The Thrill of Temptation (The Fontaines Book 4)

by Ember Casey

  I shove my phone into my purse and turn back toward the building. The best thing to do would be to go right up to her office and beg her for another shot. If luck is on my side, I might even be able to make it back to the set before we begin work on this afternoon’s scene, or even before anyone notices I’m missing.

  I quicken my pace, darting between parked cars. I don’t want to walk away from this movie—this might be the only good thing in my life for months to come, and I want to soak it up and revel in every minute of it—but it’s time to be a responsible adult and make some responsible adult decisions. Maybe, just maybe, I can pull this off. Maybe, just maybe, luck will finally be on my side and—

  “Look out!”

  I don’t even have the chance to figure out where those words come from or whether they’re for me. All I know is that one moment I’m running across the asphalt, and the next pain slams through my entire body.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I can’t breathe.

  That’s the first thing I notice. The second thing I notice is that there are small, pastel-colored shapes flickering across my vision. I wonder what that means. My body aches in a dozen places, but there’s a particularly sharp shooting pain in my left elbow. And another in my right hip.

  Little by little, I become aware of my surroundings again. I’m lying on the parking lot, and I smell car exhaust and the hot tar scent of asphalt baking in the sun. And there’s something—no, someone—on top of me.

  With a grunt, the person moves, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Suddenly I can breathe again, and my head starts to clear.

  I twist slightly, rolling fully onto my back to get my face away from the hot asphalt. My elbow throbs again, but my hip feels better now that I’ve shifted my weight off it.

  And just when I thought I couldn’t be embarrassed any more today, I look up and realize who is on top of me.

  This close, Orlando smells like the mountains. Like evergreen forests with the clean crispness of a sharp wind. This close, his eyes are like deep, bottomless pools of molten gold. There are stories in there, stories I didn’t see before.

  And just in case I’d forgotten, I’m once again very aware of the fact that I’m not wearing underwear.

  He pushes himself up a little higher, lifting his chest from mine. Our legs are still tangled, though, I can still feel how hard and sculpted his body is. The man must be magnificent beneath those clothes.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds strange in my ears. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m dimly aware of other people approaching. Of a car door opening. Most of my attention is focused on the way I can feel my blood pulsing between my legs.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “You were almost hit by a car,” he says. “I had to push you out of the way.”

  So much for my luck turning. “You saved me?”

  “It looks like I did.” His eyes scan my face. “Did you hit your head?”

  “I…don’t think so,” I tell him honestly. “I think I just had the wind knocked out of me.” Now that I can breathe again, I’m feeling much better. Oh, I’ll certainly have some scrapes and bruises, but I don’t think I have a concussion.

  “Good.” There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, but his eyes hold only concern. “I’d hate for us to lose you.”

  I can’t help myself—I laugh. It doesn’t even hurt that much. “Why? Because this production can’t possibly go on without the panty girl?”

  The sudden change in his expression is starling. His mouth splits, and a huge belly laugh erupts from him. “Panty girl?”

  “Well it fits, doesn’t it?” I mumble, flushing.

  “Maybe,” he says, still chuckling. “Though perhaps not the nickname I would have chosen for you.”

  I’m too embarrassed to ask him what he would have chosen instead.

  “Either way,” he goes on, “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “It was all part of my master plan,” I tell him, trying to make light of things. “First, I throw my panties at you. Then, I figure out a way to get under you.” The words are out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying, but as soon as I do, my face goes hot. I was trying to joke, not flirt!

  In response, though, Orlando just throws back his head and laughs again.

  “You certainly get points for creativity,” he says when he can speak once more. “For the moment, though, why don’t I help you up off this pavement, Panty Girl?”

  He pushes himself up onto his knees, and I resist the urge to sigh at the sudden loss of his weight from on top of me. Orlando reaches down and clasps my hand. As I sit up and glance around, I see we’ve gathered quite an audience. I freeze with my hand in his.

  Half the crew is gathered around us. And plenty of men and women in suits—people who work in the building, I’m assuming. There’s an SUV stopped a few feet away, the driver looking alternately distressed and relieved, and I suspect she’s the one who almost hit me.

  It was probably my fault, though, I think, reddening again. I wasn’t paying attention.

  Orlando squeezes my hand, and I quickly scramble to my feet, ignoring the twinge in my elbow. Karen rushes forward from among the onlookers.

  “The medical team is on their way,” she says, looking at Orlando. I wouldn’t call her gaze motherly, but it’s clear her concern goes beyond the professional.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” he says. “I want them to have a look at Maggie, though.”

  Karen’s eyes flick toward me as if noticing me for the first time. Her gaze takes me in from top to bottom, lingering in a few places—my arm, my knees, my feet. I look down at myself. That pavement really did a number on me. My blazer—my one interview-appropriate blazer—is torn at the elbow. My right knee is a skinned mess, which starts to sting now that I’ve actually noticed the blood. One of my heels is scuffed badly, and my other foot has a couple of scrapes to rival those on my knee.

