The rest of her insecurity evaporated in a brilliant smile that practically made his toes curl, it was so fantastically beautiful to see.
“So, Blake. I may have one teensy, tiny problem with what just happened.”
Alarmed, he stared down at her. “What?”
“I forgot to take mental notes for my scene tomorrow. We may have to do that again.”
He frowned in mock seriousness. “Well, now. That is a problem. But I suppose I can make the sacrifice for the sake of your career.”
Their laughter mingled with the scent of crushed rose petals and vanilla candles. Yup, this night was pretty damned near perfect.
…
Olivia floated out of bed the next morning, made love with Blake in the shower—who knew soapsuds could be so much fun?—and glided down to her ride to the set. She smiled beatifically at Tyrone as she sat down in his chair. “Isn’t it a glorious day?” she asked her make-up artist.
Tyrone laughed aloud. “Someone got laid last night but good. My money’s on the Marine. Is he as delicious as he looks?”
“Let’s just say the Marines believe in truth in advertising.” The words were out of her mouth before it dawned on her what she’d just let slip. Horrified, she looked up at her make-up artist beseechingly. “Please,” she whispered in panic. “You can’t tell anybody.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, girlfriend.”
“I mean it. This is important.”
Tyrone nodded in understanding. “People get bored spending hours and hours in my chair. They get to talking. I hear all kinds of stuff. I’m kind of like a movie set priest taking confessions. I wouldn’t last long in this business if I repeated any of the things I hear in my chair. Don’t you worry. My lips are zipped, Liv.”
She would have smiled gratefully at him, but Tyrone was lining her mouth at the moment and would scold if she messed up his work. Thankfully, for today’s love scene, she’d be prosthetic free. But there would be a bunch of close-ups, so Tyrone’s make-up job had to be impeccable. She made like a statue while he worked his usual magic and lost herself in pleasant memories of last night.
Blake had been absolutely amazing. He’d been a total gentleman. He’d put her at ease, had seemed to really enjoy talking with her, and hadn’t rushed her or made her feel uncomfortable, not even once last night. And the sex…
It was as if the two of them had been made for each other. She’d sensed exactly what he liked best and he did the same for her. The Italians had a word for it.
Sympatico
. That was it. The two of them had sympatico. By the truckload.
She didn’t even need to see him to know when Blake arrived on set. She
felt
his presence. She even felt him moving around the set as if she tracked him on some sort of internal radar. Could he do the same thing with her? Or was this all just a giant crush on her part?
“Girrrrrl,” Tyrone half-sang in amusement awhile later. “That man ain’t taken his eyes off you once since he got here. He’s got it
bad
for you.”
Crap. Blake couldn’t give away their arrangement to the cast and crew. He wasn’t a trained actor like she was. What if he couldn’t hide his reaction to her after last night?
“Tyrone, I need your help,” she muttered urgently.
“Whatchya need?”
“I need you to give Blake a message for me. Tell him to be careful. Not to give anything away.”
“Passing notes now, are we? Lord, it’s like being back in school. Liv, honey, you’ve got it
real
bad.”
“Will you do it for me? Please?”
“Of course I will. Don’t give it another thought. We’re almost done, here. I’ll just stroll on over that way and bump into him all casual-like. No one will notice a thing.”
She gave the make-up artist a grateful hug and headed to the sound stage. Today was all interior shots, culminating in the love scene. Although she was still nervous, Blake’s lessons made her feel a thousand times more prepared. Now she just had to translate her real experience with him into faking with Jeremy.
They did a few desultory shots, and then the set was closed and all the superfluous crew shooed out. The remaining handful of grips and cameramen set up for the love scene while she retreated to the wardrobe room. The way she heard it, these were long, boring, difficult scenes to shoot, and sex would be the farthest thing from anyone’s mind by the time the cameras actually rolled.
Her misgivings climbed, though, in Wardrobe as Sheila held out a tiny, flesh colored thong. That was it? Just that teeny-tiny scrap of spandex? Yikes.
“What does Jeremy get to wear?”
“About the same as you,” Sheila shrugged. “There’s a little more room in the front of his thong.” She added a tiny bit snidely, “Emphasis on a
little
more room. The way I hear it, that’s all he needs.”
Olivia laughed, grateful to Adrian’s assistant for breaking the tension momentarily.
“First love scene?” Sheila asked sympathetically.
“Yes. Does it show?”
