He’d fallen hard, and Martin saw scratches on his face and arms even before they reached his side. He was also filthy, having rolled several feet after landing. He’d managed to get himself upright, and was holding onto his left arm with his right hand and hopping up and down on his left foot. Martin feared this boded ill for the state of the left arm and the right foot’s health.
He reached the actor first and grabbed him by the arms. Orozco let out with a yell that could probably have been heard in the Peerless Studio’s back lot in Los Angeles. “Don’t do that! I think my arm’s broken!”
The words chilled Martin’s blood, in spite of the heat. He cast one smoldering glance at Christina, who looked rather blank as she stood there, pressing a hand to her thundering heart and panting, and said, “Sorry, Pablo. Why do you think your arm’s broken? Where does it hurt?” Not that Martin knew anything about medicine, but he was very worried.
“I hurt everywhere,” Orozco announced comprehensively. “And I can’t move my arm. If it moves, it hurts like hell. I have to hold it with my other hand.”
Since Martin had already observed this phenomenon, he saw no reason to doubt the actor.
“Are you sure?” Christina asked, moving closer. “Want me to look at it? I’ve had some medical training.” She had been allowed to attend nursing college in Pasadena. Whoopee. But she did know how to set bones and fix slings.
“I want a doctor.” Orozco snarled, pulling away from her as if he were a bratty child hogging a favorite toy. “I won’t allow a mere female to examine me. I’m too important to settle for half measures.”
“You’re also too arrogant for anyone with half a brain to bother with,” Christina snapped back, evidently stung. She stepped away from the actor abruptly and looked as if she wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole if he begged and offered her sacks of money.
Although Martin had begun harboring a strange, tingly sensation about Christina somehow being responsible for this problem—he knew he was being illogical—he tried to soothe her feelings along with Orozco’s. “It’s all right, Pablo. We’ll get this taken care of right away.” Noticing the actor still stood wobbling, on one foot, he asked, “Um, is your right foot hurt, too?”
“Yes, it’s hurt!” Orozco bellowed. “I fell in a cactus.”
Christina whirled around and covered her mouth.
Martin grimaced at her, but he couldn’t tell if she was laughing or not. He said, because he was peeved, “This is not funny, Christina”
“Of course it isn’t,” she agreed, although the words came out smothered.
“It’s a catastrophe!” announced Orozco, unwilling to accept a less dire interpretation of recent events.
“Here, Pablo, can you walk?”
“No. I can’t.”
The actor had begun to whine, and Martin reached for his worry lock. “Well, do you want me to get an automobile for you? It’ll take a few minutes.”
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Christina tapped him on the shoulder. “What,” he barked, spinning around.
Tilting her head and gazing at him in irony, she said, “I’ll be happy to go back and get my motorcar, Martin. I can drive.” She cast a withering look at Orozco. “Even if I can’t tell a broken bone from a camel’s hump.”
Martin gave up on his one clump of hair as being too paltry a pacifier for the circumstances, and ran both of his hands through his hair, dislodging his soft cap. “Oh, God, this is terrible. Very well, get a car. Thanks, Christina.”
Even if she had all but predicted this tragedy, and he had an eerie feeling in his guts that she was somehow responsible—although that was impossible and meant he was completely crazy, which was too awful even to think about at the moment—he was grateful to her.
Lord, he had to get himself under some kind of control.
“No problem, Martin.”
She laid her hand on his arm for no more than two seconds, but Martin felt it through his whole body. Every tense muscle, every overwrought nerve, every jangled synapse in him relaxed as if she’d passed a wand over his head and cured him by magic. He heaved a deep sigh and felt much better.
What the devil was it about Christina Mayhew? It was uncanny, whatever it was. He watched her hurrying back to the resort and wished he could simply trail after her and forget about Pablo Orozco, Egyptian Idyll, Peerless Studio, and the whole rest of the world.
“That woman is a curse.”
The words came from behind him and shocked Martin to the soles of his feet. He turned and stared at Orozco. “I beg your pardon?”
