Phoenix Falling

by Mary Jo Putney

  "When I was nominated for an Oscar, I got a lot of juvenile satisfaction thinking about the reactions of all those people who thought I'd never amount to anything." Greg smiled blissfully at the thought. "Now that we're within a couple of days of wrapping up, what do you think of your first moviemaking experience?"

  "It's been fascinating and exciting and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. But I'll be glad to go home."

  Greg choked on his coffee. "You're kidding, right? You really want to go back to Buffalo or Boston or wherever it is you come from?"

  "Baltimore, and yes, I do." She smiled at him fondly. They'd often hung out together at the end of the long work days, and it would have been easy to tumble into bed with him. He'd made it clear he was willing. But she was trying to simplify her life, and men were never simple. "Fantasy is fun now and then, but reality suits me better."

  "But you're so good at getting things done. You could make a career in production, no problem. If Raine can't find you another job, I can. You'd be a hotshot producer making tons of money in no time."

  "If money was that important to me, I'd have made a lot of different choices along the way. Making movies requires a touch of the gypsy, and I don't have that. Not to mention the fact that there's an awful lot of sitting around and waiting for something to happen, which would rapidly drive me crazy."

  "This movie is less crazy-making than most—we're clipping along at a pretty good pace." A craft service girl passed with fresh tarts, so Greg snagged a couple. "I hope Raine keeps directing. I'd work for her again in a New York minute."

  "I've watched all the dailies, but I'm a civilian," Val said. "Is The Centurion going to be as good as it looks?"

  He turned serious. "I hope so. We've all busted our balls on this job. But a movie can be lost at any stage. In the casting, the shooting, the editing, the mixing. So many things can go wrong that sometimes I'm amazed any good stuff is ever released."

  "No wonder directors and producers are control freaks." She hesitated, wondering if she should ask her next question. "Are all productions this tense at the end?"

  "This one is tenser than most, but I think it's because of the scenes that are being shot." He ate half a tart in one bite. "Real gut-wrenchers. Plus all the press craziness. A couple of times I've wondered if Kenzie was going to freak out, and Rainey is looking pretty frayed, too."

  Val frowned. The tabloids were having a field day at Kenzie and Rainey's expense, with Nigel Stone dropping heavy hints of shocking revelations to come about Kenzie's past. Cynically she wondered if some slander was being timed to hit just as production ended.

  There was also frenzied speculation on the state of Raine and Kenzie's marriage. The Pamela person had done a good article refuting the reconciliation story and quoting Rainey at length—headlined "Just Good Friends"—but there had been plenty of wild stories, including an American female wrestler claiming she was the cause of the divorce because she was pregnant with twins by Kenzie. Rainey didn't read any of that rubbish, but she knew it was out there and it must be adding added to her tension.

  But the real source of tension was on the set. Kenzie had already filmed several devastating scenes with Sharif that explained why he'd returned to England emotionally traumatized. Their climactic scene would be shot that afternoon. In the morning, he and Rainey would tackle revelations, love-making, and reconciliation. Val wondered how that would go. She couldn't imagine acting a love scene with a man who was in the process of breaking her heart.

  Relationships were hell. Why couldn't people reproduce asexually like amoebae?

  No doubt Rainey and Kenzie would act those last scenes admirably. Professional to the core, they'd rather be carried off in straitjackets than admit they couldn't fulfill their obligations. But Val would be profoundly glad when this production was over so Rainey could get away from Kenzie and start to heal.

  Amoebae really had the right idea.

  * * *

  Bare to the waist and artfully decorated with bruises and artificial sweat, Kenzie paced tautly across the set, innards churning, while the lighting was adjusted. Hell was having to choose between artistic honesty, and showing the deepest scars of your soul to a camera. Why was he doing this?

  Because of Rainey. Because of Charles. Because the bloody show must go on.

  "Pictures up, gentlemen," the first AD called.

  He entered the simulated tent, canvas on one side and camera on the other, and let himself be tethered to a post with a long chain. As he settled on the rug that floored the tent, Sharif watched with dangerous intensity, deep in his character. Playing Mustafa required him to be in control of a complex relationship that stimulated him on many levels, and he was doing it magnificently.

