by Edie Harris
Earlier that day, they had been shooting scenes in the northwest corner of the soundstage set meant to be the interior of a Venetian palazzo. A cobweb-laden crypt with a shallow moat, the slums of Whitechapel, and an underground Victorian-era boxing-and-gambling club completed the remaining quarters of the stage. Cameras, sound, and lighting equipment were attached to fixed tracks running the directions of the compass, replicated at different angles on the ceiling to allow equipment to drop in from overhead.
Sadie had turned that smile on him as they sat on a bench during an afternoon shooting break. “Woken up from the dream yet, Declan?” she had teased gently, her natural British accent so pure and upper-crust it almost hurt his ears. In contrast, wearing her Victorian knickerbockers and floppy pageboy cap, which trapped the pinned mass of her straight midnight hair, she was the very picture of the street-urchin-in-drag that her character, Bit, was meant to be. “Or is this still Christmas in July for you?”
He’d grinned. “What do you think?”
“I think,” she had said, her tone suddenly serious, “that it is a very good thing you’re here, doing this.”
“Oh?”
Nodding, Sadie had tugged at the brim of her cap and stared out at the crew, some adjusting equipment, some chatting over thermoses filled with hot coffee. “I’ve seen your telly work. You were being underutilized the entire last series of your show, and you know it.”
Declan had said nothing, because it was true. Part of the reason he’d been so excited over the Vendetta opportunity—and then so disappointed when he wasn’t initially cast—was because the creators of his television show had kept him slotted into the role that many fans had vehemently, vocally loved. But there had been no room for growth, and Declan was at a stage in his career where he needed growth.
He needed that foothold.
Her gaze had focused on the sound board and a nondescript thirty-something man with headphones over his ears who sat behind it, glancing from computer screen to computer screen—and never once at Sadie. “I did a movie with Christopher Lunsford two years ago, did you know?”
“No, I didn’t. What movie?”
Her slim shoulders had lifted in a semblance of a shrug. “It doesn’t matter, as it didn’t perform well at the box office. But the lesson I took away from the experience was that I needed to be prepared.”
Frowning, Declan had studied her. “Prepared for what?”
“For an absolutely dismal time of it. He was constantly late, or leaving early, and I suspect he wasn’t always entirely sober.” A real shrug this time, though her stare had never wavered from the sound guy sitting twenty feet away. “You replaced an actor who, by the end of filming, everyone would have wished had never been cast. It sounds harsh, I know, but it’s true.”
“Well.” Sadie’s statement had rocked him on his axis, even though it shouldn’t have, given the nature of Lunsford’s precipitous departure from Vendetta. Of the two dozen or so films Lunsford had made, Declan had seen at least half of them, and the man delivered a quality performance—every single time. “I’m not that guy.”
“I know.” As she tore her attention from the oblivious crewman, Sadie had given Declan a real smile. “It’s wonderful working with you, because I was expecting the worst. And here I am, getting the best.” She’d then nudged a friendly shoulder against his before standing from the bench. “Keep being the best, Declan. It’ll pay off for you, I promise. Now if you’ll excuse me”—flexing her fingers, she had shaken out her fists like a bare-knuckle boxer before a match, her smile thinning—“I have to go corner Ryan for a moment.”
“Who’s Ryan?”
Her laugh had been short, husky. “The bane of my existence.” With a brief wave, she had strode over to the sound board and the sound guy—Ryan?—she’d been watching so intently. When the guy had looked up to see her stomping his way, panic had flitted over his features before settling into a glare.
Yup. Definitely Ryan.
Poor Ryan.
But no, not Poor Ryan, because Declan could have sworn he had seen Fiona chatting happily with him from time to time since filming had begun, and so Declan would refuse to pity him. Especially since Fiona didn’t seem inclined to happily chat with him.
As Sadie cornered Ryan as promised, Declan had watched the woman he wanted to corner make her methodical way over to where he sat, stopping actors here and there, reaching into the bag looped across her body to draw out a pot for lips, or cheeks, or eyes. Everyone had received a smile before she moved on.
