“I won’t be nude,” she assured Michael when he insisted that he wanted to watch the scene. “But won’t it be difficult for you to be there?”
It was only a perverse curiosity, an overwhelming possessiveness that made him stay and watch the scene. He’d read the script and knew the take would be tough for him to watch.
He stayed out of people’s way. Just the preparation for the shot was a show. The director was in a snit, shouting and whipping off his cap in a fury as the crew scrambled to set up the shot. The cold front had moved in and threatened an early snow. They had to hurry, hurry, hurry. Two more scenes had to be shot today, reshoots of the scenes with Melanie’s replacement, and George wanted to get it all in today before the overcast sky opened up.
Michael caught the director looking at him. He thought him a sour-faced sleaze, and when their gazes met, the director scowled at him, though he couldn’t understand why. The director walked to the bedside and delivered a few last-minute instructions to his actors. Then he leaned over to Brad Sommers and whispered something private in his ears. He saw Sommers’s eyes look up and search the room, settling on himself. The actor looked again at the director and nodded. Michael had the strange feeling that the words had been about him.
The cue was given. The set quieted, cameras whirred and the filming began.
Michael watched Charlotte intently, holding back the desire to cover her creamy shoulders, to throw the other man from the bed and to take her somewhere, anywhere, away from these prying eyes. She was wearing a white nightgown, embroidered with delicate rose-colored flowers and long, thin ribbons that encircled her breasts. One shoulder was bare where the gown slipped low, exposing her long, swanlike neck and the soft swelling of one breast.
The dark circles that framed her eyes when the phone woke them at five-thirty that morning had disappeared under the mastery of the makeup artist. Her head was resting on the pillow, her hair spread out in waves. Long, slender arms, thrown up over her head in a kind of ennui, invited a man’s lust. Her hair, her face, her body, everything was so beautiful he stared at her like one caught in a spell.
He was seeing her in the camera’s lights as he’d dreamed of seeing her for the past few months while she was away. As he’d wanted to see her last night. The problem was, the man lying beside her wasn’t him. The arms drawing her close, the hands caressing her cheeks, sliding down her neck to cover that bare, rounded shoulder, were those of another man. Michael knew it was acting, that this was a film, of course. But the scene was none the less galling, no less painful to watch.
The man—for Michael refused to give him a name—spoke fervent words of love. From the dreamy expression on Charlotte’s face, he could swear that she believed him. Her eyes were soft with yearning and her breasts rose and fell with the passion he’d hoped was saved only for him. Michael could feel his own body stirring as he watched, like some cheap voyeur, as another man stroked, kissed, made love to the woman he himself loved.
What infuriated him was that he knew, as one man knows another, that this actor was physically aroused. He could tell from the trembling hands, the natural flush of his cheeks and the fervor of his kisses. At some point his acting had stopped and the passion expressed was very real.
Michael looked sharply around at the others on the set; the cameramen, the lighting men, the director. Each man bore the same rapt expression as they watched the love scene unfold. They breathed through parted lips.
Michael’s hands rolled into balled fists as he felt his Latin jealousies rage inside of him. He wanted to rip the cameras away, throttle the man who dared to kiss the woman he loved and take Charlotte away from this unnatural place. He would seal his possession of her with his own mouth, his own body.
The love scene continued relentlessly. He watched, transfixed, nailed to the spot, as the actor ripped at Charlotte’s gown savagely and she struggled against him. Michael took a step forward, fists bunched. In one graceful swoop the man moved to straddle her and the sheet fluttered back, exposing Charlotte’s full, rounded breasts and her dark, pink nipples, hard and erect.
Michael strangled a cry in his throat, turned and fled the room, seeking the refuge of the cold nor’easter outdoors.
The scene ended minutes after Michael left. The director called, “Cut and print,” the crew sighed and applauded, and Charlotte pushed Brad away and curled up under the sheet, wrapping herself tightly with the fabric. Freddy Walen, standing in a shadowy corner, saw Michael leave and smiled in smug satisfaction. He’d been watching the way Michael suffered during the scene, relishing each grimace and clenching of his jaw.
This was good, he thought to himself. Very good. He couldn’t have planned it better. A man in his situation would react in only two ways: one, to be jealous—as this one was. The other was to puff out his chest and be pleased to see other men lust after his woman. Better that he was jealous. Raw emotions were always easier to manipulate. He followed him out, smiling again when he caught sight of Mondragon standing outside the door, his hands rammed into his pockets, his face a mask of pain.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Michael, sizing him up.
Michael glanced down at Freddy briefly, turned up his collar and looked away. “What do you want, Walen?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. What do you want hanging around Charlotte all the time? She’s doing her work. Work that doesn’t include you. In any way, shape or form,” he said pointedly.
“Anything that has to do with Charlotte’s way, shape or form is my business.”
Freddy was infuriated. The confidence of the man was galling.
“Well I’ve got a message for you from the director. He wants you off the set. You don’t belong here.”
Michael took a step forward, menacingly. Freddy pushed out his chest and stood his ground. The two men stood face-to-face, glaring.
“I’ve got a message for that pimp director,” Michael said, his voice deep with anger. “You tell him I’ve read the script for that scene and nowhere does it say that Sommers character was supposed to tear off Charlotte’s gown. You tell him for me that unless he wants his lead actor to get his fancy face rearranged, he’d better stick to the script. Got it?”
Michael turned on his heel and stomped away, not waiting for Freddy’s reply.
Freddy bit his retort and smiled, satisfied. He returned to the set, anxious to check on Charlotte. He was furious about that stunt Sommers had pulled and was going to have words with George about it. He hurried to Charlotte’s side, relieved to see her sitting up, wrapped in the sheet and arguing hotly with the script director.