“Not so much. For what it’s worth, I worked on Jeremy’s last movie, and it had a love scene, too. He made a few pretty inappro-pro comments during shooting. But don’t take them personally. He’s just venting his own nerves.”
“He gets nervous in love scenes?” She assumed he’d be an old pro at on-screen sex.
Sheila laughed. “Let’s put it this way. You won’t have to worry about him actually getting turned on during shooting. Everything runs for cover and hides with him, if you get my drift.”
Olivia beamed and gave the woman a hug of thanks, careful not to smudge her make-up. Tyrone had assured her, though, that love scene make-up was the industrial strength, not-going-anywhere stuff. Which made sense. There might be quite a bit of skin-to-skin contact and rubbing going on. With a little shudder, she changed into the thong and wrapped herself protectively in the thick robe Sheila had left for her.
The set was quiet and felt deserted with only the barest crew left for filming. She took a nervous peek around to make sure Blake wasn’t here. No sign of him, praise the Lord.
Adrian was a sweetheart and asked everyone to turn their backs while she took off her robe and climbed into the bed…which was on a rotating platform, for goodness’ sake. It allowed her and Jeremy to be turned like turkeys on a platter to get shots from different angles.
She pulled up the bed sheet and tucked it securely under her arms. Jeremy came onto the set and slipped under the sheets beside her. He, too, seemed tense and unusually quiet.
“You okay?” she mumbled.
“Yeah, sure. Never fear. Once the cameras get rolling, I’ll blow your mind, baby.”
She recognized the bravado for what it was. Thank God Sheila had warned her not to take anything he said to heart. And thank God Blake had put her through Femme Fatale boot camp.
Adrian handled them spectacularly. He shot a whole series of very short takes only a few seconds in duration, which became gradually more intimate and had the end effect of draping her and Jeremy all over one another without either of them becoming terribly self-conscious about it.
But then came the moment when Adrian said, “All right. Let the cameras run. We’ll pick it up from that last kiss and go from there.”
This was it.
She closed her eyes and pictured Blake. She thought of his tenderness last night. Of the screaming orgasms he’d given her the night before, of the relentless lust he’d shown her she was capable of the previous day. And then she poured every last bit of it into the next few minutes. It wasn’t Jeremy in bed with her. It was Blake. His presence wrapped around her like a comforting blanket and she drew it close to her heart.
In her imagination, those were his hands on her. His mouth. His body. His need. All of it—him.
Feelings she had no idea she harbored toward Blake rushed to the surface and overflowed. Passion. Adoration. Desperation. It was shocking and liberating to let all of it out and share it with him like this.
“And… Cut.” Adrian’s voice was hushed. Quiet enough so that she barely heard it through the haze of sensation tearing through her. Blake’s mouth lifted away from hers— No, wait. Jeremy’s mouth—and he stared down at her, looking dazed.
She knew the feeling. It was disorienting to see her co-star’s face inches from hers. That wasn’t the man she’d just made love to.
Sheila spoke from somewhere nearby. “I have your robe, Olivia.” She, too, sounded a little shell-shocked. Jeremy rolled away and Olivia sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. “What’s wrong?” she asked no one in particular.
Sheila held the robe open like a shield and Olivia slipped into it, belting it quickly. “What’s wrong?” she repeated more urgently.
Adrian spoke from directly behind her. “My dear, you just rendered the entire crew, including me, speechless.”
“So it was okay?” she asked him uncertainly.
“That was beautiful. Magical. After this movie is released, you’re going to get offers for every romantic film in the biz that even looks like it might get green lighted.”
People around the set started to smile. Almost like they were emerging from some sort of trance. And then a strange thing happened. The crew applauded. She’d never heard of such a thing on a movie set before. Well, okay then. Blake must have done his job even better than she’d realized.
Oh, God. Blake. He hadn’t been here, right? She glanced over at the tall, canvas-backed stool he usually sat in beside Adrian’s monitor array. Empty. Thank goodness.
She turned to head for her trailer and some clothes—
—And that was when she spotted him. Still as a statue in a deep shadow behind camera two. Arms crossed, slouching against the wall, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, face expressionless, pale eyes distant. And he radiated…nothing at all. It was as if he’d pulled all his thoughts and feelings inside himself and locked them away. Like he’d completely shut down.
He got it, right? He understood that all her passion had been for
him
, didn’t he? Trembling, she walked over to him and his gaze never strayed from her. Never waivered.