Orozco jerked his head toward the retreating form of Christina. It was a lovely form. Tall, graceful, well shaped, and refined, she was the only woman Martin had ever seen who looked genteel in men’s trousers.
“I said, that Christina Mayhew is a curse. She did this to me.”
Martin stared at him for a full minute, wondering if the idiot really had begun to believe his own press releases. The Peerless publicity department had billed Orozco as a Latin American grandee of sorts, and had hinted at Gypsies and a variety of fortune-tellers and spiritualists in his background. Martin knew full well that Orozco started out in the Italian ghetto in New York City. His last name, until Peerless had got hold of him, had been Orsini, and his father had been a butcher in the Bronx. “How do you figure that?” He kept his tone mild in case Orozco had fallen on his head and was suffering delusions.
Orozco sniffed. “I only know it is true.”
Good God, he’d even adopted a mysterious Latin-American accent, the big fat ham. After gazing after Christina for another second or two, Martin turned back to Orozco. “Um, actually, I think you fell off because you didn’t follow Mr. Schuman’s instructions, Pablo.”
“Fah!”
Orozco turned away and stared off into the distance as if he were a prince surveying his kingdom. Martin shook his head, giving up on even trying to understand the workings of an actor’s mind, and glanced around to see if he could find the camel. The damned animals cost almost as much as the actors.
Thank God. There was Schuman. Martin left the actor to contemplate the nature of cursed females by himself and trotted over to see if the camel had been damaged. It sure looked sulky. Then again, camels always looked slightly pugnacious. Martin guessed it was in their natures to be thus. Not unlike the natures of some actors he’d dealt with.
“Is everything all right, Howard? Is the camel hurt?”
Schuman looked as if he’d like to shoot something. Or someone. Martin suspected Orozco. “I think he’ll be all right. Upset, though We won’t be able to use him again for a while.” He glared at Orozco, who glared back. “Why in the name of heaven didn’t you just do as I told you?”
“Fah. I know how to ride animals.”
Martin was losing his patience here. “Doggone it, Pablo, you acted in one cowboy picture and were taught to ride a horse. That doesn’t qualify you as an expert in riding camels, especially since you’d never ridden anything more exciting than a streetcar in the Bronx before you came out West.”
Orozco lifted his chin, adopted a noble expression, and stared off into the distance some more, as if he didn’t care to dignify Martin’s comment with a response.
“I swear, Orozco,” said Schuman, who was still boiling mad, “if this animal is hurt in any way, I’ll take it out of your hide. And your pocketbook.”
“All right now, fellows, let’s just—”
Martin’s attempt at conciliation was ignored by both parties. Orozco turned on Schuman in a fury. “I will sue you! I will make sure you never ride another camel in California! I will—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” countered Schuman, fully as furious as Orozco. “Dammit, you argued with me and argued with me and didn’t do what I told you to do, and now look what happened! You caused the blasted accident! You’re the one who’s at fault here!”
“Bah! I never—”
A motorcar’s horn blared behind them, and Martin whirle
d around to see Christina driving toward them, followed by a veritable comet’s tail of dust. “Thank God,” he whispered, considering her intervention as some kind of miracle. Maybe there really was something mystical about her.
“How’s the patient?” Christina asked, sounding absolutely down-to-earth and way too cheerful, in Martin’s opinion, under the circumstances.
He was too rattled to take her to task for not being more upset about this disaster. “He thinks his arm’s broken.”
“I know.” She looked down her nose at Orozco, who was scowling at no one in particular. She also sounded as if she didn’t care about his arm. “Anything else?”
“Not that we know about yet.”
Martin thought she muttered, “Too bad,” but wasn’t sure.
Mr. Schuman had begun leading his unsettled camel back to the stable. Watching him—or perhaps it was the camel she was watching—with interest, Christina said, “I asked Mr. Carpenter to call in a doctor.” Mr. Carpenter managed the. Desert Palm Resort.
