Taking a moment to bury her face in the director’s shoulder, she breathed in her friend’s familiar scent. Coffee grounds, Big Red gum, and generic bar soap. Wes was a no-frills, no-fuss man, no doubt a result of his Texas roots, and Fiona had always appreciated him for exactly those qualities. He was a rock in an industry noted for its fickleness. “I’m fine.”
“Couldn’t reach you yesterday,” he murmured against her temple. “Did you get my voicemail?”
“Not until this morning,” she whispered before disengaging from Wes’s hold, raising the hot drink to her lips as she watched Declan unfold from the makeup chair. She couldn’t quite read the Irishman’s expression as he studied the two of them standing there.
Wes extended his hand. “Declan, good to see you again, man.”
“Likewise,” Declan returned with a smile, different from the smiles he’d given Fiona—all smooth around the edges, crinkles notably missing.
“We’re glad you could be here on such short notice I know we caught you as you were traveling. You must be wiped.”
“Cape Town to London to Chicago to L.A. That’s only, what, three planes?” His smile was friendly as he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Good thing I like flying.”
Wes shook his head. “If we could’ve arranged the private plane, we would have. Sorry about that.”
The drape still clipped to Declan flowed around him as he lifted his hand in a careless gesture. “No worries, seriously.” His gaze tracked the movement of the man behind Wes who had come over to wrap his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. “Introductions?”
“Declan, this is Rick O’Brien, costume designer,” Wes said with a smile, indicating the man holding her, “and our Fiona’s father.”
Rick was all geniality as he reached out a hand to shake Declan’s. “Good to meet you, Declan.”
“You, too, Rick.”
And this explained the calls from “Home” yesterday afternoon. Embarrassment soured the coffee on her tongue, and she carefully avoided her father’s gaze as the introductions continued. Paulie Michele was next, snow-white hair pulled sleekly back in a perfect queue, using both of his perfectly manicured hands to shake Declan’s one as he announced himself to be the head of hair and makeup. Then came Joanne Fallon from Production, a tiny middle-aged blonde in cargoes, fitted black tee, and brilliant purple scarf.
“Go ahead and sit back down, Declan.” Wes took a drag from his coffee cup, gesturing to Fiona’s immediate supervisor. “All right, Paulie. Show Fi the game plan.” For all that he probably hadn’t slept in the past twenty-four hours, the director’s rugged face was alight with an excitement that had nothing to do with caffeine intake.
Paulie produced a sketch from the leather binder tucked under his arm and moved to stand next to her. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to run, darling, but here’s the new sketch for Mr. Murphy here.” He pointed to various elements on the paper, explaining the changes in typical, quick-fire Paulie fashion. “Shorter hair, darker on the eyes, more of a slant to the brows.” The lead character in the Victorian-set
Vendetta
had a fairly menacing vibe, styled to reflect the seedier underbelly of his era combined with a deadly sort of sex appeal. “The pigment in the scar doesn’t have to be as strong, either, because he’s so fair-skinned.” After Paulie handed the sketch over to Fiona to tape to the mirror, he made his good-byes and exited the trailer, followed by Joanne.
Wes turned to Declan. “I’m going to have Fiona cut your hair and do your face the best she can with what she has, knowing we’ll probably have to make a few changes before we start shooting on Friday. When she’s done, she’ll bring you over to Rick for costume fittings.” He checked the battered watch on his wrist. “We’ve got about an hour and a half before the light and sound crew show up, so let’s have him at Camera One no later than nine, okay?”
“Got it,” Fiona responded, lifting her coffee cup in salute before setting it on the workstation counter.
Wes winked at her and, with an encouraging wave from her father, the two men left her alone with Declan once more.
She cleared her throat, hating the nerves frolicking in her stomach, like butterflies on acid. “So.”
“So. Time for a haircut?” Declan grinned, and there were those crinkles again.
Sexy crinkles, she thought, then shook herself. “You got it.”
Sticking a pair of scissors in her back pocket, she moved behind him, focusing on the ebony curls she was about to send falling to the trailer floor. Her fingers tangled there, just above his nape, finding cool dampness at the roots left over from his morning shower. Without thinking, she glanced toward the mirror.