“I didn’t know you were here,” she choked out.
“I thought it might make you uncomfortable if you knew, so I stayed back here out of your sight line.”
She nodded, determined not to ask him how she’d done. If he approved. If he’d liked what he’d seen. How could he? She’d all but had sex with another man in front of him.
“Congratulations,” he said quietly. “You’re a real femme fatale, now.”
Then why did she feel like he’d just punched her in the gut?
He turned and walked away without another word. Why was he always walking away from her? Oh, right. He didn’t want a real relationship with her. All those pesky feelings she’d just discovered she harbored for him weren’t part of the deal. It was strictly business between them.
Then why did she feel like he’d just ripped her heart out of her chest and thrown it on the floor?
She’d gotten exactly what she wanted, right? He’d taught her how to pull off a spectacular love scene. Her career was on track, her reputation as a femme fatale sealed. She was on her way to the top. She should be over the moon thrilled.
Then why did she just want to go back to her trailer and cry her eyes out?
Chapter Eight
Blake had no idea how to catalogue the feelings roiling around in his gut. Jealousy, fury, pain, rage.
God, she was brilliant
. It had been like watching a master artist at work, painting a picture of desperate passion. Except instead of canvas and paint, she’d used her body, her face, and her fucking soul.
He’d barely kept himself from twisting McDumbass’s head from his neck. And this was why, if for no other reason, he could never have a real relationship with the beautiful, lusty femme fatale named Olivia Harper—there wouldn’t be a leading man left alive in Hollywood once his temper got the better of him.
He needed a drink, and he needed it now. And there was only one place on set he knew to find a bottle of whiskey. Jackson Motta’s trailer.
The fastest way to Motta’s crash pad was to cut through the middle of the set. Bright lights illuminated set designers and a construction crew hard at work sawing and hammering a set together overnight. He’d had no idea movies were the round-the-clock operations they’d turned out to be. This place reminded him of a military base in that respect.
He kept to the shadows to minimize the chances of someone recognizing him and wanting to engage him in conversation. He just wanted to be alone and drink away the images of Jeremy McDaniels’s hands all over Olivia, his mouth on hers, the two of them heaving and moaning in bed together.
And that was when he spotted the guy, no one he recognized, lurking across the set, slouching in a shadow, unmoving. Had Blake not been so furious and functioning in killer alert mode, he might not have spotted the guy. He moved inconspicuously past a trailer and down the row of wardrobe tents. He slipped into the last one and waited, half-crouching behind a long row of tattered zombie costumes on hangers.
It took a few minutes, but a lone man eased past the tent, clinging to the shadows as he made his way forward. The guy was squinting, obviously trying to spot something or someone. Blake waited as still as a statue for the bastard to pass. Once the guy had finally moved on, he slid out after the intruder. The hunter had become the hunted.
The intruder had made nearly a full circuit of the set and was nearing the parking lot when someone called Blake’s name from behind him. He ducked down, swearing violently. Had he moved fast enough? Had the intruder spotted him?
The male voice called his name again. Blake thought he heard footsteps running across gravel, and a few seconds later a car started in the parking lot. He stood up fast to catch a make and model or maybe a license plate. But the vehicle was too far away, moving off into the night without headlights at a high rate of speed.
“Where are you, dammit? I know you’re out here, Blake.”
He stood up, chagrined. It was Jackson Motta. “I’m over here. I thought I saw someone who didn’t belong on set and I was trying to check him out without being seen.”
“Probably some damned paparazzo trying to get some pic’s of the movie. We chase the punks off all the time.”
Maybe. Or maybe it was a Russian hit man scouting out the set for any sign of the new Marine consultant on the film with the same name as a recent thorn in Mother Russia’s side.
“What can I do for you?” he asked the head stunt coordinator.
“Nothing. I just saw you creeping around and thought I’d check out what you were up to.”
“Next time don’t shout for me, eh?”
“Yeah. Sure. Anything you say, ninja dude.” Chuckling, the stuntman strolled away.
Irritated as hell that the intruder had gotten away without him getting a visual on the bastard, Blake headed back toward the main set. Please, God, let that shadow have been a photographer and not a Russian. Back in D.C., his Russian tails had been gradually ratcheting up the pressure on him. The day before he’d bugged out and come to California, one of them had actually rammed his car in traffic. It had been the threat of bodily harm to him that made Santerros send him out here. He really didn’t need the bastards to find him and pick up where they’d left off.
