She didn’t answer, aware that her silence incriminated her.
“Now, I’m assuming you’re a tad older than Monica was at sixteen, so does that mean you’re going to teach me more advanced things than skateboarding?” he asked coolly.
“That’s right,” she answered, deflecting the direction his conversation was taking. “I’m here to teach you how to stay alive.”
3
BY LATE SATURDAY afternoon Molly was feeling pretty good about the way things were going. Mitch maintained his posture of cool indifference toward her being on the set as his baby-sitter. For almost a full week nothing untoward had happened. Maybe, just maybe, the gods would continue to smile on her, and this gig would come off uneventfully.
It could happen. Mitch could also be setting her up, lulling her into a false sense of security.
Having managed to get most of the paperwork she’d brought with her cleared up, she’d borrowed one of the paperback Westerns from Mitch’s trailer. It wasn’t doing a very good job of holding her attention, but then, it was up against some pretty tough competition—the face of the nineties. He was in the process of doing take number twenty, one of the difficult, climactic fight scenes, and she’d watched his frustration grow with every take.
How long, she wondered, before Mitch Marlow lost his legendary cool in front of the camera?
She wasn’t to find out.
He got take twenty-one down dead solid, and it was a print. His pleasure was self-evident, judging by the war whoop he let out when he picked himself up from the dirt, giving the tired crew a mock bow.
His eyes finally rested on Molly. Staying in character, he ambled over to where she sat, knocking the dust from his leather chaps with his cowboy hat. Reaching her side, he closed the book and said, “Playtime.”
“You mean bedtime, don’t you?” she asked, retrieving the book from him. He looked exhausted; the shoot had begun at dawn.
“Why, Red, I didn’t know you cared,” Mitch said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Rather than appearing affronted, her words seemed to amuse him. “Ah, ah … Remember, it’s in your job description that you have to tuck me in,” he dared her, leaning close.
“Wrong. My job is to keep you out of trouble. Period.”
“Then I guess you’re right, after all,” he said with a shrug. “Tucking me in wouldn’t be such a good idea.”
Pulling up a chair, he sat down beside her. “You got any plans for what’s left of the weekend? Got a boyfriend flying in?”
“No boyfriend.”
“Really?”
“Really. How about you?”
“Despite my regular appearances in the tabloids, I can assure you I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You know what I mean. Am I going to have to deal with Miss Debutante flying in and trying to coax you into another crazy stunt?”
“No. I don’t think her daddy, the banker, was any too pleased with the press last weekend generated—which was exactly the whole point of her doing it. You can rest assured, I won’t be doing any naked cliff diving this weekend.”
“Peter will be thrilled to hear it.”
“What? Do you write daily reports on my behavior for Peter?” he demanded, fixing her with a cold stare.
“We keep in touch. We wouldn’t have to if you’d deal with your brother’s death,” she said heatedly. There, now it was out in the open. She wondered how Mitch would deal with her blunt words. No matter. He had to deal with the reality of his brother’s death, and the sooner, the better.
That she knew firsthand. She’d allowed her grief and guilt over her older brother’s accidental drowning to steal her childhood. Joey had wanted to be an astronomer, so she’d let her parents talk her into becoming one. She’d let her parents talk her into everything.
For some crazy reason she’d thought if she was a good enough girl, maybe Joey wouldn’t be dead, after all. And Mitch believed that if he was bad enough, Matthew wouldn’t be dead, either.
The silence continued to stretch out between them, disturbed only by the sounds of the crew finishing up for the day. Finally Mitch spoke, breaking down the wall that had suddenly sprung up between them. “I miss Matthew, damn it.”
“I’m really sorry. I know how you feel,” Molly said, hearing the pain in his voice.
“No, you don’t know how I feel,” Mitch retorted angrily. “Everyone keeps telling me they know how I feel with so damn much compassion. Well, I don’t want their compassion. And I sure as hell don’t deserve it. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be alive. Every night when I close my eyes I see the horrifying crash, the debris flying everywhere, and Matt’s car turning over and over.”
“You’re not responsible for Matthew’s death. It was an accident,” Molly reasoned, touching his arm. “Surely you can’t blame yourself for something that—”
“Matthew flew over for the premiere of Dangerous.
“It was the night before the race. He knew better. He should have been at home, getting his rest, not out partying the night away with me. The flight back and the residual jet lag are what killed him.”
Mitch stared into space. “His reflexes would have been sharper, but for his coming to celebrate my movie.”
“He wouldn’t want—”
“He’d want to be alive.” Mitch cut her off, throwing himself out of his chair and stalking away. His slumping shoulders evidenced the black mood that had settled over him like a villain’s cloak.
Molly watched him go, touched by the anger, the guilt in his declaration—a declaration she knew he’d not meant to make. Anger and guilt had loosened his tongue, but his admission hadn’t freed him. She knew that until he found some measure of solace, he would be looking for any escape from his grief, not much caring what form it took.
BACK IN HIS TRAILER, Mitch picked up the phone and dialed the Ketteridge Agency.
