Make Me Forget (Make Me, #1)(7)
Elizabeth led her down some stairs, and they arrived at the second terrace level. This and the next deck down were places to bask in the sun. Again, there were multiple seating areas, landscaped flora, trickling fountains, and stone paths. Harper’s eyes caught on one of several circular-shaped, deep wicker divans with a sunscreen attached to the top of it. The circular screen on one had been lowered to block what was happening in the deep couch. Six bare feet stuck out of the bottom of the obscured divan. Harper heard muffled male and female laughter.
Steam rose from a large sauna to the far right. Down on the next level of the terrace was a pool. From there, another set of wide stairs led down to the beach. Towering Jeffrey and ponderosa pines framed the view. Two long docks stretched out onto the sapphire blue lake, three Jet Skis tied up to one of them. In the distance, a yacht was moored alongside one of the beautiful, handcrafted wooden motorboats that were favored in Tahoe.
Elizabeth led her toward a square-shaped stone pedestal that contained a fire pit. Twenty or so people had gathered around the open fire. They stood or lounged in cushioned sofas and chairs. Most of them wore sunglasses to protect their eyes from the brilliant setting sun. A waiter was moving among them, serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks. In the distance, a jazz quartet was playing a lazy, sensual tune. Several of the well-heeled partygoers glanced over at Harper and Elizabeth as they approached.
A quick surveillance told her that more than half of the people were women. Not just any women, either. Stunning ones. Exotic ones. Were these some of Latimer’s imports, as Ruth had mentioned? Some of the women’s stares on her were rapier sharp and speculative . . . like they were eyeing the competition? Annoyance flickered through her at the idea of being considered a candidate for Latimer’s harem. Maybe now that she’d seen the haloed interior of Latimer’s compound, she had enough information to satisfy Ruth’s curiosity and could sneak out of here ASAP. She didn’t relish spending the evening in a den of clawing cats.
Elizabeth turned to her and murmured quietly as their pace slowed. “I’ll introduce you to him right away. He’s very anxious to meet you.”
Harper’s bewilderment soared. An urge to laugh struck her. That was the final straw. Clearly there had been some kind of mistake. They thought she was someone else. She’d been granted entry into this forbidden paradise because of a colossal error.
Latimer’s assistant stopped next to a man with short, spiky, bleached white hair. He wore a fitted, trendy European-cut dark blue suit, a pink plaid tie, and a pair of old-fashioned Ray-Ban sunglasses. He immediately gave off an air of being dapper, quirky, and sharp as a whip all at once. So this was Latimer? He hardly seemed mysterious. She couldn’t imagine this man’s flamboyance being called ghostlike. He was about as obvious as a slap to the face. He peered over the top of his glasses at Harper pointedly.
“Is this her?” he demanded of Elizabeth in a clipped British accent. Without waiting for Elizabeth to reply, he addressed Harper. “Are you Harper McFadden?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
His gaze dropped over her in an assessing fashion. “Well aren’t you gorgeous. I love that dress,” he declared, reaching to take her hand.
Elizabeth laughed. “Harper McFadden, meet Cyril Atwater. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Really?” Harper strained to remain polite, but realized she sounded incredulous, anyway.
“Of course. This film is going to be spectacular. I think it’ll be a shoo-in to win at Sundance, and it might even be a dark horse for some commercial success Stateside.”
“What film is that?” Harper wondered.
“The one based on your story, of course,” Cyril said, looking vaguely put out by her ignorance. “Didn’t you tell her?” he asked Elizabeth sharply.
“I don’t know anything about it. I just follow orders,” Elizabeth said. Again, Harper caught Elizabeth’s curiosity as she regarded her.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to seem rude,” Harper said at last. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I have no idea why I’ve been invited here tonight.”
“I’m Cyril Atwater,” the man repeated. “The director?” he added with a trace of annoyance when Harper gave him an apologetic look for her ignorance. She suspected he rolled his eyes behind his Ray-Bans. “I realize you Yanks have been spoon-fed tedious car chases and shoot-’em-ups since the cradle, but surely a woman of your obvious intelligence and compassion occasionally watches a documentary or film of actual substance.”
Despite his acerbic tongue, a smile twitched at Harper’s mouth when he’d seamlessly switched from his clipped English accent to say shoot-’em-ups with a perfect cowboy drawl.
“Can I get you something to drink, miss?” a waiter asked her over her right shoulder.
“Yes, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, thank you,” Harper said. She turned back to Cyril. “I’m sorry, I don’t watch many movies, either of the documentary or shoot-’em-up variety.”
“But you must realize that the story you did on Ellie, that homeless teenager in San Francisco, would make a brilliant film.”
“And this is why I’ve been asked here tonight?” Harper asked dazedly. Well, this certainly was an odd turn of events.
“It must be,” Elizabeth said. “I asked you because Mr. Latimer requested it, but I wasn’t sure about the details.” Elizabeth glanced over at a still-bristling Cyril. “Mr. Atwater has won several major film awards, including the Academy Award last year for his documentary Bitter Secrets.”