He swung wide around the cluster of people gathered at Adrian’s monitor array. The director must be playing back the raw footage of Olivia crawling all over Jeremy McDaniels like he was the damned Messiah. Freaking voyeurs.
His stride checked as the meeting broke up, though. He was shocked to spot Jeremy and Olivia in the crowd. They wanted to watch themselves having near sex? How wrong was that?
He noticed Jeremy jockeying so he could casually fall in beside Olivia as she left for the trailer park. Curious, and so jealous he could hardly breathe, Blake eased up close behind the pair. They were a lot easier to follow than the intruder had been. These two were amateurs. A decade of field ops served him well as he glided within hearing distance of them without being spotted.
“—awesome, Liv. Have to admit I wasn’t too sure about you when I found out who my leading lady was going to be. But tonight…” Jeremy’s voice dropped until Blake couldn’t hear it, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what the prick thought of tonight’s love scene.
Jeremy’s voice rose to a normal speaking level again and Blake jolted at what he said. “—out with me? Maybe dinner in town. Tomorrow night?”
The kid actually sounded sincere for a change. Insecure. Hopeful. Like he had a real, live, born again crush on Olivia. A need to seriously hurt Jeremy nearly sent Blake lunging for the guy’s throat.
Olivia stopped. Turned to face her co-star. “Are you asking me out? Like on a date?”
“Yeah. I guess I am.”
Damn, McDumbass could act when he wanted to. He looked so all-American, hometown-boy right now that Blake could puke. Olivia nodded slowly. “A date. Yes. I could do that. Tomorrow night.”
Son. Of. A. Bitch
. She’d accepted? Didn’t she see that Jeremy just wanted in her pants? That he didn’t give a damn about her at all? That his only goal was to get her to fuck him for real? The kid didn’t care about her. Didn’t want to get to know her, to talk with her, to discover how bright and interesting and observant she was. What did she see in McDaniels, anyway? Hadn’t she listened when he’d told her not to have sex with assholes? Or was that just his jealousy talking?
Olivia and Jeremy resumed walking toward the trailers. Furious, Blake kept pace behind them. At least Jeremy had gotten smart enough this time to offer dinner before he tried to screw her.
But Blake would be damned if he let the guy set foot inside Olivia’s trailer tonight. She’d just laid her guts out on film and Jeremy McDaniels did
not
get to stomp all over her heart when it was open and vulnerable.
Right. Because stomping all over her heart was his department
. After all, it wasn’t like he could offer her any more of a long-term emotional commitment than McDumbass could. He was still in the Marine Corps, on ice or not. The Corps would expect him to go back to work in the bowels of the Pentagon as soon as this little vacation was concluded, and she’d jet off to her next movie role in some exotic location with another sexy, horny bastard of a leading man.
Unless, of course, he left his military career behind and hitched his emotional wagon to hers. Swearing at himself for even daring to contemplate such insanity, Blake prowled after the lovebirds, the black shadows he lurked in a good approximation of the state of his soul at the moment.
Jeremy dropped Olivia off at the steps of her trailer with a chaste peck on the cheek.
Good move. McDumbass
. Pull back for twenty-four hours to make her think he respected her, and then jump her bones.
Jeremy moved off and disappeared around the end of another trailer. Olivia turned to open her door and it stuck slightly. Blake stepped forward and brushed her hand aside. With a sharp twist, it gave way under his attack.
“Oh!” she cried out softly. “You startled me! But I’m glad you’re here,” she added in a rush. “Can we talk? Something happened tonight—”
“It sure as hell did,” he growled. He followed her inside and closed the door, then turned, scowling, to face her. “You actually accepted that bastard’s invitation to go out on a date? Do you seriously think he gives a flying flip about you? He wants to screw you. Nothing more. I can’t believe you fell for his line of bull. Are you really that gullible?”
She recoiled, looking by turns hurt and furious. “I fell for yours, didn’t I?”
He frowned, her retort checking his anger. “We had a business arrangement. I upheld my end of the deal. I taught you every move you used to blow Jeremy McDaniels’ pea-sized brain.”
“Are you jealous?” she demanded.
“No. I’m freaking blown away that you would go out with that bastard. He’s a self-centered, emotionally impaired loser who banks on his good looks to get chicks because God knows he’s got nothing else to recommend him. Unless, of course, you like spoiled, immature dimwits who only think with their dicks.”
