TURN ME ON Page 2

  « ^ »

  Sabrina sat in a cast-iron chair on the patio of her Uncle Gus's Hollywood Hills bungalow, eyes closed and head tipped back in the warm afternoon sunlight. The night shoot had gone smoothly, but the loss of sleep was beginning to catch up with her. That, and anxiety over the bombshell that had been dropped in her lap that morning. She wouldn't think about it for a few minutes, though. For a few minutes, she'd just relax and not fret about deadlines or logistics.

  Or the fact that her director had skipped to a different project.

  The sound of the sliding glass door had her raising her head to see Gus step onto the flagstone patio, two glasses of iced tea in his hands. Though he was closing in on the age most people started drawing Social Security, time hadn't stooped him or stiffened his easy stride. Maybe the years had added a network of lines to his hawk face and silvered the hair that flowed down over his collar, but, if anything, the changes made him appear even more wise, even more filled with the answers.

  Answers she currently needed very badly.

  He sat, staring at her with a faint smile on his face.

  "What?" Sabrina asked.

  "I'm just remembering you at your christening, kicking and squalling at the top of your lungs. You've grown up nicely."

  Sabrina gave him a tired smile. "Sometimes I don't feel grown-up at all. At least, not grown-up enough to do everything that needs doing."

  He set a glass in front of her. "If it's worth doing, it's rarely easy."

  She nodded.

  "How did your meeting with Schuyler go?"

  Sabrina took a sip of her tea. "It went well, I think. He likes the concept. I played him on the competition with Spotlight! and he jumped."

  "What did you walk away with?"

  "He's open to it. All we have to do is wow him with the pilot and we're home free."

  Gus nodded, watching a hummingbird whisk around the feeder that hung from the eaves of the house. "Well, that puts your foot in the door."

  "Yeah." She rubbed her temples. "Except I just lost my director."

  Gus snapped his head around to stare at her. "I thought he was locked in."

  "He'd done everything but ink the papers," she said, resisting the urge to begin pacing. "Timing's everything in this business, you know that. Someone else offered him something he liked better."

  "So what are you going to do, kid?"

  Sabrina gave him a wry smile. "I thought you might ask that. I spent the afternoon beating the bushes to find out who's available and who I could afford."

  "And?"

  "And nothing. I called everyone I could think of. No one's free, at least no one who could do what we need." She squared her shoulders. "I'll do some more calling tomorrow. I can't lose time when I've already told Schuyler it's coming."

  Gus stroked his chin. "Did you try Marcus Amblin?"

  Sabrina nodded. "No dice."

  "Petra Krausz?"

  "Ditto. And Lloyd Asherton and the Lamonte-Crosby group. Everyone's got balls in the air," she finished morosely, rubbing patterns in the condensation on her glass. "Doesn't mean it's not going to happen eventually, it's just that the delay makes me look bad to Schuyler."

  Gus tapped his fingers on the table. "There's one possibility I can think of," he said slowly. "Someone who owes me a favor and might be willing to help us out. You'd probably only have him for the pilot, but that'll buy you some time to find another director for the main series. First things first, after all."

  Sabrina shook her head. "I don't want you to call in favors on my account. I need to do this myself."

  "Oh, trust me, you'll do it yourself. I'm just going to see if I can help clear the path a little."

  "Advice only, remember? And a swift kick in the pants if I ever need one. I don't want you coming in and smoothing things over for me, Gus."

  Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Trust me, petunia, if this works out, smooth is the last thing it'll be."

  She gave him a suspicious look before raising her glass to take a sip. "What have you got up your sleeve? Who are you talking about?"

  "He's a filmmaker's filmmaker," he told her. "He's not always easy, but he's talented."

  "Who, Gus?" she persisted.

  "He'll be the one to take your concept from interesting to sublime."

  "Gus." Her voice was full of warning.

  The edge of his mouth twitched with what she could have sworn was humor. "Stef Costas."

  The glass of tea slipped from her fingers and shattered on the pavement.

