Stripped
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
What's Inside
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
What's Next
Excerpt from SCORCHED
Meet the Author
Other Titles
STRIPPED
a city2city novel
Edie Harris
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Edie Harris
Cover image: Shutterstock
This author acknowledges the copyright and/or trademark of the following, mentioned in this book: The Academy Awards, Barbasol, Big Red, Coca Cola, Dexter, Ferrari, Nike, Ray-Ban, Skype, Smurf, Starbucks, Sweeney Todd, Toyota, Werther’s.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, expect in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
He was never part of her plan.
Declan Murphy has just made his big career move, going from little-known European cinema to Hollywood blockbuster awards-bait in the blink of an eye. Hey, one actor’s highly public arrest for possession of narcotics is another actor’s lucky break, right? Declan’s eye is on the prize, and no one will keep him from proving to the producers that he’s a consummate industry professional.
No one, that is, except Fiona O’Brien. After a time in the spotlight that nearly destroyed her, Fiona wants nothing more than to fade into the background and do her job as part of the studio’s hair-and-makeup team. The last thing she needs is a hotshot actor with a panty-melting Irish accent and killer smile messing up her careful plans.
There’s nothing careful about the immediate attraction between Declan and Fiona, and soon that initial spark of lust is sizzling out of control. But when things get complicated behind the scenes, they’ll have to decide if their movie magic should stay on set…or if their love can survive away from the silver screen.
For Renee, a woman of unexpected—and yet completely unsurprising—strength.
Colleague, mentor, friend, and sister; I am a better human being for having met you.
And for my dad.
ONE
For a movie star, he looked an awful lot like a hungover lumberjack.
If he even was a movie star to begin with. For all Fiona O’Brien knew, she might be staring at a bonafide lumberjack…who had somehow snuck past the security guards at the entrance to the film studio and found his way over to her quiet little corner of the lot to make himself at home.
Which seemed highly improbable, all things considered. Lumberjacks weren’t exactly thick on the ground here in Los Angeles.
Six lanky feet of plaid-shirted male collapsed into the makeup chair, eyes squinty and smudged with shadows of exhaustion. “Mornin’,” he rumbled, then squeezed his eyes shut, head falling back with a sigh.
Fiona didn’t move from where she leaned against the white counter stretching the length of the makeup trailer. “Good morning.” Her arms crossed over her chest, hands tucked beneath her breasts to keep her twitching fingers at bay. “Are you lost?”
Without opening his eyes, the lumberjack asked, “Hair and Makeup?” An accent she couldn’t immediately identify shaped the rasping words.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m in the right place.”
Fiona wasn’t so sure. Not only was the man in her chair a little more…bushy than anticipated, but he wasn’t even the man who was meant to be sitting there. Hollywood heartthrob and infamous bad boy Christopher Lunsford was a typical California golden god.
This dude? Not so much. “What time is your call?”
“Five? Six? I dunno.” He shifted, slipping lower in the chair and wincing when his shoulders, clad in red-and-navy flannel, hiked up toward his ears. He didn’t quite fit in the chair, elbows bent awkwardly at the armrests and the lean length of his torso just a titch too long for the padded seat and back, all stretched out as he was. “Am I late, darlin’?”
Irish. An Irish accent. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who the heck you are.”
The stranger in her chair blinked open one bleary eye, head lolling into something resembling an upright position. “Declan Murphy.” That eye narrowed on her. “Who are you?”
“Fiona. Key makeup artist for the leading man.” A two-time Oscar-nominated leading man, she might add. A leading man whose face was often prominently featured on the gossip sites for some dangerous stunt or romantic entanglement. A leading man who, upon meeting Fiona a couple weeks ago during screen testing, had hugged her and announced they were going to be “pals.”
Pals. With Christopher Lunsford.
Even though growing up in show business had given her some immunity to celebrity mania, Fiona had briefly delighted in the fact that every woman in America had reason to be jealous of her. She got to have her hands all over this year’s Sexiest Man Alive for the next few months.
A quick glance at the printed list taped to the mirror confirmed that the name Declan Murphy was nowhere to be found. “Are you an extra?” The first of the extras weren’t due for another week, and she had no memory of seeing this man or any other lumberjack in the group that had come in for costume and makeup screen tests several days ago.
“No. I’m Count Vargas.”
The title role in Vendetta? “No, you’re not.” He couldn’t be. Christopher Lunsford was playing Vargas. The table reads and rehearsals had already happened. The costumes were already made.
“What’s your last name, Fiona?”
She stiffened, arms dropping to her sides. “O’Brien.”
“Fiona O’Brien.” Both eyes blinked open now, irises the color of bitter black coffee and fringed by thick, dark lashes. “That’s an Irish name. Are you an Irish lass, Fiona O’Brien?”
