True Hollywood Lies Read Online Free PDF

the drive and park anywhere.”
    “No problem. I’ll be right up.” The Beetle had been idling in neutral, which was supposed to conserve its last pitiful vapors of gas. I waited until the gate swung open far enough for the Beetle to squeak by and crawl toward the house.
    In the driveway were a Humvee, a Prius, a deep red Ferrari Millichili, and a Harley Davidson custom CVO Fat Boy: the right accessories to suit any mood or event. These were the prerequisite toys of the male célébrité dans la mode , evidence that Louis Trollope had arrived, at least by Hollywood’s standards.
    The front door was wide open.
    “Hello?” I called from the foyer.
    At first I didn’t see him. Walking boldly through the entryway and into the living room beyond, I barely missed stumbling over a khaki camel-hair ottoman. Coming in from the outside, it took a while for my eyes to adjust to the cool semidarkness of the room. With its rough-hewn beamed ceiling, dark stained batten-and-board walls, large suede chairs and several oversized leather settees clustered around a carved antler coffee table piled high with movie scripts, Louis’s cottage was so obviously Beverly Hills designer Dodd Mitchell’s take on a gentleman’s hunting lodge.
    Finally I made out his silhouette. And although Louis hadn’t said a word, I just knew he had been watching me from the moment I had entered, clearly relishing the opportunity to observe without being observed himself—a rarity for him, I’m sure.
    Now that I was standing there in front of him, he gave me his complete and utter attention: the equivalent of 1,000 watts of unadulterated star power.
    “Hello to you, too. I’m quite charmed to make your acquaintance,” he said, offering his hand to me.
    I had to admit, the celebrity magazines have Louis Trollope pegged right: “For being a guy’s guy, it’s easy to see why he’s such a chick magnet. . . ” ( GQ ), what with his being “ruggedly handsome and roguishly charming. . . ” ( Ladies’ Home Journal) and possessing “startling azure eyes that, when focused on you, make you feel that you are the only person in the room–-not to mention cheekbones to lust for. . . ” ( Redbook ) as well as “. . . the cutest bum on eitherside of the pond” ( British Vogue ). Over all, he’s “just a wicked wet dream!” ( Cosmopolitan ).
    And there I was, bathed in the spotlight of his smile.
    It would have been easy to bask in its warmth, but my intuition warned me not to get too used to it, or I might get burned.
    I shook his hand, and I swear, when I touched him a current ran through me like a bolt of lightning. It was all I could do not to melt into a ball of jelly at his feet.
    If Louis felt it too, he didn’t show it. I was surprised just how much that disappointed me.
    The soft, insistent moan of his cell phone broke the spell.
    “Damn! It never stops!” he muttered again. “Why doesn’t the world just leave me alone?”
    He looked as if he wanted to throw the phone through the plate-glass window and into the pool that lay just outside. Then he thought better of it. Instead he sighed and tossed the phone into the piles of pillows nestled on one of the humongous leather couches, where the buzzing was immediately muffled in buckskin-encased goose down.
    I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, knowing as I did that, should his wish ever be granted, he would rue the day.
    “Jasper claims that you’re the answer to my prayers.” His voice was warm, the words silken.
    I blushed, not knowing how to answer him. “I’m sure it was said simply out of kindness,” I murmured modestly.
    “God, I hope not! I’m in a jam. Tell me you’re my angel of mercy. Please .”
    His eyes locked onto mine again with what he intended to be a soul-searing gaze.
    “Well… well I—I don’t know if I can live up to all of your expectations. That was quite a daunting job description.”
    “It’s rubbish. It was dreamed up by one of those agencies