by Nora Roberts
“Places. Quiet on the set.” The hubbub died away, to be replaced by silence. “Speed. Roll film.” The clapper came down for take one. “Action.”
It began the same way, with Chantel sitting on a rock sketching. Sean made his entrance and stood watching her for a moment. When Chantel glanced up and saw him, Quinn felt his mouth go dry. Everything a man could want was in that look. Love, trust, desire. If a man had a woman look at him that way, he could win wars and scale mountains.
He’d never wanted to be loved. Love tied you down, made you responsible to someone other than yourself. It took as much as or more than it gave. That was what he’d thought, that was what he’d been certain of, until he’d seen the look come into Chantel’s eyes.
A movie, he reminded himself when he realized he’d missed five minutes of shooting. They were already doing a second take. The look in her eyes was as much an illusion as the forest they were in. And it hadn’t been aimed at him, in any case. It was a movie, she was an actress, and it was all part of the script.
The first time Sean Carter touched her, Quinn felt his jaw lock tight. Fortunately for him, the director cut the scene.
When they continued, Quinn told himself he was under control. He told himself that he was only there because he was paid to be. She meant nothing to him personally. She was a case. It didn’t matter to him how many men she made love with, on or off camera.
Then he watched her touch her lips softly, hesitantly, to Sean’s, and he thought of murder.
It was only a scene in a movie, with fake rocks, fake trees and fake emotions. But it seemed so real, so honest. There were dozens of people around him with machines to run the lights, the mikes. Even as Sean gathered Chantel closer, a camera edged in on them.
But she trembled. Damn it, he saw her quiver as Sean pulled the band from her hair and let it tumble free. Her voice shook when she told him she loved him, she wanted him, she wasn’t afraid. Quinn found his hands were balled into fists in his pockets.
Her eyes shut as Sean rained kisses all over her face. She looked so young, so vulnerable, so ready to be loved. Quinn didn’t notice the camera come in close. He only saw Sean unbuttoning her blouse, and her eyes, wide and blue, locked on her lover’s. Hesitantly she unbuttoned his shirt. Color washed her cheeks as she drew the shirt aside and pressed her cheek to his chest. They lowered to the grass.
“Cut.”
Quinn came back to reality with a thud. He watched Chantel sit up, then say something to Sean that made him laugh. She was wearing a brief strapless bra that would stay below camera range and a pair of baggy jeans. Larry draped her discarded blouse over her shoulder, and she gave him an absent smile.
“Let’s take it again. Chantel, after you take off his shirt, I want you to lift your head.” Mary Rothschild hunkered down as Chantel rebuttoned her blouse. “I want a kiss there, a good long one, before you two go down on the grass.”
Sometime during the fifth take, Quinn found his objectivity. He searched the faces of those looking on. If there was an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach, he could ignore it now. His job was to find out who might be watching Chantel, not clinically, not approvingly as she completed the scene, but someone who might be eaten alive with jealousy. Or fantasizing. It wasn’t going to do either one of them any good if it was him.
Quinn took out another cigarette and watched the faces around him. He had reports coming in on everyone from the cinematographer to the prop man. Gut instinct told him that whoever was sending her letters was someone she knew, someone she might speak to casually every day.
Quinn wanted to find him, and he wanted to find him quickly. Before he developed an obsession of his own.
The assistant director put his arm around Chantel’s shoulders and, with his head bent close to her ear, led her off the set. Before they reached the trailer that was Chantel’s dressing room, Quinn was in front of them.
“Going somewhere?”
Chantel shot him a narrow look but hung on to her temper. “As a matter of fact, I was going to get out of the sun for a while. Amos was giving me the rest of today’s schedule. You’ll have to forgive Quinn, Amos. He’s a bit … possessive.”
“Hard to blame him.” Good-natured and a bit tubby around the middle, Amos patted her shoulder. “You were terrific, Chantel, just terrific. We’ll call when we need you for the close-ups and reaction shots. You should have about a half hour.”
“Thanks, Amos.” She waited until he was out of earshot before she turned on Quinn. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“All you needed was a knife between your teeth,” she muttered, jerking open the door of the trailer. “I told you Amos was harmless. He—”
“Has a habit of touching women. One of those women is my client.”
Chantel chose a diet drink from the small refrigerator and collapsed with it onto the sofa. “If I didn’t want him to touch me, I assure you, he wouldn’t. This isn’t the first time I’ve worked with Amos, and unless you insist on acting like an idiot, it won’t be the last.”
Quinn opened the refrigerator and, to his satisfaction, found a beer. “Look, angel, I can’t narrow down the list of suspects to suit your requirements. It’s time you stopped pretending that the person you’re so afraid of isn’t someone you know.”
“I’m not pretending,” she began.
“You are.” He chugged back some of the beer before he sat beside her. “And you’re not pretending with half as much style as you were out there rolling on the grass a few minutes ago.”
“That’s work. This is my life.”
“Exactly.” He took her chin in a way that made her eyes flash. “I’m supposed to take care of it. If it makes you feel better, I’ve just about eliminated Carter.”