“Thanks, Christina.” Deciding he didn’t have time to be jealous over whether or not Christina found Schuman attractive, Martin went over to Orozco and held out an arm. “Here, Pablo, do you need help getting into the motor?”
Orozco didn’t budge. Eyeing Christina, who sat behind the wheel, with something that looked very much like contempt, he said, “Will she be driving?”
Christina spoke before Martin could, and her voice might have been chipped from a block of ice. “Of course I’ll be driving. This is my machine. I drove Gran and me out here just the other day.”
“Come on, Pablo,” Martin urged, hoping to forestall another temper tantrum. Christina already hated Orozco’s guts. If he said very many more nasty things to her and/or about her, Martin wasn’t sure she wouldn’t just up and quit, and then where would they all be?
His stomach churned at the possibility. He consoled himself with the thought that his upset stomach was merely the result of contemplating having to film an Egyptian epic with the heroine having run off and the hero with his arm in a cast. It had nothing to do with the notion of Christina Mayhew leaving and him possibly never seeing her again.
Running his hand through his hair again, Martin wondered if maybe Orozco was right. Maybe the picture was cursed.
He shook off the nonsensical thought. “Here, I’ll help you.”
“My foot hurts,” Orozco announced. “It has cactus spines embedded in it. I’m sure it will become infected.”
“Don’t borrow trouble,” Martin advised. Christina, he noticed with displeasure, was grinning from ear to ear, as if she were enjoying the sight of Pablo Orozco in a pickle.
In truth, Orozco was pretty hard to take sometimes. Still, Martin didn’t appreciate her attitude. For God’s sake, Orozco was the star of the picture, and if he went, so might Christina’s job. Not to mention everyone else’s.
He said crisply, “Will you please open the door for us, Christina?” He’d taken Orozco by the shoulder and was gently pushing him toward the car. Orozco winced every time he took a hop.
“Sure.” Christina jumped out and trotted to the passenger’s side. She opened the door with a flourish and bowed at the two men. Martin smiled. Orozco didn’t.
“Thanks.” She truly was a lovely woman, even if she did annoy him sometimes. Martin couldn’t understand what it was about her that caused his innards so much trouble. Maybe he was getting an ulcer. He’d had a good deal of stomach trouble these past couple of years. Overwork, he thought grimly. And no time off. He really needed to take a holiday.
“No problem at all,” she said.
Martin didn’t miss the twinkle in her eyes as she watched Orozco settle himself clumsily in the passenger’s seat. He didn’t miss her expression change into one of indignation, either, at Orozco’s next words.
“You drive this thing, Martin,” said the actor. “I don’t believe in females driving automobiles.”
Martin cast a glance at the heavens and briefly prayed for release before speaking. “Don’t be silly, Pablo. Christina owns this machine. She knows how to drive it.”
“Right,” Christina said. She’d planted her fists on her hips, and was gazing steadily at Orozco. “You can always walk back to the resort if you don’t trust me, Pablo.” Her smile was as cold as her words. It gave Martin the shivers. He was surprised Orozco didn’t turn into a pillar of frozen mud on the spot.
“Fah!” declared the actor. “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree,” said Christina instantly. “And more. Anyone who cavils at an act of mercy is worse than ridiculous. He’s stupid as a slug and a damned fool to boot.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Christina glanced at Martin, who was sorry she’d heard his dismayed whisper. Then she winked at him, and he blinked back.
She said, “It’s all right, Martin. I’m used to dealing with this sort of thing. Orozco’s an ass. Most men are.”
“Fah!” said Orozco. Martin decided that while the actor possessed a remarkably handsome face, his conversational skills lacked brilliance and originality.
Christina drove them back to the Desert Palm Resort without another word being spoken by any of them.
Pablo Orozco did not make an ideal patient. Christina stood at the rear of the resort’s back parlor, watching as the doctor examined him. Orozco had asked her to leave the room before he’d stripped to his underwear, but she hadn’t done it, and now he was having too much fun carrying on to notice her continued presence in the room.
