Her Leading Man (The Dream Maker Series, Book 4)

Her Leading Man

The Dream Maker Series

Book Four

by

Alice Duncan

Award-winning Author

HER LEADING MAN

Awards & Accolades

"The setting of Her Leading Man is fascinating, and so authentically drawn, transporting me to the world of early Hollywood. The love scenes are very emotional and very hot."

~Kate McMurry

Very highly recommended!

~Cindy Penn, Wordweaving

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-681-7

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2014 by Alice Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Chapter 1

Indio, California, 1913

Martin Tafft frowned as he opened the Indio Gazette and its great black headline hove into view: CINEMA ACTRESS HURLS SELF TO DEATH. The opening sentence of the accompanying article declared, Los Angeles Police detectives believe the young woman's wild life may have been a factor in her tragic suicide.

Farther down on the same page Martin found another article titled, in smaller print, DRUG USE ABOUNDS IN CINEMA INDUSTRY. The first sentence in the article made Martin's blood run cold: 'Hollywoodland is a Mecca for Illicit Drug Activity,' claims famous motion picture director.

Martin shook his head in consternation. Bother. Not more of this? When will it all end?

Since he was alone in his room, having dialed room service in order to avoid the confusion of the crowded dining room below, no one answered his question.

Oh, but this was a blow. And it was one that seemed to be falling every day now. Day after day. Drugs. Alcohol. Scandalous sexual conduct. Unrestrained behavior. Suicides. Could murder be far behind? The very idea of such infamous conduct, not to mention the sure-to-follow publicity, made Martin shudder.

These two latest scandals were going to renew calls for censorship. Martin could almost hear the ladies from the Purity League gearing up for an all-out assault on the studios. The Daughters of the American Revolution would be writing letters by the billions. His mind's eye envisioned an article decrying the immorality of motion pictures in the WCTU's White Ribbon. He shook his head, dismayed.

Still, it was small wonder folks had begun looking upon the motion picture industry and picture people with disfavor. The motion pictures—a brilliant creation Martin had believed would be all but the salvation of mankind—seemed to have taken a wrong turn somewhere between 1904, when he'd become involved in them, and today. A single decade, and the whole shebang looked as if it were sliding straight downhill.

It made Martin melancholy to acknowledge the bitter truth. But it was true. For every sweet young Lillian Gish or Mary Pickford, who were, while perhaps not blameless, at least bright, moral young women, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of girls rushing to Southern California. Most of them were so eager to get into the pictures that they'd sacrifice anything, including their virtue, and even their lives, to accomplish their goals. Silly girls, and sometimes pitiful. Martin wished he could convince them all of their folly, but such was beyond him.

Worse, he felt vaguely responsible for the mess, because he'd been there in the beginning. At the vanguard. He'd been in at the very infancy of a now-booming industry. But it hadn't gone the way he'd predicted.

Now that everyone was mad for the flickers, the industry seemed to have sunk into a slough of immorality and decadence. Martin's heart hurt when he thought about how so splendid and worthy a medium was being abused by unscrupulous people with no manners or morals to speak of. Although he wasn't a particular fan of Thomas Edison, the patent-grubbing genius from New Jersey, Martin had a feeling Edison was probably appalled by it, too, if he took the trouble to think about it at all. Edison wasn't known for his bleeding heart.

It was all too depressing for Martin. Especially given his present task, which was making an Egyptian spectacular—containing a nude scene—in the middle of the desert. Not only was Martin uncomfortable with his own participation in producing a sexually titillating picture, he was also so sick of deserts he could happily have chucked his job and everything that went with it, except that he knew he was merely undergoing a low period.

In truth, his life was great. Spectacular, even. He and Phineas Lovejoy, his best friend, were now full partners in the Peerless Studio. Peerless itself was the first and foremost motion picture production company in the nation, and possibly the world. Martin had more money than he could spend in this lifetime and the next three combined. He knew he should he as happy as a clam.

He couldn't shake the sensation that something was missing from his life, however. It wasn't only that he was discouraged about all the bad press picture people were getting, either. For weeks, a nagging sensation that he needed... something... had plagued him. If he only knew what it was he lacked, it would be a lot easier to fill the void. But he had no idea, and his faulty imagination in this particular circumstance troubled him.

