by Cindy Dees
“What? And this girl strikes you as a vicious saboteur? Have you done a background check on Turnow? Or Marley for that matter? Found anything that would explain why either of them would do all this stuff?”
“She’s got a juvie record,” Steve replied.
“What did she do?”
“No idea. It’s sealed.”
Archer shrugged. “I’ve got a sealed juvie record. After Mom died, I had a pretty wild stretch there for a few months.”
Steve pulled a face. “Yeah, I remember, little brother. I did everything I could to straighten you out.”
“Is that what you called pounding on me like your own personal punching bag?”
“We all had anger issues to work out.”
“You just figured out yours faster than the rest of us.”
His brother snorted. “Nah. I was just told by a justice of the peace to join the Marines or go to jail sooner than the rest of you.”
“Yeah, well, Shyanne and Lyra turned out okay.” Not that his younger sisters didn’t still drive him crazy, of course.
“They were too little when Mom died to be messed up by her choosing drugs over her own kids.”
Archer didn’t want to talk about his mother. He’d put her in a mental drawer and slammed it shut a long, long time ago. Locked it and thrown away the key, too.
Had his grandmother not taken in the five young Prescott children, there was no telling how badly they all would have turned out. As it was, with the help of her fierce love, they’d all gotten their lives together. The oldest Prescott, Jackson, was a movie star and part owner of the studio producing this movie. Brother number two, Steve, was a retired Marine officer and stunt coordinator in the movie business now.
In an effort to get out from under Steve’s long shadow, Archer had joined the Army and become a search-and-rescue pilot. It satisfied his need for reckless living. Channeled his wilder impulses into a profession where they were an asset and not a problem. Hell, somewhere along the way, he’d grown up, too.
Archer took a pull from the cold beer Steve had served him. “Okay, so she’s got a past. That doesn’t necessarily make her our saboteur.”
Steve commented, “I’ve got a guy looking into peeking into that sealed record. I want to know if she has a violent past or not.”
Archer had a very hard time picturing sweet, innocent-seeming Marley Stringer hurting a fly, let alone another human being.
“Are you interested in this girl?” Steve demanded.
“No!” he lied.
“Then why are you defending her so damned hard?”
“Hey, bro. I’m not defending her. I’m just not declaring her guilty and convicting her in my mind before I hear her side of the story.”
Steve stared at him long and hard. “You willing to make a run at gaining her trust?”
Ha. Steve did want him to get close to her and see what he could learn about her. “You want me to sleep with her and get her to pillow-talk with me?”
“Jeez, no. I just meant you should make friends with her. Put yourself in a position to keep a close eye on her. But I need you to take a suspicious mind-set into the project. Keep your head in the game. This girl could not only be dangerous, but very dangerous.”
“How about I agree to keep an open mind about her guilt or innocence?”
“Fine. Just keep your zipper closed, eh?”
Archer raised his beer bottle to his brother. “I dunno, dude. She’s not a horrible-looking girl.”
“This is important, Archer. Serendipity Studios is a young company, and they’ve invested a crap-ton of money in this movie. If it fails, the studio could go under. We’ve got to find out who’s screwing with this film. And fast.”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it. She’s not as innocent as she seems, and we’ve got to nail her if she’s behind the accidents.”
* * *
Marley threw open her door, indignant, to admit Tyrone. “Who are you calling chicken? I about died today, I’ll have you know, and I didn’t even pee my pants!”
The makeup artist was pulling a rolling suitcase behind him and barged into her room without invitation. “Sit your butt down on that chair, and don’t give me sass. And get that nasty sweatshirt off. Put on the shirt you’re gonna wear on your date so you don’t smear my art.”
Overwhelmed and out-attituded, she headed for her closet. And froze. What to wear? “It’s not a date,” she mumbled as she stared at her horrible clothes.
