For The Love Of You

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_dfeb6803-7778-5c2c-91d8-1cd93eb27fa1)

The ten-hour flight from London Heathrow Airport landed in New Orleans, Louisiana, on time, to the delight of the weary passengers, Craig Lawson among them. His return home after more than ten years came with a mixture of regret and anticipation. Regret that for all those years he’d never felt compelled to return to the place where he’d grown up, and anticipation for the reason why he’d finally come home.

After breezing through customs and collecting his luggage, he and his business partner and lifelong buddy, Anthony Maxwell, headed for the pickup area and the car that awaited them. They passed a newsstand, and Anthony tapped Craig’s arm and lifted his head in the direction of the magazines, where Craig’s face graced the covers of Entertainment Weekly, Variety and Black Enterprise.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were important,” Anthony teased.

Craig chuckled. “As long as the importance translates into success at the box office,” he said. He took a last glance at the magazines and shook his head. When he’d broken ties with his family—his father, specifically—and headed to Los Angeles to pursue his dream as a screenwriter, it had been one of the most difficult things he’d had to do. To a Lawson, family was everything. Yet as hard as it was, looking back, he would not have done anything differently. As much as his father would like to believe that what he did for a living was nothing more than pandering, the real reason for his distaste for his son’s profession went much deeper. Craig grew weary of fighting that ghost. So he left and never looked back. Now he was one of the most successful and celebrated screenwriters and movie directors on the East and the West Coasts. He had an Oscar, a Golden Globe and an NAACP Image Award under his belt. Behind closed doors he was called the golden boy. To his face he was Mr. Lawson.

As the duo exited baggage claim, they walked by the rows of drivers holding up signs with the names of their passengers. Craig’s driver spotted him first and stepped out of the line.

“Mr. Lawson,” the female driver greeted him with a tip of her head. “I’ll get a cart for your bags.”

Craig’s right brow lifted in question, and he quickly assessed the stunning young woman in front of him. Even in her stark uniform of black slacks and jacket and a starched white shirt she was a work of art. The corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly as he watched her retrieve a luggage cart and return to them. Although he knew it was her job, the Southern gentleman in him wouldn’t allow her to do it.

“Let me get the bags on the cart. We’ll meet you at the car.”

“I can take care of the bags, Mr. Lawson,” she mildly protested.

“I’m sure that you can.” He easily hoisted the oversize bags onto the cart. “But I’d rather that you didn’t. My mama didn’t raise me that way.”

The young woman flushed, pressed her polished lips together and murmured a thank-you. “The car is this way.” She started off toward the ground transportation area.

“Don’t distract her from her driving,” Anthony teased under his breath as they dutifully followed her to the exit.

“Not my intention. But I will say, it’s a pleasure following her lead.”

Truth be told, the last thing on his mind was getting with a woman. Although he had a reputation as a ladies’ man, especially his leading ladies, it was all smoke and mirrors. The women who drifted in and out of his life were just that—transient. He found none that could excite his mind as well as his body, so he kept his relationships short, practical and amicable. For all of his numerous dalliances, there wasn’t one woman who could say she had not been treated like a lady while she’d spent time with him.

“How does it feel to be back?” Anthony asked as they settled into the air-conditioned comfort of the town car.

Craig drew in a breath and glanced out the window as the Louisiana landscape unfolded in front of them. “Still trying to process it. Feels strange. I mean, things kind of look the same but different—smaller.” He chuckled.

“You plan to see the family?”

Craig’s jaw flexed. He leaned his elbow on the armrest and braced his chin on his fist. “I don’t know. I’m sure they’ve heard that I’m back. Guess it wouldn’t be right not to check in on my sister and brother and my cousins.” He paused. “And I know that’s not what you meant.” He flashed his friend a look of censure. “I’m not going to see him.”

Anthony held up his hands. “Hey, just asking a question, man.”

Craig went back to staring out the window. The rift between father and son wasn’t some simple spat that could be rectified with an adult conversation. His father made himself perfectly clear years ago that if Craig were to pursue “this trashy movie thing,” he was cut off from the family and he didn’t want him to set foot back in his house. His father, Jake Lawson, ran his family the way he ran his international land development enterprise—with an unbending hand. He couldn’t—or rather wouldn’t—see beyond his own narrow lens to be able to accept that his dreams and goals were not everyone else’s. He kept Craig’s sister, Alyse, and brother, Myles, on a short leash, but he never could control Craig. And Craig knew that his father’s disillusionment with the Hollywood life ran deep, and his mother was at the root of it. But he wasn’t his mother.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed his location scout Paul Frazier.

