Her Leading Man

by Duncan, Alice

  “I know it, darling, but I don’t know how Egyptian ravishers sounded three thousand years ago.”

  “I suppose not. Just don’t twirl your mustache or anything, or you’ll make me laugh.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Paul grabbed her arm and hauled her to his chest, a maneuver which was supposed to surprise her into dropping her bucket. She did drop the bucket, and it was then all the two of them could do to refrain from leaping out of the way of the mud splattering on them.

  “Oh, God,” Paul growled. “I hate dirt.”

  “What kind of Egyptian overlord are you?”

  “A really bad one.”

  From her position in Paul’s arms—he was gripping her by the shoulders now and peering down at her with eyes supposedly aflame with desire—Christina heard Orozco holler. She muttered, “Oh, pooh, here comes the ham.”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Christina,” Paul commanded, still exuding oodles of sex appeal.

  Suddenly, Orozco erupted upon the scene; overacting like mad and pretending to wrench Paul away from Christina, who, playing her part for all she was worth, fell to the ground in an alluring pose and lifted her arm in a gesture worthy of Sarah Bernhardt. Entirely too stagy, Christina thought, thoroughly pleased with herself, since audiences craved staginess.

  “Good!” Martin called through his megaphone. “Great! Wonderful job, Christina.”

  That was nice. She hoped she could keep it up. In truth, she thought it was pretty darned stupid of her character to remain swooning on the ground while two men fought over her. If it had been she in this situation, she’d have belted Paul herself and not waited for Orozco to interfere. And, if she had been thrown to the ground, she’d have been up by this time and hopping mad. She’d probably have smashed one or both men over the head with her now-empty bucket, too, and then run like a jackrabbit to safety.

  Ah well, reality had nothing to do with the pictures. She was supposed to be scared, so she aimed to look scared. For a long, long time. She didn’t think the two men would ever be done with their well-rehearsed fight scene, but Orozco’s character finally landed a fake vicious punch to Paul’s jaw and sent him staggering backward. Then Orozco rushed up to Christina and gesticulated wildly while babbling. It was all Christina could do to keep from grimacing at his idiocy.

  “For God’s sake, Pablo, calm down. You’re supposed to be helping me get up.”

  “Right. Right.”

  “Pablo!” bellowed Martin. “Help her up! Don’t just stand there looking at her.”

  “But she’s such a delectable eyeful,” Orozco oozed as he knelt beside Christina in a pose so nonsensically solicitous that Christina decided she was going to view the rushes tonight just to make sure it didn’t come across on film as stupid as it was in person.

  Martin delighted in doing scenes in one take because it saved money and, he claimed, kept the acting fresh. Christina assumed he knew what he was talking about, but she wasn’t sure about this particular scene. She’d seen overacting before on film, but Orozco was really pulling out all the stops for this scene.

  At this moment, for instance, he was looking at her as if she were a cream puff and he had an unfillable sweet tooth. She snapped, while maintaining her air of wounded innocence, “Stop looking at me like that, Orozco, or I’ll knee you in the groin.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  “Not today, sweetheart. I’m going to kiss you instead.” Which, Christina knew, was part of the story. Therefore, she aimed to endure it, although she really didn’t want to

  Orozco’s lips had no sooner touched hers than Martin yelled, “Cut! Cut! That’s enough, Pablo!”

  Christina and Orozco pulled apart from each other, and both looked at Martin in confusion. This time Christina didn’t fault Orozco for complaining, “But I’m supposed to kiss her. Don’t you remember? We’re so attracted to each other, we can’t help it.”

  “No, no, no!” Martin stamped up to them, looking more angry than Christina would have heretofore believed possible. “It’s all wrong.”

  “What was wrong with it?” Christina could have counted any number of things wrong with it if she’d wanted to, the primary one being that Pablo Orozco made her sick to her stomach. Still and all, he’d only done what he was supposed to have done, and no matter how revolting Christina had found it, it was her job to take it.

