“Really.”
It was the first she’d heard of that development, since she’d yet to see a script. She wasn’t at all sure she liked it.
“The action is meant to be an indicator of his attractiveness on one hand and the way he sees himself on the other.”
Derek’s looks and vision, she thought with sardonic recognition, while brushing that argument aside. “You’ll give the audience a totally false impression. Zenobia should be a role model for young girls, an example of a powerful female ruler, not some exotic bimbo.”
“But the half-naked female is the fantasy of the audience—that is to say, of the frat guys who love skin mags and get off on the idea of invading a harem. We have to be reasonable.”
“You may, but I don’t.” She turned away from Derek and the wardrobe mistress, picking up her shoulder bag from the chair where she’d left it. “This is my body we’re talking about here, and I decide how much of it to show off. Yes, and also how and when.”
The wardrobe mistress sucked in her breath in shock. Derek jerked his head back, less than pleased, but he recovered quickly. “You can’t just quit.”
“I believe I can,” she said without heat.
“You don’t mean you’ll just—just give up this opportunity.”
She didn’t bother to answer, but started toward the outside door.
He was standing between her and her goal, and didn’t budge. Instead, he sent a brief glance toward the wardrobe mistress. “Take a coffee break, Millie. Give us half an hour.”
Zeni’s nerves tightened, but she saw no need for alarm. The trailer had thin walls and was in the middle of a movie location with dozens of people shuttling back and forth around it. Regardless, she didn’t put down her shoulder bag.
As the door closed behind Millie, Derek eased closer. Lifting a hand, he ran the backs of his fingers down her arm from shoulder to elbow while watching her with narrowed eyes. “You don’t really want to leave, do you? This part could be the beginning of big things. We could work together on other projects, go places you’ve never imagined.”
“I like Chamelot,” she said, stepping back from him so his hand fell away. “And I’m not sure I care for the movie business if this is the way it’s going to be.”
“Your principles become you, my dear. But I think you’ll discover that they can be a handicap when it comes to getting what you want out of life.”
“That’s a very cynical view.”
“Rather, a useful one.”
“Do you think so? I think the handicap is having so few principles you fail to understand those who cherish theirs.” She made as if to move around him. “Now, if you don’t mind?”
“Don’t go, please. Try on a couple of the costumes. Let me see what can be done to make them more acceptable.”
Did he mean that? Zeni wasn’t sure. At least he backed away from her, settling onto the loveseat in the seating area. He propped an ankle over one knee, stretching out his arms along the backs of the cushions on either side of him in a pose that was probably meant to look nonthreatening.
She did see possibilities in a couple of the costumes that lined the walls, but wasn’t about to make use of the flimsy screen in one corner that served as a dressing room. She considered the gender-neutral restroom, nodding to herself. A moment later, she plucked two different ensembles from where they hung. Looking them over with a critical eye, she added another. Then she whisked into the restroom with them and closed the door.
“Don’t be prudish,” Derek began in protest.
It was too late. Zeni snapped the lock without a care for what he might think about it. Muttering under her breath, she hung her costume choices on the hook screwed into the back of the door, then began to undress.
Ten minutes later, she was ready. Turning this way and that in front of the small mirror over the sink, she thought the amalgamation of items she’d put together hadn’t turned out too badly. The heavy kohl eyeliner and other makeup she’d added, similar to that created for her screen test, was icing on the cake.
Derek gaped when she glided out of the restroom with her head held high. His mouth moved but no sound came out. She looked about right for the part, Zeni knew, but his surprise seemed excessive. All she’d done was repurpose the various costumes into something closer to what she’d seen in paintings of Zenobia online.
The result was a cream-colored, ankle-length tunic banded in gold and worn with a long purple-red stole that draped from her left shoulder, behind her back and under her right arm, and then over her left shoulder from the front. A wide, braided belt encased her hips, emphasizing her waist, while the long ends falling to the floor swung gracefully as she walked. A dagger in an embroidered scabbard hung suspended on chains from its knot. Her hair, braided and wrapped her head, supported a gold and gemstone diadem that gleamed with blue, green and red fire in the feeble overhead light.
She felt regal, she looked regal, and so she was regal.
“My God, Zeni,” the actor/director said, exhaling on a quiet breath as he rose slowly to his feet.
It was fitting homage for a queen.
Trey was hot, tired, and something beyond damp when he reached the Watering Hole. He and the guys had transferred from their practice field to the rodeo arena this afternoon. Once there, they’d had to rethink their approach to this ring tournament on Harleys.
The arena at the edge of the fairgrounds had worked out well in the past, when the tournament was held on horseback, and it was probably logical from a filming standpoint. However, it wasn’t designed for the feat they were expected to pull off. The run toward the big arch from which the rings would be suspended was too short. A certain amount of speed was required to hold both the bike and the lance steady on the approach to the rings, and there just wasn’t enough track to reach it. Once a ring was speared, there was a high danger of hitting the arena wall due to the excess speed.
