude.”

  “In what way is he cool?” she asked.

  The trio eyed each other. One laughed. Another shrugged. The third said, “He knows the score, you know? He walks the walk, he talks the talk.”

  “He’s a good boss,” another piped up. “He pays good, he teaches you what you need to know. I mean, I come here to work, I never worked at no film studio before. He tells you what things are, where they go, what to do.”

  “He don’t sit on your back,” said the third. “He treats his people with respect, you know?”

  Terrific, she muttered under her breath. A cool dude who respects his employees. Banner headline material.

  Diego Salazar ushered her past the parched stretch of grass, past a couple of trailers—“For our stars,” Diego Salazar explained, as if Melanie Greer weren’t the only star Aztec Sun had ever had on its payroll—past a storage facility and a building he called “the lab,” and into one of the hangars. All the while he expounded on his company’s great new film, Rafael Garcia’s vision, the broader audience appeal this movie promised, the higher budget, the quality script, the talented director, and Melanie Greer, Melanie Greer, Melanie Greer.

  At the center of the cavernous warehouse stood a movie set—a seedy looking apartment with sections of the walls missing so cameras could track freely from room to room. Electrical cables snaked madly across the concrete floors; cameras stood on dollies; lights reflected off white umbrellas and glared against the pale walls of the set. Standing near the table in the kitchen of the apartment set, a tough Latino man and a frail blond woman seemed dwarfed by their surroundings.

  “There she is, our lovely star,” Salazar declared, waving at the woman on the set. Glimpsing Salazar, Melanie Greer returned the wave along with a smile even more blinding than his. Although she stood a good thirty feet from Sandra, planted in the false, too-light apartment, Melanie Greer appeared radiant. Star quality, Sandra concluded, taking in the unnerving brilliance of the actress’s pale blue eyes, her porcelain skin, her delicate build.

  “I’ll introduce you to her later,” Rafael whispered. “They’re rehearsing right now.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Of course. Let’s stand out of the way.” He took her arm and steered her around a boom, past a row of folding metal chairs and alongside a skeleton of scaffolding hung with lights.

  People scurried around the set—a woman armed with a cosmetics brush and a can of hair spray, a man wearing a headset and carrying a sheaf of papers, an electrician coiling wire, a sprightly young man wearing his headset around his neck like a collar and toting a bound script. “That’s John Rhee,” Salazar whispered. “R-H-E-E. He’s the director. His parents are Korean. We don’t hire only Hispanics, you know. We hire anyone with talent—even beautiful Anglo starlets.” He angled his head toward Melanie Greer, then grinned at Sandra as if he were sharing a confidence with her.

  Sandra took note of the director’s tight jeans, his torn sneakers, his one-pocket T-shirt and the Dodgers baseball cap slung backward on his head. “Mr. Rhee doesn’t look old enough to be a director.”

  “He’s twenty-five. graduate of UCLA’s film school. He’s been with Aztec Sun ever since. This is his first full-length feature.”

  Sandra jotted the director’s name and age onto her pad, then looked up in time to see John Rhee confer with Melanie Greer. Melanie nodded, let the director position her on one side of the table, crossed around it and tripped over a chair. She propped herself against the table, then shook her head and giggled.

  John Rhee glanced heavenward in exasperation. “Try it again,” he said, repositioning Melanie. This time she managed to circle the table without falling, but she couldn’t seem to stop giggling.

  “She’s having so much fun working with us,” Salazar remarked.

  Spin doctor, Sandra muttered under her breath. If the actress had taken a swan dive and plunged through the fake window in the rear wall, he’d find a way to portray it positively.

  “Does her part call for a lot of giggling?”

  “I think it’s nerves. That woman would have sold her soul to be able to work for Rafael Perez.”

  “Her soul? Really?” Maybe Sandra was grasping at straws, but his statement gave her an inkling, an angle. A possibility that there actually was a story in this assignment. Why would a TV star be willing to sell her soul to appear in a B-movie made by a second-tier studio? What hold could a man like Rafael Perez—no matter how cool a dude he was, no matter how many churches he kept afloat with his largesse—have on a pretty, talented starlet like Melanie Greer?

  As if Salazar could read her mind, he said, “Lots of people would kill to work for Rafael. He’s fair, he’s smart, and people look up to him. And he doesn’t tie you up for months. Our movies come in on schedule and under budget. Now this movie, with an actress of Melanie Greer’s stature, has a bigger budget than any other film we’ve ever produced. It’s going to launch Aztec Sun up to the next level.”

  “Oh?”

  “Wider distribution. Bigger promotional push. Previews. We’re going to do this one big. And Melanie Greer is an essential part of it.”

  “Will I have a chance to talk to her?” Sandra asked.

  “Of course. Whatever you want. I’ll set it up, no problem.” Abruptly, Salazar fell silent, his gaze drifting past Sandra and across the vaulted sound stage.

  Rafael Perez had entered.

  She knew it; everyone in the building knew it. Somewhere behind her, approaching her, was the man himself, the cool dude people looked up to, the fair, smart man people would sell their souls to work for.