  In contrast, John Randall was just a bleeding victim with a fractured sense of self. Kenzie should have demanded to play Mustafa.

  The sexual scenes had been merely hinted at, with shots of a dark hand on pale skin, shadows moving behind canvas, and other images that made it clear what had happened without being graphic. More explicit were scenes of flashing debate, a rope securing a bloody, abraded wrist, reluctant admiration, and moments of odd tenderness, including Mustafa nursing his captive through a near fatal fever. Now all those conflicting emotions must come to a head. Kenzie stared at his nemesis, and let himself fall into a pit of despair.

  Rainey gave the signal to start. His long robe swirling around him, Sharif stalked across the tent toward Randall. "For months, we have argued and fought and learned to know each other as only two warriors can, yet still you wish to leave? Very well, I shall let you go." His lips drew back from his teeth. "Beg for it."

  Mentally and emotionally at the end of his tether, Randall struggled to his feet and managed to say, "A British officer doesn't beg."

  "Then you will die in the desert," Mustafa said softly, his eyes glittering with menace, "and the wind and sand will polish your bones."

  "Kill me and be done with it! Do you think my life has any value left?" It was a cry from the heart of a man pushed beyond his limits by physical and emotional abuse that had turned his normal life into a hallucinatory memory.

  Face twisted with anger and frustration, the desert chief grabbed Randall's shoulder and shoved him to his knees. "Beg, you English swine!"

  "No!" Randall snatched the dagger from the sheath at Mustafa's waist and held it to his own throat. "Kill me if you must."

  The two men stared at each other, Randall's life weighing in the balance. Then Mustafa wrenched the weapon away and slammed it back into the sheath. "Go then! I'll not taint my blade with the blood of an unbeliever."

  The scene ended with the camera zooming in on Randall's haggard face, showing the victory that had come at a price so high it was really defeat.

  "Cut and print. Well done, both of you," Rainey said in a voice pitched softly so as not to break the mood. "Once more, and then we'll do the close-ups."

  Kenzie stood, the words and emotions of the scene churning in his mind. Love and hate. Antagonism and mercy. Disgust... and desire. The culmination of all the painful, difficult scenes he and Sharif had played together. "This isn't right. It's weak."

  Rainey blinked. "I thought the scene worked pretty well, but there's always room for improvement. What do you suggest?"

  He rubbed his forehead, smearing his makeup. Why the hell was he doing this? Crucified by the Muse. "Forcing Randall to beg is... too obvious. Too much a 1930s B-movie. There needs to be... more between them. More conflict, higher stakes. Vulnerability."

  "The scene is based on the book, so the sensibility is late Victorian," Rainey said. "What would go beyond that to make it work better now?"

  He tried to pace, only to be jerked short by the chain on his left wrist. He pivoted, scowling. "Randall's ambivalence needs to be clearer. Mustafa wants to force him to recognize that on some level he was attracted to his captor." That the upright Victorian officer had experienced a dark, unwilling satisfaction in some of what was done to him. "Is
n't that the core of the story? That Randall can't bear to acknowledge that he has ever been less than a one-hundred-percent pure heterosexual, even for a few minutes?"

  "That's Randall," Rainey agreed. "How do you think it should be played?"

  "Instead of making his captive beg for freedom," Kenzie said slowly, his head throbbing, "Mustafa should say that he'll free Randall, if... if Randall will admit that he loves him."

  "Yes!" Sharif exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "I love my upright, maddening English officer, I don't want to lose him. I cannot bring myself to kill him, yet keeping him against his will would be cold ashes in my mouth. I offer him a bargain. I will allow him to go back to his cold northern land if just this once he admits the truth that lies between us."

  "That's brilliant! Edgy and complicated and painful, just like their relationship." Rainey's gaze met Kenzie's, and it was as if she was talking about them, not the fictional characters.