Declan stared at her, their gazes meeting with a bang of invisible sensation that vibrated through her arms like a shockwave. The hands in his hair clenched of their own volition, and she watched as his lips parted and a pink flush washed over his fair cheeks. All at once, she wanted to apologize and back away, worry fighting with the idiotic attraction springing to life within her.
I want to misbehave
.
Nope, not happening. She snagged the scissors and a comb and began cutting. Curl after silky curl drifted away, until she could see his nape, the shape of his ears. Short minutes later, what had once been a shaggy mess was now a more modern take on a Byronic crop.
“Like it?” she asked.
“Like it,” he confirmed, shaking his head to watch the shortened strands move against his scalp. He smiled again.
He had to stop smiling at her. Needing a moment to repress her instinctive reaction to that smile, she finished the coffee that had gone mostly cold before starting in again. A brow trimmer tamed the most unruly aspects of his thick black brows, tweezers shaping the arches into something elegant yet still very masculine.
“Quick thinking, by the way,” he murmured. “I’m impressed.”
“Thanks for rolling with it.” A blast of air from an aerosol can on the counter cleared the stray strands lingering on his face and neck.
“I’m an actor, darlin’. You probably could’ve slugged me, and I’d have gone along with it.”
“Hitting you is the last thing I want to do.” Astringent cleaned the surface oils from his face, and soon he was looking up at her with an expression that seemed almost…expectant. Her skin prickled in awareness, but she turned her attention to the prosthetic on the counter, unwilling to let her mind drift to where his surely was.
I want to misbehave
.
Based on measurements of Christopher Lunsford’s features, Fiona had created a mold and cast the fresh silicone scar on Saturday. That scar sat ready to go on the transfer-paper backing she’d prepared prior to Declan’s arrival in the trailer this morning. She lifted it, turned to him, and laid the scar precisely across his forehead before dampening the transfer with a sponge. “Have you ever worn a fake scar for a production before?”
“No.”
“It shouldn’t itch. If it does, let me know—I’ll either reapply or cast one from a different material.” She slowly peeled back the transfer paper. “It won’t move perfectly with your facial muscles, not exactly. Kind of like a real scar.”
Fiona knew a thing or two about real scars.
She studied the way the scar split his face in two, from his left temple across his forehead and down to his right cheekbone. “Scrunch your forehead for me, please.”
He did, brows drawn, eyes narrowed but still trained on her. His gaze fairly battered her, a knockout punch of heat with every heartbeat that she struggled to ignore. “And?”
With brisk efficiency, she traced the line of the scar with her thumb, testing how the silicone adapted to the ridges in his flesh. “Does it tug anywhere? Can you feel the edges lifting?”
“It feels fine.”
She frowned. “I think it’s short. A quarter inch on each end, maybe.” She tapped the ends with her forefingers. “This should be closer to your hairline, and this tucked below your earlobe.”
“Will it work for today?”
“Yes, but I’ll cast a new mold this afternoon. That scar wasn’t made for you.” Too late, she realized how her words might be interpreted.
A beat of tense silence—not delicious this time—filled the trailer before he murmured, “I know it wasn’t. So I appreciate you makin’ a new one, just for me.”
“I…” But no words came as she wavered over the need to apologize. Instead, she nodded jerkily and began applying his makeup, jaw clamped shut. Her control was being tested this morning, as it hadn’t in a long time.
Twenty minutes later, his dark eyes rimmed in darker liner, thick lashes coated in clear mascara, the contours of his face subtly—menacingly—shadowed, Fiona finished dabbing a barely tinted balm to his lower lip, trying not to notice how that lip gave beneath the pad of her finger. It wasn’t the sort of thing she was allowed to notice. “Done,” she announced, voice breaking slightly lower than usual after working in silence for so long. After removing the clip holding his hair off his forehead, she stepped aside, allowing him to view his final reflection in the mirror.
“Oh, cool.” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and turned his head while his eyes tracked his reflection. “I look like a proper badass.”
Fiona couldn’t help smiling. He did indeed look like a badass, all sly and handsome and oozing danger. And it was her work that had helped make him so. A sense of pride stole over her.
His gaze met hers in the mirror. “You’re quite good at this, y’know.”