  In her dozen years as a professional reporter, she’d interviewed business moguls, socialites, criminals, politicians, artists, beach boys and party girls. One cool dude shouldn’t faze her. Even so, she took a deep, steadying breath before she turned around.

  She was shocked to find him standing only a couple of feet from her, and even more shocked to acknowledge how powerful an impression he made. His eyes were dark but searing, like black coals glowing with heat. They were set deep beneath a forehead half-obscured by a sweep of long black hair that scooped over his ears and fell below the collar of his loose-fitting linen shirt. He had a triangular nose, a square jaw, and thin lips that barely hinted at a smile as he scrutinized Sandra.

  Nothing about him announced that he was a successful executive. The flashiest part of his outfit was the belt circling his slim-fitting black jeans: tooled leather held shut by a silver buckle inlaid with turquoise. His only jewelry was a plain wristwatch—black face, black strap. His shoes were soled leather moccasins. He stood about six feet tall, and his ph
ysique lacked the sort of cultivated bulk that lurked under Diego Salazar’s much fancier apparel. Rafael Perez was lean and lanky, restrained yet alert. Sandra imagined a puma, sleek, vigilant, ready to pounce.

  No question about it: the man could create atmospheric disturbances with his presence. He exuded power, intensity. Sandra couldn’t define it, couldn’t figure out its source. His wary poise? The tawny undertone of his complexion, the midnight black of his hair? His height? His eyes?

  They locked onto hers, holding her gaze so firmly she could almost visualize the sloping line of his vision connecting him to her. She was five-feet seven, yet with him she felt petite and dainty.

  She hated feeling petite and dainty.

  Another deep breath helped to nullify his effect on her. “How do you do?” she said in a bright, brave voice as she extended her right hand. “I’m Sandra Garcia from the Los Angeles Post.”

  “I know who you are,” he said, and for one brief, crazy moment, as his hand closed around hers, strong and hard, she believed he knew everything there was to know about her. Even though there was nothing much to know. Even though he was the subject of this meeting, the reason behind it, the heart of her story, and who she was didn’t—shouldn’t—matter.

  Any man who could stare at her with such immobilizing force, who could clasp her hand with so little effort yet leave her unable to pull away... Any man who could transform the world around him the way Rafael Perez could knew far too much.

  After an endless moment he released her. Without thinking, she wiped her palm on the edge of her blazer. “Mr. Salazar promised we would have a chance to talk,” she said.

  Rafael Perez exchanged a look with Diego Salazar. When he turned his gaze back to her, his mouth was curved into a cryptic smile. “Mr. Salazar shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, as hard as steel.

  He turned away in time to see the pretty blond actress bounce across the room to him, still giggling. “Rafael!” she squealed, sidling up to him and looping an arm casually around his waist.

  Next to him, Melanie looked downright tiny. Sandra estimated she couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. Her cheeks were hollow, the bones in her arms as slender as willow branches. She turned her dazzling smile to Diego Salazar and then to Sandra, apparently anxious for everyone to be as happy as she was.

  “Melanie, this is Sandra Garcia from the L.A. Post,” Diego introduced her. “She’s writing a story on Aztec Sun and White Angel.”

  Melanie’s smile relaxed and she leaned toward Sandra, although she didn’t let go of Rafael. “Well, listen, let me tell you, this place is great. No b.s., no star trips, no rubber checks. I love the way Rafael does business.”

  “That’s nice,” Sandra said, then glanced at Rafael. He seemed unmoved by Melanie’s glowing praise.

  “Look at this,” Melanie went on, nudging a reluctant smile out of Rafael. “You can’t even suck up to this guy. He refuses to react. What am I going to do with you, Raf? How am I going to make you fall in love with me?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said blandly, although he gave Melanie’s shoulders a squeeze. “When are you going to start filming?”

  “John’s the boss,” Melanie said, gesturing toward the director, who stood on the set with his arms folded across his chest in a classically impatient stance.

  “Wrong,” Diego interjected. “Rafael is the boss. Always.”

  “Silly me. Of course he’s the boss.” Melanie chirped a laugh and snuggled deeper within the curve of his arm. “I love working with this guy,” she told Sandra, then pulled a face as John Rhee bellowed for her to quit wasting time and get her ass back on the set. “Him I’m not so sure about,” she muttered, jerking her thumb in Rhee’s direction. “He’s a slave driver.”

  Evidently he was a slave driver with keen hearing. “I wouldn’t be on your case if you didn’t keep missing your marks, sweetheart,” he scolded as Rafael gently turned her around and sent her back to the set. “You stumble over that chair one more time, and I swear I’ll—”

  “Be kind,” Diego shouted to Rhee. “She’s an artist.”

  “So am I,” Rhee retorted.

  Diego turned to Sandra and grinned knowingly. “And they both have artistic temperaments.”

  “How’s her temperament?” Rafael asked, his gaze following Melanie.

  “It’s good. Real good.”

  “No problems?”

  “None.”