  * * *

  Stefos Costas slouched in front of the editing machine, scanning the black-and-white film of striking workers that flickered on the screen in front of him. The picket line stood blocking an old-fashioned factory gate, the men looking shabby and grimly determined. Then a jet of water shot in, knocking the men down. Stef frowned and stopped the film, rolling it back to review a few seconds' worth of footage. At his elbow, the phone jangled for attention, but he ignored it, moving the film slowly, looking for the moment … there, that was it—the frame in which the first man was hit by the water, grimacing as the jet sent him tumbling over.

  Stef's straight dark hair fell over his forehead. He shoved it impatiently out of his way, pressing the editing controls to make the new cut and splice it into an interview with a historian. The room's faint light turned his cheekbones into sharp slashes below eyes that were nearly black. He studied the new edit, the intensity that drew his face taut now softening slightly in satisfaction.

  In film circles, Stef was known as a gifted documentary director. Focused, even driven, some said, he was the genius behind a critically lauded film about espionage in the American War of Independence and one on the Industrial Revolution. Unfortunately, being a hot property in documentary circles didn't necessarily bring in cash or translate into getting green-lighted on any project he wished, not when he was crafting cinematic releases. Unless you were Ken Burns with a big-money sponsor and a main line to PBS, getting docs funded was always a battle. Fortunately, his next project—his dream project—was all set, just as soon as he finished his current piece on the early union movement.

  It was time for him to make a film that really engaged him again. Of late, he'd been going through the motions. Sure, he was satisfied with his craftsmanship, but somehow it wasn't quite enough to get rid of the restlessness that niggled at him.

  When the phone jangled again, he reached over absently and picked it up.

  "Costas," he said economically, eyes on the screen as he fast-forwarded the film to reach his next target segment.

  "Stef? Mitch." It was the voice of his producer. "How's it going?"

  "Good. I'm finishing the edits on the union piece. I made a contact in Athens who's going to fast-track some of the permit and approvals process. With luck, seven weeks from now, yours truly will be on the coast of the Aegean, filming." And witnessing the excavation of a World War II execution site that held clues to the fates of members of the Greek underground. Members who might, perhaps, have included his grandfather.

  If he closed his eyes, Stef could hear his grandmother's heavily accented English as she told his younger self the stories of what had happened, what little she knew. And she'd wept. Even then, as a child, he'd vowed to ferret out the true story, to someday be able to tell her what had happened to the man she'd loved. The rift that had subsequently opened between her and his career-obsessed parents when she'd criticized their child-rearing hadn't weakened his ties to her or the strength of his determination.

  For years, Stef had researched the topic, waiting for the right moment to dive in. With two award-winning films already under his belt and the hotly anticipated union doc scheduled to premiere in a month, the timing felt right. "Everything's looking good on this end as far as prep goes. I talked with the university team today, and they're ready to have me film the entire excavation process."

  "Uh, can you get an extension on that?"

  Stef's expression sharpened. "Why
?" He stopped the editing machine. "What's going on, Mitch?"

  There was a pause. "Atkinson and Trimax are backing out. Maybe it's a cash-flow thing, but they're not prepared to go forward until the next fiscal year at the earliest."

  Stef cursed. "You know my window's limited. They're going to dig up this site whether I'm there or not, and once it's done, it's done." He stood and paced across the room. "We've been talking with these guys for three years. They know the parameters of the project. What are they doing dropping out now?"

  "Everyone's skittish in this economy."

  "Have you tried the indie studios?"

  Mitch let out a sigh. "I've been burning up the phones all day. No one wants to bite. Not now. People want feel-good movies, date movies. Cinematic docs are never easy, you know that."

  "Did you try the foundations?" Stef demanded, raking a hand through his hair while he calculated how much money he might be able to scare up in grants.

  "No dice. Look, Stef, they're not backing out, it's just a delay. You were planning to work on the piece about that Rhode Island nightclub fire after you got through in Greece, right? So swap the order, do Rhode Island first and Greece after. It'll work out. You've just got to be patient."