“Yeah, Paul, we landed about an hour ago. In the car now, headed to the hotel. Look, I want you to be ready to take us over to the location when I arrive at the hotel. Yeah, I know I said tomorrow. I want to see it today. Cool. See you in a few.” He disconnected the call.

“You don’t want to chill for a while before going over there?” Anthony asked.

“Naw. I’ve seen pictures, and that’s about it. I know Paul is good at what he does, but if I’m going to sink my money and a helluva lot of time and people’s talent in this film, I want everything to be perfect. I’d rather find out sooner than later.”

* * *

Jewel Fontaine took her cup of chamomile tea out to the back veranda of her sprawling pre–Civil War home. The house on Prytania Street, which was once a plantation, sat on five acres of land with a creek that ran the length of the property into the wooded area beyond. One of the former slave shacks still stood on the property, but it had been converted into an art studio when Jewel’s career took off. Every time Jewel surveyed her home, she was infused with the spirits of her ancestors who’d toiled on this land and served in those rooms. As an artist she firmly believed in the sanctity of preserving the past for future generations. The constant work that had to be done for the upkeep of the Fontaine home and the cost of maintenance had all but drained her accumulated wealth from her art career, compounded with the care of her ailing father—she was on the precipice of being broke.

The idea that she might lose her home kept her up at night and dogged her steps during the day. She hadn’t worked or sold a piece of art or sculpture in several years. She’d become disillusioned following her last poorly reviewed show nearly five years earlier, and then the decline of her father’s health had turned her away from her passion. She refocused her energies on taking care of the man who had sacrificed everything for her. But in the past six months, she’d realized she couldn’t do it alone, and she’d had to hire a live-in nurse. The cost was astronomical.

Then the call came, and like a miracle, her financial problems would be solved. CL Productions wanted to rent her home for the next six to eight weeks to shoot a film and was willing to pay an exorbitant amount of money for the privilege. She’d nearly leaped through the phone at the chance to lift the financial burden off her chest. The influx of cash would give her some breathing room and a chance to find other sources of revenue.

Jewel took a sip of her tea and gazed out onto the midafternoon glory. The tight churning in her stomach had finally begun to ease.

“Ms. Fontaine!”

Jewel spilled her tea down the front of her floral sundress as she jumped up at the frantic call of her name, which could only mean one thing—Daddy. She ran across the main level and up the winding staircase. The sound of something crashing and shattering quickened her steps. She reached her father’s bedroom door, and her heart stood still.

* * *

Craig didn’t waste much time at the hotel. Now that he’d arrived in Louisiana, the adrenaline of his upcoming project pumped through his veins, making him more brusque and antsy than usual. He began spouting orders to his team the minute he walked into the suite. Within moments everyone was scurrying around like their jobs depended on it.

Less than a half hour after arriving, Craig, Anthony, Paul and his assistant, along with the photographer and driver, were heading to the Fontaine mansion.

“Why the rush?” Anthony asked again. “You generally don’t get involved at this level.”

Craig adjusted his shades on the bridge of his nose. “I have a bigger investment this time. I want everything to be on point and run like clockwork. No screwups. We don’t have the usual wiggle room on time and cost overruns.”

Anthony nodded his head. “Agreed.” He clapped Craig on the shoulder. “You’ve done this countless times, bro,” he said, lowering his voice. “This is going to be your best project yet. We got your back on this.”

“’Preciate that.” He returned his attention to the script and line notes. The film chronicled a poor black family that rose from sharecropping to command the upper echelons of finance, real estate and politics, with great sex scenes and plenty of family drama and scandal thrown in. He wondered if his family would recognize themselves in the characters. Of course, he’d changed names and some professions to suit the storyline.

The driver turned the black Suburban onto a winding road that led to the Fontaine mansion. According to his location scouts’ notes, the home had once been a plantation and one of the shacks that had housed former slaves on the expansive land still remained. When the home appeared and spread out in front of him, it was like being thrown back into time to the days of Gone With the Wind. The only thing missing was the Confederate flag. The SUV came to a stop.