  “Everything,” Martin said comprehensively.

  “That’s not so,” Orozco protested. “I was perfect.”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t go that far . . .”

  But Christina didn’t get to finish her thought because suddenly Martin raked his fingers through his hair, shut his eyes, and lifted his face to the blistering sun. He looked as if he were in pain.

  She laid a hand on his arm. “Martin! What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?”

  “Huh?” He dropped his hand from his head, bent his head away from the sun, and frowned at her. He looked so ferocious that her hand dropped from his arm as if she’d laid it on hot coals rather than human flesh. She’d never seen him in any kind of mood before, and she found this present mood disconcerting. Martin was generally the most mild-mannered of men, a fact she found both comforting and appealing. “Um, are you not feeling well?” she tried again.

  “What?” He blinked a couple of times, then turned to Orozco. After staring at his star for another second or two, he turned back to Christina. “I’m fine. I, ah, just think it would be a good idea to change this scene some. A little bit. You know, make it more realistic.”

  “How in the name of glory do you expect to do that?” As far as she was concerned, reality and motion pictures had about as much to do with each other as ham and trees.

  It looked to her as though Martin had to pry his lips apart when he next spoke. “There shouldn’t be a kiss in this scene.”

  “No kiss?” Christina stared at him, puzzled.

  “No kiss! But my fans expect me to kiss the heroine! I always kiss the heroine by this time in the picture!” Orozco looked as incensed as he sounded. “Besides, Christina has to fall madly in love with me here. How can she do that if I don’t kiss her?”

  “Your chances would be much better if you didn’t,” she muttered. “Although there really isn’t any chance at all.”

  He didn’t hear her. Nor, evidently, did Martin, who seemed to be struggling with some internal demon. It appeared to her as if he were playing out a violent mental battle scene in his head. After a few moments of that, his shoulders sagged.

  “You’re right,” he mumbled. “You really do have to kiss her here.”

  Both Christina and Orozco stared at him when he walked back to the sidelines, looking morose and beleaguered. Eventually, they got the scene filmed, but it took thirty-four takes. Every time Orozco started to kiss Christina, Martin made an objection. By the time they were finished with the scene, Christina loathed Pablo Orozco even more than she had before, Orozco seemed to hate everybody in any way connected with Egyptian Idyll, Paul Gabriel was in tears, and Martin Tafft looked as if he wanted to kill someone.

  Christina had never been so happy to end a day’s work in her life as she was that day.

  And tomorrow she got to look forward to the camels. Oh, goody.

  Five

  Martin vowed he wouldn’t make a fuss today. He’d made a perfect ass of himself yesterday, when he’d kept interrupting the kiss between Christina and Pablo. What had possessed him? He’d never done anything like that before in his career. He had a reputation as an exquisitely reasonable director who delighted in doing scenes in one take. He’d ruined that reputation, with bells on, yesterday.

  It had been awful. Every single solitary time that oily ham had grabbed Christina away from Paul Gabriel, Martin had seen red, and it had been beyond his control to allow the scene to continue. He wanted to shoot Pablo Orozco in the balls, damn him, for daring to sully Christina’s beautiful lips with his tainted ones. And this, from Martin T
afft, who was renowned the world over for his even temper and brilliant production and direction skills

  “I’m going crazy,” he muttered at the mirror in his hotel room. Last night had been one horror-filled nightmare after another.

  This morning his eyes were bloodshot, he felt like hell, and he still wanted to shoot Pablo Orozco.

  “I wonder if I need to take vitamin pills,” he mused as he bathed his gritty eyeballs with the soothing boric acid solution he’d prepared and poured into his eye cup. He’d heard of actors who took vitamin pills and claimed they helped maintain vitality. They were the latest rage.

  Vitamin pills and drugs. Like that poor female who’d committed suicide the other day.