“Sean?” She felt a quick surge of relief, then one of caution. “Why?”
“Simple enough reasoning.” He took another sip of beer and kept her hanging. “Seems to me that if a man was obsessed with a woman— We’ll agree that we’re dealing with an obsession?”
“Yes, damn it.” She snatched the bottle out of his hand. “What are you getting at?”
“Just that if I were going over the edge about a woman, I wouldn’t be able to stand up, dust myself off and turn aside after I’d spent a good part of the day tangled half-naked with her.”
“Is that so?” Chantel handed him back his beer. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” Relaxed again, Chantel leaned back against the pillows and stretched out her legs. “So, what did you think of the scene?”
“It ought to fog up a few bifocals.”
“Oh, come on, Quinn.” She held up her drink and watched moisture bead the sides of the bottle. “It wasn’t just a matter of sex, you know. It was a betrayal of innocence and trust. What happened to Hailey in that New England wood will affect the rest of her life. A quick tumble on the pine cones doesn’t do that.”
“But a quick tumble on the pine cones sells tickets.”
“This is television. We’re after ratings. Damn it, Quinn, I put a lot into that scene. It’s the turning point of Hailey’s life. If it doesn’t mean more than—”
“You were good,” he cut in, and had her staring at him.
“Well.” She set her drink down. “Mind repeating that?”
“I said you were good. I don’t hand out the awards, angel.”
She brought her knees up and dropped her chin onto them. With the thin slash of sunlight coming through the curtains, she still looked young and innocent. “How good?”
“How do you manage to feed that ego when you’re alone?”
“I’ve never denied the size of my ego. How good?”
“Good enough to make me want to give Carter a black eye.”
“Really?” Delighted, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d play it light. It wouldn’t do to let him know just how much it meant to her to hear him praise her work. “Before or after the cameras were rolling?”
“Befor
e, during and after.” Unexpectedly he reached over and took the front of her shirt in his hand. “And don’t push your luck, angel. I’ve got a habit of taking what looks good to me.”
“You’ve such class, Doran.” She uncurled his fingers from her blouse. “Such low class.”
“Just keep that in mind. You know, angel, you gave me a twinge or two when I watched you and Carter paw each other.”
“We weren’t—”
“Give it any name you want. But good as you are, I didn’t spend all my time watching you. I looked around and saw a few interesting things.”
“Such as?”
“Brewster smoked a half a pack of cigarettes while you and Carter were … working.”
“He’s a nervous man. I’ve seen writers do worse when their script’s being filmed.”
“Leery practically fell in your lap trying to get a closer look.”
“It’s his job to look.”
“And your assistant nearly swallowed his tongue when Carter took your shirt off.”
“Just stop it.” Springing up, she paced to one of the windows. They would call her soon. She wouldn’t be any good if she let what Quinn was saying get her all churned up. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re giving your own gutter-height views to everyone on set.”
“That brings up another thought.” He settled back and waited for her to look around at him. “Matt’s yet to show up on the set. Strange. Aren’t you his top client?”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re determined to leave me without anyone, anyone at all.”
“That’s right.” He ignored the quick, bitter taste in his throat. “For the moment, you trust me and only me.”
“They’ll be calling me soon. I’m going to go lie down.” Without looking at him again, she walked to the back of the trailer and through a doorway.
Quinn had a sudden fierce urge to throw the bottle against the wall. Just to hear it shatter. She had no business making him feel guilty. He was looking out for her. That was what he was paid for. And it was easier all around if she was suspicious. If that meant she shed a few tears, it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t worried about it. He didn’t give a damn.
Swearing, he slammed the bottle down on the table beside him. Lecturing himself all the way, he strode through the trailer to the bedroom. “Look, Chantel—”
She was sitting at the foot of the bed, staring down at an envelope in her hands. He smelled the dark, sweet scent of wild roses before he saw them on the dresser.
“I can’t open it,” she murmured. When she looked up at him, something twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t just her pallor. It wasn’t just the fear he could see in the way her fingers shook. It was the complete and utter despair in her eyes. “I just can’t take any more.”
“You don’t have to.” With a compassion he thought had been erased in him years before, he sat beside her and gathered her close. “That’s what I’m here for.” He slipped the envelope out of her numb fingers. “I don’t want you to open any more of the letters. If they come, you give them to me.”
“I don’t want to know what it says.” She shut her eyes and hated herself for it. “Just rip it up.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He stuffed the letter into his back pocket as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. He had questions to ask, a lot of questions as to who might have gone into her dressing room that day. “Part of the deal is that you trust me. Just let me take care of things.”
The head resting against his shoulder shook once in quick denial. “You can’t take care of the way this makes me feel. I always wanted to be someone. I always wanted to feel important. Is that why this is happening?” With a dry sob, she pulled away from him. “Maybe you were right. Maybe I asked for this.”
“Stop it.” He took her hard by the shoulders and prayed she’d control the tears he could see were threatening. “I was out of line. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, and you’ve made use of it. That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for someone’s sickness.”