He’d wondered if today would be the day she smiled at him again.
He was frustrated by the chill he continued to feel from her, and confused, too, because Fiona’s brand of ice wasn’t off-putting at all. Her chill wrapped around him and whispered, Melt me. All because of the almost-kiss.
Did I give you any indication I wanted you to make a pass? she had asked, and her question had bounced around in his brain all the days since.
Declan wasn’t the sort of man who pursued uninterested women. He had neither the time nor inclination to forcibly insert himself where he wasn’t wanted. Work had made it difficult to date, and his last serious girlfriend had been so long ago it felt almost like a past life. In a sense, it was a past life, before his television series had taken off and before he’d realized that, if he busted his ass, he could end up in Hollywood someday.
And look at that. Here he was.
He couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward Fiona, though. He started each day in her chair, had her near as she touched up his makeup periodically on set, and found himself back in the trailer every night letting her peel off the scar and remove the cosmetics from his skin. Their routine, though less intensive than the routine he shared with Sadie as his costar and Wes as his director, felt more intimate than any other on set.
Fiona was the person who transformed him into his damaged alter ego, sinister scar and all, and she was the person who stripped him clean at the end of the day. It wasn’t surprising that he found himself looking at her, again and again.
If it was just sex he wanted, he could deal with it. There was always his right hand, or his left if he wanted to shake up the routine. Unfortunately, as per the nature of most juvenile crushes, some chest-region organ had decided he liked the curt manner in which she spoke to him each day, as if he put her off-balance and the frosty barbs layering her tone were the only things keeping her upright.
That same organ also appeared to be of the belief that, given enough time and perhaps the proper application of his thoroughly charming accent—and it was a charming accent, damn it—he could convince her to knock knees with him again, as she had that first day.
I don’t feel like laughing now.
Two minutes after that, she had been cuddled up against Wes Jackson. He’d seen the hug, the coffee, and the whispered conversation before the introductions had officially begun. Then there was how she’d sat comfortably on the arm of Wes’s chair, allowing Wes’s arm to drape with equal comfort around her, his hand resting casually on her hip—the same hip that Declan had so fleetingly held. Their physicality spoke of intimacy, and Declan…hadn’t liked it. He hadn’t liked it then, after knowing Fiona only an hour. He liked it even less now, after more than a week of her acquaintance. But it didn’t matter if he didn’t like it, because he wasn’t allowed an opinion on what or whom Fiona was intimate with.
Stupid crush. It hadn’t been fun at age fifteen, and it certainly wasn’t fun at age twenty-nine. Snap out of it, man.
That afternoon, her graceful stride across the sound stage had again caught his eye. She was taller than a lot of women, with slim legs always encased in tight denim, and athletically built, from what he could tell despite her preference for shapeless shirts. Her upper body could be any shape under those tents, but he’d noticed the press of a high, round breast against the chest pocket, enough of a handful to make his palms itch and his mouth water.
Less than a second later, she had halted right
in front of him, and he’d already pushed onto his feet before his mind even processed that he was standing in the presence of a “lady” like some sort of priggish Austen hero.
“Mr. Murphy,” she had said, voice quiet, tone firm. “I need to touch you up.”
His body had reacted as though she’d announced she was going to strip him naked and rock his world, right there on set, in front of thirty people. His throat tight, he had managed a croaking, “All right.”
“How is your day going?” Unzipping her black nylon bag, Fiona had reached inside, rummaging until she extracted a little container of black eyeliner with a strip of masking tape bearing his initials. It wasn’t the first time during filming breaks that she’d approached him in order to fix a smudged something here and there, and every time, her nearness had made his skin prickle beneath the many layers of his period-appropriate clothing, even as her conversation remained entirely unprovoking.
“Oh, fine. Yours?”
“It’s fine.”