A couple of options had been proposed. They could circle the arena to pick up speed before turning onto the straightaway toward the rings, something that seemed workable. After trying for a ring, they could reduce speed and swerve in a spray of dirt to avoid the wall, or else rigged their brakes so they could be controlled by the left hand for a fast stop.
The riders had been split down the middle on the question, and the discussion had been about as cordial as the one on whether they’d all paint their bikes the same shiny black as Trey’s. They’d tried the stunt both ways, more or less, and Trey had hit the wall twice, the last time hard enough to leave its mark on him and the bike. Before they could come to a final agreement, a cloud boiled up from the southwest and it started to rain.
The blessed movie was the last thing on Trey’s mind just now. He was starving, since he’d missed lunch and couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast. He was also chilled to the bone after riding from the arena in the rain while wearing jeans and a black tank top instead of his leathers. All he wanted was a cup of hot coffee, a bowl of the chili that Zeni had been making when he saw her at daybreak, then a shower and at least three solid hours in his lounge chair while he watched a ball game. A beer with the last was optional.
Zeni hit him with her proposition the minute he walked in the door.
“Hey, you think you’ll have time to go over this Zenobia scene with me, maybe help me memorize my lines?”
“Do what?” He couldn’t believe she expected him to agree to such a thing knowing how he felt about it. The look he gave her as he slid onto his favorite stool at the counter should have been answer enough.
“I don’t mean right this minute,” she said, easily matching him in exasperation. “Later, after I close down for the night. Derek handed me a copy of the script this afternoon, and I need to work on the lines and other business.”
“Business?”
“Where I’m supposed to stand, how I’m to move, sit, and other bits of action.”
Her use of the jargon, and how fast she’d picked it up, made him uneasy.
He’d prefer she didn’t get too comfortable with it. “You can’t do that by yourself?”
She dished up a bowl of chili without being asked, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she could; he wouldn’t be surprised. However, she didn’t look at him while she was doing it.
“Not really,” she said. “It’s the stuff that’s going on while I say my lines that I’m not sure about. I could call Derek, since he offered to go over it with me, but I’d really rather not.”
“You don’t want to practice with Peabody.” He refused to call the guy by the name used in all the media he’d found online, the one on everybody’s lips all over town. He didn’t care to be that friendly.
“Rehearse,” she corrected. “And no, I don’t.”
“How come? I mean you’ll have to do the scene with him in front of the cameras sometime.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be now. Besides, he’s a busy man.”
She was suddenly busy herself, bringing him crackers to go with his chili and pouring him a cup of coffee. It was easy to see something about rehearsing with Peabody bothered her. If she didn’t want to be around the guy, that was probably a good thing. He didn’t want the actor/director near her, either.
Why he’d pushed her about it, he didn’t know. He could be an idiot like that when he was so tired he couldn’t see straight.
“And I’m not a busy man?” he asked while tearing into a packet of crackers and crumbling them over his chili.
“You are, yes.” She poured a glass of cold milk and shoved it down the counter, timing it so perfectly that it stopped beside his hand. “But you’re also the man who lost a bet and is supposed to be helping me with this part.”
“Getting it was the deal, not playing it,” he answered, just to be ornery since he knew very well he was going to do what she wanted. “I thought I was done.”
Putting her palms against the edge of the counter, she leaned in toward him. “I don’t believe we set a time limit on the payment. Are you reneging?”
He met her hot chocolate gaze, his spoon suspended in the air and his own eyes steady. “Never.”
“Good.” She pushed away from the counter. “I’ll see you at closing time.”
Trey left soon afterward. At home, he showered, shampooed and shaved. He watched the news, found out he didn’t care what was on ESPN, and took a cat nap. In spite of it all, he was in his truck and back at the Watering Hole a good half hour before he was due.
The early arrival didn’t matter at all. Rain still fell, coming down heavy enough to keep most folks at home. The diehard supper group was just about finished, those who would rather get soaking wet than cook for themselves. A few stragglers were still having dessert when he walked in, but cleared out soon after.
He helped Zeni load the dishwasher, then he wiped down tables while she swept. Locking the door and turning off the open sign, he followed her up to her apartment.
Midnight came to greet them as they came through the door, weaving in and out between their legs and complaining mightily about being shut up without company. Zeni soothed the kitten a minute or two, and then fed him. Handing over a longneck beer from the refrigerator, she went to change into something that, so she said, didn’t smell like coffee and grilled onions.
Trey hadn’t noticed and wouldn’t have cared if he had; the only fragrance he’d caught as he climbed the stairs behind her had been sweet peas and patchouli with a delectable side note of Zeni.
He made himself at home on the sofa. As he sipped his beer, he noticed the bound movie script that lay on the camphor wood coffee table. Reaching for it, he leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and opened it to the page that was marked by a sticky note.
He read through the scene, beginning slow but picking up speed with every line. He turned the page and finished the fairly short sequence, then sat without moving for long seconds. Turning back to the beginning, he read the thing through again. He chugged the rest of his beer, set the bottle aside, and read it a third time while heat radiated from the top of his head.