  He turned away. "Sharif, shall we try this as improvisation?" He usually avoided ad-libbing since he wasn't sure about coming up with the right words, but this character and this dilemma he knew in his bones.

  Since Sharif agreed, Rainey let them go ahead. Instead of angry threats, Mustafa used a raw, tormented voice that revealed more than he intended. Randall retreated as far as the chain would allow, futilely trying to escape that agonized demand. He couldn't bear to admit what Mustafa wanted to hear. Yet if he denied this secret, loathed side of himself, he would never be free to return to his real life.

  He closed his eyes, imagining Sarah, his touchstone, the bright angel who had moored him to sanity. For the sake of her and his family, he would speak the words Mustafa wanted to hear. What did a small lie matter, if it would secure his freedom?

  He closed his eyes and said haltingly, "I... love you," speaking the words his enemy—his honored, loved, and hated enemy—wanted to hear. He told himself his "confession" would make no difference to who he really was.

  Yet it made all the difference in the world.

  There was a hushed silence after Rainey whispered, "Cut and print."

  Then the crew broke into applause. It was the kind of spontaneous tribute that did an actor's soul good—but not this time. Wearily Kenzie leaned against the pole, then slid down to the carpet and buried his face in his hands.

  Crucified by the Muse.

  Chapter 27

  Today, karmic justice would be visited on Rainey. It was almost time to play the big love scene with Kenzie in front of a relentless camera. Rainey paced around her shabby studio dressing room, the long skirt of her Victorian day dress picking up a dust bunny or two along the hem.

  "In the interests of distraction," Val said from her desk in the comer, "shall I summarize some of your mail?"

  "Anything exciting there?'

  "Not really. Your paternity investigator's weekly report says he may have a line on the studio executive Clementine was involved with, and it appears to have been more than a casual fling."

  "A studio executive?' Rainey wrinkled her nose. "The drug dealer is starting to look better. What else have you got?'

  "An e-mail note from your grandfather. Apparently he's becoming an Internet addict on that get-well computer you gave him." Val glanced at the printed-out note. "The suggestion you made about connecting with some of his old army buddies has borne fruit. He found some and they chat back and forth daily. Your grandparents have booked tickets to his outfit's reunion in Florida next winter."

  "That's very good news." Gradually, at long distance, the relationship with her grandparents was improving. It was an unexpected benefit of her grandfather's accident. She actually looked forward to her next visit with them, after The Centurion finished shooting, though she knew better than to expect too much. There could be friendship and respect between her and them. For warmth, she would look elsewhere, as she always had.

  Deb, the makeup artist, entered the dressing room. "Time to touch you up before this next scene."

  Obediently Rainey sat in a straight chair. With a third person present, Val put away the personal messages and returned to transcribing Rainey's scrawled notes from the previous evening's viewing of the dailies.

  Rainey's thoughts returned obsessively to the upcoming scene with Kenzie. Maybe it would have been worse to direct Jane Stackpole in bed with him—but probably not. Being there in that bed herself, with his familiar touch and the haunted eyes that were as much Kenzie as John Randall—she shuddered at the prospect.

  "Don't twitch," Deb ordered.

  "Sorry." Rainey needed cosmetic magic to make her over thirty face look ten years younger. Mentally she rehearsed her lines while Deb fine-tuned Sarah's dewy English complexion.

  Then it could be avoided no longer. She left her dressing room and picked her way across the vast, darkened sound stage, avoiding cables and equipment. Kenzie was already on the brightly lit bedroom set, fingers drumming on a tall carved bedpost.

  The scenes with Sharif had reduced him to monosyllables and zero eye contact. She studied him critically, glad that filming was almost over. Both of them were looking haggard and had lost weight. Luckily, that suited the scenes they were shooting. The stress of moviemaking coincided with the stress of their fictional characters.

  This scene directly followed the one on the cliff where Sarah had coaxed Randall back from suicidal despair. He'd stammered out enough for her to understand how profoundly he'd been wounded.

  Though Sarah was uncertain of exactly what had been done to him, she had recognized the depth of his emotional pain. Loving her husband, she was determined not to allow his nightmares and shattered self-esteem to drive her away.