  "I am being patient, Mitch," Stef said ominously. "The university group is starting their dig in two months. A year from now, they're going to be done."

  "I'm being conservative with the twelve to eighteen months, Stef. It could happen sooner."

  "Even six months is too late."

  "Look, I'm not going to fight with you." Mitch paused. "Finish up the union film, take a couple of months off and you can start Rhode Island. We can use that to fund Greece, if you need to. You can work with the still photos they'll take during the excavation. You've always had a genius for that."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

  Mitch sighed. "You've been waiting a decade to do this. What's another year?"

  It was the difference between crucial footage and telling a dead story, Stef wanted to roar. It was squandering a golden opportunity to tell the story he wanted, the only story that really mattered to him.

  Instead, he held on to his control. "Look, Mitch, keep the pressure on them. And do me a favor—don't stop looking."

  Stef hung up the phone and stood for a moment. Then he kicked his chair and sent it spinning in circles. Against the wall, grainy black-and-white footage showed a frame of union men pelting scabs with rocks.

  The phone rang again, and this time he picked it up with a snarl. "Costas."

  "You've got a bark on you, boy. Gus Stirling here. Got a minute?"

  Stef's face relaxed. "Gus. It's good to hear your voice. How've you been?"

  "Good. I hear your union piece is supposed to premiere next month."

  Stef glanced at the screen. "Assuming I finish the edit."

  "You always were a perfectionist. Did my cousin at the Greek Film Commission take care of you?"

  "He was a godsend. Pushed through all the permits in record time. I owe him one. You, too."

  "I didn't do anything much, it was all Louie. He's a good man to know."

  "I'll say. What can I do to thank him?"

  Gus chuckled. "Buy him a glass of ouzo when you get to Athens. He'll like that."

  "Consider it done, assuming I ever get over there."

  "What do you mean? I thought you said the permits came through."

  Frustration started to simmer again in Stef's blood. "They did. Unfortunately, there's been a holdup in funding. Hopefully not long, but it looks like I won't be going over for a couple of months, at least."

  "So what are you going to do when your union piece is done?"

  Stef shrugged, forgetting Gus couldn't see him. "I don't know, preproduction? A vacation? Set up on a street corner and beg for money?"

  Gus snorted. "If I know you, preproduction was done six months ago, and you've never taken a vacation in all the time I've known you. And you never beg."

  "Maybe it's time I started. They're excavating a key site over there in about eight weeks. If I miss that, I miss the heart of the doc." And he missed the chance to pick up a clue about his grandfather, he thought. "I've got to find a way to go, and until I do, I can't really get into anything serious."

  "Sure you can, if it's small enough."

  This wasn't just a social call, Stef realized suddenly, staring at the flickering black-and-white footage on the wall. "What's on your mind, Gus?"

  He could hear the smile in the older man's voice. "That obvious, huh? I used to be better at this."

  "That's the problem with getting in the habit of shooting straight with someone. You tend to lose the art of B.S."

  "A symptom of my advancing age, no doubt. Well, let me just cut to the chase. I could help you out with your funding problems. As you know, I'm the head of a little consortium that funds a couple of small films a year. Though, I've got a little problem to take care of before I can really afford to think about that."

  Here it came, Stef thought. "And that would be?"

  Gus coughed. "I've got a project that needs a director. The person scheduled to do it ducked out unexpectedly, and the shooting's supposed to start next week."

  Something had Stef's radar going haywire. "What is it?"

  "Cable documentary, a one-hour pilot."

  "What's the topic?"

  "It's an alternative lifestyles thing."

  "You mean sex," Stef said flatly.

  "Sex," Gus agreed.

  His first inclination was to say hell no, but the prospect of being able to get his Greek documentary off the ground had him pausing. "Who's the producer?"

  "She's new to the game, but I've been teaching her the ropes the past few years. I think you'll find her tough and fair."

  "Who, Gus?"

  "My goddaughter, Sabrina Pantolini."

