“Now in this scene ...,” Laurence Gilbray began. “This is what Gina is feeling ....” Astrid barely listened. She had worked hard to understand the character’s motivation. She thought she knew what Gina might feel in this moment far better than Gilbray. But when Dylan entered, dressed in the dark evening suit of a Victorian gentleman, a white cravat at his throat, her mind went blank. All notions of teasing him fled.
Gina hit her mark. She fought to regain her composure as the director rehearsed them. Then, all the lights dimmed to candle strength, except the spot lighting her face. From across the table, Dylan became Blair. She was Gina. They went into their banter sparking off each other. After only one take, Gilbray called a wrap and the crew applauded.
At her request, the set was closed for the bedroom scene. Only the director, the camera crew and wardrobe remained. Astrid returned from wardrobe wearing just a pink lace chemise and black stockings under her robe. Makeup and the hairdresser fussed around her, curling her hair with tongs and adding finishing touches to her makeup.
She avoided Dylan’s gaze and listened to Gilbray’s direction, as butterflies battered around in her stomach.
Dylan left the room.
Her assistant removed her robe and darted away.
“Places, everyone. Quiet on the set. Take one.”
The clapperboard began the scene. Astrid stood beside the satin-covered four-poster bed in the sumptuous bedroom
“Rolling, and action,” Gilbray called. The door opened and Dylan entered. His burning blue gaze traveled hungrily over her body. He leaned back against the closed door and watched her. As the scene progressed, she took a deep breath and flirtatiously rolled down a stocking, aware that her nervousness was real.
When he moved to hold her, his hands on her body, firm but gentle, made her catch her breath.
His mouth covered hers, hard and demanding. She could feel his heart beating against his ribs as fast as hers. She didn’t want his kiss to end. And a glance into his eyes told her he didn’t either. She coiled her arms around his neck and kissed him back, as all the weeks of denial fell in tatters.
“Cut.”
She was dimly aware of Laurence Gilbray yelling cut again.
She and Dylan broke apart and turned away from one another. Dylan headed to the corner for a drink of water.
A ripple went through the room and a member of the crew whistled, fanning himself with a script.
“That was great,” Gilbray said enthusiastically. “We don’t need a second take, but we’d better get one.”
Under the hot lights, Astrid melted with desire. Dylan gazed at her with raw animal passion in his eyes. Her breath came in gasps and she wanted to press herself against him. If they needed a third take, she and Dylan would be lost.
“That’s a wrap!” Gilbray yelled. With a combination of relief and profound reluctance, Astrid and Dylan drew apart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Dylan left the set and headed for his dressing room. For the first time in his career, he’d almost lost it. Her body in that flimsy bit of cloth inflamed his senses to fever pitch. When he’d held her and kissed her luscious mouth, his body responded to an embarrassing degree, and when he heard her breath quicken and her hands tighten around him, he knew she felt it too, and he didn’t want to stop. He wanted to yell at them all to leave them alone and take her over to that bed.
He’d done these love scenes many times before, and mostly they were tedious–put your hand here, your chin higher, hold it–but not this time. It was perfect from beginning to end. She was bewitching.
He took a Coke from the fridge and drank it straight down, throwing the empty bottle in the bin, and wishing for something stronger. He had more work that afternoon, and it would do his career little good to turn up with alcohol on his breath. His pulse still raced with frustration and desire, licking along his nerve endings and settling heavily in his crotch. Her beautiful globe-shaped breasts and rosy nipples were burned onto his retina. He could still feel them thrusting through her thin chemise, pressing against his chest.
It was all Dylan could do not to go and batter her door down. Was it just knowing she wouldn’t be alone that stopped him? She’d given him little encouragement, apart from that kiss, which she quickly repudiated. What was wrong with him? The woman had a man in her life, why couldn’t he respect that? Maybe it was because he felt he knew her, knew what she wanted.
Situations change, people grew up and their needs changed too.
He’d swear Astrid was finished with Fabre, he’d heard her on the phone to him, and the tone of her voice gave her away, even if the words didn’t. She was as attracted to him as much as he was to her. If she wasn’t, she’d just given an Oscar winning performance.
He flipped open his laptop and sought some music to distract him. He would almost be glad when this movie wrapped. At least then, she would stop tormenting him. But then she would return to France and that thought tormented him even more.
He changed into a track suit and running shoes, planning to go for a very long jog.
Hesitating outside her door, he wondered if she was struggling with similar feelings. He sure hoped so. Would she lay awake tonight yearning for him to touch her? He knew he would.
***
At the duck pond in Barnes, the park scene took several takes. The little boy and the ducks didn’t seem to want to act on queue. When Laurence called it a wrap, Astrid sighed, tired from running, and cold from constantly getting her feet wet.
“You had the easy bit,” she said accusingly to Dylan. It was the first time they’d spoken light heartedly since the episode in Cornwall and the following passionate scene, which made them both retreat.
He grinned. “Never work with children or animals.”
They retired to their Winnebago’s and half an hour later, a knock came at Astrid’s door.
She had just showered and tightened the belt of her dressing gown when Dylan entered.