Scintillating conversation. Absolutely smoldering. “Got any plans for the evening?”
Her lips—full, soft lips he might have once or twice imagined doing some rather naughty things to his person—had compressed in a tight line. “No.” Just that. No. With zero inflection and zero invitation, and the cipher-like quality of her response had irked him.
“Why don’t you like me, Fiona?” The question was past his lips before he had realized it was Teenage Declan doing the talking, not Totally Mature And Absolutely Has Had Sex Before What Are You On About Declan. Then, miraculously, he had realized Teenage Declan had the right idea. He wanted to know why she didn’t ever engage with him, on a personal level. It couldn’t just have been the almost-kiss. It was only an almost kiss, after all. People almost-kissed all the time and still managed to be friends, he was sure of it, and friends was what he and Fiona ought to be, working with one another day in and day out. They had whole weeks ahead of them in just this sort of proximity, and if he had to spend it on the receiving end of sharp looks and sharper words…. The tone of voice that stung the boy with the crush—and revved up the man with the fantasies—revealed an until-now hidden streak of masochism he wished he didn’t know about. Even recognizing how idiotic it was, he liked her, the way a boy who knew nothing about a girl other than that she smelled nice and had pretty hair liked a girl.
Why didn’t she like him back?
“Close your eyes.”
He had, still waiting for her answer.
“I’ve decided you make me nervous.” Her breath, carrying the sweet scent of those caramel candies she obviously loved, had been warm against his chin as she worked the outside corner of one eye. “Not that I should tell you that, but you do. You make me nervous.”
He had wanted to lean into her touch, the soft bristles of her brush an unexpected sort of caress. “How do I make you nervous?” Nervous wasn’t his intention; aware was. If Fiona felt nervous around him, truly nervous, he wasn’t handling his attraction to her correctly.
Did I give you any indication I wanted you to make a pass?
He’d told her he would stop if she asked him to stop, and he meant it.
But she hadn’t asked.
“You’re…I don’t know.” Slender fingers had angled his chin, and his eyes had opened as she dabbed something along his jawline—concealer for his ever-present beard shadow, likely. His gaze had immediately latched onto the side of her throat, and the pulse he’d imagined he saw fluttering there. “Loud. You’re very loud to me.”
A frown had tugged at his brows as he unintentionally dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll be quieter?”
But she had shaken her head. “No, not like that.” Stepping back, her big gray eyes had locked with his. “It’s just that I can’t ignore you. When we’re in the same room, I can’t pretend you’re invisible.”
Frustration and triumph had shot through him in equal measure. “That’s only fair, considerin’ I want to kiss you every time I see you. Not that I should tell you that,” he had finished gruffly, echoing her turn of phrase.
“What?”
“You’re loud to me, too, Fiona.” He had wanted to reach for her, touch her arm, something. Anything. But the crew behind her had started to assemble in anticipation of the end of the break, and touching her then seemed unwise. No, he couldn’t touch her on set, but he wished he could.
As she’d gazed up at him, teeth worrying her bottom lip and fingers clenched around a trio of makeup brushes, he had thought she might wish he could, too. That craving had been back in her eyes, a burning she had banked almost immediately as Joanne called the warning. “I can’t do anything about this,” she had muttered as her attention switched to packing the brushes into her bag. “It’s not professional.”
“There’s not a rule against it.” There might have been a rule against it.
“It’s not a good idea.”
“Darlin’, you have to articulate an idea first before decidin’ if it’s good or not.”
She had scowled, mouth opening as she readied some snappy retort. “Thirty seconds,” the final warning had sounded through Joanne’s loudspeaker. Shooting him a glare—very similar to the one Ryan had gifted Sadie, come to think of it—Fiona had marched off in the direction of the aesthetics station set up a few meters behind Wes’s chair and the computer screens. When she had glanced over her shoulder at him, he couldn’t help but grin, which had caused her expression to darken more than a few degrees.
Declan really shouldn’t like that glare as much as he did.