“Nice work, babe,” Freddy said, surprising her.
“Freddy, when did you get here?”
“Soon enough to watch this scene.” He grabbed her robe from the costume assistant and handed it to Charlotte.
“Here, put this on before you catch cold. You’ve got a break before your next two scenes. Then it’s a wrap. I saw the dailies and you look great, just great. This is going to be a good film for you.”
She slipped into the robe, barely hearing what Freddy was saying to her as her eyes searched the set for Michael.
“He left,” he informed her.
She swung her head around to look at Freddy. “Who? Michael?”
“Yeah. I guess he couldn’t watch, not that I can blame him. You and Brad make a nice couple. Are the sparks there for real?”
Her mouth twisted into a frown of disgust. “Really, Freddy. Get serious. I can’t stand Brad Sommers. The creep attacked me in this scene.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
“Calm down, honey. The man’s in love with you and it has nothing to do with publicity.”
“I don’t care. Because I don’t even like him. And I’m furious that he practically stripped me during that last scene. What was he trying to pull? That wasn’t in the script. You go and tell him for me that if he tries anything like that again, I don’t care if the film’s running and they print it, I’m going to kick him so hard he’ll be singing soprano. I won’t even tell you what he was trying under those sheets. It’s a good thing that Michael didn’t see.” She looked around the set again, worry revealed in her eyes. “Where did you say he went?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” He gripped her arm, staring into her eyes. “I thought we discussed this Mondragon guy. He’s not good for your career. He’s not good for you. He’s not your type.”
She yanked her arm free. “And just what is my type?”
“Someone like Sommers. Someone with class. Someone like you. Hey, Mondragon’s a good looking guy. I can see why you had a little fun with him, but enough’s enough.”
Charlotte turned on Freddy, anger shooting from her eyes like lightning.
“Michael Mondragon is not some fun that I picked up. He is the man I love and I won’t tolerate you insulting him that way. You manage my career, Freddy, not my life. I don’t remember asking you for your permission, nor do I intend to stand here and listen to another ten-minute monologue on how to conduct my personal life. So far I’ve done everything you’ve asked and done it well. I’m living up to my part of the bargain.” She pointed her finger at him. “You just live up to yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to change into some clothes and go find Michael.”
She took a few steps, then turned and added, “Oh, by the way. Leave Melanie alone, too. She’s not feeling well and doesn’t need any lecturing, either.”
Freddy was furious with Charlotte’s attitude, not just about Mondragon but about everything. She was bucking him, and he didn’t like it one bit. He felt like slapping her in some way. Her affection for Melanie Ward gave him a perfect means.
“I have no intention of lecturing Melanie. I’m dropping her as a client.”
Instead of frowning in displeasure, as he expected, Charlotte’s face brightened and she smiled.
“Good,” she replied. Then she turned heel and strode from the room, leaving Freddy seething.
Charlotte dressed quickly and hurried outdoors, searching for Michael. She found him walking the gravel path that led to a small woodland not far from the hotel.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she asked tentatively, sensing his tension immediately. “I looked everywhere for you.”
“I needed some air.”
He kept his eyes averted, which bothered her a great deal. She felt the icy wall of his hostility wedge itself between them. “I told you not to watch. But no, you insisted.”
When he looked at her she saw anger, then hurt in his eyes. It was the hurt that made her stay and not walk away.
“I didn’t know how much it would pain me to see that man make love to you. It killed me to see you respond to him.”
“I didn’t,” she cried.
He grabbed her by the arms, so tightly it hurt. “You did. I saw.”
She tried to shake him away, but his grip only tightened. “That wasn’t me, it was Laura. The character. I can’t just turn off my body or its natural responses. Michael, look at me. I’m an actress. Love scenes are part of what I do. You can’t be this way.”
“Can’t I?” He yanked her against his chest and planted his lips on hers in a kiss that was devastatingly possessive. Positioning her between his legs, he slid his arms around her and hugged the breath right out of her.
She clung to him, feeling her knees weaken. All that they had felt the night before, all that went expressed only in their eyes exploded between them.
“You’re
mine,
” he growled, his fingers digging into her shoulders, his teeth bared at her cheek.
“Yes, yes,” she responded, giving her heart and soul to him, an ancient instinct demanding that she choose him as her mate.
He pulled away, his eyes devouring her. She loved that sudden fierce desire that would fill him with a single-minded focus. It could happen at any time. One touch could spark it, like a single strike of a match could ignite a fuse. It made her feel desirable. It made her desire him.
His face tightened, his mouth pursed as he looked to the left toward the hotel. People loitered about, talking, waiting for the next shoot. To the right, the path led to a small woods not far off. Grabbing hold of her hand he strode into the woods, walking fast, his heels digging into the soft earth.
She hurried by his side, clutching his hand, trying not to smile, all the while thinking, yes, yes, yes. He searched the woods for a secluded spot, far from the path where someone might disturb them. At last he found one. Suddenly he veered to the left to where a cluster of evergreens provided a tent and the earth lay hidden under a thick layer of leaves.
He walked her to this spot and, without a break in stride, swung her around, slamming her back against the broad bark of a glorious sugar maple. His hips pressed against hers. She could feel the hardness of his arousal.
He meant for her to, and ground against her, his breath mingling with hers in a vaporous cloud at their lips. His hands spread open her coat and slid beneath her sweater to feel the warm silkiness of her skin. He felt her stiffen as his cold hands explored her. He meant to touch each part of her that had been touched by Sommers, to burn away with his own skin, his own scent, any trace that other man may have left on her body. It was as if a fever burned through him; he couldn’t touch enough, kiss hard enough, move fast enough. He wanted her now!