  Abruptly remembering that Sandra was there, Rafael sent her a swift, incisive smile, then nodded. “Nice meeting you,” he said curtly. He pivoted on his heel and sauntered across the sound stage, his long legs carrying him through the room with arrogant grace.

  Sandra realized that while Diego Salazar might want her to do a story on Aztec Sun, Rafael Perez didn’t. The cool dude, the fair man, the earthquake waiting to happen... He didn’t want the free publicity Sandra could give his new movie.

  Was it something about her? Something about the movie? Something about Aztec Sun?

  Or was it something about Rafael Perez?

  Sandra’s journalistic instincts quivered to life. This assignment might turn out to be interesting, after all.

  Chapter Two

  “I WANT HER GONE,” he said.

  Diego lit a cigarette and closed his lighter with a metallic click. Silver and onyx, the lighter had been a gift from a lady. Rafael doubted Diego remembered her name. He loved the lighter, though. He always made a big production of hauling it out of his pocket, opening it, flinting an oversized flame and then snapping the thing shut so loudly no one could possibly ignore it.

  Others might find Diego’s showiness irritating, but Rafael didn’t let the small stuff get to him. There was too much big stuff to worry about.

  Like women. Two women, in particular.

  “Trust me on this one, amigo,” Diego said, dropping onto the sofa and flicking his ashes into the ceramic ashtray on the coffee table. “This reporter, she’s going to give us tons of ink. You can’t buy the kind of publicity she’s providing for free. All we’ve got to do is handle her right.”

  Rafael paced to the window and stared out at the expanse of asphalt stretching between the office building and the sound stages. Sandra Garcia was right that minute sitting in a soundproof tech room overlooking the sound stage in Building B, watching Melanie Greer careen around the set like a steel marble in a pinball machine. God help them all if the reporter caught the scent of a story there.

  Raking his hand through his hair, he sighed. He didn’t mind taking a risk with Melanie. Her name—her azure eyes, her creamy skin and golden hair but mostly her famous name—had enticed the investors. White Angel was a big step up for Aztec Sun in budget, in marquee value, in respect.

  Rafael had earned it. He deserved it. And he couldn’t afford to let anything go wrong.

  “Melanie Greer,” he said, turning back to Diego and extending his thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch apart, “is this close to screwing up.”

  “I’m on top of it,” Diego swore, sitting higher and snuffing out his cigarette. “I’m in her face all the time. She can’t sneak anything past me, Raf. You know that.”

  “Then why was she all over the damned set? Why couldn’t she walk around a table without crashing into it?”

  “Nerves.”

  “And now we’ve got a reporter from the L.A. Post in her face, too. Looking for something to make a headline out of.”

  “Hey, you want bad news? Sandra Garcia isn’t interested in making a headline out of Melanie. She wants to make a headline out of you.”

  “Me?” Rafael asked, his tone low but lethal. “What about me?”

  “What do you think?” Diego sounded as amused as Rafael was annoyed. “Greaser makes good. After you left the sound stage, she said she wanted to talk to Melanie, and I said fine, great, no problem. Then she says, ‘But the real focus of my story will be Rafael Perez, how he’s a hero to the Hisp
anic community.’”

  “Jesus.” Rafael’s voice grew softer. Whenever he got angry he pulled back, held everything tight inside. Unleashed rage was too dangerous. He wasn’t sure what he might do if he let go, so he made it a point not to let go.

  “Son of wetbacks runs a studio. You’re her story, pal.”

  “I’m no hero.”

  “You’re rich. You’re famous.”

  “I don’t want her digging up my past, Diego.”

  “Relax, hombre,” Diego said in an ameliorating voice. “I’m going to feed Sandra Garcia the story we want. I’ve got press releases for her, hype about White Angel and the studio. All she’s got to do is rearrange a few words and hand it to her editor. Easy for her, easy for us.”

  “She’s a reporter,” Rafael stressed, wishing he could knock some sense into Diego. He drew his voice lower and tauter. “You know how reporters are. They pick at scabs, they peek behind closed doors.”

  “Hey, man, nobody gives a damn about you and your ugly life. So we come from the streets, okay, no big deal. She’s more interested in where you’re going, not where you’re coming from.”

  “If she gets nothing on me, she’ll go after Melanie Greer. One person slips—you or Melanie or someone else—and the Post is going to print it, and the investors are going to be in this office screaming for my head on a platter.”

  “Don’t be so negative,” Diego said, cranking up the charm. By now he ought to know that Rafael was immune to his dentist’s-dream of a smile, but he resorted to it instinctively. “Melanie’s clean. I’ve been on top of things. She could pee in a bottle, no one would find a trace of anything. All our girl reporter has to know is that a pretty blond star is appearing in an Aztec Sun production. There’s her story.”

  Rafael shook his head.

  “She’s one of us,” Diego insisted, rising and shaking the legs of his pleated trousers down. “She’s a chica, hey? She’s got loyalties.”

  “She’s a freaking reporter.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Diego promised.

  “You’re going to take care of her and Melanie?”