Trey slapped the pages shut and sat up straight. He shook his head with a low whistle. Moving with care, he dropped the script back on the table and left it there while he got to his feet.
Go or stay, that was the question. Walk out now, this very minute, while he still could—or stay and see what was going to happen?
Outside, the rain was still coming down. He could hear its splatter and splash clearly because the window above the kitchen sink was open a few inches for air circulation. The fresh scent of it permeated the apartment, bringing a hint of fragrance from the wet black-eyed Susans that grew along the building’s back wall. The humid coolness of it drifted in as well, a welcome addition.
Trey moved to the kitchen window and pushed it higher so the air flow and sound of the rain increased. He stood there with his hands on the sill, breathing in the cool dampness, letting it take the heat from his thoughts and the fire from the lower part of his body.
As he stared out into the darkness, he asked himself if Zeni had any idea at all of what she was doing to him.
Chapter 9
Zeni took a quick shower. She’d been up since daybreak, standing over a hot oven and grill and scalding dish water, but the main reason was because Trey seemed so fresh and squeaky clean he made her feel grungy by comparison. A dusting of bath powder afterward not only banished the eau de coffee shop smell for good, but made it easier to skim into lacy underwear and her caftan lounge robe.
The cover-up was the only thing of that variety she owned, but, most conveniently, mimicked the long tunics worn by Roman matrons, so was similar to what might have been worn by Zenobia. Nothing like getting into character for the reading, or so she’d heard somewhere, probably a TV show.
Trey had his back to her, standing at the kitchen cabinet, when she emerged from the bedroom. She was struck by the sheer male power of him, more aware than she wanted to be of how large he loomed in her apartment, the strength of his personality making it seem smaller.
It felt odd, almost illicit, to have him there so late in the evening. She wondered what the good folks of Chamelot would say if they saw his truck still parked at the Watering Hole. Maybe they wouldn’t notice, since it was at the back of the building.
Then again, why should it be a problem? She and Trey were supposed to be engaged, after all. Late night visits should be expected. Wasn’t it fairly well accepted these days that couples bound for the altar were intimate?
Yes, well, except whatever Trey, the bad boy Benedict, got up to was bound to be fodder for public comment, no matter what else was happening in town.
“Have you had a chance to look at the script?” he asked with a brief glance over his shoulder.
She’d thought he was oblivious, hadn’t realized she was there. She’d learn not to underestimate him one day. “Why? Something wrong with it?”
“Just curious.”
“No time. As I said before, it was given to me after the costume fitting today. Gloria needed to study for a test, so I took over downstairs as soon as I got back.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “She’s doing okay with the extra hours she’s working?”
“Great, I think.”
Zeni gave him a quick frown as she answered. It wasn’t like Trey to ask about what was happening at the coffee shop. He’d been so busy lately with the stunt for the movie along with his other responsibilities that he must be feeling a little left out of things.
It was also possible he felt out of place in the apartment. This was his second time here in the past week, which was more often than in the past year. In fact, the only other time he’d been was just after she moved in, to fix a leak under the sink. He was scrupulous about not intruding, also about shielding her from gossip.
That seemed a shame, now. It felt right to have him there, and she liked that no else was around. Wasn’t that a peculiar state of affairs?
She didn’t exactly mind looking at th
e broad expanse of his shoulders where his shirt pulled across them, either, or the lean line of his back and the tight shape of his backside as he leaned forward a bit toward the open window. Maybe she liked it too much, considering the tingling contraction of her nipples and the uncomfortable pressure between her legs.
“Look,” she said, driven by a vague instinct for self-preservation, “if you’d rather not do this right now—”
He turned with deliberation, shoving his hands into his pockets as he braced his lower back against the cabinet. “No, I would rather.” He grimaced. “What I mean to say is, I’m ready when you are.”
Something in his voice affected her nerves like a shot of warm and sweet liqueur. It slid along her veins, lodging in her chest for a breathless instant. She met his gaze, noting a glow in their dark gray depths like the flash of lightning in a night sky, a fierceness that made her skittish, and aware once more that the two of them were supposed to be an engaged couple.
Midnight chose that moment to glide from the bedroom where he had been watching her dress from his favorite vantage point on the bed. It was a welcome distraction. As he wound around her ankles, half under the hem of her caftan, she bent to pick him up. Holding the small creature against her like a shield, she turned toward the living area.
“Fine,” she said over her shoulder. “Ready to get started?”
He followed her; she could sense him behind her, as if every atom of her body was attuned to the minute particles of his. She was also super aware that she was half naked under her robe; that it would take very little to whip that covering away from her for access.
It was a disconcerting idea—not that she hadn’t had such thoughts before. She had, but Trey usually wasn’t around when they cropped up. If he was, she banished them with strict control.
Where that control was now, she didn’t know; it seemed to have deserted her.
“Do you want to read through the scene first?” She glanced at the script on the chest that served as a coffee table.
Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) Page 10
