“I won’t do it, Felix.”

            Jazmine Storm dropped the tome of a movie script on her speechless agent’s desk.

            “I won’t work with that asshole, Conner McKenna.  He’s nothing but a romance cover model wannabe actor trying to hitch a ride on my coat tails.  I deserve better than some walking muscle-bound gorilla.”  Jazmine, or Jaz, as her friends and fans called her, swung her braided trademark waist-length mane of raven hair over her right shoulder in defiance. 

            “So, I take it my new ingenue disapproves of the director’s choice.”  Felix Larson rolled his office chair away from his desk, fearful he’d get a face full of either obscenities or French-manicured fingers.  She’d done it before; smacked leading men, hairdressers, make-up artists, her ex.  She was notorious for throwing out the first punch.  And he wasn’t into the kind of masochism that would result in voicing his opinion that Conner McKenna might just be the leading man to rein in Jaz.  Aside from which, her reputation precluded most leading men to turn down working with her.

            Jaz parked her hip on his desk, her low-riding hip-hugging jeans inched down, causing the slightest tease of her famous Pilates-toned backside.  Her ample breasts heaved in a too-small, stomach-bearing Dolce & Gabbana tee shirt which she constantly tugged down but which failed to hide her famous navel.  She impatiently tapped one Manolo Blahnik clad foot against a desk leg.

            “It’s a shitty script, Felix.  ‘Desert Raiders.’ An imbedded reporter in the middle east is kidnaped by rogue Bedouins, seduced by a sheik and rescued by a commando force led by her ex-husband.  That’s lame.”

            Felix sighed, trying to compose himself.  “If you call the kind of cha-ching this will bring in ‘lame’ then I guess it is.  This script was written for you, Jaz.  Your looks inspired the heroine.  That’s quite a compliment, I’d say.”

            It was true.  Jaz Storm’s dark hair and bronzed complexion enabled her to play desert princesses, Italian countesses and, most recently, a Latin American love interest in the life story of a Cuban revolutionary.  Her beguiling almond-shaped eyes, with their emerald-amber centers, landed her photo shoots portraying the gambit from doe-eyed innocent virgins to the smoky sensuality of alluring sex kittens.  With her looks and lithe, slender figure, she’d gone from donut shop discovery to catwalk to screen idol in less than three years.  And here she was making demands like she was Julia Roberts.  The irony of it, thought Felix, was that she knew she could get away with it.

            “I want Arnold,” she demanded, as if she were asking for a double-latte with extra foam.

            Felix shook his graying head.  “No can do.  He’s busy running the state.”

            She pouted her scene-stealing lips.  “Stallone, then.”

            “Uh-uh.  The price isn’t high enough.”

            She stared at him, incredulous.  “Travolta?”

            “Sorry, hon.  He’s shooting a movie that conflicts with this schedule.  You’re stuck with Conner.”

            Jaz slipped off the desk, grumbling obscenities.  She paced the office, stomping the carpet and kicking innocent visitors’ chairs in her wake.  Felix swallowed.  Oh God!  She’s having a tantrum.  She began a familiar litany, cursing the industry, her contract, threatening to go to Europe. 

            She was so engrossed in her tirade that she didn’t hear the office door open, then close.  She finally stopped and faced the open window of Felix’s Santa Monica office.

            “He’ll ruin me.   He can’t act.  I hear he does a hundred takes to do a scene.  He’s got a horrid reputation as a lady’s man.”  She stopped then and spat out a harsh laugh.  “Which I can’t believe because I have it on the best authority that he’s got a very small penis.”

            She continued to stare out the window for several seconds, suddenly aware that Felix hadn’t said anything.  Not his usual calming tactics, a coercive lunch, a drink, a bribe that included shopping on Rodeo Drive.  Nothing but silence.  She closed her eyes and let the California sun warm her face, the stiff ocean breeze cool her temper.  Deep down she knew she’d have to agree if she wanted to work with the Oscar-winning director.  The script had some great action scenes.  It was a growth role for her.  Her last movie created a sensation.  Her fans wanted more.  This movie would cement her stardom.  But damn, how she hated giving in. 

            She heard a movement behind her.  Felix had come to bribe her after all.  She warmed at the thought of spending the afternoon at Tiffany’s.  After all, a girl couldn’t have too much bling-bling.  She opened her eyes and gazed out at the ocean where a flock seagulls played a lazy game of tag with the surf.

             “Okay, Felix.  I’ll work with Mr. Teeny-Weeny and his wavy, blond tresses but if he screws up even once, back to the romance covers he goes.”

            She felt a warm hand on her bare shoulder.  A man’s voice murmured into her ear.

            “Why don’t you tell me what you really think of me?”