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  “Drago finds out about Sadie, and decides she’s the ticket to talking Joe into dropping out of the fight. He tells her that if Joe doesn’t back out, he’ll be killed.”

  Goldman seemed to be listening intently. Encouraged, Zack went on. “Sadie realizes that she has to sacrifice her future to save Joe. There’s a real tearjerker of a scene where she tells Joe she’s calling off the wedding. She tells him that she doesn’t love him, that she likes the fancy life. At first Joe doesn’t believe her. She really needs to convince him, so she tells him she’s become Drago’s lover, and throws out a few details about how much he pleases her in bed.

  “Joe is heartbroken, but instead of deciding to drop out of the fight, he’s more determined than ever to get the best of Drago. He gets in the ring with Drago’s man, who’s a big, bad hombre full of tricks. He uses brass knuckles, then a hidden razor. Joe is taking a serious beating. Sadie can’t stand it.” Zack paused for dramatic effect.

  “She makes her way up to the ropes and begs him to forfeit the fight. If he doesn’t, she tells him, Drago will have him killed. Joe realizes she still loves him, that she said all that other stuff to save him. It gives him a reason to live. He gives it all he’s got and against all odds, he wins.”

  Zack paused again. Goldman gave no reaction. “The crowd goes crazy. Drago reluctantly climbs into the ring to present the prize to Joe. Joe takes the money. He takes a bow. Then he takes a punch at Drago, knocking him cold. The crowd erupts in cheers.

  “Later that evening, Joe and Sadie go to the brothel so Joe can pay off the madam. They plan to leave town and start a new life. Sadie says she needs to go upstairs to pack her stuff. Joe says she’s never going up there again. She doesn’t need a thing. She’s making a fresh start with him, and he wants her to have everything new. And the first new thing he’s going to get her is a new last name.”

  Goldman still sat perfectly still. Zack tried to read his face, but it was as expressionless as a potato. “I haven’t even told you the best part. I saved the best for last.”

  Goldman’s beady eyes drilled into Zack. “Well, let’s have it," the producer said.

  “The best part is, the story’s true.”

  Goldman’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “True?"

  Zack nodded. “True. Joe and Sadie were real people. This really happened. You know how hot true stories are right now. Think A Beautiful Mind. Think Erin Brockovich. Think A Perfect Storm.”

  Goldman leaned forward. “You own the rights to the book?”

  “That’s the beauty of it. There is no book. It’s history, pure and simple. It’s public domain.”

  Goldman’s eyes narrowed. “If there’s no book, where’d you get the story?”

  “From an article.” Zack slid a copy of a drab magazine across the desk, making sure not to touch the glass. Goldman went ballistic if anyone left a fingerprint on his desk.

  The old man glanced at the black-and-white cover. “Historical Research Quarterly? What the hell is this?”

  “A scholarly publication. You know—something professors and historians and other university types publish their papers in. I found it in the seat pocket on a flight to Chicago and started skimming through it. Anyway, the piece about Joe and Sadie was written by a New Orleans University history professor named Kate Matthews. Someone evidently donated Sadie's old diary to the university, and the prof corroborated the diary’s contents with other sources.”

  “This professor—isn’t she going to be screaming copyright?”

  “She can’t. My attorneys checked. Our script is based on actual historical events, not the magazine article,” Zack explained. “I sent a screenwriter to New Orleans to do some research, All of the documents mentioned in the article are available for public view. I’ve even got a copy of the diary, if you’re interested.”

  “Who’s the screenwriter?”

  “Rich Bauer,” Zack replied.

  “Hmmph." Goldman gnawed his cigar. “He’s a royal pain, but that’s your problem. You got a script?"

  “A preliminary one.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Zack passed it across the desk. Goldman slowly thumbed through it.

  “This is all true?”

  Zack shifted. “All the stuff about Sadie and Joe is. We jazzed up the bad guy’s role to add more action.”

  Goldman continued to scan the script.