She meant to thank him, really she did, but the longer their eyes held, the warmer her face became, until she could do nothing more than murmur, “Let’s go to costuming, Mr. Murphy.”
Without a word, he stood and followed her out the makeup trailer, fifty feet across their corner of the lot, and through the door of a semi-permanent building that acted as her father’s domain.
The main wardrobe trailer was the size of a double-wide lined with racks of clothing ranging in fabrics from lush to threadbare. At the center was a pair of flat workstations, two sewing machines clamped down and needles, threads, scissors, and trim strewn across the tables’ surface. Rick O’Brien rummaged in a cubbyhole cupboard labeled in masking tape as belonging to “the Count”—Declan’s character. Each square space held an accessory of some kind: boots, top hats, pageboy caps, two different Carnivale masks.
Marta, a dresser and Rick’s longtime assistant, scurried over to greet them. “Sweetie! I feel like I haven’t seen you in months!” She wrapped Fiona in a warm hug, her familiar, genuine smile creasing the cheeks framed by curly hair just starting to go gray.
Fiona returned the hug to the woman she’d known since childhood before stepping back. “Dad’s barbeque last weekend.”
“Well, it feels like
months
when you’re working right next door and you never stop by.” Scolding done with, Marta turned her wide smile on Declan. “And you must be our new star.”
He stretched out a hand. “Declan Murphy.”
“Marta Greenburg. I’m your dresser.” She clasped his hand, beaming.
Declan’s grin turned lopsided, suddenly the embodiment of boyish charm, dangerous scar, shadowy makeup, and all. “Had I known I’d have two beautiful women fussin’ over me for the next few months, I’d have made my way to Los Angeles much sooner.”
Marta was delighted. “You wonderful flirt, you. Follow me, sweetheart, and we’ll get you ready for the cameras.” Not releasing his hand, she led him deeper into the trailer, toward an oversized tri-fold mirror at the far end of the large room. Declan’s grin faded slightly as he shot Fiona a weighted glance over his shoulder.
It had been a long time since a man had focused on her as Declan appeared to be doing, and then it had been because she was mostly naked under the soft glow of stage lights. Fiona wore glasses and no makeup, a men’s extra-large button-down shirt, skinny jeans, and white Converse kicks. She couldn’t be less naked right now if she tried, at least not without donning a parka and ski boots.
So why does he look at me like I’m a sundae and he was just handed a spoon?
“Fi.” There was Wes, lounging in a corner near the mirror. He patted the arm of his chair, and she walked to him, perching there without a second thought, noticing only a moment later the way Declan watched them.
This was family, the world she’d grown up in. The reason switching careers had been so simple in the aftermath of Vegas was due largely in part to the connections she’d always had as Rick O’Brien’s daughter. While the general public remembered the actors in a given film, Fiona knew the mass of crew names that scrolled through at the end credits. Those people were
her
people.
Wes Jackson was one of Fiona’s people. The rumble-voiced, rugged-faced Texan had come to L.A. almost twenty years ago at the age of eighteen, determined to make movies. Before he could legally buy his own beer, his first screenplay had been nominated for a Golden Globe. Since then, he’d written and directed eight more films.
Vendetta
, their current project, was his tenth, and already, the Hollywood press was predicting an awards-season sweep.
Most folks probably would be intimidated by him, but not Fiona. Ten years her senior, he’d been her biggest crush when she was a gangly thirteen, having grown too soon into her five feet and seven inches. She’d first met him at one of her dad’s epic backyard barbeques. He’d been lankier then, as young men often were prior to filling out, but that tall frame, sandy-brown hair, and southern drawl had sunk her like a rock in a lake.
It had taken a year of barbeques before Fiona had resigned herself to being the adoptive younger sister Wes had so obviously considered her, but she was glad of it. Brother Wes was light-years better than Boyfriend Wes—she had watched enough women come and go from his life to know just how horrid he was at romantic relationships.
A heavy hand landed on her hip now as Wes leaned down to rummage in the black backpack covered in buttons and patches that he carried everywhere he went. “Got something for you.” She caught a glimpse of a tablet computer, his electronic-cigarette case, and a trio of yellow legal pads before he straightened and dumped something in her lap with a quiet crinkle of plastic.