Darcy in Hollywood Read online

  Darcy in Hollywood

  A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation

  Victoria Kincaid

  Copyright © 2019 by Victoria Kincaid

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Please do not participate in or encourage the piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9997333-8-7

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter One

  “A single man in possession of a lucrative film career must be in want of a wife.” The words were punctuated by a girlish giggle.

  Darcy rolled his eyes. “Georgiana,” he said loudly enough so that the speaker on his cell phone could catch the words, “that may be Aunt Catherine’s philosophy, but I’ve never listened to her before. Why should I start now?”

  His sister’s laugh echoed over the phone. “I think you should’ve said you’d get started on the search for a wife right away.”

  “And I think my sister should be less sarcastic,” he said in a tone of mock exasperation. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about than my love life.”

  “I know that.” Georgie’s voice was suddenly much more sober, and Darcy cursed himself for reminding her of her role in his predicament. “I’ll let you go. Good luck with the new film.”

  “Thank you. Georgie—”

  But she had disconnected the call. Damn it! He shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t blame her for the situation, and she shouldn’t blame herself either.

  Okay, put it out of your mind, he reminded himself. Time to focus on work. And driving—although he wasn’t going that fast.

  Darcy glanced down at the dashboard for only a second, he would swear, just long enough to restart the state-of-the-art sound system. But when he looked up, there was a woman in front of the car—a woman who hadn’t been there before.

  And a lamppost.

  It was her fault, actually. If she had been careful, she wouldn’t have been on the sidewalk near the lamppost that his Ferrari apparently regarded as a target.

  So she bore at least some of the responsibility. She should have seen what was about to happen.

  Privately, Darcy would admit that he was a bit distracted. He hadn’t driven in over a year, and the car was new. He had wanted a little music. But when he pushed the first button to start the radio, the windshield wipers whipped back and forth. His next attempt blasted the car with heat. Why did they put so many buttons so close together?

  And then he saw the woman standing on the sidewalk in front of his Ferrari. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the actual steering and less to the stereo, but it was a little late to worry about that now. He braked furiously, hoping he could at least locate the horn.

  The horn did blare, but the warning came too late as the car crashed into the lamppost with a crunch of metal and a jolt that threw Darcy against the steering wheel. The air bag inflated instantly, softening the impact. He winced at the sound of metal against metal, but at least it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. If he hadn’t braked in time, the damage would have been far worse.

  Dust from the airbag obscured the air. Coughing, Darcy wondered if there was a lifetime cap on how many cars one person was allowed to total in a lifetime.

  He peered through the windshield.

  Hell. Where had the woman gone?

  Darcy couldn’t see her. Had the car struck her? Was she trapped under the axle? Should he call his lawyer? His PR guys?

  Oh, right. Maybe he should check on the woman.

  As he pushed the car door open, it protested with an awful shriek. The frame was bent, and the window was spiderwebbed with cracks. The door scraped along the sidewalk like sandpaper.

  He clambered to his feet, surveying the damage. The front left of the Ferrari had crumpled inward, embedded in the ornate faux Victorian lamppost. The bumper dangled, and the hood appeared to be off-center. The very first day he drove the car… This had to be some kind of record.

  The woman was lying on the sidewalk.

  Darcy’s heart was already pounding, but now it went into overdrive. He could practically feel adrenaline pumping into his veins. Please, God. Not another scandal. Darcy raced to her side. He was just getting his life back on track; it was not a good day to be arrested for vehicular manslaughter.

  She groaned, the most beautiful sound he had ever heard in his life.

  From this perspective, Darcy could see that the woman was several feet from the front of his car. She must have been backing away from it in a panic and slipped. Yes, there was a jagged crack in the sidewalk. She had tripped and fallen; he hadn’t struck her. Relief slowed his breathing somewhat but did nothing for the spikes of adrenaline jittering through his body.

  She was young, younger than Darcy. Her face was pleasant—a smooth oval surrounded by curly mahogany hair—but certainly not pretty enough to be an actress. At least not a lead. Maybe she’d have some luck as a character actor, but no actress would be caught on a studio lot in those worn jeans and overly large t-shirt. Even the hair and makeup people dressed better than that; ditto the office staff. Maybe she was a camera operator or props?

  He knelt beside the woman, heedless of his $800 Hugo Boss pants. “Are you all right?”

  She glared at him, and he noticed that she had the most amazing blue-green eyes, like dark ocean water. “Of course, I’m not all right. I almost got hit by a car.”

  Doesn’t she understand how upsetting this is to me? “But you didn’t get hit by a car.”

  Struggling into a sitting position, the woman fended off his clumsy attempts at assistance. “I was trying to avoid being hit by your car,” she explained patiently as if he were a particularly slow child. “That’s why I fell.”