It also made no sense. Here he was, thirty-two years old, a rich man by anyone's standards, and at the top of his profession. What's more, he'd made his money doing something he loved. How many people could say that? Not many, or Martin would be much surprised. He knew hordes of folks who slaved away at their petty jobs, all the while wishing they were novelists or artists—or actors. Actors, a species of humanity that used to be fairly universally despised, seemed to have taken the public's fancy by storm, bad press and all. Everywhere Martin went, he met boys and girls who wanted to be stars.

Some of them made it. Others, he thought with a squeezing in his chest, flung themselves from the roofs of buildings. Peering at the headline article, Martin took note of the girl's age. She'd been twenty-one. For only a second, he felt an unmanly compulsion to cry.

Oh, but he hated to see his beloved moving pictures come to such a pass!

He glanced out the window and wondered how much of his gloomy mood had sprung from his being forced to return to the desert. Martin was sick to death of deserts. Yet this was where all the cowboy pictures had to be filmed. And since Egypt looked a lot like the desert of Southern California, this was also where their Egyptian epic was going to be filmed. He sighed heavily.

Maybe if he had a wife and family, the bald patch in his soul would be on its way to being filled. He gave a short, bitter laugh as he reached for his white linen jacket. When did he have time to propagate a social life? He was always working. The only women he ever met were actresses, and Martin would be hanged from a high scaffold before he'd ever marry an actress, no matter how much he liked some of them. Underneath, with precious few exceptions, they were all egotistical birdbrains. Martin didn't need a wife like that. With a sigh, he plopped a sporty tweed cap on his head and decided he'd be glad when the pictures started to talk.

Folks scoffed when he expressed this desire. The cameras were too noisy, they said. Nobody could hear the words, they said. Which was true now. But it wouldn't always be true. Martin had great faith in the brains at work in his industry.

The main reason he wanted talkies to come into their own was that when actors and actresses had to spend their evenings learning lines for the next day's shoot, they wouldn't have the free time to get into so darned much trouble.

As it was now, film folks seemed to be involved in one huge party that went on day and night. Martin had attended some very wild parties—and he wasn't even invited to the raunchiest ones. He'd not enjoyed himself watching young girls and men drink themselves silly and behave in outrageous ways. He seldom went to any parties at all anymore, because he found them unpleasantly disturbing, but he still heard stories.

That wonderful comic actress, Mabel Normand, was said to be able to drink grown men under the table. There were also rumors about her drug use. And she was far from the only one. Roscoe Arbuckle, the great comedian, drank like a fish and reveled in lewd behavior. There were rumors galore about other actors and directors and their exploits, some even with members of their own sex. The whole rumor mill disgusted Martin, the more so because he feared a good many of the rumors were true. It was, in his considered opinion, too bad more young people who wanted to enter into the pictures didn't have protective grannies, as did Christina Mayhew, the leading lady in Egyptian Idyll. He grinned, recalling stories he'd heard about the elderly Mrs. Mayhew, then shook his head again when he recalled the poor young woman who'd jumped to her death yesterday.

It was all very distressing, and Martin's mood was gloomy. He paused for a moment at the door to his hotel room, then sucked in a big breath, yanked the door open, and prepared to face his day.

* * *

The desert air was as hot as a pistol barrel and as dry as a mummy's tomb—which was appropriate—when Christina Mayhew opened the window and glanced out at what was to be her temporary home for however long it took to film this stupid picture. I hope to heaven we won't be here long, she muttered.

Her grandmother, a withered woman with eyes like an eagle's and a nose like a hawk's, huffed from her perch on the bedstead. However long it lasts, you'll do your job, girl.

Glancing over her shoulder, Christina grinned at her grandmother. Of course I will. When have I not done my job, Gran?

The old lady smiled, an expression that didn't soften her sharp features appreciably. Never. You're a good girl, Christina, even if your father was a benighted fool.

Christina shook her head and tried not to laugh. You really shouldn't talk about your own son that way, Gran. Daddy is a lovely man as well as a wonderful doctor.

He's a ninny. The old lady sniffed.

Since Christina knew her grandmother was given to pronouncements of such a nature and had become accustomed to cowing others into accepting them without argument, she broadened her grin. Daddy is a love. You're just mad because you could never get him to do what you wanted him to do, and you could never make him lose his temper. He's the best doctor in Los Angeles, and you know it.

Stuff! Gran said. But her bird-of-prey eyes glinted, and Christina knew the old lady was amused.

The trick to getting along with Gran, as Christina well knew, was to stand up to her. Gran didn't respect people who allowed her to push them around, although you'd never know it since she treated everyone like dirt. Egalitarian. That was Gran. She treated everyone equally abominably.

