“Alexei didn’t force me to make bad choices.” She crossed to where Rick stood by the trailer door. “I did that all on my own.”
“Fi—” His arms lifted, as though he meant to lay his hands on her shoulders, but he paused, and she realized he was unsure whether she would accept his touch.
So she stepped into him, forehead to his chest, arms locked around his waist, and she held on. Her glasses smooshed uncomfortably against the bridge of her nose, but she didn’t care, because he was hugging her back, their mutual embarrassment from minutes earlier forgotten. “We probably should’ve talked about this before now,” she mumbled, voice muffled by his sweater. Three years was a long time to tiptoe around one another—especially if they didn’t even know they were tiptoeing in the first place.
“I suppose I didn’t think we needed to talk about this
until
now.”
She pulled away, frowning. “Because of Declan, you mean.”
Brushing a gentle finger over the line that had formed between her brows, Rick sighed. “There are different degrees of selfishness, Fiona. There’s what you did when you ran away from school and didn’t tell us, so we had to find out on our own”—his words landed with painful precision, and she fought not to flinch—“and then there’s looking out for you, and your best interests.”
“Dad—”
“I think you should be selfish right now, hon.” His hand found her chin, lifted it, held it so that she couldn’t escape his gaze. “You don’t think I know you’ve spent the last few years trying so hard to be good? Working your butt off to, what, make up for your mistakes? Mistakes happen, and what matters is that you learn from them and move forward and don’t make those same mistakes again.”
Her chest had gone tight again, tears threatening. “But I don’t want to be selfish.” Because she
had
been trying, every single day for three freaking years, to not be the girl who’d nearly thrown her life away over what was essentially lost virginity and hurt feelings. Alexei Wolkov had only been the catalyst on the ticking time bomb that was Fiona. Living and breathing ballet for so long, sublimating the natural urges of her body to eat more or sleep more, ignoring the comments that had been a part of her dance career since she had first developed hips and breasts—comments she’d been determined to never let her parents hear, because it was
her
fight and
her
issue and
she
was going to deal with it on her own, damn it—had all led to the pinnacle of her selfishness.
She couldn’t be that person again, not even a little bit. The very idea made her want to scream and cry and hyperventilate and run as far away from the studio as she could get before her legs turned to rubber and she collapsed on the pavement.
It made her scars ache like fresh wounds, open and bleeding.
Rick studied her for a moment, and released her chin to grab her hand. “Come on, let’s get some air.” He led her out of Declan’s trailer and into the lot. “I have a reason for suggesting it, you know.”
“Suggesting what?”
“Selfishness.” He squeezed her hand. “I said I knew you’d been working hard. You have the chance of a lifetime here, Fi. This film, the wonderful character you’ve helped create—the world is going to notice, and they’re going to notice
you
.”
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
Scared.
Humbled.
Excited.
Definitely excited.
“Don’t think I don’t see that smile you’re trying to hide right now,” her father teased as he finally dropped her hand. “So when I say I think you should be a bit selfish, I mean it. You have an opportunity, this very minute, to put yourself first. No one will be hurt by that decision. Not your boyfriend, not your boss, not your parents.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” she blurted out. Even though Declan sort of, kind of
was
. Maybe. “And I’m buying a house.” If buying a house on her own wasn’t putting herself first, she didn’t know what was.
“That’s right,” Rick murmured thoughtfully. “You’re buying a house. Does he know?”
She nodded, not needing to ask who “he” was. “I, uh, took him to see it.”
“You did?” When she nodded again, an odd smile twisted her father’s mouth, not quite breaching the solemnness lurking in his gray eyes. “Well, then. Maybe I wasn’t seeing the whole picture.” Before she could question him on what he meant by that cryptic statement, he said, “I still think you should talk to him about what his plans are once
Vendetta
wraps.”
“I…will.” They would need to have that conversation eventually. After all, he’d spent the last ten nights in her bed, and the mornings that followed.
Rick turned to go, heading toward the soundstage.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.” The words rasped around the lump in her throat.
