ht and build, with brown hair and a closely cropped beard. “We’re looking for someone new, not models who are on every other billboard.” He checked his calendar and found a reference to Rachel Oliveras. “Now I remember why you’re here. Obviously a mistake on my part; let’s get it over with quickly. We’ll go into the studio and film it.”
Ana had pulled her hair back and worn a minimum of makeup. She wouldn’t stand out anywhere in her black pants and a tailored white shirt, but Ignacio apparently gawked at every billboard he passed, or he was overly fond of women’s magazines.
The studio walls were painted black and held only a few risers and battered wooden chairs.
Ignacio moved behind the video camera. “Just sit there together. Do you know your lines?”
Ana had few to learn, and to his credit, Gian Carlo had memorized his. She sat forward on her chair, as though eager to hear what he had to say. When Belmonte waved for them to begin, Gian Carlo spoke his lines with a deliberate care as though he were struggling to find the proper way to break his girlfriend’s heart. She gave it her best and sobbed on cue.
The casting director came around in front of the camera. “I might be able to use you as an extra, Gian Carlo, but I definitely want Ana.”
Gian Carlo looked as deeply disappointed as could be expected, but Ana didn’t know what to say. She stood and shrugged. “I wasn’t the one auditioning.”
“So what? You had more emotion in your face than any of the actresses who’ve auditioned for the part. I can’t believe many men have walked out on you, but your anguish touched me. It’s exactly what we want on the screen. We’ll put you in a wig and cheap dress so no one will recognize you. We won’t begin rehearsals for several weeks, but leave your contact information with my secretary, and we’ll send your contract to your agent.”
Gian Carlo was so angry he didn’t speak to her on the way back to her place, and she made no excuses or apologies for the way the morning had gone. Belmonte was completely wrong, however. The only man she’d ever loved had bid her a final loving farewell and died.
Chapter Two
A white-rose bouquet sat on the security desk, and Ana wished she’d been there to receive it personally. “How long has this been here, Henry?”
He looked up at the wall clock. “Maybe half an hour. This time it was a florist’s deliveryman. Their tag is on the roses.”
There had been no tags on the other bouquets, and she hoped it would be a clue as to the sender. Unfortunately, the little envelope was empty, and she removed it from the bouquet. “Please take these home to your wife. My condo is beginning to resemble a wedding chapel, and I don’t need more flowers.”
“Thank you, Miss Santillan. She’ll love them. I’ll tell her they’re from you.”
She cocked her head slightly. “Are you a stickler for honesty, Henry?”
He leaned close to whisper, “I try to be, but if I say I bought the roses, she’ll suspect I’m apologizing for something and demand to know what I’ve done wrong.”
Ana laughed with him and went on up to her condo. She’d added water each day and the four bouquets on the coffee table still looked beautiful, but maybe she’d misunderstood why they’d been sent. She kicked off her flats, sat down at the dining room table and pulled out her phone. A quick review of messages revealed nothing she couldn’t recall. If someone thought they owed her an apology, she’d surely remember why, but came up with a blank.
Maybe one of the ads she’d done had spurred sales and the roses were sent as a lavish thank-you. If that were the case, someone from the advertising agency would have signed the card. They always took credit whenever they could. She turned the small florist’s envelope to read the name and number and called them.
“Hello, this is Ana Santillan. Your deliveryman brought me some beautiful white roses, but there’s no card. Could you please tell me who sent them?”
“Oh, Miss Santillan, how nice to speak with you,” a cheerful woman replied. “A very nice man, a chauffeur driving a limousine, but his employer didn’t come inside.”
“Did he use a credit card?”
“No, he paid in cash. Is there something the matter with your bouquet? We’ll replace it immediately if there is.”
“The roses are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Has the chauffeur visited your shop several times lately?”
“No, I’d not seen him before today. Is there something I should tell him if he returns?”
“Yes, please explain I no longer accept gifts without the sender’s name. It’s very important for security, you understand.”
“Yes, Miss Santillan, I’ll do that. Good-bye.”
Ana bet wherever the chauffeur had bought the other roses, he’d paid in cash, so there was no point in calling around hoping to discover his employer’s name. Perhaps he expected her to begin waiting for him in the foyer and had switched to the florist’s delivery to keep his employer’s identity hidden. Her admirer struck her as more of an ass than dangerous, and she forgot him to check her work calendar.
A job scheduled with Armand tomorrow for a jewelry line might be fun. A study of Renaissance paintings had provided her with a wealth of graceful gestures, and a ring always looked more beautiful on a carefully posed hand. She had a ballet barre in her second bedroom and traded her street clothes for a black leotard. Her mother had insisted she study ballet, and she’d loved it. At one time, she’d hoped to join a ballet company, but she’d grown too tall. There were some male dancers over six feet in height, but ballerinas were dainty creatures they could easily lift and turn, not striking women born with the height for haute couture.
She took an occasional ballet class and admired the way ballerinas kept their stately posture long past middle age. After warming up, she put on her favorite music and danced only to please herself.
Wednesday morning, Armand kissed both her cheeks. “What game were you playing Saturday night? You were there, then you weren’t, and Libby wandered into your place for a few minutes.”