Really, his silliness was not helping his case here—the case wherein he proved he wasn’t some delusional drunk who’d decided, five whiskeys in, that gate-crashing a film studio sounded like a brilliant pre-sunrise activity. She gestured to the list on the mirror. “I don’t see your name here, and Christopher Lunsford is supposed to be in that seat. Not you.”
Those shoulders shifted again, and Declan Murphy sat a bit straighter, shoveling a hand through shoulder-length black hair. She noticed the curls were still damp from what she assumed was a recent shower. “So you haven’t heard.”
Ominous words that had never boded well for anyone in the history of, well, ever. Dread curled low in her stomach. “Haven’t heard what?”
“Lunsford was arrested.”
“Arrested?”
“Yeah. Drugs or somethin’.” One ebony eyebrow arched as he studied her. “It was all over the news yesterday.”
Yesterday, the final day before filming officially began, during which Fiona had been running all over town. First to the bank, then to Pasadena, then to a yoga class, then to the grocery store, and then, finally, back to her crummy apartment in Culver City. Her cell may have rung once
or twice around noon, but the caller ID told her it was just “Home.”
Sometimes, when she wasn’t vigilant, Fiona’s chest still ached when “Home” called her, so she would ignore her phone and wait for the ache to fade away. Yesterday had been one of those days, and so, in a fit of anger—at herself, at “Home”—she’d turned it off. She’d thrown her phone into her purse this morning without sparing it a glance, far more concerned about getting to the studio early to prep.
Managing not to lunge madly for the purse she’d stashed in an overhead cabinet, Fiona breathed deep, opened the cabinet door, and fumbled for her phone. It took half a minute to locate the thing, another fifteen seconds to power it on, all the while feeling the panic rising to clog her throat. She turned her back on the gravel-voiced Irishman in her chair as the damn thing began to chirp.
Loudly. Insistently. Without stopping.
Alert after alert for e-mails, voice mails, and texts lit up the phone’s screen, and Fiona’s cheeks burned. Her glasses slid down her nose as she tapped through the tidal wave of communication informing her that, yes, Lunsford had indeed been arrested in a very public manner for— “Cocaine? Seriously?” An inarticulate noise of frustration caught in her throat.
She ignored the low chuckle from the man behind her.
Then came the e-mail from the head of production, Joanne, stating that the first block of filming for Vendetta would be delayed two days while a replacement Count Vargas was found. Followed by an email saying that a replacement—“Dublin native and rising European film star Declan Murphy”—had been cast and would be flying into Los Angeles as soon as possible. Followed by yet another e-mail informing the necessary parties, of which Fiona was one, that screen tests for Mr. Murphy’s costume, hair, and makeup would take place on Tuesday morning before the new official start of filming began on Friday.
Here it was, Tuesday morning, and his curiosity pummeled her like a dodgeball in gym class as he waited for her to look at him. To apologize.
Crap. She had to apologize.
Slowly, carefully, Fiona slid her phone into the pocket of her jeans and turned to face him, professional smile firmly affixed. “Mr. Murphy.”
“Miss O’Brien.”
Smug laughter lurked in his tone, and it set her bristling. “I’m sorry for not being up to speed on the situation.” She was politeness personified, even as she swore at herself for not noticing the very pointed absence of the other key artists, Amy and Beth. Not to mention Paulie, the head of design for Vendetta’s hair and makeup team.
“Perhaps we should start again.” He unfolded from the chair and stood before her, hand extended. “Declan Murphy.”
Tall. He was tall. And broad, in all the right places. Lean in other also-right places. Fashion designers probably adored him, but he didn’t look as though he adored them back. The simple cut of his rumpled clothing spoke of sales racks and mall stores. Light-wash jeans hugged his long thighs, hinting at the lean muscle hiding beneath, and the shirt buttons running down his torso were open at the collar to reveal a spray of dark hair, sleeves rolled up to show off strong forearms dusted with that same hair.
Perfect white teeth worthy of a toothpaste commercial gleamed at her through the forest of his black beard as he smiled, drawing her gaze upward until her eyes met his, taking in the appealing laugh lines at the corners. Faint color warmed his high cheekbones, fair skin scrubbed clean and glowing with health.
Damn it, he was going to be ridiculously good looking underneath that beard. She could just tell.
There was nothing for it but to slide her hand into his—though the second she did, she knew it had been a mistake. Long fingers carrying faint calluses curled around hers, his palm large and enveloping. The firm grip sent spears of heat racing up through her wrist, up her arm, and across her shoulder to gather and tingle at her nape. Goosebumps sprang to life under the loose sleeves of her chambray shirt.
She pumped their joined hands, once. “Fiona O’Brien.” But when she tried to pull away, he refused to release her.
“A pleasure to meet you, Fiona.”