  “You would have been perfectly safe where you were.” He gestured toward the Ferrari. “The lamppost stopped the car.”

  He couldn’t help noticing how her eyes flashed; under other circumstances, he would have found it intriguing. “I didn’t know it would do that, did I?” she said.

  “I don’t know why not. You were standing right next to the lamppost.”

  She stared at him for a moment. “Are you for real?”

  Darcy wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

  “Most people would rather not rely on a lamppost to save their life.” Gingerly she touched the back of her head and winced.

  As she struggled unsteadily to her feet, Darcy helped with a hand under her elbow. She was concealing some nice curves under her oversized t-shirt—not overweight but nicely rounded. Okay, wow. This was an inappropriate time to be having such thoughts.

  Once upright, she swayed, and Darcy didn’t dare to let go. “The studio probably has a clinic with a nurse.” Most studios did, but this was his first day on the grounds at Worldwide. “You could go get a band-aid.” Or whatever they did for bumps on the head.

  She
held out her hand. Shit, there was blood on her fingers from her head wound. “I’ll probably need to be checked for a concussion.”

  Had she hit her head that badly? He held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Eyerolls, he noticed in passing, were much more visible with vivid blue-green eyes. “203. Even if I did suffer from blurred vision, it would hard to miscount fingers a foot from my face.”

  Jeez, he was only trying to help. Would it kill her to treat him with a little more respect? “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re the guy who almost hit me with his car.”

  Darcy gaped. He could sometimes be anonymous outside California, but it had been a long time since someone didn’t recognize him in L.A.

  “Or are you referring to the fact that you’re William Darcy?” she asked with faux innocence.

  Darcy stomped on the momentary flare of irritation. “Is the sarcasm really necessary?”

  She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Yeah, I think it is. What’s the alternative? That I should be honored to be knocked over by your car? Because I don’t think your identity would have been much comfort to my parents. ‘We don’t have a daughter anymore, but at least she was killed by a celebrity. Maybe he can autograph her coffin.’”

  Why did she have to be so difficult? He was already putting up with so much doing an indie film. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t have to put it that way—”

  “I almost got hit by a car. I can put it however the fuck I want to!”

  Darcy was so over this woman. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as he had initially thought. If only he could leave. But he needed to make sure she wouldn’t talk to the media; another car-related incident would be a disaster for his career. From now on, I only travel by train or boat. Pity about her personality; she had fine eyes.

  Darcy helped the woman limp to a nearby bench and gently lowered her to the seat. “Maybe I should call for an ambulance,” he suggested. He would have preferred to discuss having her sign a nondisclosure agreement, but it seemed a little insensitive.

  “Let me sit for a minute.” Leaning forward, she cradled her head in her hands, providing a good view of the blood matting the hair on the back of her head. Huh, maybe she wasn’t wrong about the possible concussion.

  Darcy settled on the bench beside her despite a desperate desire to cross the street and slip into Building 4, where they were holding the table read. They won’t start without me, he reminded himself. But being late wouldn’t impress them with his professionalism.

  He took the opportunity to check her for other injuries. She had a scrape on her right arm and favored her left ankle. Of course, her clothes were disheveled—and a fashion disaster. The sleeve of her t-shirt was ripped where she had fallen.

  “I can get you a new t-shirt.”

  “Huh?”

  He gestured to the rip.

  Her mouth hung open. “I don’t give a shit about the t-shirt!”

  “I don’t think that kind of language is called for.”

  “That kind of language?” she echoed and then squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”

  “It’s 7 a.m.”

  “Yes, it is. Are you drunk? Or high?”

  Damn, you have one scandal…

  “No,” he said sharply.

  “The car was moving rather erratically.”

  “I was…trying to work the stereo. It’s complicated.”

  “You almost killed me because you couldn’t work the radio?”

  “To be fair, it’s satellite radio. And I didn’t almost kill you!”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to.”

  His jaw clenched so tightly he could grind glass. “This isn’t a matter of opinion! You would have been fine if you hadn’t fallen.”

  “I also would have been fine if your Ferrari hadn’t come hurtling toward me.”

  Darcy didn’t respond; arguing was futile. After a moment she gave him a sidelong glance. “You don’t need to babysit me; I can call myself an ambulance if I need one.”

  “I shouldn’t leave you alone.”

  “Oh! You don’t want me talking to the press. Don’t worry.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he lied. “My primary concern is your well-being.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls you almost run over.”

  Darcy stifled a smile. Under other circumstances, he’d think she was funny. “I assure you that you’re the first.”

  The woman examined the scrape on her arm. “I accept your apology, by the way.”

  “I didn’t apologize.”

  Now she turned her blue-green gaze on him. “I noticed that. Why didn’t you? Do you think this is my fault? That your car had the right of way on the sidewalk?”