“Listen, Peter … ” he began, caught off guard at first when Peter answered his own phone. “Ah … this … ah, this isn’t working out.”
“What’s wrong? Is there a problem with the movie? Don’t tell me this. I don’t want to hear it, Marlow. What have you gone and messed up now?”
“Nothing. There’s no problem with the movie. The movie is on schedule, maybe even a little ahead of schedule.”
“Then it’s working.”
“Not for me. I want you to call off your baby-sitter, you hear?”
“No can do, Mitch. The studio brass insist.”
Mitch swore beneath his breath and wondered whether to believe his wily friend.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for belly-aching. If your behavior weren’t so out of control, you wouldn’t need to be sat on,” Peter said.
“Yeah, well, Ms. Molly is real big on control. You got to get rid of her, Peter, she’s driving me nuts.”
“Nuts?”
“Yeah, nuts. She watches me like a hawk. You’d think I was some actor always in his cups she was trying to keep sober. Hell, I can hardly take a pee without her tagging along.”
“What’d she do? Make some disparaging remark and bruise your ego?” Peter asked.
Mitch ignored the feeble attempt at sarcasm. “I don’t need a baby-sitter.”
“That’s not what the tabloid headlines showed.”
“Okay, I don’t want a keeper.”
“Why not?”
Mitch refused to go into that. He wouldn’t admit to himself, much less to Peter, that somehow Molly was getting to him…. She might make him care—about this movie, his career, maybe even about her. She’d already made him voice his fears about Matthew’s death, when he hadn’t even whispered them to himself.
“Look, I’m not planning on offing myself, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You’ll get your fifteen percent. If I have to have a baby-sitter, replace her with someone else.”
“You mean someone you can charm the pants
off.”
“Peter, you have way too active an imagination.”
“I don’t need an imagination, when the International Intruder has pictures.”
“Screw the International Intruder”
“She’s staying. Get used to it,” Peter said and hung up.
Mitch grumbled beneath his breath and went to take his shower. He didn’t want to get used to Molly Hill.
Something warned him that wouldn’t be a very good idea at all.
The good idea was to bed her.
Take her to bed and off his mind.
Once he buried himself in her soft curves, he wouldn’t be wanting her comfort. Wouldn’t care what she thought about what he did. Wouldn’t care what she thought about him.
HOURS LATER, Molly returned to the trailer she shared with Angie, tired of watching the regular evening poker game. The key grip had gone off in search of some local talent, so Angie had been invited to take his place. After showing initial reluctance, she’d allowed them to coax her into playing, only to make them wish they hadn’t.
The youngest sister in a family of boys, she’d told Molly, Angie had mastered the game in her somewhat misspent youth, so it had been hard for Molly to contain her amusement as she watched Angie fleece the guys; even the intense, young director had lost some heavy coin.
Mitch had tried to talk Angie into sitting on his lap to bring him luck. Angie had rebuffed him, saying he needed a new line. Heather had then plopped into Mitch’s lap, uninvited.
Molly had fumed and tried to read the movie script, listening for Mitch’s voice over the snippets of conversation that drifted toward the trailer.
His sexy good looks turned her on, but it was his voice that blew her away. Its rich timbre sent her blood coursing, her pulse racing and her imagination into erotic overdrive.
Unfortunately, he apparently had the same effect on Heather Sims—Heather, who had the confidence in her own body’s appeal that Molly did not. Heather, who was every man’s type. Heather, who could juggle a husband, a lover and still have time for lunch.
Being born a blonde and petite in a culture that worshiped both was Heather’s good fortune. But throwing herself at Mitch was pure opportunism.
Being only human, Molly couldn’t help envying Heather’s upcoming love scene with Mitch. The very thought of it brought on a frisson of jealousy.
The voices outside grew distant, her eyelids fluttered, and she began to imagine herself in Heather’s role ….
Looking down, she found herself dressed in red velvet, sitting before a mirrored dressing table.
Red? Red wasn’t her color. Her dressmaker had made a terrible mistake. She tugged on the bodice cut far too low that pressed her breasts together, showing amazing cleavage.
She was going to have to speak to … Funny, she couldn’t remember her dressmaker’s name. Wait! No, it was Angie. Yes, that was it.
She’d have to wear the dress tonight, of course; it was a present from her father for her birthday. But in the morning she’d talk with Angie. If she’d only kept her mind off her card playing and on her sewing, this wouldn’t have happened. Card playing? Now where had she gotten the idea her seamstress played poker? Women didn’t gamble, only men—even if it was 1880.
Suddenly the door behind her opened.
Her eyes widened when she saw the outlaw’s reflection—Mitch’s reflection—in her dressing-table mirror. Shaggy, blond hair fell to his broad shoulders. Trail dust clung to him—he was either in a hurry to get somewhere or away from someone.
She opened her mouth to scream, but closed it when he drew his pearl-handled revolver from the holster that rode low on his hip and leveled it at her.
“You’re an … ” She swallowed dryly, sinking to the delicate brocade-covered bench.