Shooting had recommenced, three repetitious hours of two scenes—one where he and a lovely blonde actress named Yvonne were interrupted mid-playtime by Sadie, and one where Sadie led him into what could only be described as a secret lair, filled with shelf after shelf of dusty leather-bound books and stoppered glass bottles. By the time they had finally gotten both takes right, he had been sweaty and itchy and a button had come loose on his overcoat.
Wes had clapped his hands twice, pushing out of his chair. “Okay, we’re good for today, guys. See you tomorrow morning.”
Rick had helped Declan out of his coat, examining the wonky button up close as the crew began to pack up for the evening. “We’re going to the cantina tonight, around nine. You in?”
“What’s the cantina?”
“The name of the place is actually Lucero, but regulars call it ‘the cantina.’ This Latin hole-in-the-wall south of here that brings in a live salsa band three nights a week.” Rick’s smile had been far more friendly than his daughter’s. “There’s a group of us that like to go drink too many margaritas and dance too many sambas every once in a while.”
“Will Fiona be there?” The words had snuck out before he’d realized he was asking her father, and what that father might infer from the question.
Unsurprisingly, that smile had lost some of its friendliness, and the back of Declan’s neck prickled.
At that moment, Ryan, the sound engineer Sadie had been stalking earlier, had walked by, equipment propped over his shoulder. “Fi never misses the cantina, man,” he’d said with a waggle of eyebrows before shooting Rick a chummy grin as he wandered off.
The look on Rick’s face had been indecipherable when Declan glanced his way again. “Yes, my daughter will be there. She loves to dance.”
A familiar face on the television screen in front of him snatched Declan from his thoughts of the day and had him yanking out his earbuds. The push of a button slowed his treadmill to a steady walk.
“…TMZ reports that Christopher Lunsford, Hollywood bad boy and star of the blockbuster Raine trilogy, has checked into rehab for drug addiction. An official statement released by the actor’s management states that Lunsford is ‘very sorry’ to have disappointed his fans, and that he will ‘be back in the game sooner than you think.’ This is Bianca James, reporting….”
Declan watched an unsteady camera shot of Christopher Lunsford as he pushed through a crowd of paparazzi w
ith the help of a bodyguard, tanned face wan under the blinding flash of photographers’ bulbs. The actor didn’t look sick or strung out so much as exhausted—exhausted, and angry.
Lifting the hem of his shirt to mop the sweat from his forehead, Declan pulled his gaze from the TV screen, neither needing nor wanting to see any more of his predecessor’s fall from grace. He surveyed the gym as he stepped off the treadmill, noting it was nearly empty of patrons, and considered his options.
He could do as he had been for the past nine nights in a row: finish his routine with an hour on the weights before showering and crashing for the evening. Or he could skip straight to the showering part, throw on some fresh clothes, and hit the cantina.
Where Fiona would be.
Screw the weight circuit. Declan had some dancing to do.
FOUR
Less than an hour later, Declan paused in Lucero’s doorway, gaze searching out a braided, bespectacled makeup artist…
…And finding, instead, a leggy goddess in a flirty little skirt the color of fresh clover spinning fluidly across the dance floor into the arms of a Latin man wearing a shit-eating grin.
Fiona O’Brien, leggy goddess. Who would’ve guessed?
Also, Latin Dude looked far too pleased to be holding her.
No glasses to hide her eyes, no huge shirts to shield her shape, and Declan drank in the sight of her. Slender, defined upper arms, lovely legs silky and tan and long, so long, Fiona had legs that gave a man ideas, and if Declan were honest, he’d been having ideas for days.
She smiled at her partner, cheeks flushed, as her limbs seemingly draped around the man and a shaft of painful longing ripped through Declan’s gut, twisting with excruciating slowness when the man’s hands swept over her curves. Curves Declan could now see, for the first time. Curves he wanted to spend the next couple of hours exploring with his own hands, and mouth, and—
