“Recognize that?”
“Of course. It’s me. This is a scene from a TV movie I appeared in just after moving to Hollywood. Diary of a Teenaged Hitchhiker about young women targeted by a psycho motorist. I’ll never forget it because that tiny part got me my SAG card.”
“This shot wasn’t from the movie. It’s behind-the-scenes footage somebody put online,” Roy said.
Sure enough, as Poppy continued to watch, the cameraman filming Poppy down on the ground from high up in the air panned the camera over to the pilot flying the helicopter he was in, and in an instant, Poppy recognized the young, sexy pilot from her earliest TV role. She remembered because she had had a huge crush on him during the shoot, but never saw him again after the movie wrapped production. Soon after, she was dating a college football star turned actor, a dead ringer for Mark Harmon, and forgot all about the smooth, sexy pilot.
Until now.
Roy noticed the hint of recognition on Poppy’s face.
“I win,” he said.
Never one to dishonor a bet, Poppy had reluctantly agreed to accompany Roy Heller on a helicopter ride, and now here they were, zipping along about seven thousand feet off the ground. Roy was proving to be a real prankster, banking left and right, diving down, nearly clipping the tops of a few palm trees, and pulling a couple of heart-stopping stunts in his whirlybird in order to impress or terrify Poppy, she wasn’t quite sure which.
But Poppy had promised herself not to react, not scream or beg him to land, or show fear of any kind. And after twenty-five minutes, Roy finally returned and landed on the tarmac of the Palm Springs International Airport. Poppy unstrapped her seat belt and calmly stepped out of the chopper as if she was done riding a slow-moving carousel at a children’s amusement park.
Never show fear, she thought to herself.
As they walked toward Roy’s truck so he could drive her back to the Sundial, Roy couldn’t help but remark, “You are one tough broad, Poppy Harmon.”
She was smiling on the inside, but kept a straight face on for the brazen veteran stunt pilot who obviously had a tendency to show off. And there was no way she was ever going to admit to him that she had just had the time of her life.
Chapter 8
After Roy Heller dropped Poppy off at the resort, she was on her way back to her suite when she happened upon a heated conversation between Trent, the director, and a pint-sized, intense-looking woman with frizzy hair somewhere in her mid to late forties. She had a severe face no doubt hardened by years of blows from the entertainment industry. Poppy instantly recognized her as film producer, Greta Van Damm, from studying the dossier of cast and crew members Wyatt had compiled after they accepted Danika’s case.
Poppy stopped, not sure she should interrupt them as they quietly argued.
“She wasn’t getting the job done. It’s as simple as that,” Trent sniffed in his clipped British accent.
“I understand you weren’t happy, Trent, but you just can’t fire her on a whim and replace her with another actress without talking to me first.”
“You hired me for my vision and so you should defer to it, or do you not remember the box office numbers from my last film?”
“I remember them very well, and they were five million less than your previous film. You need a hit, Trent, and Hal and I are here to help you achieve that goal, so you need to work with us, not shut us out.”
“I was afraid Hal would try and stop me from casting Poppy because she’s no longer a big name.”
“I’m sure he would have,” Greta said. “But his opinions count, and he has a shelf full of Academy Awards to back them up.”
Trent sighed, frustrated. “Have you seen the dailies of Poppy’s first scene? She was wonderful.”
Poppy’s heart sank. They were talking about her, and here she was, awkwardly standing in the middle of the hallway, just a few feet away, eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Yes, I’ll admit, she’s fine in the role, but that’s not the point. You need to stop acting like you’re the one in charge around here.”
“And you need to stop micromanaging my film,” Trent shot back haughtily. “Or I’ll walk.”
“Don’t make threats unless you’re ready to see them through. No one on a film set is indispensable, not even the director . . . unless you’re a talent on the scale of an Almodóvar, or Scorsese, or Tarantino, and you, my dear, are no Tarantino.”
“Thank God!” Trent bellowed. “Overrated!”
Irritated with Trent’s bombastic, ego-fueled rantings, Greta swiveled around, stopping short at the sight of Poppy standing fumblingly in the middle of the hallway.
“I-I am sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt—” Poppy stammered.
Without missing a beat, Greta plowed forward, pumping Poppy’s hand. “Greta Van Damm, I’m the film’s producer along with Hal Greenwood, I should probably say, the legendary Hal Greenwood.”
Trent rolled his eyes, annoyed at Greta buttering up the boss even when he wasn’t around to feed off it.
“Tell me, Poppy, how is it you came to us? Did your agent lobby Trent?” Greta asked, genuinely curious.
Poppy’s eyes flicked toward Trent to see if he would jump in and expose her as a private detective, but Trent had no interest in filling in any blanks, especially to his perceived archnemesis Greta, and so Poppy felt free to concoct whatever story she wanted. She decided a simple one was probably the best approach.
“I’m a friend of Danika’s, and I was here on the set, and was lucky enough to meet Trent here—”
Trent smiled warmly. “I was the lucky one.”
Greta wasn’t done asking questions, but before she