Fortunately or unfortunately—Christina’s attitude about this particular aspect of being female varied, depending upon whether it worked to her advantage or not at any given time—no one bothered to shoo her out of the room. They probably didn’t even notice her continued presence. She was, after all, only a woman.
The doctor seemed to know his stuff, although his bedside manner was getting a terrible workout. Perhaps a terrible working-over was the more appropriate term. She grinned as she watched.
“It hurts!” Orozco shrieked in the poor doctor’s ear.
“Of course it hurts, young man. It’s broken.” The physician, Dr. Wetherby his name was, had started out this examination in a jovial mood. It hadn’t lasted long.
“You’re a doctor! You’re supposed to make it better!”
Christina shook her head, astonished that even so miserable a specimen of humankind as Pablo Orozco should behave so babyishly in the face of a simple broken arm and a couple of cactus spines.
The door opened quietly, and she saw Martin peek into the room. Her heart did a crazy dip and went soft. She pursed her lips and wished it wouldn’t do that. Hearts were meant to beat in a steady rhythm and pump blood, not act strangely in the presence of certain attractive members of the opposite sex.
Actually, when she thought about it, Martin Tafft was the only man so far to have this effect on her own personal heart. She’d always thought it was because her nature was somewhat coldish. She wasn’t so certain about that any longer.
After he stared at the scene being enacted on the bed for a few seconds, Martin heaved a huge sigh and glanced around the room. He looked startled when his gaze found Christina.
She smiled and gestured at him to enter. Keeping her voice at a whisper, she said, “Come on in. It’s a pretty good show.”
He didn’t seem to know how to react to her facetious comment. He looked kind of like he might want to smile. He also looked as if he might want to scold her for being a coldhearted witch.
On the other hand, they were talking about Pablo Orozco here. Cold-heartedness didn’t enter in to the equation, since Pablo Orozco was a fungus.
Martin came all the way into the room, shut the door silently behind him, and moved over to stand beside Christina. “I take it he’s not behaving very well.”
She grinned. “What do you think?”
Martin only sighed again. After watching and listening for another several minutes, he whispered, “Is his arm broken?”<
br />
“Yes. Clean break, but it’s broken, and he’ll have to wear a cast for a while.”
“Drat.”
Christina was sorry to see Martin reach for that hank of hair and begin pulling on it. Poor man. He was so nice, too. Far too nice to have to deal with carbuncles like Pablo Orozco for a living. Almost as if he were talking to himself, Martin muttered, “I don’t suppose there’s any way to disguise a cast, is there?”
She wasn’t sure he’d been talking to her, but she decided to answer him anyway. “I’m afraid not. If it was merely a sling, I suppose it might be disguised by those Egyptian robe things.”
“Good God, I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”
Christina didn’t like Pablo Orozco. She thought he was one of the more deplorable creatures on earth, in fact. She did, however, suffer a slight pang of indignation—almost of betrayal—on Orozco’s part at Martin’s comment. When she next spoke, it sounded as if she’d dipped her words in alum before offering them to Martin. “Yes. I’m sure Peerless will be quite put out, what with having to pay Orozco and train another actor to take his place, too.”
Martin’s head jerked toward her so fast, Christina feared for the state of his spine. “What?” He’d spoken rather loudly and caught himself up. He was back to whispering when he said, “I mean— Oh God, I don’t know what I mean.”
He renewed his assault on his hair, and Christina felt a twinge of compunction for having given in to her sarcastic urge. She really should try to watch herself, or she’d be getting hard and cold and mean tempered. Like her grandmother. While Christina loved Gran and wouldn’t consider being like her as the worst thing that could happen to her, she’d rather be known as a nice person.
A compulsion that was becoming familiar to her as she spent more time in Martin’s company led her to reach out and touch his arm. “I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to sound so beastly. I guess my grandmother’s rubbing off on me.”
Not to mention Orozco. Although, if he so much as bumped up against her, she’d flatten him like a pancake. The thought of him rubbing against her made her sick to her stomach.
Her Leading Man Page 9