A real smile this time, and, perhaps, the sheen of quickly blinked-away tears. “I love you, too, baby girl. I love you, too.”
Then she was standing in the middle of the studio lot, alone as a silent pink dusk settled in around her.
Scared. Humbled. Excited. Yes, she felt all of those things when she considered the trajectory her father had indicated she was heading along. She knew what she’d done with the Vargas character was exceptional, even though she was merely the tool executing Paulie’s concept. That was how this industry worked: Unless you were an actor, there was always someone more important than you making sure you were doing what that someone needed you to do. That didn’t mean, however, that no one noticed you were, in fact, doing it.
Put yourself first
. She thought she had been, with every job she took, each one leading to
Vendetta
, to the house…and to Declan.
Declan, who danced with her.
The sound of approaching footsteps didn’t break her reverie, but that unexpected male voice did. “Fiona. I’m so happy I caught you.”
Christopher Lunsford.
FOURTEEN
Nothing killed an erection quite like having your girlfriend’s father walk in on you getting busy.
Declan grimaced as he strode across the soundstage, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat, checking the buttons at his cuffs. For all that he’d ruffled Fiona but good, his costume remained pristine.
Wes, standing with a small group of people near the crypt set, came into view, a baseball cap tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, his long-sleeved black shirt shoved up to his elbows. As Declan veered toward him, Marta appeared, hurrying to cut off Declan’s approach. The dresser appeared a touch frazzled, her mood for once matching her wild, graying curls, flowery bohemian skirt, and colorful geometric jewelry. “Declan, you’re here.”
He frowned when she stopped in front of him, halting his progress to where Wes stood. “What’s wrong?”
“Christopher Lunsford just showed up without any warning.”
Christopher Lunsford
. The man whose role as Count Vargas he’d taken over and, for the past five weeks, made his own. If Lunsford was here that could only mean one thing.
He wanted Vargas back. “Is this why Wes wants to see me?”
Marta reached up as she nodded, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with the pad of one thumb. “You need to look like a serious actor, not like you’ve been kissing my favorite makeup artist in your trailer.”
His gaze shot to hers. “How did you—”
“Sweetheart.” The word was a reprimand. “I know everything.” She stepped back as she gave his elbow a reassuring squeeze. “
You
are supposed to be here, not Christopher Lunsford. Remember that.”
Declan reached Wes just as Sadie sauntered up, an incongruous figure with her pageboy cap and Victorian knickers, straight black hair falling nearly to her waist as she planted her hands on slender hips as she studied the blond man facing off against Wes. “Chris.”
“Sadie.”
She gave Lunsford a pointed look. “Aren’t you meant to be in rehab right now?”
“My thirty-day stint ended yesterday,” he answered, bland pleasance oozing from his overly tanned face. “I didn’t figure you guys would move forward while I was…away.”
Obviously irritated, a scowling Wes crossed his arms over his chest. “If there’s a production schedule, I’m going to keep to it. We’ve got a Christmas Day opening for this film. We didn’t have a month to wait for you to get your shit together, Chris.”
“We had a contract.”
“
Had
being the operative word here. You broke it when you were arrested.” Wes shook his head. “You know better than to be here without your agent. You shouldn’t have come.”
Lunsford’s gaze flicked over Declan from head to toe, his lip curling in an almost-sneer. “And you shouldn’t have recast my role.”
Wes’s broad shoulders lifted in a casual shrug. “Like I said, we had a schedule. Plus, he cost less than you.”
While Declan struggled to absorb that sting, Lunsford, the golden boy, shot them a slickly practiced smile. “There’s a saying about quality, Wes, and getting what you pay for.” He rocked back on his heels, the very image of supreme confidence. “You need me.”
Sighing, Wes gestured toward the soundstage door. “Go home, Chris. Get healthy. Do some damage control on your career. There will be other films.”
Lunsford stepped closer, dropping his voice to a confidential murmur. “Damage control is why I need this part. You know the buzz on
Vendetta
.”