  Like an icy wave, memories swamped him and robbed him of breath. Laughing eyes, a mouth always curved up in some sort of devilment, a body greedy for his touch. Eight years before, when he'd been in grad school, Sabrina Pantolini had been his lover.

  Eight years before, she'd been his love.

  Film had been what he'd lived and breathed, the drive for success pumping through his veins. Still, even he wasn't immune to a woman like Sabrina. She'd taught him about life beyond film, brought him out into the fresh air. Taught him what it was like to love and be loved.

  And she had taught him about betrayal.

  "Oh, come on Gus, you know better than to ask something like this. A sex documentary is bad enough, but with her?"

  "She's grown up a lot, Stef. She's serious about this."

  "This week."

  "And the week before, and the five years before that," Gus said reprovingly. "She's paid her dues and been part of some damned fine work. I should know—she's been doing it for me."

  How was it that he hadn't known about this, Stef asked himself. He certainly hadn't missed her face in any of the glossy newsstand magazines. She unveiled a new grand career every week, or so it seemed, in between showing up at the hot parties with some good-looking guy on her arm. Not that that bothered him, he thought, loosening his jaw. The past was the past.

  And he hadn't exactly been celibate himself, not that any of them had stuck. There had been other women, but none who felt right in his arms, none who tasted right. None who had been able to make him laugh and feel truly light the way Sabrina had. First love, he told himself, just memories of first love.

  "Look, Stef, I realize what I'm asking here. The question is do you want to do your Greek doc or don't you? If you want it, then it's a trade-off. I'll get you the money and you get me that pilot in the can. Four weeks is all I'm asking."

  "Plus postproduction," Stef reminded him.

  "Plus postproduction, but that will go quicker than you think."

  Stef hesitated. Gus was right; he didn't beg, and somehow taking money from a friend seemed like the same thing.

  "You've got me in a bind here, Gus."<
br />
  "Nonsense." Gus's voice was brisk. "I'm offering you a way out. And you'll be doing me that favor you said you owed me."

  Stef rubbed his temple. It was imperative that he get to Greece while the excavation was still going on. He owed it to his grandfather to tell his story the right way; he owed it to himself and his family to find out what he could.

  Besides, maybe before he uncovered one part of his past, he could bury another—the image he held of Sabrina from days gone by. Maybe, he thought, just maybe it would be good for him to take on Gus's project. Reality couldn't possibly match up to the memory. He'd see her, talk with her, get her out of his head once and for all.

  And when he was done with the project, he'd be done with her.

  "I'll do it," Stef said suddenly.

  "Wonderful." Gus's voice was delighted. "I'll get some numbers from your producer and we can move things along. As far as the cable doc…" he paused.

  "It's as good as done," Stef said, ignoring his bellyful of misgivings at the idea of working with Sabrina again.

  Yeah, he was sure it was just misgivings.

  * * *

  3

  « ^ »

  "What do you mean, I have to have a fire truck on site?" Sabrina demanded of the faceless bureaucrat on the phone. "It's not like we're setting and filming open fires in the middle of a national forest. We're filming on a street."

  She sighed, tapping a pen on the stack of forms in front of her. She knew the cycle of permit after permit after permit by heart. That didn't mean she had to like it. Sometimes, the regulations made sense. More often, she suspected they were put into place merely to torment her.

  "All right," she said, giving in to the inevitable. "Off-duty cops and an off-duty fire truck on site at all times. If we get that, are we good to go?" At the affirmative answer, she gave a decisive nod. "Thanks for your help," she said insincerely and hung up the phone.

  At the burble and whir of the fax machine in the outer office, Sabrina glanced out her door at Laeticia's empty desk—Kisha had finally gone into labor and Laeticia was with her, leaving Sabrina to fend for herself. Just what she needed. Bad enough she was facing the prospect of dealing with Stef Costas again; now her office routine was falling apart. She was a professional, though. She'd deal with the office and she'd sure as hell deal with Stef. He might have mowed her over at nineteen, not now.