His Curvy Temptation

by Christa Wick

  She saw the tires of a limo go by at a crawl on the opposite side of the street. She expected it to pull into the studio lot's main drive, but it continued on.

  Another minute passed of her gnawing at her lips, her hands pressed into fists. There was no reason other than Declan's interference that she could think of for the treatment she had received from McCabe. She had briefly spoken to the man before in securing the position based on the recommendation of someone else within his department. He had been brisk but polite, with a light polish of amicable.

  This time his expression had been boiling over with a barely contained rage.

  The front of a shiny black car pulled into view, its slow rate of travel pulling Melanie out of the irate fugue into which she had settled. The car, another limo or the same one that had just passed, stopped in front of her despite the signs clearly marking the space as buses only.

  Given her last limo-related experience, she tensed as she heard the driver's door open. When his head actually appeared above the roof of the car, she wanted to puke.

  Declan's driver. She hadn't gotten his name but had a good look at him before leaving the private airfield. Her memory wasn't so bad she'd forget a face in just a few days.

  He trotted quickly around the back of the limo after casting a nervous glance at the roadway. He didn't have to step into any lanes, so she guessed he was wary of a bus or cop car.

  "Miss Archer," he said, moving to the rear door and opening it. "If you would allow me to drive you this morning."

  She stared blankly at the man. Some new game of Declan's no doubt.

  The actor could go screw himself. The way he had her blood riled up, she'd go live in Massachusetts just to spite him.

  The driver checked the road again, his grip on the handle tightening.

  The woman on the bench scooted a little closer and elbowed Melanie. "If you don't want to, tell him to give me a ride, honey."

  She finished with a good natured chuckle, but Melanie shook her head.

  "You don't know who his boss is."

  The woman shrugged. "Unless it's a gangster, I say you get in. Car like that doesn't stop even once for most people."

  "There's an envelope in the back seat for you, Miss Archer," the driver said.

  "I don't care if there's candy and a free puppy," she snarked at him as a cop car rolled by.

  "Please, Miss Archer..." the driver started, his voice going tight and his face straining. "It's a lot easier to lose a chauffeur's license than a regular driver's license. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, I just need you to get in the car."

  She looked at the cop car that had slowed as if it were considering whether to turn around, then at the maid, whose gaze was urging her on. Finally she looked at the driver. Was he a good actor, like his boss, or a pawn, just like Melanie?

  "Fine," she growled, her mind going to the full can of pepper spray in her backpack as she marched past the driver and barreled into the backseat.

  She looked around the passenger area for the fabled envelope, even lifted her bottom up and patted beneath her to see if she had accidentally sat on it.

  "One moment," the driver said as he hurried to get in behind the wheel and draw his seatbelt across his chest, one eye on the rearview mirror to see if the cop car was circling back.

  He put the limo in gear and pulled forward then reached next to him, found what he was looking for and passed a large manila envelope to Melanie.

  She flipped it over to see the front, expecting something other than the pre-printed name of a successful production company. She placed the envelope flat on her lap, her hands atop it and wrestling with one another.

  "Where are you taking me?" she asked, grateful that the driver hadn't rolled the window up and forced her to figure out the controls before she could interrogate him.

  "To the Paravista lots, Miss Archer."

  Her hands grew more agitated, her thumbnails taking turns scraping at their opposing palm as she tried to decide whether or not to open the envelope.

  As if opening it would commit her to something.

  With a slow breath out, she broke the seal and extracted the papers inside. The contents didn't vary much from her last film. A formal job offer, a non-disclosure agreement and the like. The only thing that mattered to her from the stack of papers was the position title and job description. The job she was being offered wasn't that of a wardrobe girl, nor a step up as the key costumer, but a position as a costume design assistant.

  She blinked and re-read the description a second time. It was all "at will," of course, but she would work directly with the costume supervisor, break down the script to identify the characters and costuming needs of each, help research costume styles during pre-production, and prepare production schedules for the department.

  Flipping back to the name of the production company, her mouth folded into a thin line. The film, not so much as outlined in the job offer, would most likely be contemporary in nature. A dramatic romance or some suspense movie that involved a lot of guns and at least one car chase. Still, the responsibilities would be a big bump up her career ladder—the kind of bump she'd been dreaming about but couldn't reasonably expect for a few more years.

  Coming any other day, she would have jumped at the offer. Only this was Declan's doing and she didn't know if it was an apology or a strategy for obtaining some unknown goal.

  "Shall I take you somewhere else instead," the driver asked, interrupting the game of table tennis going on inside her head as she bounced between elation and suspicion over the papers in her shaking hands.

  Taking one last look at those three little words that would be her job title for the next several months, she shook her head.

  "No, take me to Paravista."

  14

  The driver, whose name was Russell as she learned when they reached Paravista Studios, waited while she got a visitor's badge at the main security gate then drove her to the offices assigned to the production company with which she would be working. Before leaving, he gave her his card.

  "In case you want to leave early, Miss Archer."

  Palming the card, she cocked an eyebrow at him. "And if I don't want to leave early?"