  “I’ve had worse,” I tell them.

  But Karen shakes her head. “This is a disaster! We still have a scene to shoot today!” She steps towards me and tugs at the lapel of my blazer. “This needs to be replaced immediately. And your knee…” She frowns. “I’m going to have to find a replacement for you.” Her tone seems to suggest I did this on purpose.

  And even though I was on my way inside to beg for a different job upstairs, the bottom drops out of my stomach at those words. This was supposed to be my chance to do something exciting. To say “Yes!” to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  But before I can argue for myself, Orlando cuts in.

  “That’s a little drastic, don’t you think?” he says. “All we have to do is take off her jacket for the next scene. And the makeup team can clean up her knee. Assuming you want to continue working with us, Maggie?”

  “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Good. That’s settled.” Orlando looks pleased by my words. He leans closer to me. “I knew you were resilient, Panty Girl.” He flashes me a wink as he straightens, and then he’s drawn away by a concerned member of the medical team. My heart flutters slightly, and I laugh silently at myself for being so silly, getting fluttery over Orlando Fontaine like some sort of teenager. I’m sure he’s this charming to all the female extras on his set, no matter what Ford says about his no-sex policy. Men like him always are.

  Karen steps in front of me, effectively blocking Orlando from my view. Within seconds, the medics descend on me, and I find myself poked and prodded all over. They don’t seem to believe me at first that I didn’t hit my head, but at least they don’t insist on sending me to the hospital. Eventually, they admit that I’ve suffered nothing more than a few scrapes and bruises.

  The moment they’re done, Karen grabs me by the arm and guides me around the side of the building to the makeup tent. I twist around, trying to catch another glimpse of Orlando—that woodsy, manly scent of his still lingers in my nostrils—but I don
’t see him.

  Why did I call myself Panty Girl? I lament as I’m dragged along. God, I hope that doesn’t stick. If I was going to give myself a nickname, why didn’t I pick something sexy? Or at least something that didn’t sound like a kindergarten insult?

  But he laughed, another part of my mind points out. And Ford says he never laughs. Surely that’s a good thing?

  Karen gives my arm an insistent tug, and I’m forced to pay attention to where I’m going again.

  Halfway to the makeup tent, I spot Ford heading our way. His perfect smile falters when his eyes fall to my torn-up legs. His unnaturally smooth brow barely wrinkles as he strides toward us, but his eyes hold what looks like genuine concern.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  Karen speaks before I can even open my mouth. “She nearly got herself run over in the parking lot. Fortunately, Orlando was there to push her out of the way.” She still sounds like she blames me for inconveniencing her, and she shoots an exasperated look my way. “I’m going to need you to sign some additional paperwork before you leave today. We can’t have you suing the production company.”

  “Oh my God,” Ford says. He falls into step on my other side. “Were you hurt badly?”

  “No,” I say, giving a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take a rain check on that lunch. It looks like I’m going to have to spend some extra time in the makeup tent.”

  “I’m not going to let you starve,” he replies, lifting a bag I didn’t even notice he was carrying. “We can eat in the makeup tent.”

  In spite of everything I’ve been through in the last ten minutes, I’m not about to send him away. And it really was generous of him, getting lunch for me.

  “Are you guys this nice to all of the extras?” I ask him.

  To my left, Karen lets out a “harrumph” under her breath, but Ford doesn’t seem to hear it.

  “I just like to make people feel welcome,” Ford replies.

  He follows us into the makeup tent. Most of the staff is happily munching away on sandwiches or mediocre-looking salads, but Penny, the makeup artist who worked on me earlier, bounces up from her chair the moment she sees Karen. The assistant director practically shoves me down in the chair.

  “She needs to be cleaned up before the next scene,” Karen says. “And her hair needs to be fixed. We’re removing the jacket, but I’ll be sending someone from Wardrobe in case we need to patch up anything else.”

  Penny nods obediently, and Karen gives me one more accusatory glare before marching out of the tent again, mumbling something about having to put out everyone else’s fires.

  When I glance back at Penny, she’s examining my scrapes and bruises.

  “What happened to you?” she asks sympathetically.

  I give her the rundown, adding a few details that Ford didn’t hear the first time.

  “Well, that deserves a drink or three. Alice!” Ford calls to a curly-haired woman I didn’t notice hovering at the edge of the tent. “A couple of vodka tonics. Now.”

  The woman scurries off, and Ford turns back to me with a smile. “You’re having quite the first day, aren’t you? Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. Alice keeps a full bar stocked in my trailer.”

  Penny raises her eyebrows, then shakes her head as if thinking better of whatever she was going to say. She turns back to me.