  He shook his head hard, both to rid his eyes of the excess eye wash and because he detested thinking cynical thoughts. Martin Tafft was not a cynical man. He was a man of principle and honor; a man who loved his work and who wanted motion pictures to be as ennobling an art form as the world had ever seen. If he had his way, future generations would revere Peerless pictures every bit as much as people revered Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel or da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

  Gritting his teeth, he recalled the way he’d botched up yesterday’s shoot. And all because he couldn’t stand to see Christina Mayhew in the arms of Pablo Orozco.

  Lord, he had to get over this. He almost hoped Grandmother Mayhew’s lumbago would allow her to supervise today’s camel-riding lessons. He didn’t imagine that old bag would let anyone, even Martin Tafft, get away with silly tantrums like those he threw yesterday.

  All things considered, Martin had faced other days with more pleasurable anticipation than he did this one.

  Christina dressed in riding breeches the morning following her jaunt to the well. And her jaunt to the well. And her jaunt to the well. She got tired even thinking about it. What an exhausting experience that had been. She’d always understood Martin to be a gentle and sensible director.

  He hadn’t been either one of those things yesterday. Yesterday he’d been a blasted tyrant. An irrational one, too. There had been no reason in creation he should have objected so strenuously to Orozco’s performance.

  Now if she had objected, because she couldn’t tolerate Orozco’s slimy touch, there might have been some reason for the multiple takes. But as much as she hated to admit it, Orozco had acted his part well yesterday. If he was the least bit hammy—and he was—that was all the rage these days. Yesterday had been a nightmare, pure and simple.

  But yesterday was over, and today she was going to learn how to ride a camel. It was going to be a new experience and something interesting to look forward to. She hoped no one would be shocked at the sight of a female in trousers, but she wasn’t going to ruin one of her good dresses on the back of a stupid camel.

  “You look like a regular tart, girl,” her grandmother said, eyeing her up and down and sounding as if she approved wholeheartedly.

  Which, Christina thought with a mixture of amusement and irritation, she probably did. Leave it to Gran. She’d probably tell everyone her granddaughter had dressed like a tart this morning merely to defy convention. Fiddle.

  “Thanks, Gran.” It wasn’t worth saying more than that Given enough fuel—and anything even remotely smacking of disapproval was fuel for Gran—the old woman could operate all day long and far into the night. “Are you ready to face the camels this morning?”

  “I am.” Her grandmother stood up straight and adopted her best, most militant expression. Christina guessed her grandmother possessed sufficient gumption for any old camel. “I’m ready to tackle that greasy actor fellow, too,” she added gleefully.

  Christina paused in turning the doorknob and looked back at her grandmother. “Which one?”

  “What do you mean, ‘which one’?” Gran barked. “That Pablum fellow.”

  “Pablo. Oh. Yes, I see.” Christina was ready for too. If he so much as laid a finger on her, she’d break it for him. She’d told her grandmother about Martin’s strange behavior during yesterday’s shoot, and the old woman had clearly approved of Martin’s shenanigans. She should, Christina thought bitterly, because he’d acted just like Gran. She was accustomed to Gran’s bad behavior; such antics coming from Martin had been a total shock, and a most unpleasant one.

  Orozco was another matter entirely. Nothing Orozco did, as long as it was difficult, rude, irresponsible, sexually improper, or conceited, would surprise Christina.

  Her dreams had been full of him the night before. Only in her dreams, Pablo had been soundly thrashed by Martin Tafft every time he showed up. Which, she realized with a small start, was pretty much how things had transpired during yesterday’s shoot, except that Martin hadn’t had sufficient reason for his unusual performance. And he hadn’t physically socked Orozco. She grinned and almost wished her dream had been the reality instead of the other way around.

  Nonsensical things, dreams. Christina had read about a gentleman named Jung who was quite excited about dream interpretation, but Christina didn’t know how much weight she’d give to them. Perhaps they were an aspect of wishful thinking, she thought as she slowly descended the staircase—slowly, because she didn’t want to leave Gran behind in case she needed assistance going downstairs. Gran would never ask for help, but Christina knew how much her joints ached in the mornings.

