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found one that he was sure wasn’t capable of sending him to a shrink, he would fork out his affection on sloppy-tongued canines and women like Annie, whose interest in him was purely sexual.
    “Oh, what the hell,” he relented. “Let’s have a beer. It’s almost lunchtime anyway. I’ve got a meeting later, though—Karen and Marty are coming over. We’re deciding on the locations for Lyin’ Hearts before I head out east.”
    “Already? I thought you didn’t start filming until after Christmas.”
    “Yes, but we need to know where we’ll be shooting so we can pin down the schedule. Once the contracts are signed, we can start planning shots, draw up the storyboards.”
    A.J. shook his shaggy head in mock amazement. “Contracts? Storyboards? You’re gonna lose your street cred once TMZ figures out America’s Hottest Actor isn’t just another pretty set of pecs. Steven Spielberg know you’re horning in on his territory?”
    “For now that’s still our dirty little secret. At least until we pull the wrapper off GrayWolf.”
    A.J. let the glum look settle. “Next thing, you’ll be a movie mogul and politicians will want to crash our parties.”
    Matt laughed, then whistled for Sadie. “I’ll go get that beer. You want one, or are you planning to drink that sissy stuff?”
    “Yeah, sure, I’ll take a beer,” A.J. said, then tipped up the glass and swallowed the rest of the mimosa. “Just getting my vitamin C,” he muttered, following Matt inside.
    Behind him Sadie scrambled out of the pool, her morning swim over as suddenly as it had begun. She paused for a fierce shake, painting the smooth Mexican tiles with pool water, then hurried after the man in her life.

    Matt’s office looked more like that of a cattle baron than an A-list actor. Only a few relics of his thirteen-year career hung on the walls: a movie poster from Night Hawk , the first film he had starred in; a framed photograph of him with Robert Redford, taken at the signing of environmental legislation designed to protect stretches of the Western mountain ranges; and a framed copy of his very first review, in which his performance was compared unfavorably with that of the bird playing opposite him.
    Behind the Mission-style desk, Matt leaned back, studying the location photos in his hand. Marty Baker, the location manager, looked on, eager for a reaction, while Karen, the production designer for Lyin’ Hearts , took the photos that Matt handed to her, glancing at them. She’d seen a similar set already from Marty’s updates.
    Though most of Matt’s roles so far had been heavy on action, Lyin’ Hearts would be a change of pace. A romantic comedy, it would rely on wit rather than weapons to make an impact. And not only was Matt starring in the film, but his fledgling production company had chosen this project for their first picture, and he had given himself the task of directing.
    His balls were definitely on the block. He’d be risking his credibility for a low-budget, high-brow comedy. But the script was worth the risk, the film Matt envisioned worth protecting from outside scrutiny before it even got off the ground.
    Amazingly, they had managed to keep news of the project from the press so far, which is one reason they were meeting in Matt’s home instead of his office in Burbank. Officially, he was “taking a much-needed break from filming.”
    As an independent, their budget was low. So low, in fact, Matt himself was working for merely a share of the profits. If word got out that last year’s top-drawing actor was even associated with the film, the budget would have to be bumped up, as everyone from suppliers to the film crew would demand a larger chunk off the top.
    The pile of photos on the desk was growing as Matt examined, then discarded each one. He looked up, an eyebrow lifted in mild surprise. “I won’t even ask how you managed to get into the ladies’ room, Marty,” he said. “Just tell me if it’s as big as it