Tyrone peered into the closet over her shoulder and, tsking, eventually pulled out a simple white, oxford button-down blouse. “Here. Wear this. I’ve got a scarf that’ll make it less dreadful.”
She went into her bathroom and slipped on the shirt. She peered at herself in the mirror, and a plain, mousy, faintly academic woman stared back at her. This was crazy. Archer would never give her the time of day, let alone seriously consider dating her. Who would ever be interested in that unexciting girl in the mirror? She emerged reluctantly, only because she was convinced Tyrone would bust down the door and drag her out if she didn’t come out voluntarily.
“Sit. Close your eyes and no talking. I’m an artiste and I need to concentrate on my work,” he announced.
Never in her life had anyone applied makeup to her, and it was a strange sensation. Tyrone sprayed some sort of defrizzer on her hair and put it up in hot rollers—a first for her—and kept up a running commentary under his breath, discussing with himself how not to overwhelm her fragile coloring, how to pull together the gold tones in her hair with the pink tones in her skin and how best to highlight her eyes. It must have taken him close to an hour to finally be satisfied with his work. He alarmed her mightily for most of the last half of it with his patter about channeling Marilyn Monroe, how Marley was a retro flashback to fifties pinup girls and the possibility of her being the reincarnation of the sexiest woman in movie history.
Marley tried to get a word in edgewise and make an argument for Elizabeth Taylor as the sexiest actress ever, but Tyrone silenced her so he could outline her lips with an outrageously red liner pencil. The man did not fight fair.
Finally, he announced, “There. Done. Observe my masterpiece.”
Marley opened her eyes and looked in the mirror.
Who. Was. That?
She stared at the stranger before her in complete incomprehension. Tyrone wasn’t kidding. She did look like Marilyn Monroe. Her blond hair fell in the same soft waves around her face, and with that dramatic eyeliner, light eye shadow and scarlet lipstick, she totally looked like a poster child for the 1950s. There really was something of the wide-eyed, sex-kitten innocence of Marilyn Monroe about her. Freaky. She even had dimples like the movie icon.
She gestured a hand at her reflection and declared in shock, “But I don’t look like that.”
“Girl, I didn’t transplant a new face onto you. That’s you. All I did was decorate your assets.”
“But...”
“But you look fantastic. Get over it. I’ll teach you how to do it for yourself, and then you can always look like this.”
Her entire being cringed at the idea of walking around looking like a sexpot all the time. Mina did that. Not her. Although Mina went more for the leather-and-lace look.
Everyone—okay, men—would pay far too much attention to her like this. Attention that made her acutely uncomfortable, thank you very much. Because...well, because of the whole virginity thing. But a little voice at the back of her head whispered that it had nothing to do with her virginity. Her dirty little secret was that she wasn’t even the least bit interesting or lovable.
“Now put on the shortest skirt you’ve got and go get you that flyboy. If you don’t have screaming-hot sex with that man tonight, I’m going to be deeply disappointed.”
The idea of screaming-hot sex
with Archer sent her brain into blank, blue-screen-of-doom overload.
Was it possible? Could she once and for all ditch her damned virginity and shut up that nasty little voice in her head? Goodness knew, Archer was the hottest prospect for doing the deed that she’d ever run across. Much hotter than she’d dared hope for, truth be told.
All she managed to get out in response to Tyrone was, “I don’t own a miniskirt.”
He just shook his head. “Me and some of the girls are taking you shopping the minute we get back to LA. Jeans, then. You got any tight ones?”
Actually, she did. When she was sitting on a camera boom, she couldn’t afford to catch her clothing on the lift or wiring. While she rooted around in a drawer for a pair of clean jeggings, Tyrone rooted around in her closet. She pulled on her pants, and he held out a pair of slouchy ankle boots to her.
“We’re getting you some proper heels when we get back to L.A., too,” Tyrone announced as she stomped into the soft leather boots. He looped a narrow, sparkly scarf casually around her neck and stepped back to survey his work. “Mmm-hmm, now we’re talkin’,” he declared, wagging his chin and wearing a bitch, please face.