  “This project has it all—sex, violence, jazz, and a couple of characters to really root for.” Zack said. “And with its true-story angle, it has huge Oscar potential.”

  Goldman looked up. “Who do you have in mind for the leads?"

  Excitement pulsed through Zack’s veins. This was going well, really well. “George Talley—you know, that hot TV star on ‘Emergency Central.’ He’s looking for a vehicle to make the jump to the big screen. He’s seen the script, and he’s itching for this role.”

  Goldman scratched his belly thoughtfully. “That could work. He’s ripe for a crossover. You’ll need a movie name for the leading lady, though, to keep it from looking like a M.O.W.”

  Zack nodded. No director wanted a major motion picture to look like a made-for-TV Movie of the Week. “I’ve sent the script out to Gwyneth Paltrow and Cameron Diaz. I haven’t heard back from their agents yet.”

  “Send one out to Lena Brighton. She’d be perfect, and I hear she’s looking for something.”

  Zack gave a measured nod, trying to suppress his excitement. The old man was going for it. He was actually going for it! Goldman gnawed his cigar. “What’s the budget?”

  “About thirty-five.” Zack tossed out the figure casually, as if he were talking about ones instead of millions.

  “For everything? Post-production included?”

  Zack nodded.

  “Do it for twenty-five and we’ve got a deal. Same split as your last movie.”

  Zack’s heart tripped like a snare drum. Goldman had made an offer! And it was a higher starting point than he’d dared to hope for, but he couldn’t let Goldman know it.

  Zack pulled his brows into a frown. “There’s no way this movie can be made for that. It’ll take thirty-three, at least.”

  “Thirty. And not a penny over.”

  It was just the figure he’d been aiming for. Zack rubbed his chin, pretending to mull it over. “Well, if we can get the talent for a reasonable salary, and if we’re very conservative…”

  “Oh, you’ll be conservative, all right,” Goldman snapped. “I want this movie on time and on budget, and I want it for the holiday season. It’s got to be released before the deadline for Academy Award nominations.”

  Zack’s mind raced. It was do-able, but production would need to start immediately.

  “I intend to keep you on a short leash,” Goldman continued. “I want to know when, where, and how you plan to shoot this thing, what your contingency plan is, and how much it’ll cost. And once you’re in production, I want a detailed weekly report. I want to know the second you hit any snags. And don’t think I won’t find out what’s really going on."

  Damn. The idea of Goldman looking over his shoulder and breathing down his neck stuck in Zack’s craw. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn’t have stood for it, but as things were, he didn’t hold any cards.

  Goldman jabbed his cigar in the air. “I’m tired of throwing good money after bad with you, Jackson. If it starts to look like you can’t deliver, I’ll pull the plug and take my losses. This is your last chance—your very last chance. Capiche?”

  Swallowing hard, Zack gave a curt nod. The old man wasn’t exaggerating. If he screwed this up, his career would be history. And without his career, he’d have no reason to get up every morning.

  “And one more thing.”

  Uh-oh. Goldman always saved the worst for last.

  The old man picked the magazine back up. “It says here that this professor is the world’s foremost authority on New Orleans’s historic red-light district. We need to hire her as our technical adviser.” Goldman stared at the magazine and curled his lips into what passed for a smile. “Yes, sirree. We’re gonna build up this realism angle big time." He squinted at the picture. “Hell, we’ll even use her as our spokesperson. We’ll get the professor here all over the talk shows and magazines, talkin’ about how authentic and historic this movie is. She’s got the perfect look for it, too.”

  As far as Zack recalled, the grainy black-and-white picture above the byline showed a woman as plain as unbuttered toast. It was hard to tell much about her, aside from the fact that she looked to be about thirty and wore her light hair pulled back in a bun as serious as her expression.