Wes’s tone was brusque. “And you know as well as I that any so-called buzz on a movie that hasn’t even finished shooting is bullshit. Let it go, and move on. You’re not Vargas anymore. Declan Murphy is.”
Glowering, Lunsford stalked away with a muttered, “Fuck that noise.” They watched as he banged through the door and disappeared from sight.
Everyone released a collective breath when the door slammed behind the movie star.
Wes grabbed the ball cap from the back pocket of his jeans and settled it on his head. He turned to Declan. “You know I just said that stuff about you being cheaper to make him go away, right?”
Declan tried to unclench his jaw, found that he couldn’t, so he shrugged.
With a shake of his head, Wes clapped a hand on Declan’s shoulder. “I made a mistake all those months ago when I didn’t cast you the first time, man. There’s no one out there but you who could play Vargas. No one.” The director turned to walk away, toward the crew congregating around Camera Four, near the crypt set. “And don’t you dare tell your agent this, but I’d have made the studio pay double Lunsford’s salary if I’d known the quality I would be getting with you. You’re gold, Dec. You’re fuckin’ box-office gold.”
“Hey.” Sadie poked Declan in the ribs after he’d been standing there in stunned silence, watching Wes’s retreating back. “You look like you’re going to faint. Shall I go fetch the smelling salts?”
Shaking himself, he shot her an elated grin, tugging her petite frame to his side in friendly camaraderie with an arm hooked around her neck. “Take it back.”
She struggled playfully against his hold. “Or perhaps we can get you to the chaise longue in the palazzo before you flutter gracefully to the floor.”
“Are you calling me a girl?”
“No. I’m calling you a cheap date.” Sadie shook her head—at least, as much as she was able to in the vise of his elbow and forearm. “One little compliment, and you’re as gooey over Wes Jackson as a film critic during awards season. It’s pathetic, Murphy.”
He shoved her away good-naturedly. “You’re not gonna steal this from me, Bit,” he declared, reverting to her character name without thought.
“I swear, if I hear one, ‘He likes me! He really likes me!’ from you—”
“Oh, shove off.” He wanted to see Fiona. Had to see her, really, and tell her what had just happened. She was who he wanted to share his excitement with, who he wanted to pick up and spin around and laugh and shout with, because he’d
made it
. It didn’t matter that they weren’t finished with even the first block of filming—Wes Jackson had called him gold, and that meant something in this town.
Something? Hell, it meant
everything
in this town, and he couldn’t wait to tell her.
He couldn’t wait to tell her he loved her.
Five weeks, five months—people fell in love that fast all the time. But Declan? He feared it had only taken him five minutes. “Tell Wes I’ll be back.”
“Let me guess,” Sadie mused. “You’ve got to see a man about a horse? No, wait.” She tapped a finger to her lips, playful, teasing. “A woman about a scar.”
Heat climbed his neck from his high collar. Perhaps he and Fiona hadn’t been as subtle about their romance as he’d believed, but he simply smiled as he headed for the soundstage door. “Something like that, yeah.”
Dusk had fallen, leaving the lot blanketed in shadow for those few minutes before the lights came on for the night. The purple, pink, and gold sky highlighted the neat rows of trailers nearest the stage, his among them. He’d noticed Rick returning to the building but hadn’t seen Fiona with him, and there was no way she could’ve snuck past him, even with the ruckus over Lunsford.
Before they were together, he had felt as though he were noticing her too much. Now it seemed as though he couldn’t see her enough. He was starving for her, the taste, the touch, the very sight of her.
She came into sight, not far from the door to his trailer…and not alone.
He watched as Christopher Lunsford lifted a hand, as if to tug the silky ends of Fiona’s ponytail. When she jerked back, away from his touch, something sinister clenched in his stomach, and he started toward them again, quicker now. A handful of meters away, and he could finally overhear what Lunsford was saying.
“—know about your relationship with Jackson.”
“I don’t have a relationship with Wes. We’re friends.”
Lunsford laughed softly. “I’m just saying that, maybe, you could talk to him. This film is important to me. Isn’t it important to you?”