“Okay, Marilyn. Go have yourself the mother of all hot flings.”
Chapter 3
Marley stood outside the motel’s bar listening to the raucous shouting inside. A professional football game was on the big screens and, judging by the catcalls and booing, an unpopular call had just been made by the officials.
“Do I have to go in?” she wailed under her breath at Tyrone. The makeup artist had insisted on escorting her downstairs to see Flyboy’s reaction to her grand transformation. Which meant she couldn’t make a run for it. Genuine panic clawed at her throat. Damn Tyrone, anyway.
“Go on. He won’t bite you...or maybe he will...you lucky bitch.”
With a last glare at Tyrone for making her go through with this, she took a deep breath, waited until another shout went up and slipped into the dark bar. It was crowded and she eased around the edges of the mob to wedge herself into the darkest corner she could find and bellied up to the bar.
Please let no one see her in this clown makeup. Please let them not laugh their heads off at her bad Marilyn impersonation. Please let her become invisible in the next ten seconds. A flashback to the one and only time she’d tried to doll herself up in high school and had been laughed out of the dance in about two minutes flat came back to her in all its humiliating detail.
Film crews were notoriously quick to pick on one another, particularly on the new kid on the block. Mean girls in the ninth grade had nothing on a bunch of stuntmen, lighting techs and grips. She’d been crazy to think this might be the place where she finally got to experience sex. Please let no one laugh at me. Please let them just ignore me.
It took her about two seconds to pick out Archer’s tall, perfect profile. No surprise, he was surrounded by a bunch of fawning women, most of whom Marley recognized as actresses. Her heart sank. She could never compete with those beautiful, bold women flirting so openly with him. Archer didn’t look too heartbroken at their attention, either. Not that Marley blamed him. Why wouldn’t he go after the gorgeous girls?
Relief actually coursed through her. She was off the hook. She could slide back into her safe anonymity and not put herself and her fragile heart on the line tonight.
But that darned little voice was at it again. This time it whispered in disappointment. If not now, when are you ever going to break out of your plain, boring shell? She ordered it to shut up and pulled her shell a little more tightly around herself.
Glumly, she ordered a soft drink on ice. The bartender took pity and stuck an umbrella in her glass to disguise her wimpiness. Marley had never been drunk and didn’t plan to do that for the first time in front of her coworkers, either.
She might look a little like Marilyn Monroe, but she completely lacked the sex symbol’s innate hots. The essence of what had made Marilyn who she was had been that effortless heat she’d exuded. Men just looked at her and lusted after her. No one would ever react to Marley Stringer, rookie camerawoman, like that.
A couple of guys she’d never seen before drifted over and introduced themselves—a prop guy and a pair of set constructors. She mangled small talk badly enough with them that they drifted away before long. See? No sex appeal whatsoever. She was the anti-Marilyn.
Heck, even that much attention from strange men had been intensely uncomfortable for her. How in the hell was she ever going to have sex if she couldn’t get over this stupid shyness? Were it not for Tyrone throwing her encouraging looks and glares by turn from his table a few yards away with the other makeup artists, she’d have bolted already.
Adrian Turnow appeared in the bar entrance and a shout of greeting went up to him. He was an interesting man. Brilliant eye for visual art. Bit of a loner himself. When she’d met him briefly a few weeks ago, he’d put her at ease more than anyone else on the crew. She sipped idly at her soda as he advanced into the room, looking around for someone.
She was startled when he made eye contact with her and even more startled when he did a hard double take. She looked down quickly, fiddling with her drink’s lime-green umbrella. How much longer until she could slip out of here without Tyrone dragging her back in?
“Marley?”
She looked up, startled. “Uh, hi, Mr. Turnow.”
“I had no idea you look so much like Marilyn Monroe.”