“But it’s me that he wants,” she said quietly. “And I’m afraid.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She let out a deep breath as her hand wrapped around his. “Sign that in blood?”
He smiled and ran a fingertip down her cheek. “Whose?”
Needing the contact, she rested her cheek against his for a moment. The gesture left him shaken. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“Look, I know I haven’t been making this easy for you.” She drew back again. As he’d hoped, the tears hadn’t fallen. “I haven’t wanted to.”
“Trouble is my business. Besides, I like your style.”
“While we’re being nice to each other, I guess I’ll say I like yours, too.”
“A red-letter day,” he murmured, and brought her hand to his lips.
It was a mistake. They both realized it the instant the contact was made. Over their joined fingers, their gazes met and held. She thought she could feel the tension jump from his palm to hers. This wasn’t a matter of temptation, or of anger, or of passion flaring quickly, but of need. She needed to feel his arms around her again, holding her tight. She needed to feel his lips on hers, warm, hard, demanding. Everything else would fade, she knew, if only they came together now.
Their hands were still joined, but she didn’t protest as his fingers tightened painfully on hers. What was he thinking? It suddenly seemed imperative that she understand, that she see, what he felt in his mind, in his heart. Did he want her, could he possibly want her as badly this moment as she wanted him … ?
No other woman had ever made him ache like this. Not just from wanting. No other woman had ever made his blood swim. Not just from looking. He thought it would be possible to sit there through eternity and just look at that face. Was it only her beauty? Could it possibly be that he was twisted around inside because of a flawless facade?
Or was it something else, something that seemed to glow from within? There was something elusive, almost secretive, that showed in her eyes only if you looked quickly and carefully enough. He thought he saw it now. Then all he could think of was how much he wanted her.
With his free hand he reached up to trail his fingers through her hair. Spun gold, like an angel’s. That’s what it made him think of. But she was flesh and blood. Not a fantasy, a woman. He leaned closer, then watched her lashes flutter down.
The knock on the trailer door had her shooting up like an arrow out of a bow. She put both hands to her face but shook her head when Quinn reached for her.
“No, it’s all right. That’s just my call to go on the set.”
“Sit down. I’ll tell them you’re not feeling well.”
“No.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “No, this isn’t going to interfere with my work.” The fingers of her left hand balled into a fist, but he could see she was working to regain control. “I can’t let that happen.” Turning her head, she stared at the roses on the table. “I won’t let it.”
He wanted to overrule her but knew this was the one thing he’d admired about her from the first. She was strong, strong enough to fight back. “Okay. You want a few more minutes?”
“Yeah, maybe.” She walked to the window and drew the curtains aside to let in more sun. It was frightening, much too frightening to think about darkness. At night she was alone with her thoughts and her imagination. The sun was out, she reminded herself, sighing deeply. She had work to do.
“Would you mind letting them know I’ll be out in a minute?”
“I’ll take care of it.” He hesitated, wanting to go to her, knowing it would be a mistake for both of them. “I’ll be right outside, Chantel. Don’t come out until you’re ready.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She waited until she heard him walk away before she dropped her forehead onto the glass. Weeping would be such a relief. Weeping, screaming, just letting go, would ease the hammerlock her nerves had on her
system. But she couldn’t let go, any more than she could allow herself to get churned up like this. There were hours more to put in that day. She needed her wits, and her stamina.
She’d make it, Chantel promised herself. Drawing a deep breath, she turned from the window. The flowers were gone. She stared at the table with a foolish sense of relief. He’d taken them away. She hadn’t even had to ask.
What kind of a man was he? Rude and rough one moment, tender the next. Why couldn’t he be easy to understand and easy to dismiss? With a shake of her head, she started down to the front of the trailer. He was impossible to understand. And he stirred things in her. He was anything but the kind of man a woman could be comfortable with. And she felt so safe knowing he was close by.
If she hadn’t known herself so well, been so certain of her own control, she would almost have believed she was falling in love with him.
Chapter 6
It was anything but a quiet, restful week, though Chantel spent a good chunk of it in bed. The bed was big and plush and ornate—and it was on the set, on soundstage D. The major scene to be shot was her wedding night—Hailey’s wedding night—not to the man she loved but to the man she wanted to love.
The props included an ice bucket with champagne, a full-length sable draped over a chair and a table laden with roses that had to be spritzed constantly to keep them fresh under the lights. Don Sterling, a relative unknown, had been chosen to play the man she would marry. He’d been selected mainly because of looks and chemistry. Though his final reading with Chantel had been excellent, his nerves had him blowing the scene a half-dozen times during the morning.
Locked in his arms, Chantel felt him tighten up. Before he could do so himself, she flubbed the scene, hoping to take some of the pressure off him.
“Sorry.” She gave a delicate shrug. “Can we take five, Mary? I’m getting stale.”
“Make it ten,” Rothschild ordered, then turned to consult with her assistant.
“How about a cup of coffee?” Chantel accepted the robe she was handed and slipped into it as she smiled at Don.
“Only if I can drown myself in it.”