“Wow. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel about Jeremy?”
He stared hard at her. “You don’t seriously like him, do you?”
“Not particularly,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Then why in the hell did you accept his dinner invitation?” he exploded. “You know damned good and well he expects to jump in the sack with you as soon as he can get you back to his place.”
“You were eavesdropping on us? Now who’s using low tactics?”
Guilty as charged, dammit
. He grimaced. “I was keeping an eye on you to make sure McDumbass didn’t think that just because you’d just crawled all over him on set that he had the right to crawl all over you off set.”
That seemed to take the wind out of Olivia’s indignant sails. All she said in response was, “Oh.”
“So. If you don’t like him, why are you going out with him?”
“Because it’s good business. The paparazzi will photograph us. We’ll get tabloid coverage because everyone loves a good on-set romance. The movie will get free publicity. I’ll get free publicity. And you’ve got no right to comment on my decision. We had a deal, Blake. You set the conditions. It was just business. No emotions. No attachments. Strictly secret, remember? I’m keeping up my end of your stupid deal, so you’ve got no right to be mad at me.”
A real need to do violence bubbled dangerously close to the surface of his mind. Enough so that he knew it was time to disengage. He bit out, “Have a nice time on your date, then. Maybe in between getting his rocks off, Jeremy will get around to giving you an orgasm or two. Don’t forget to scream for him. That’s a big turn on for most guys.”
She gasped and raised her hand. He turned on his heel and stormed out of her trailer into the cold night. The crash of something large against the door as it slammed didn’t slow his steps. He prowled the set until his blood pressure came back down to something resembling normal. It took a long damned time.
He didn’t feel like couch surfing with the stunt crew, and instead he made the long, lonely drive back to Palm Springs. He found an open liquor store and bought two bottles of Jack Daniel’s finest—one for tonight to wipe away the memory of Olivia all but screwing Jeremy on set, and one for tomorrow night to wipe out the images of what Jeremy was going to do to her once the bastard maneuvered her into his bed.
How could she be so damned gullible? She was too smart not to see what McDumbass was up to. But no matter how much Blake ranted at the walls of his hotel room, it didn’t change a thing.
He
was
jealous. He wanted her and all of her crackling sexual energy for himself.
He flopped on the edge of his bed, stared at the whiskey bottle beside him, shocked to realize he didn’t want it. He’d rather wallow in this pain and still be able to think about Olivia than be numb and wipe her from his mind. He already missed her. A giant black hole gaped back at him when he tried to examine his feelings. He’d felt crappy when he found out about Carmen’s betrayal, but this was worse. Carmen might have had fucked up his career but…
Olivia had fucked up his heart.
Putting conditions on sleeping with her had been idiotic in the extreme. She’d said so herself. Their deal
had
been stupid. At least the two of them could agree on that. He should have left the door open for a real relationship with her. Or at least for extending their friends-with-benefits arrangement beyond three lousy days.
Except the memory of that intruder slouching in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to strike, chilled him to the bone. He dared not endanger Olivia by hanging out with her. He had to stick to their original deal. If he gave a damn about her safety at all, he would walk away from her right now and never look back. It was the honorable thing to do.
Olivia was right about one thing. Honor
did
suck.
…
Olivia winced as the town car pulled up in front of the restaurant Jeremy had chosen for their date. Blake would never have chosen a place this flashy. It wasn’t his style. He’d have gone for someplace understated and classy. She should have guessed, though, that Jeremy would take her to the trendiest place in Palm Springs where people went to “be seen.” A pair of bored photographers lurked out front.
She eyed them through the tinted car window and asked Jeremy, “How many paparazzi do you think will be waiting for us by the time we come out of the restaurant?”
He eyed her slinky little dress critically. “I’m guessing twenty. You?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how many are in town tonight, I suppose. I bet by close of business tomorrow there are fifty hanging around.”
“Yeah. Especially if they get wind of us dating,” he said with relish.
They so weren’t
dating.
If her own motives for going on this date hadn’t been every bit as selfish as his apparently were, she would have told him so. But this date was her glass house, too. No sense throwing stones at it.
The driver opened the door and she stepped out. One of the photographers threw her a disinterested look but then did a quick double take. He nudged his buddy. Jeremy joined her and planted a hand in the middle of her back. Whereas Blake would have done the same thing by way of courtesy or moral support, from Jeremy the gesture was nothing more than a pose.