Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

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СКАЧАТЬ an actor, he often thought he might have made a good designer, or perhaps even an architect. Every time he walked through his front door he felt a warm sense of pride, like a parent coming home to a beloved child. It was the first and only place he had ever felt completely at home, and he loved it.

      Throwing his keys on the kitchen countertop, he kicked off his shoes and wandered back into the master bedroom. Dropping the rest of his clothes in a heap on the floor – Cecilia, his housekeeper, would clean up in the morning – he skipped the bathroom and crawled straight into the delicious comfort of his Frette sheets. His limbs throbbed with exhaustion, Rose had really put him through his paces, but he was too preoccupied to sleep.

      Five and a half million dollars.

      For five months’ work.

      God bless Dorian Rasmirez!

      Viorel had yet to meet the great director in person. Today’s deal had been entirely brokered through his agent. He wondered how soon he would be asked to come to a read-through, and when the locations would be finalized. Already, a bizarre aura of secrecy was growing up around the movie, with Rasmirez drip-feeding Vio’s agent information on a need-to-know-only basis. Then again, every director had their little quirks. And some things, presumably, could be taken as read. Because it was Wuthering Heights, an English classic, most of the film would have to be shot in England. In all other respects, getting the role of Heathcliff was a dream come true, but this was a homecoming that Viorel was not looking forward to. Worse still, according to his agent there were rumours swirling around that a lot of the interior scenes were to be shot at Rasmirez’s ancestral family castle in, of all places, Romania. It was an ironic twist of fate that both Viorel and his director should have been born in the same, distant, impoverished country. Although clearly, Rasmirez’s family must have come from the opposite end of the social scale to Viorel’s. My ancestors probably polished his ancestors’ silverware, thought Viorel wryly. If there was one country on earth that he felt less enthusiasm for than England, it was bloody Romania. He hoped the rumours were untrue.

      What was true, confirmed a couple of days ago, was that Sabrina Leon had been definitively cast as Cathy Earnshaw, his leading lady. This also bothered Viorel. Sabrina might be the hottest thing on legs (or, in her case, on back) in Hollywood, but she was also a complete liability, the biggest Tinseltown train-wreck since Lindsay Lohan. Viorel couldn’t imagine what had possessed a seasoned pro like Rasmirez to hire her, especially with the flames from her most recent scandal still raging through the industry like a forest fire.

      He must have got her on the cheap. Perhaps that’s how he can afford to flash so much cash at me.

      He could have done without England, Romania and Sabrina Leon. But for five and a half million bucks, they were three crosses that Viorel Hudson was willing to bear.

      Fuck you, Martha.

      Switching off the light, he finally drifted into sleep, dreaming of England, Heathcliff and Rose Da Luca’s deliciously soft thighs.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘I hate you! I fucking HATE YOU, you selfish bastard, I hate this house, I hate this country and I want a goddamn fucking DIVOOOOORCE!’

      Dorian Rasmirez ducked as another priceless piece of Byzantine porcelain flew past within millimetres of his left ear before smashing spectacularly against the bedroom wall.

      ‘Jesus Christ, Christina!’ he yelled. ‘Calm down.’

      ‘Calm down?’ Stark naked, her small, hard apple breasts jutting towards her husband like weapons, and her cute, pixie-like features contorted into a puce mask of rage, Chrissie Rasmirez had no intention of calming down. ‘Fuck you, Dorian, you self-centred cunt! You think you have the right to tell me what to do?’ Scanning the room for her next missile, her eyes lit on the ornately framed oil painting above the bed.

      ‘No, Chrissie, don’t!’ pleaded Dorian. ‘Not the Velásquez!’

      Like a panther, Chrissie turned and pounced, leaping towards the painting with her perfectly Pilates-toned arm outstretched. Acting on instinct – there was no time to think – Dorian jumped after her, rugby-tackling her down onto the bed. Dorian Rasmirez was a big man, six foot plus in his socks, and with the sturdy, solid build of a labourer. At two hundred pounds, he was also almost twice the weight of his petite, gym-bunny wife. Even so, he struggled to contain Chrissie as she writhed, bit and kicked furiously beneath him, spinning herself around to face him so that she could claw his arms and back with her newly manicured talons.

      What the hell am I going to do with her? thought Dorian despairingly. Anyone watching them fight – or rather watching Chrissie fight, while Dorian struggled vainly to defend himself – would have assumed it was he who’d been caught cheating, and not Dorian who had walked in on Chrissie in soon-to-be flagrante with one of the estate carpenters. Dorian was leaving for Los Angeles today and had come home early from his little local office in Bihor to say goodbye to his wife and daughter and finish packing. Walking into the master bedroom, he’d discovered his wife already naked in their bed, and young Alexandru, a nineteen-year-old local joiner, hopelessly overexcited as he tried to free his rock-hard erection from his Abercrombie jeans. At least the boy had had the sense to make a swift exit, leaving his shirt and boots behind in his eagerness to get out of there. He was probably on the other side of the Carpathian Mountains by now. But, as always when she was in the wrong and cornered, Chrissie Rasmirez had come out fighting, hurling abuse at her husband as if he were the one who’d been caught with his pants round his ankles.

      Was it any wonder she had to take lovers, when Dorian was never here?

      What did he expect when he kept her locked up in this godforsaken castle like Cinder-fucking-rella, while he gallivanted off, living the good life in LA?

      She hated it here. She was bored, she was trapped, she was stifled. She was practically a single mother to Saskia, their adorable blonde-headed three-year-old girl. And so it went on. Before he knew it, Dorian found himself on the back foot, apologizing, comforting, explaining. He would get her more help with Saskia. He would make sure he came home more often. The thought of his darling Chrissie being touched by that boy, that kid, made him want to rip the guy’s throat out. But, at the end of the day, he blamed himself. I’m the architect of my own destruction, he thought miserably. I’m driving away the one thing I love more than anything else in the world.

      Eventually, too exhausted to struggle any more, Chrissie went limp. Overwhelmed with anger and wildly sexually frustrated – she’d been looking forward to bedding Alexandru for weeks – she burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed into Dorian’s blood-spattered shirt. ‘It’s just that … you never look at me like you used to. You don’t notice me any more.’

      Dorian was aghast. ‘Don’t notice you? That’s not true! How can you say that? I adore you.’

      ‘It is true,’ wailed Chrissie. ‘You leave me here all alone, day after day, with no life, no career, no escape. As if taking care of Saskia is all I’m good for.’

      Dorian did not point out that with three full-time nannies on twenty-four-hour call, it was debatable whether Chrissie did, in fact, take care of Saskia.

      ‘When Alexandru looks at me he sees a woman, not just a mom. He makes me feel alive, Dorian.’

      Dorian winced. ‘Stop.’ He pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t ever mention that kid’s name to me again. Understand? Never.’ His eyes flashed with jealousy, the alpha male protecting his territory.

      Chrissie СКАЧАТЬ