Soft focus by Jayne Ann Krentz Page B

several other men and one or two women did the same. She thought about what Jack had said earlier and decided to run Spencer through a test.
    "She's really beautiful, isn't she?" Elizabeth asked casually.
    "Yeah," Spencer replied. "The amazing thing is that she's not a half-bad actress. Not Hollywood material, but not bad."
    "I feel sorry for her. That stalker stuff must be very frightening."
    Spencer gave a short bark that was probably meant to be a laugh. "I wouldn't worry too much about Vicky and her stalker if I were you."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Five will get you ten that it's all a publicity stunt. Probably dreamed up by Vicky herself."
    Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. "Are you serious?"
    "Sure," Spencer seemed amused by her reaction. "Hey, this may not be Hollywood, but this is still the movie business, lady. For someone like Vicky Bellamy, publicity is interchangeable with blood in her veins."
    "That sounds a little cold."
    "You kidding?" Spencer drained his glass. "I'll bet Vicky has to drink antifreeze in her orange juice every morning to keep herself from freezing solid."
     
     
    "The thing about noir is that it all hinges on vision and lighting," Bernard Aston declared. "You gotta have vision and lighting."
    "And money," Jack said.
    He glanced around the room, searching for Elizabeth. He hoped she was having better luck than he was. Thus far he had talked to a lighting technician, a member of the camera crew, and two people who claimed to have had walk-ons in Fast Company. None of them seemed to know or care about Tyler Page. He had finally managed to track down the director, but Aston wasn't proving any more helpful than the others.
    Bernard was short and heavy, and he had left his designer denim shirt unbuttoned a little too far down his chest. The silver ankh dangling in the sparse gray hair that covered his midsection and the straggly ponytail did nothing to enhance the image Jack suspected he was trying to project.
    "Lining up the money is the producer's problem. As the director, I gotta stay focused on vision and lighting," Bernard explained.
    "Sure. But with Dawson Holland handling the financing, you had the luxury of staying focused, didn't you?"
    "Shit. Holland was a pain in the ass right from the start. He made it clear that the main condition for financing Fast Company was the female lead for Vicky. It wasn't easy making her look good, I can tell you that. Woman can't act her way out of a paper bag."
    Jack glanced up at one of the huge posters that dangled from the high ceiling. "She looks pretty good in that shot."
    "Vision and lighting." Aston removed the olive from his martini and popped it into his mouth. "Vicky was a pain in the ass, too. Never made it in Hollywood, you know."
    Jack suspected that Vicky was not the only one present tonight who had failed to make it in Hollywood.
    He was formulating a question that would lead to the subject of Tyler Page, when Aston glanced past him and raised his martini in a careless salute.
    "Nice party, Holland," Aston said.
    "Don't thank me, thank Vicky. She handles things like this. Glad you could make it, Aston."
    Jack turned very casually at the sound of the dry, cultured voice. He took in Dawson Holland with a quick glance, measuring him against the information Larry had supplied.
    At fifty-seven he was more than twenty years older than his wife, but if Larry hadn't supplied the age factor, it would have been tough to guess. He had refined, ascetic features and a judicious amount of silver in his hair. "Distinguished looking" was the phrase that most people would probably come up with to describe him, Jack thought. Holland moved with the athletic ease of a man who took care of his body. He was wearing a black silk shirt and black trousers, but he somehow managed to carry off the look without appearing too painfully L.A.
    He looked at Jack and smiled slightly. His gray eyes were politely quizzical. "Don't believe we've met."
    "Jack Fairfax." Jack held out his