She had the distinct impression he meant those words to be genuine. “I…you, too.” Studying him warily, she ignored the weird tension that had collected in her chest the moment they’d touched. “Congratulations on the role.”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Chance of a lifetime, right?” Then his thumb stroked over the backs of her knuckles.
An accident, surely, a mistake made when he’d readjusted his grip. She tugged her hand free. “Have a seat,” she murmured, gesturing toward the chair. As he situated himself, she whipped the phone from her back pocket and shot off a text. Time to bring in the cavalry.
Her phone dinged a moment later.
Evidently, the cavalry was going to take its sweet time picking up Starbucks this morning.
Clean him up. Be there in 30. Want caffeine?
No, she did not want caffeine, thank you very much. Her mistakes this morning already had her wired. With another polite smile in Declan’s direction as she put away her phone, she leaned against the counter, glancing over the tools she’d laid out not even half an hour earlier. Foundation mixed to the wrong shade, a silicone scar that likely wouldn’t fit Declan’s proportions, brown liner and shadow intended for a man with tawny coloring. None of the work she’d put in with Lunsford was usable anymore.
Studying the new subject before her with a trained eye, she took in the beard, the hair, the spacing of his features. Without a word, she dropped to a crouch, opening the large aluminum box tucked under the counter. She could feel him watching her as she rummaged, pulling out pencils, pots, and palettes, applicators and tweezers and scissors. Standing, she placed her loot neatly in front of the mirror, removing any evidence that a different man was meant to be in the makeup trailer with her this morning, and turned. “So.”
One brow arched. “So.”
She forced a smile—forced because nothing was going as planned. Forced because she was alone with a large, strange man. Forced because…because… Because he’s attractive, and you choose never to notice attractive men for a reason. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Oh?” He didn’t sound pleased about that.
“Have you seen the original sketch for Count Vargas?”
“No, but if you’re thinkin’ to turn me into some gold-plated pretty boy like Lunsford, I’ll tell you right now that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news but all of…of that”—she gestured at Declan’s beard—“has to go.”
Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his face, the rasp of crisp hairs audible against his palm. “I’m gonna miss this beard.”
Fiona said nothing as she located a cloth drape in one of the cubbies, whipped it around his neck, and clipped it closed beneath a fall of soft black curls. She glanced toward the mirror.
Declan stared back. “I’ve been growin’ it since I wrapped a miniseries back in December. What do you think?”
“You don’t want to know what I think.”
“And why’s that?” His tone was almost…playful.
Playful might be a stretch for her, but banter she could do—one of the perks of having a lawyer mom and artist dad. “Because I think you look like Davy Crockett coming off a three-week bender.”
His hand moved under the drape, very obviously clapping over his chest in melodramatic pain. “Ouch.”
She rolled her eyes, because here was the familiar: Actors Being Actors. She relaxed a bit more. Her entire life had been spent around performers of one kind or another, and he’d just proved himself to be simply another in that herd.
But she couldn’t afford to relax too much. She couldn’t afford to be unprepared.
People who had something to prove never could. “So we’ve got a couple of options here, Mr. Murphy.”
“Is one of them keepin’ the beard?”
She tossed the towel onto the counter. “No.”
“What did my beard ever do to you?” He grabbed her hand, long fingers encircling her naked wrist, and lifted her hand to his jaw. Springy hair abraded her palm, the hint of warm skin humming just beneath. “See? It’s a nice beard.” He grinned up at her as he leaned into her touch. “I think it likes you.”
She’d frozen in place the moment he touched her, tension returning full force under the weight of his playing. He was playing—he had to be, and this was nothing more than Actors Being Actors. No man would flirt this outrageously at six in the morning with a woman he’d met less than half an hour ago. Ridiculous.
Swallowing with a throat gone dry, she tugged her hand free. “It’s a very nice beard.” It wasn’t a lie, even if lumberjacks weren’t her usual. “But you can’t keep it.”
He leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “You’re no fun.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” And she preferred it that way, having tapped out on fun a long time ago. “Now, your options.”
“Hit me, Miss O’Brien.” Her last name wasn’t quite a taunt on his lilting tongue. More like…a caress.
But that was her imagination, nothing more, regardless of the fact that he had manhandled her in order to make her pet his beard, the weirdo. “Either I shave you, or you shave yourself.” When he hesitated, she continued, tone brusque, “Barbering was part of my training. I know my way around a razor.”
“It’s less the razor and more the face that I’m worried about.” Another scrub of his hand over his bushy chin. “But why not live dangerously, right? Go for it.”
Not pausing to wonder why she felt secretly pleased at his choice, she plugged in the electric trimmer she’d pulled from a plastic container sitting in one of the cubbies. The trailer was filled with a quiet hum that turned quickly to an insistent buzz as she started working in earnest. Scruff fell away, floating silently to cascade along the protective cloth draped over his upper body.