“Astrid, can we talk? At dinner, perhaps?”
She sighed, tired of fighting herself and him. “I don’t trust you, Dylan.”
“I don’t deserve your trust. But in my defense, I’d like you to know I’ve never cheated on a girlfriend,” he said seriously.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t trust either of us.”
A gleam of acknowledgment flared in his eyes, causing tingles to travel up her spine. “I have a life,” she said resolutely. “Would you wish me to deceive my partner?” Somehow to tell Dylan of the sad state of their relationship seemed unfair to Philippe. After so many years, it deserved a proper ending, although she wasn’t sure just what that was. She only knew she had to return to Paris to deal with it in her own way.
“Can’t two people eat together?” Dylan asked.
She smiled. “Just dinner.”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “The Ivy?”
She shook her head. “Showbiz royalty goes there. The photographers are always camped out outside.”
“That’s true,” Dylan said thoughtfully. “I know a nice little place on the King’s Road that’s inconspicuous.”
She laughed. “No restaurant on the King’s Road can be inconspicuous, surely.”
“Tasteful then.” He grinned, his warm eyes drawing her in. She fought not to lose herself in his blue gaze.
“We’ll be the subject of gossip,” she said doubtfully, aware it might be the catalyst that brought an end to her relationship with Philippe. It seemed as if she was floating toward some inevitable conclusion which was out of her control.
“We are anyway.” He shrugged. “And when you return to France, it will die away.”
“I must go home and change.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
She nodded. “I have a break from filming tomorrow.” It was unusual for the star. The company usually crammed as many scenes into each day as possible, running from daybreak long into the night. Her words hung in the air like a promise, leaving
her wondering why she’d said something so provocative.
“As do I.” Dylan leaned against the door watching her. “Surprising isn’t it?”
“Some technical problems, apparently,” she added. She still found it difficult to deal with the way her body reacted when he was near. Her assistant appeared at the door and Astrid said quickly, “I’d better dress, the car is waiting to take me home.”
“Until later, then.”
She watched his loose, graceful walk as he crossed the road, and the promise of an evening alone with him made those annoying monster butterflies start up again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Astrid made sure she was ready before Dylan arrived. She didn’t want to risk inviting him in. She quivered at the thought. What a coward she was! Why couldn’t she just go to bed with this man and then put him out of her mind? She may not even enjoy it. No chance. He had only to look at her and she was halfway there. She sighed.
Jenny managed to remain detached after their sexual encounter. She obviously wasn’t pining for Dylan. After telling Astrid that Dylan was a perfect male specimen, she’d moved on to date a cameraman.
While she envied Jenny’s light-hearted approach to sex, Astrid wasn’t capable of it. Making love always meant more to her than a brief fleeting encounter.
The restaurant did prove to be discreet. The owner knew Dylan, but he didn’t try to engage them in conversation. Astrid wondered fleetingly how many women he had brought here. The buzz of conversation from the well-mannered diners didn’t pause as they were led to a table tucked away in a corner.
“Chelsea’s reputation stems from a period in the 19th century when it became a sort of Victorian artists’ colony. Painters such as Dante Gabriel Rossetti, J.M.W. Turner, James McNeill Whistler, William Holman Hunt, John Singer Sargent lived and painted here.”
“How do you know all that,” Astrid asked, impressed.
Dylan grinned. “It’s written on the bottom of the menu.”
She laughed.
Over candlelight, they barely picked at the delicate, Scottish salmon entrée. They leaned toward each other over the table and clinked glasses.
“To the film’s success,” Astrid said.
“To us,” Dylan replied. “After the launch party, press releases, interminable interviews and the release of the film, may we still be together.”
She smiled but said nothing.
“I’m doing all the talking,” he said. “I’ll shut up, now it’s your turn.”
She shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
He paused. “How much do you weigh?”
She picked up a fallen yellow rose from off the table and threw it at him. He caught it and put it to his nose. Someone at a nearby table laughed as he tucked it into a buttonhole on his jacket. “All the world smiles on lovers,” he said in an undertone.
“Is that what you think we are?” Astrid sipped her wine. It sent a rosy glow through her stomach and a pleasant lassitude settled over her limbs.
“Don’t you feel it?”
Her gaze lingered on his sensual mouth and his charming smile, moving to his graceful, long fingers holding the wineglass. She thought about his hands on her body. She coughed as wine went down the wrong way. I’m playing with fire, she thought. I should not be here.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded taking another sip. Her third glass. She approached that stage she seldom allowed herself to reach, where she would begin to lose count of the glasses. If she wasn’t careful, she would soon lose her self-control as well. In Dylan’s company that would be far too easy. She should go home, be there when Philippe rang. But Dylan’s sense of humor played with her mind, his laugh stealing her resolve, and if she gave the word, soon, his hands and his body would…
“Miss LeClair, Mr. Shaw, might we get a picture and a quick interview about Painted Lady?”