“One of the makeup artists was fooling around and tried the look on me.”
“It works. Very cinematic. You should stick with it.”
Um, okay. Did major film directors all talk makeup with their crew members?
He continued. “I just wanted to tell you that the footage you shot today was incredible. Best stuff I’ve seen in years. You’ve got a real future in this business. Gordon Trapowski was spot-on to recommend you to me.”
Gordon had recommended her for this gig? She did not know that. Color her shocked.
She’d only met him once before she started flying with him on this movie shoot. He’d flown her in his chopper as a freelance pilot a few months back so she could film a big fire back at the local news station. He’d made a half-hearted pass at her but had backed off when she mentioned all her dates coming to disastrous ends.
He must have been impressed enough with her work to recommend her to a hotshot film director. Rumor had it Gordon came from old film industry money but that his family had fallen on hard times. That must be how he knew Adrian.
Speaking of which, the director was talking to her. “...you keep bringing in footage like today’s, I can’t justify yelling at you too hard. Still, in the future, I expect you to follow my instructions. If you have an idea for shooting something differently, tell me in advance and we’ll talk it over.”
“I promise it won’t happen again.”
“It took cajones to pull a stunt like that on your first shoot. Good job, Miss Stringer.”
The director moved away, and she could only stare in shock at his shaved head retreating across the bar.
“Are you okay?” a voice asked from beside her. A concerned male voice with a familiar, husky timbre.
Archer.
Hovering protectively over her, looking grim. “He didn’t fire you, did he?”
“No. He told me he loved the film we shot.”
She fully turned to face Archer, and he inhaled sharply. “What the hell happened to you?”
Oh, God. She did look like a clown. Distress slammed into her. “Do I look ridiculous? I knew I shouldn’t have let Tyrone play around with my makeup.”
A big, warm hand came to rest on top of hers. “You’re fine. Better than fine.” Then he added a little menacingly, “Who’s Tyrone?”
“He’s one of the makeup artists,” she explained hastily. �
��This retro thing was his idea.”
“You look unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably good or unbelievably bad?”
Archer smiled and leaned in close enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne. It was as sexy, masculine and designer-cool as the rest of him. “Trust me. It’s good. I just didn’t expect you to be such a chameleon. You look really different.”
Her breath fluttered nervously as she ventured a peek his way. Lordy, that man was easy on the eye. Smooth talker, too.
“So tell me, Marley. Do you have any acting experience?”
“God, no.” She stirred the ice cubes in her drink around with her little umbrella. “Why do you ask?”
“That’s quite a transformation you’ve undergone in a very short time. I was just curious.”
She had no idea how to answer that. If she wasn’t mistaken, she heard a note of something strange in his voice. Almost like the suspicion from earlier.
“Hey, Archer. Who’s the hot chick?”
Marley looked up sharply at a burly guy with enormous biceps. Gordon Trapowski. He’d been her regular pilot on the movie shoot until Archer, today.
“Holy moly. Is that you, Marley?” Gordon exclaimed. “Day-umm, you clean up good.”
She supposed she ought to be complimented by the blatant shock on the guy’s half-drunk face. But it did make her wonder a little just how awful she’d looked before this makeover.
“You should stay away from this guy, Marley,” Archer warned under his breath. “Especially when he’s been drinking.”
“This sissy boy feeding you a line of bull?” Gordon retorted belligerently. He did, indeed, smell like a few too many whiskey shooters and Marley didn’t like the truculent glint in his eye. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight.
“Archie tellin’ you all about how he’s a glorified delivery boy? Lying about being a real warrior?”
“I’ve seen more combat than you ever will, Trap,” Archer commented casually.
Gordon made a rude gesture to show what he thought of that. The temperature between the men cooled off a few more chilly degrees. No love lost between these two. “You say the word, and I’ll take care of ’im for you.” Gordon’s words were just slurred enough to send chills down her spine.