  “Hell, she coulda come from Central Casting. She’s got that stuffy, nose-in-a-book kinda look,” Goldman said, still looking at the photo. “Looks like a real intellectual. It’s the perfect foil for someone talkin’ about whores and horses and rigged boxin’ matches.” He set down the magazine and looked at Zack. “Hire her right away. She’s our ticket to makin’ this puppy fly.”

  Zack thought the public would be more interested in the movie’s entertainment value than its historic merit, but if the professor floated Goldman’s boat, what the hell. “All right." He reached for the magazine.

  Goldman yanked it back. “On second thought, I’ll have my people handle it. I want to put a clause in her contract about promotional appearances.”

  “Fine.” Zack sat back and heaved an inward sigh of relief. A technical adviser—that was all Goldman wanted? Hell, that was nothing. For a moment there Goldman had had him worried.

  Technical advisers never posed a problem. All they ever did was sit on their duffs and collect a fat salary. Give ’em a chair on the set and ask ’em a question now and then to make them feel important, and they were happy as clams
.

  A technical adviser. Zack breathed a sigh of relief. That was nothing—nothing at all. How much trouble could one little old female professor be?

  Chapter Two

  Kate Matthews punched the elevator button in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency, smoothed the brown gabardine of her below-the-knee-length skirt, and glanced at her Seiko. She was right on time. Zack Jackson expected her in his suite at two o’clock, and it was seven minutes till.

  Just seven more minutes, and she’d be meeting with Zack Jackson. The thought made her stomach do a cartwheel. It was ridiculous to feel so nervous, she scolded herself. She knew New Orleans’s history backwards and forwards, and she was an expert on Storyville, the city’s old red-light district. She was farsighted, detail-oriented, hardworking, and intelligent. She was more than capable of handling this job.

  But it wasn’t her professional qualifications that had her stomach quaking like the San Andreas fault, and she knew it. It was the thought of coming face-to-face with Zack Jackson, the man who’d been her first love.

  Not that she’d actually ever met him. Kate’s love affair with Zack had been strictly one-sided and completely imaginary. She’d been only eleven years old when she’d fallen head over heels the first time she’d seen him on TV, in his role as Henley Jones, the clever, crime-solving son of a detective on “Charlie Jones, Private Eye.” For the next three years, she’d spent every Friday night glued to the tube, sighing over Zack’s escapades and gathering fuel for new romantic fantasies.

  She could still recall some of her favorite episodes. When Zack had helped his father find a kidnapped girl in an abandoned rock quarry, she’d pretended that she was the girl he’d rescued. When Zack carried an injured friend out of a burning building, she’d imagined she’d been the one in his arms. And when Zack had kissed a girl for the first time, Kate had lived on it for weeks, replaying it over and over in her mind, fantasizing that she was the lucky recipient of his affections.

  She was ashamed to admit it, but when she’d finally received her real first kiss four years later from an awkward high school boy named Charlie, she’d closed her eyes and pretended he was Zack. It hadn’t lived up to her fantasies, though. No kiss ever had.

  Well, that just went to show how unrealistic her girlhood flights of fancy had been, she told herself, adjusting the strap on the large black bag on her shoulder. She’d long since abandoned the habit of spinning romantic daydreams. After all, she was no longer a starry-eyed adolescent, but a responsible adult with a child of her own.

  Responsible—yep, that was the word that described her. The thought dampened her spirits like the March rain drizzling outside. She was responsible, all right—responsible for earning a paycheck, responsible for single-handedly raising an increasingly rebellious child, responsible for dealing with a neurotic, worrywart mother. She loved her family dearly, but sometimes the responsibilities of caring for them squeezed in on her like a garlic press, threatening to crush her under the pressure.

  Especially lately, now that Skye was nearing thirteen. Kate’s precocious daughter had always been a handful, but since she’d hit the rocky shoals of puberty, she was becoming impossible. The scary part was that Skye reminded Kate of herself at sixteen or seventeen—cocky and willful, certain that her hopelessly dorky mother was deliberately depriving her of a life of glamour and excitement, a life she just knew awaited her on the other side of all her mother’s oppressive rules. Kate saw the parallels of Skye’s life to her own, and it worried her to death.