  Darcy would have apologized—if he had thought of it—but now he couldn’t without losing face. “I didn’t hit you. You agreed I didn’t hit you!” I sound like an idiot insisting on that point.

  “You. Are. Unbelievable.”

  Darcy had heard that before but usually in a more complimentary tone.

  “You’re not going to say ‘I’m sorry’?”

  His father’s voice echoed through his head: Never admit guilt, never apologize. It’s a sign of weakness. But it was indisputably true that his actions had caused her harm. An apology might soften that contemptuous expression on her face, although he wasn’t quite sure why he wanted her good opinion. “I have to admit that I’m—”

  “Oh my God! Darcy?” He turned his head to see Caroline Bingley standing in the doorway of Building 4 on the other side of the street. Great, now the entire cast would know that William Darcy had crashed his Ferrari on the first day of the new movie.

  After ducking inside the building—no doubt to notify everyone within earshot that Darcy had experienced yet another car accident—Caroline hurried across the street as fast as three-inch heels and a pencil skirt would allow. Objectively, she was a beautiful woman: tall and slender with blonde hair and aristocratic features that she highlighted with skillfully applied cosmetics. Critics often described her pale blonde beauty as icy, a particularly apt description. Darcy had known her a long time, and she had never excited his interest—not the way the woman beside him made his heart skip a beat, and he didn’t even know her name.

  Caroline clattered to Darcy’s side. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt?”

  Finally, someone who was worried about him!

  Now people were streaming out of the building and heading in Darcy’s direction. He braced himself for a mob scene.

  Darcy stood to greet Caroline, but that didn’t prevent her from standing too close and regarding him with a “caring” expression that would never win her an Oscar. She was a legit movie star in her own right, although not as well-known as Darcy. Her constant invasion of his personal space represented either a genuine attraction to him or a cold-blooded desire to hitch a wagon to his star. Either way, he was not interested, but she was his costar—playing his love interest—so he tried to remain cordial. “I’m fine. The airbag deployed.”

  Oblivious to his body language, she reached out and stroked his cheek. “The airbag? Oh my! Maybe you should be examined by a doctor, just as a precaution.”

  “I feel fine.” He turned toward the woman on the bench as a way of evading Caroline’s grasp. “I’m more worried about this young lady—”

  Within seconds they were surrounded by curious, chattering people—mostly actors from the table read that had yet to begin, but some were obviously members of the film’s production crew.

  The movie’s producer, Tom Bennet, a portly man in his sixties with thinning, frizzy brownish hair, pushed his way through the crowd. Darcy had only met the man a handful of times, but he never exhibited the kind of focus and energy you would expect from someone who could raise millions of dollars for an independent film.

  “Ah, I see you’ve met my daughter, Elizabeth.” After a cursory glance at the woman on the bench, Tom gave Darcy a v
ague smile as if they had encountered each other at Starbucks. “Now I see what held you up.”

  His daughter? Wasn’t he…you know…worried about her? Blood stained the front of her shirt. If that had been his sister, Darcy would have been…

  Of course, if that had been his sister, his parents wouldn’t have noticed from Europe.

  Darcy struggled to recall what he knew about Bennet’s family, information he’d never considered of much importance. Bennet had a lot of daughters. Five? Six? He was notorious for casting family members in his movies to cut back on expenses.

  “Elizabeth will be one of the PAs on the set,” Bennet told Darcy.

  PA. Production Assistant. Oh God. This woman would be on the movie set every freaking day. She’d bring him props and sides from the screenplay and call sheets—with a glower that reminded him that he was a terrible driver and impossibly vivid eyes that he couldn’t ignore…

  That is, if she didn’t die from a concussion on the studio sidewalk.

  A short, voluptuously built blonde who had been squeezed into a bright floral form-fitting dress teetered up to Elizabeth on three-inch heels. “Oh my God! Lizzy! What happened?” Throwing her arms around Elizabeth, the blonde pulled her head against her generous chest.

  “I fell when—” Elizabeth started to say.

  “You shouldn’t be so careless!” the blonde chastised. “I only have four sisters. What would I do without you?”

  So this was another of Bennet’s daughters? There was little resemblance. The blonde had all the conventional beauty that Hollywood craved: bee-stung lips, big blue eyes, and a curvaceous figure. By comparison, Elizabeth was no more than passably pretty, yet Darcy couldn’t drag his eyes away from her.

  “What happened?” the sister demanded again.

  Elizabeth leaned heavily against the back of the bench. “He almost hit me with his car.” She gestured to Darcy.

  The other woman’s gaze darted to Darcy, and she did a double take. Darcy stifled a curse; he knew what was coming now. “Oh my God! William Darcy! Lizzy, you almost got run over by William Darcy!” She emitted a high-pitched shriek. “What an honor! Did you get an autograph? Did you get a selfie?”