A reporter and photographer from a roving TV news crew approached the table. Dylan and Astrid hadn’t seen them enter the restaurant. The proprietor hurried across to stop them, but he arrived too late. Dylan politely answered a few perfunctory questions to fob them off. He and Miss LeClair were just here to discuss the film. But they both knew their liaison would appear on the eleven o’clock news.
Philippe always watched the cable news network. He would certainly see it, Astrid thought. She should be alarmed, but fortified by the champagne, she just smiled and answered the young woman’s questions. Yes, she loved coming to London. She enjoyed her part and Laurence Gilbray was a great director. Anything else, they should wait for press releases.
The red-faced proprietor escorted the journalists out. He came back to apologize profusely.
Dylan insisted it didn’t matter.
“Perhaps we should go,” he said to Astrid. “I’m sorry.”
She rose and allowed him to help her pull her coat on over her silver mini-dress. “I guess we both knew it would happen,” she said.
Her senses remained hyper-alert, even to his light touch on her back as he guided her through the restaurant. Outside, the news crew had gone, thankfully, having got their scoop. A few fans had got wind of it and hung around, and it took a few moments to sign autographs. The limousine driver ground a cigarette under his heel when he saw them approach and opened the car door.
They climbed into the back. “Kew, please driver,” Blair said.
The sight of his handsome face lit by the street lamps caused a flutter in her stomach. The mixture of desire and restraint in his eyes meant he would keep his word.
She no longer wanted him to. She put her hand on his arm, “Dylan.…”
He moved quickly to pull her against him, his mouth coming down on hers, gently probing then more and more insistent.
She was drowning. Her body ached, longing for release, hot and moist with desire. It amazed her how much she wanted him. To lie down in his arms and feel the weight of his lean, hard body on hers. To have him stroke her in those places that throbbed for his touch. She made a decision. Sitting up she pushed him away.
“I’m going to speak to Philippe tonight,” she said.
He stroked her arm gently. “What will you say?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Dylan’s voice was almost a growl. “So…that’s it?”
“Tomorrow, Dylan,” she said. She wanted to tell him how hard it was for her too, but knew they would end up in bed. She tried to move her mind away from the prospect, focusing on Philippe’s phone call. What she would say to him.
When the car pulled up, Dylan escorted her up the path. The wind ruffled the leaves and the garden looked shadowy and isolated. She almost regretted her choice to stay in a house by
herself. A little uneasy, she longed to ask him in just for the company, but resolved not to. In a few minutes, Philippe would ring.
At the door, their bodies fused in a kiss that neither wanted to break. Finally, she drew gently away. “Good night, gorgeous man.” She stroked his cheek.
He caught her hand and kissed it, an old-fashioned gesture like one Blair might make. It ignited the fire low in her belly again. She turned quickly away and took out her latchkey.
When he left her, she went inside, shutting the door and putting on the lights. She placed her evening purse on the table in the hall and went through to the sitting room. The wind grew stronger, rattling the windows.
The door to the back patio suddenly banged open, the curtains flapping in the wind.
Astrid gasped. Hadn’t she locked it? She was usually so careful. Dylan had her so distracted she couldn’t think straight. She went quickly to close and lock it. Just as she pulled the curtains across, the phone began to ring. She looked at her watch, eleven fifteen.
When she answered it, an urgent flood of French came through the line.
“Yes,” she replied unable to lie. “I was alone with him. Nothing’s happened between us, Philippe. But you know our relationship is not what it was. It’s time we faced it.”
<
br /> Almost a half-hour passed as Astrid tried to explain to him how she felt, aware the words she spoke tore at the fabric of their relationship. She wasn’t sure how much of it he even listened to.
He returned to his old argument aimed at making her feel ungrateful. She was selfish not giving him a child before he was too old to enjoy it. He had spent his best years with her. Hadn’t he given her everything she could possibly want? Why did she need a career when his wealth was more than enough for them both?
She didn’t fall for the emotional blackmail anymore. She had given him much over the years, her youth and affection. And she didn’t love him in the same way anymore; perhaps she hadn’t for some time. He had come into her life just after her father had died. His patriarchal manner had been reassuring then, now it was stifling. But could she hurt him, now that as he said, he was older and more vulnerable? She shook her head and gave a rueful laugh, she was doing it again! Philippe would have a beautiful woman in his bed as soon as he raised his little finger. Leaving wouldn’t be easy for her either. Particularly now that she was a celebrity cast front and center in the public eye.
She put down the phone. As soon as the film ended, she would return to Paris and pack up her things. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom feeling an odd mix of sadness, relief and exhaustion. Crossing to the bed, she removed her nightgown from under the pillow. Suddenly, a hand roughly covered her mouth. She went stiff with fear. “Don’t scream. I just want to talk.”
“Let me go, Alistair,” she said, recognizing his voice. “Are you mad?”
To her relief, he released her. She backed away from him, her eyes darting around the room for something to grab to protect herself. Then decided it would be unwise to inflame him further.
He looked insane, his hair almost standing on end and his eyes red-rimmed. “You were supposed to meet me for coffee this afternoon,” he said accusingly.
She shook her head in disbelief. “I was?”
Diary of a Painted Lady Page 14