  The cliff scene had ended with their returning to the house across the fields, Randall moving like an old man, his arm around his wife's shoulders. This take would start with them, windblown from the cliffs, entering his bedchamber. Rainey scanned the set, automatically checking that the details were right before looking at Kenzie. "Ready?"

  He nodded and crossed to stand in the doorway. She joined him, saying in a low tone, "You won't be able to do this scene without looking at me a time or two."

  Mouth tightening, he met her gaze, the torments of the damned visible in his eyes. She swallowed hard, wishing she could believe that he was merely in character, but surely that much of that bleakness was Kenzie.

  To match his intensity, she reached deep inside to release sorrow from the well of pain at her core. The emotion centered her in Sarah, who was frightened and out of her depth, but would not give up. When tension shimmered between the two characters, Rainey gave the signal to start.

  The camera began to roll. Clinging to each other, they entered the room. Then Randall pulled away, unsteady but determined to stand on his own feet.

  Rainey said, "Rest now, my dear. You'll feel better then."

  "You don't understand," he said harshly. "A night's sleep won't cure the past. Nothing will." When she reached for him, he caught her hand, keeping her away. "Which is why you must leave me before it's too late."

  His touch sizzled through her. Though a virgin, Sarah knew there was a powerful attraction between them. "Then we won't look to the past. Only now and the future."

  "Sarah, we have no future." He released her hand and stepped back. "Since we are not truly married, it will be possible to separate legally. Perhaps an annulment, which will free you in the eyes of society."

  "You are the one who doesn't understand, John." Her fear of losing him was laced with anger. "You might not have meant the vows you took, but I did. Before God, you are my husband. I will have no other while you live."

  He looked at her as if she were a distant, cherished memory. "You are so fine. So pure. I thought of you as my bright angel when I was imprisoned."

  Her anger erupted, making her reckless. "I cannot live on the pedestal where you've placed me, John. Though I know little of the world, I know enough to be your wife. Or is it impossible for you to... to desire me?"

  The flick of his ey
es down her body betrayed him, though he said stiffly, "You should not speak of such things."

  He had made himself vulnerable by revealing the shame that scarred his spirit. If they were to be husband and wife, Sarah must make herself equally vulnerable, and the only way she could imagine was by offering herself sexually. In passion, he would be stronger and more experienced than she.

  "Words are not helping. You have always been a man of action. It is time for us to act. Together." Fingers shaking, she began to unfasten the pearl buttons that ran down the front of her bodice.

  He caught his breath as the dress fell open to reveal her lace-trimmed undergarment and pale, virginal skin. "This... this isn't fitting, Sarah."

  "What could be more fitting than intimacy between husband and wife?" Seeing his glance go to the door, she turned the key in the lock, then dropped it into a vase of roses that stood on his dresser.

  He'd revealed that he desired her. Now she must remind him of the vows they had taken. She began unfastening her cuffs. "I, Sarah, take thee, John, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward. For better. For worse. For always. You swore an oath to me, John. I shall not release you from it." She peeled off her tucked and lacy blouse.

  Gaze riveted, he whispered, "With my body... I thee worship."

  The skirt tied back with a sash at her waist. She tugged the bow loose, then pushed the skirt to the floor, leaving her in lace-edged chemise and petticoats. Though almost every inch of her was covered, the fact that she was in her undergarments charged the air with eroticism. Voice husky, she said, "You must unlace me."

  He swallowed hard as she turned, presenting her back to him. As he unfastened her laces, she struggled to control her fear of the unknown, for she knew in her bones that this was the right course. She must put herself in his power to remind him that he possessed power.

  Reverently he caressed her, sending liquid heat curling deep inside. The corset fell away, leaving her body unbound and tingling with sensation. As she arched her back, he bent to kiss her neck, his breath warm against her nape. She gasped, frightened now not only of what he might do, but of herself, and the body that no longer seemed fully her own. Rather desperately, she groped for her identity as Rainey. "Cut."