  Her family wasn’t the only worry on her mind, Kate thought, staring at the lights above the elevator doors. The job that had always been her haven, the one place where she felt confident and serene, had recently turned into a headache of migraine proportions. The kindhearted head of the history department who’d hired her and mentored her had suffered a stroke five months ago, and the professor who’d been named as his replacement was her professional nemesis.

  Kate and Dr. Compton had never seen eye to eye. Kate was interested in the history of people—how they’d lived, what they’d thought, what they’d felt. Dr. Compton thought that the only facts of any historical importance were dry, dusty statistics about economics and politics. Kate’s specialty happened to be Storyville, New Orleans’s old area of legalized vice and debauchery that had been the birthplace of jazz. Dr. Compton looked down his nose at the topic, calling it trashy and sensationalistic.

  Their differences had come to a head two years ago when they’d vied for special funding for a research project. Kate had won, and Compton had never forgiven her for it.

  In the two months that he’d been running the department, he’d become the bane of her existence. When she’d gotten the call from Hollywood a month ago, Kate had been so sure Compton would refuse to let her work on the project that she’d asked the studio executive to call the dean directly.

  Sure enough, Compton’s displeasure had been more than evident when he’d summoned her into his office three weeks ago.

  “The dean has agreed to give you a three-month sabbatical to work on this—this movie.” Dr. Compton had said the word as if it were a particularly nasty type of STD. “He seems to think the publicity will be good for the university’s image.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Kate had said amiably.

  Compton had frowned at her over the top of his outdated plastic glasses. “I disagree. I think it will damage the university's reputation to have its name attached to such a salacious story.”

  Oh, brother. Here they went again. “The story is a part of New Orleans’s history, Dr. Compton.”

  “Hmph.” Dr. Compton’s mouth puckered as if he’d bitten into a green plum. “We’d be much better served to focus on the history of our city’s more upstanding citizens.”

  Oh, right. So you can wheedle the wealthy descendants of those upstanding citizens into donating money to the university, which will earn you brownie points with the college president.

  Compton steepled his fingers together and eyed her with displeasure. “This all came about because of that vulgar article you published. You know, Kate, a professor on the tenure track would do well to devote her energies to more academic—and, might I add, less prurient—pursuits.”

  Kate’s heart had sunk to the soles of her Easy Spirit pumps. It was just her luck to be up for tenure while Compton sat on the history department throne. As the department head, he’d chair the committee that would decide whether or not she was deemed worthy.

  Kate had worked toward tenure for the past eight years, pouring her heart and soul into her work. She loved the study of history, loved the way over and over it proved that the human spirit could surmount any obstacle, loved the way it showed how the efforts of just one person could change the lives of many. Tenure would be validation of her ability to pass on the lessons of the past, proof that her efforts were of value, evidence that she’d succeeded. But most of all, tenure would mean security. History departments were shrinking at universities all over the country, and New Orleans was no exception. If she lost her job, another position would be hard, if not impossible, to find. Even if she could find another post, it would probably involve a move, which would mean uprooting Skye and abandoning her mother. As much as Kate loved her work, her family was her top priority.

  “The dean approved my involvement in the movie,” Kate had told Compton.

  “Yes, but you’re putting yourself in a very precarious situation.” Compton's voice had held an ominous, almost threatening tone. “If this movie is historically inaccurate in any way, you’ll embarrass the university. I don’t need to tell you what repercussions that could have on your career.”

  No, he didn’t need to tell her. If she botched the movie, she could kiss any chance of tenure—and maybe even her job itself—good-bye.

  But there was no need to worry about that. She wouldn’t botch the movie. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was her skill as a historian. She would use the same care on the movie that she used on her research papers and lectures. She would do such an impressive job that the dean and the tenure committee would be eager to make her a permanent member of the university’s staff.