  Now Christina wondered if perhaps she’d dreamed about Martin walloping Orozco because she’d like to think Martin was the sort of man who’d be a woman’s champion, should she need one. She didn’t count ruining take after take of a motion picture shoot as championship; that had only been annoying. Nor did Christina ever expect to need a champion. She could take care of herself. She did take care of herself.

  Anyhow, a person who aspired to be a physician couldn’t afford to entertain too many of the softer emotions. Especially if one was a woman and aiming to tackle a man’s profession in a man’s world. Christina had to be tough. She had to be a fighter. She had to be twice as smart and three times as capable as a man in order to achieve her goals.

  Still and all, in her innermost heart of hearts, she wouldn’t really mind it if Martin were to offer to protect her—sensibly; not the way he’d done yesterday—from Orozco’s filthy advances. It would be flattering, after all. And it would denote a certain fondness for her on Martin’s part.

  A cynical twist smote her, and she almost guffawed aloud. What producer in his right mind wouldn’t be fond of a female property who was certain to garner piles of money for his studio. Especially after word got around that she was going to expose her bosom to the world.

  With a sigh, Christina wondered if it had been right of her to agree to do that scene. Cinematically, she supposed it made sense. Her role was that of a slave girl who was lusted after by one of Ramses II’s more unpleasant brothers.Therefore, there needed to be at least one scene that depicted why he should have picked her, of all possible slave girls, as the object of his lust. The best way to get the point across in the short time it took to screen a picture, was to exhibit her physical attributes.

  Pablo Orozco, of all the unlikely candidates, was supposed to be one of Moses’s buddies, and he was also supposed to have a passion for her. His job was to rescue her from the arms of the other villainous lout just in the nick of time, in order to save her virtue. Yesterday’s scene had been necessary to set the stage for further story developments.

  When she considered all aspects of the picture, Christina guessed she should be glad she hadn’t been asked to expose more than her bosom.

  Still and all, the notion of Orozco drooling over her private female assets didn’t thrill her. Now, if it had been Martin who— But that was idiotic. Martin was the producer and director. Although he was absolutely handsome enough to be the star of the picture, he wasn’t. Therefore, Christina would have to endure Orozco’s leering presence on the set.

  She hoped to heaven Martin wouldn’t have her play the naked scene thirty-four times. She’d die.

  Piffle. She�
��d be so glad when her education was complete and all she had to do was cure illnesses in people. This acting stuff was for the birds.

  Her lips tightened when she recalled sitting before the board of regents and being told that she, as a woman, wouldn’t be granted a scholarship to medical school. They were saving the scholarships for men, they’d told her, because men could be expected to use their training. Women were expected to have babies. She’d wanted to ask them what their point was, but didn’t. They would only have looked shocked. Women, babies, and jobs of real work didn’t associate themselves in the minds of stuffy regents.

  She’d show them. She, whose scholastic record was at the very top of her graduating class, and ten times better than most of the men to whom those black-coated demons were granting scholarships, would show them all.

  Blast them. They’d reminded her of a line of crows as she’d sat before them, prim and straight, smarter and more capable than any five male scholarship applicants. Sometimes the world drove her crazy.

  To the devil with propriety. She’d bare her bosom ten times over in pictures if doing so would pay her way through medical school. And if Martin made her get out of that blasted bathtub thirty-four times, she’d do it.

  The way the world worked was unfair to women. Christina didn’t like it, but she’d be damned if she’d let it defeat her. So defiant was she that she squared her shoulders as she descended the stairs, ready to tackle anything the world presented to her today, from Pablo Orozco to a dozen camels. Or even Martin Tafft.

  She and her grandmother had taken breakfast in their room, so Christina hadn’t yet seen anyone else connected with Peerless this morning. As soon as she walked outside, that state of affairs changed. George Peters and his crew were still nailing the set together. Christina saw them off in the distance, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and a cacophony of noise as they hammered and sawed and threw things about.