With a sigh, Christina closed the window and turned to observe her grandmother. I guess I'd better get this over with. I'm supposed to meet Pablo Orozco this morning. And Martin Tafft. She was looking forward to the latter, although she'd have liked to skip the former, having heard stories about the egomaniacal Orozco.

Gran's eyes thinned until Christina could barely see them in her wrinkled old face. I should be there with you, girl. Don't let those men do anything I wouldn't approve of.

As Gran didn't approve of anything, this would be impossible, although Christina didn't bother to point it out. Don't worry, Gran. I'll be fine.

Her grandmother huffed again, clearly not believing that Christina wouldn't come to grief without her there to protect her. Which was kind of funny, really, as Gran wasn't even five feet tall. Christina herself stood five feet, six inches tall, rather too large to fit the image of a fragile film star. Since she didn't give a hang about being a film star, she didn't care. She was only glad her auburn hair, fair skin, and big hazel eyes were so photogenic. A girl could make lots of money acting in the pictures, even a girl like her, who thought moving pictures were one of the most nonsensical inventions ever inflicted on humanity.

Nevertheless, she knew which side her bread was buttered on. After striding to the bed and dropping a fond kiss on her grandmother's withered cheek—a sentimental gesture Gran pretended to disdain—Christina checked herself in the mirror for flaws, discerned none, picked up her parasol, sucked in a deep preparatory breath, and opened the door, ready to do her duty. Holding her parasol like a knight of old might have held his sword, she said to her grandmother in a deep, dramatic voice, Onward, into the breech!

She was pleased when Gran cackled her approval and was feeling pretty good by the time she descended the hotel's stairs and found the parlor, where the cast was supposed to meet this morning. Several people had already arrived. Pausing at the door to steel her nerves—while Christina made a living acting in the pictures, she really didn't much like having to mingle with hordes of strangers—she walked into the room.

Talk ceased as all eyes turned toward her. Mentally rolling her eyes as she noted several men perk to attention, she marched into the room as if she didn't have a nerve in her body. In truth, it always made her tense to have to meet people. She'd be so glad when she'd saved enough money and could chuck this stupid career.

Spotting a shelf of books at the opposite side of the room, Christina decided to wait there for things to happen. No matter how ill at ease she felt around people, she adored books.

She had picked up a novel by Theodore Dreiser, Sister Carrie, which she'd been wanting to read—the book had been banned in Boston, and Christina always tried to read such books—when a greasy voice assaulted her senses.

Ah, the beautiful Miss Mayhew.

Turning, she espied her costar in the upcoming production, Pablo Orozco.

Wonderful. Just what she needed: a man who believed his own press clippings. Touted as a fellow who radiated sex appeal—a term Christina considered inane—Orozco fairly dripped suavity. Unless that was the pomade with which he greased his hair melting in the desert heat.

She stiffened like a pointer eyeing a duck when Pablo Orozco lifted her hand to his lips. If Gran were here, she'd smack him with her cane. Since Gran was laid up in the hotel room, suffering from a painful bout of lumbago, Christina would just have to take care of herself. She snatched her hand back and snapped, There's no need for any of that hand-kissing folderol. I'm as much a fake as you are, Orozco. You're as much a hand-kissing gentleman as I am a queen.

The actor dropped his suave pose and scowled at her. Fake? Fake? I—he splayed a hand over his heart—am a star.

Right. said Christina And I'm a comet. Just don't kiss me, please.

She hated having to do this. It was ludicrous. It was also the best way she knew of to make money. Thank God she had looks, or she'd never get an education.

Orozco sighed heavily. You break my heart, darling Christina.

She pulled back and stared at him I what? And I'm Miss Mayhew to you.

Orozco didn't believe her; she could tell by the way he lifted a dark eyebrow and smirked. Christina could scarcely conceive of an ego so large that it failed to appreciate a direct rebuff lobbed directly at its center. All this talk of Orozco's magnetic sex appeal had clearly gone to his head. She glanced around and wished to goodness Mr. Tafft would show up. She'd always heard he was a punctual man, but he was late today, blast him.

This was to be Christina's first starring role. She ought to be thrilled, but she wasn't. Although occasionally she tried, in order to make herself feel better, she couldn't imagine another single sillier thing than acting in a motion picture.

Oh, good, she, murmured, catching sight of the man she assumed was Martin Tafft hurrying her way through the milling throng. Thank heaven.

Ah, so you've changed your mind?