  "There are several bus stops outside the studio's perimeter," he answered, his tone still friendly. "I'm sure one of them serves your route."

  Melanie nodded, understanding his point. If she didn't want the job after talking to the production company's supervisor, she could get a ride home. If she took the job, Declan wasn't giving her a ride to work every day—which was the last thing she wanted anyway. Not only did she intend to avoid him on set as much as possible and off the set completely, but her arrival in the limo had already attracted too many stares.

  She was just glad the time of day meant that most of the people she would be working with had already arrived and were busy at their stations.

  "Goodbye, then," she said, extending her hand.

  Russell looked at it, both brows arching.

  "Am I breaking some kind of protocol?"

  He nodded faintly and she withdrew her hand to wrap it around the strap of her backpack.

  "Good day, Miss Archer," he said, waiting for her to head into the building so he could finally leave.

  "And a good day to you," she said, turning away.

  Inside the building, she received instructions on how to find Michael Strake, the producer whose name was on the job offer. That she was supposed to report to him instead of directly to the costume supervisor or lead designer was surprising. But often pre-production didn't include a supervisor and she knew the job hadn't randomly fallen in her lap.

  Even without Russell showing up and driving her to the studio, she would have known that.

  Approaching the door to the producer's office, Melanie's knees went weak as she heard voices—two of them, both masculine, one of them Declan's.

  Damn it! She didn't want to deal with him so soon.

  Closing her eyes, she braced he
rself, lifted her hand and knocked.

  "Come in," the second voice called, the one she presumed belonged to Michael Strake.

  Opening the door, she found Strake and Bain seated in a pair of club chairs positioned on the opposite side of the room from an imposing wooden desk made of teak or some other rare and expensive wood.

  Forcing herself to take a slow breath and bring her vocal chords under control, Melanie extended the envelope toward the producer.

  "I received this..."

  He didn't take it, just lifted a bored looking eyebrow.

  "Did you sign it?"

  His tone had an adversarial tinge that made her pause before she shook her head.

  "Are you going to?"

  Good question. She didn't have an answer.

  Her gaze slid to Declan, who was studying her with a quiet interest. It didn't matter that she'd been furious with him since Saturday and stunned by the day's machinations—the first impression that struck her in looking at him was appreciation.

  He's not his characters, she reminded herself. He doesn't have a heart of gold or a deep and caring nature. He's not Brady Pine in The Other Side of Never or Justin Fell from Rough Waters. He's a Hollywood star who thinks he owns the world—including you.

  Strake turned to Declan, his voice roughening. "You have a reason for pushing this on me?"

  Keeping his gaze focused on Melanie, Declan answered the man, his tone casual but very matter of fact. "I'm not pushing anything on you. It was already in my contract that I have final say over who designs for me in this piece of shit, pseudo-porn flick you're so hot to film."

  Melanie's brows shot up at his description of the movie.

  "Don't worry, Mel. If you wouldn't have been embarrassed to work on that Shades deal, you won't be embarrassed to have your name attached to this."

  She doubted it was the content of the film that would eventually lead to her embarrassment. It was the man sitting in front of her who would be her public ruin.

  Changing tactics, Declan took a poke at her professional pride. "But, hey, if you don't think you can manage to dress a half naked man—it'll take about five minutes to find someone who can."

  15

  Three hours later, after reading through the script several times and taking copious notes, Melanie looked at a set of preliminary designs that had been worked up by her predecessor.

  All while trying NOT to imagine Declan Bain wearing them.

  She reached the black leather "banana hammock" with studs along its front seam just as she took a sip of her Coke Zero. Cold fizzy soda shot through and out both nostrils as her eyes landed on the image.

  "Let me guess, the cock sling?" Declan asked, making his first appearance since she'd left him sitting in Strake's office.

  She flashed the sketch at him and he nodded.

  "I call it a banana hammock," she said. "I guess cock sling works, too, just less discreet."

  Sliding onto the stool placed on the opposite side of Melanie's worktable, he flashed a sly grin. "I'd say discretion is overrated, but I'm a man with secrets."

  "Why are you here?"

  Before capitulating to his expert manipulations in Strake's office, she had silently promised herself that rule number one for the job was keeping as much distance from Bain as she could. That meant physically, personally, and emotionally. She wouldn't be rude, but there would be no water cooler conversation even if they were at the water cooler and surrounded by people.

  Every word out of her mouth needed to have a professional reason for leaving her.

  Reaching into the back pocket of his body hugging gray jeans, Declan pulled out his phone and tapped through to an app.

  "Scheduling reasons," he answered, the sly grin resurfacing. "And to make sure you understand which outfits have no chance in hell of being worn onscreen by me."

  Remembering that the last time she saw him at the other studio he'd been wearing a war kilt and nothing else, she rolled her eyes, but remained silent as she placed the sketches on the table and oriented them in his direction.

  Pulling the cock sling one out, he tossed it over his shoulder in the general direction of the garbage can. He pulled another sketch out, one with him wearing what looked like a bomber jacket, and threw it over his shoulder, too.