“That’s right, I’m an outlaw. And that was a real smart move, your not screaming, miss,” Mitch said, studying her in the mirror with his deep blue eyes. Raising his eyes to meet hers once again, he pushed up the brim of his black Stetson with the tip of his gun barrel, then holstered it.
“My, my, but you’re a sight f or sore eyes,” he said, coming up behind her. “‘Course, I’ve been looking at nothing but a trail of posse dust for the last couple of hours.”
“What … why are you … what do you want?” she asked, forcing the words through chattering teeth.
His blue eyes raked her again, this time accompanied by a lazy, wicked smile. Leaving her, his eyes surveyed her bedchamber and came to rest on the copper tub of cooling bathwater in the alcove to the left. “I think a bath for starters … ” he said, drawing her to her feet to face him, his forefinger tilting her chin, so that she was forced to look at him. “Then we can discuss what other favors you might bestow on me.”
She pulled herself free, hitting the bench of her dressing table with the backs of her knees. “I think you should leave,” she said imperiously, keeping her chin high.
He chuckled. “Surely, miss, your daddy has warned you about defying the wishes of an outlaw,” he said, ambling over to the tub and removing his soft leather gloves, trailing his fingertips through the few remaining bubbles. Raising his fingertips to his nose, he sniffed. His eyebrows rose. “The water still carries your scent.”
She felt herself blush to the shade of her red velvet gown and sat tongue-tied by his provocative action.
Taking off his hat, he threw it onto the bedpost. Its masculine presence was a marked contrast to the frills of the bed linens. He was so out of place in this soft, feminine room. So why was her heart racing? She turned to the outlaw, who, she saw to her horror, was undoing the kerchief at his throat.
“But you can’t!” she exclaimed. He shrugged out of his leather vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.
“Stop it and leave this very minute, before my father comes upstairs and finds you here in my bedroom!” Her words were a feeble protest—she was way too fascinated by what Mitch was uncovering to scream.
Mitch chuckled again. “Right now your father can’t find his cufflinks. I heard him swearing about it as I sneaked up the back stairs.
“Don’t even think about screaming,” he added, drawing his pistol from its holster, only to lay it on the windowsill beside the copper tub. “You see, if your daddy should come up here, I’d have to shoot him—and you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?”
She watched, dry-mouthed, as he untied and unbuckled his holster, hanging it over her dressing screen. His hands went to the waistband of his britches.
“But you can’t….”
“Watch me … or turn around if you don’t have the courage— or womanly curiosity—in which case I’ll be sorely disappointed. I do so hate women without spirit.”
“And I hate you, ” she flared, turning her back to him, aware that her eyes were brimming with tears of frustration.
“Not yet, you don’t….”
She heard the jangle of his spurs as his boots dropped to the floor, followed by the whoosh of his chaps and pants. Splashing sounds accompanied him when he stepped into the copper tub.
‘‘You can turn around now,” he said.
“No, thank you,” she answered, letting her voice drip polite sarcasm.
“Suit yourself.”
She heard the sound of a bar of soap plopping into the water, then he began to hum.
Humming! She wondered if she was quick enough to reach his gun.
“Ah, miss, I’ve thought of another favor you can do for me.”
She spun around, incensed at the man’s gall. Mitch removed the small cigar he held clenched between his straight white teeth and motioned with it to the candle burning beside the bed. “I need a light.”
She glared at him.
“Now, ” he said impatiently.
She went to her bedside table and brought the candle to him, shaking with fury.
He clenched the small cigar between his teeth once again and leaned forward for her to light it.
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Too late, he saw a smile flit across her lips; she slowly dropped the candle into the tub of water, making a splash big enough to ruin his cigar.
“That wasn’t too smart, miss,” he growled.
‘Ί thought you liked your women to have spirit,” she said, taking care to stay out of his reach.
“You could have ruined me….”
“That was the general idea.”
“You are an innocent, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Then take off your gown.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said, take off your gown. I want you to scrub my back, and if you don’t want to completely ruin that pretty velvet, you’d best take it off.”
“I’m not taking off anything.”
“Do I have to get out of this tub and make you, miss?” he threatened.
“No! No. Okay, I’ll do it, but you have to promise to keep your head turned away.”
He laughed. “I promise.”
She looked at him doubtfully, then bent to retrieve his kerchief, advancing toward him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Blindfolding you,” she answered, proceeding to do just that.
“You’re taking all the fun out of this,” he complained.
“Not for me.”
After allowing her to blindfold him, he listened to the sensuous sounds of her removing her dress and smiled.
“Hand me the soap,” she said, moving to the tub in just her petticoats.
Locating it, he held it just beyond her reach, his smile turning into a grin.
When she reached for the bar, he grabbed her hand, catching her off balance. She fell into the tub with a splash.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she sputtered. The water was seeping through her petticoats, making them completely transparent.
“Exactly what you want me to, Red,” he whispered, closing his hand over her breast; his lips met hers.
“Molly! Wake up, Molly!”
“What … ?” Molly asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes to find Angie standing over her in an agitated state.
“It’s Mitch. I thought you’d want to know.”
Bad Attitude Page 3