  "I'd look like a moose wearing that—thinner leathers only."

  She nodded, agreeing, and watched him select three more sketches. Two of the outfits were definitely meant for the "playroom" scenes in the film. She could see, based on what she'd already viewed of his impressive body, that there was room for improvement in the designs—ways to accentuate the most drool worthy aspects of his physique.

  The third "outfit" was just a fabric drape, but whoever had done the sketch had envisioned a far too heavy fabric that laid over him like a fire blanket.

  "These need tweaked."

  "Yes, I have a few improvements in mind for them already."

  "Excellent."

  Placing his phone on the table, Declan unthreaded a button on the cuff of his sleeve.

  "Wh-what..."

  "Don't choke on the question, Mel." The gray eyes turned predatory and so did his smile. "I've got a block of time now for you to do some of the production drawings. And I know you've got your art tablet with you. Hell, you probably put it in a gallon Ziploc bag and take it into the tub when you bathe."

  "No, I don't," she growled. The stylus wouldn't work through the plastic, so fat lot of nothing he knew about the subject.

  His fingers paused at unbuttoning the second cuff. "You don't take it in the tub, or 'no,' you don't have it on you?"

  "The tub." Her cheeks grew hot. She wasn't sure if it was from his poking at her or the fact that he planned on getting down to his underwear before the conversation was over.

  "Great, then you have all the tools you need." Getting off the stool, he walked across to the far side of the room and eased a mannequin out of the way before turning on two photography lights. "Lock the door, will you?"

  Fuck, fuck, fuck...you knew you were going to have to do this at some point...don't be a complete ninny about it.

  Her shoes suddenly made out of lead, Melanie shuffled over to the door and threw the lock's bolt. By the time she turned back to the worktable, Declan had his shirt off and was shimmying out of the tight jeans.

  She didn't have to guess at the source of the heat flaring inside her at that moment. It was unadulterated appreciation of his body and the way he moved as he got down to nothing more than low cut briefs made from a thin Lycra-like fabric that were more a second layer of skin instead of clothing.

  He was killing her.

  Slowly.

  Other than the prior Friday dressing him for the photographer, she had spent little time alone with Declan on a set. The times when she was responsible for dressing him had always involved a room filled with other people, other actors and costumers, makeup artists and even writers.

  Now, not only were they alone after what had happened Saturday, but he’d deftly maneuvered her into making a study of his body. She would have to look at every line and their convergence, the way the skin caught the light, the hard curves of his muscles...

  Feeling a little dizzy, she removed her art tablet and stylus from her bag. With her tools in hand, she watched him move a big, rectangular staging block over to the wall and drape it with a red piece of silk.

  Satisfied with his preparations, Declan slid his gorgeous, barely covered ass on top of the block, curled his hands around the prop's back edge and let his long, muscular legs straddle the forward sides.

  "Is this a production meeting or a Playgirl shoot?" Melanie sniped.

  "Considering the script, both." Declan winked as he answered. "Lucky you."

  Oh, the unmitigated gall of the man!

  She decided to poke back, powering on her tablet and dragging her stool closer as she considered his potential weak spots.

  "I thought you left Seneca to make something serious? Instead you wen
t from an alien super villain to a rich, kinky politician. Or is this..." Pausing, she gestured at the sketches behind her. "Your attempt at serious art?"

  His mouth went a little jagged at her question but quickly smoothed out.

  "My contract requires one studio selected film that I'm bound to, Melanie Lee. This is it. Then I get to be choosy."

  As much as her question might have irritated him for a moment, it didn't stop him from trying to get under her skin. His fingers plucked at the waist of his skin hugging briefs.

  "Should we start with these off?"

  Holy Habanero! That was so not happening.

  "I guess that means you can be unprofessional on this film, since it's the studio's choice," she said, indirectly addressing his question.

  An offended look survived half a second before he burst into a laugh. When it subsided, he shaped his face into a serious expression. "That was a professional question. I'll be nude on the set. You'll need to know how my cock rests to account for the draping."

  Drawing her bottom lip into her mouth, she unconsciously sucked on it as she tried not to imagine the scene he was talking about. She'd read the script, knew it was going to go a few steps beyond Shades, with those scenes likely being edited out for cinemas but added to the extended cut DVD and Blu-ray.

  "I'll get a soggy matchstick and work it out later," she said as she finished setting up her document in the sketching app.

  She started with him in the playroom as a dominant. First she sketched in his basic shape, everything as blocky at first as the dense foam rectangle he rested on. She didn't have to look too closely at him to do that, just follow the outline of his torso and limbs.

  The second layer of strokes finessed his upper torso and arms, his head remaining an unfinished block for the sake of authenticity.

  When she moved to the third layer, the calm that had built up with her earlier strokes evaporated and her heart began to hammer in her chest. She wanted to drop the waistline on the tight leather pants he would be wearing and give them a diagonal fly with a quick catch release instead of the awkward zipper in the original drawing.