  “Honestly, these injuries aren’t as bad as I thought on first glance,” she says, inspecting me. “Why don’t we all enjoy our lunch break and then I’ll start working on them when we’re done eating? I won’t tell Karen if you won’t.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I tell her.

  “Good. Because I’m starving.” She settles herself back down on the edge of one of her tables and picks up her sandwich. Watching her chow down reminds me of how hungry I am. Fortunately, Ford is on top of things.

  “Here you go,” he says, handing me a plastic bowl and silverware.

  Excited, I pop off the lid.

  “It’s poke,” he tells me. “Have you ever tried it?”

  What it looks like is sushi on top of a bed of rice. And I’m all for that.

  “I haven’t, but it looks delicious,” I tell him.

  “It’s all the rage in L.A.,” he tells me. “Has been for a few years now. I’m surprised to see it around here, though.”

  “Atlanta has a pretty great food scene,” I tell him. Not that I get to enjoy it that much, being sad and unemployed.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply it didn’t,” he says with a laugh. “But it’s not L.A., is it?” He takes a bite of his food and then reaches out and places a hand on my knee. “You know, if you decide to make a career of this and move out there, I’m happy to show you around.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Maybe I should see if I survive the day first.” It’s a miracle I’ve made it this far.

  He smiles at me, his thumb brushing lightly across my knee before he removes his hand. He doesn’t appear to notice that he’s grazed one of my fresh scrapes, even when I wince.

  At that moment, Alice—who I’m assuming is Ford’s assistant—returns with our drinks. After the morning I’ve had, I’m not about to turn down alcohol. Ford sends her off again, then raises his drink toward me.

  “How about a toast?” He grins. “To the start of what will hopefully be a very successful career for you.”

  I want to laugh again—I still have no desire to become an actual actress—but it seems rude to argue with someone over the friendly gesture of a toast. So I keep smiling and clink glasses with him. And then take a nice, long sip of my much-needed vodka tonic.

  Ford spends the next ten minutes telling me about his other recent projects. And I finally realize what I recognize him from—he was in an episode of Murder by Any Other Name, one of my favorite detective procedural shows. He played a lawyer who, it turned out, also murdered children.

  I’m finally rescued when Alice returns, informing him that his masseuse is ready in his trailer.

  “I like to squeeze in a midday massage when I can,” he says. “One of the perks of the job.” And with that, he leaves me alone with Penny and the rest of the crew.

  Penny slides down off the table and brushes sandwich crumbs off her pants, rolling her eyes at Ford’s back.

  “Watch out for that one,” she says.

  “Ford? He’s a bit full of himself, but I felt bad sending him off after he bought me lunch.”

  Penny pulls her makeup kit forward. “He’s also made it his personal goal to bang every female extra that walks across this set.”

  “And he thinks he’s God’s gift to acting,” says one of her assistants, adding another eyeroll to the party. “He gets a part in one movie and now he expects the world to be fawning at his feet.”

  “I was hoping he was just being friendly,” I say. “I guess I still have a lot to learn about what goes on behind the scenes here, huh?”

  Penny wipes something on my knee. It stings, but I try not to squirm.

  “Honey, you can do whatever you want,” she says. “You want to sleep with him? Sleep with him. I’m just warning you to use some protection. That man is a walking STD. Which reminds me—Phoenix, get this girl her underwear.”

  My face burns as the faux-hawked young man who did my hair earlier grabs a plastic bag and carries it over to me.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I mutter.

  Penny actually giggles. “Don’t be sorry. That was hilarious. I wish I was ballsy enough to throw my panties at Mr. Fontaine.” She continues laughing as she begins covering up the scratches on my knee. “And maybe a few other things, too.”

  “You can have Orlando,” says her assistant, a petite woman with big blue eyes. “As long as I can have Omar.”

  “Omar’s mine,” chimed in another. “I don’t even care if he has STDs—I’d let him do me anyway.”

  That launches the entire crew into a debate as to whether or not Omar or Orlando is more attractive—po
or, self-important Ford is completely left out of the discussion—and within minutes, I’ve forgotten my embarrassment and find myself laughing right along with everyone else.

  “What about you?” Penny asks, looking up from her work on my knee. “Are you Team Omar or Team Orlando?”

  Before this morning, that question would have been a no-brainer—Omar all the way. But I was a goner the moment Orlando walked into that bathroom and I got a look at those striking eyes.

  “I know who she’d pick,” says a young woman who I believe is named Jade. “Did you see the way Orlando was looking at her when he was in here earlier?”

  “Why does that matter?” says Phoenix. “You know that doesn’t mean anything. And who cares how he was looking at her? We’re asking who she wants.”

  “Wait—what do you mean that the way he was looking at me doesn’t mean anything?” I ask. “Is that because of the whole no-sex-where-he-works thing?” I trust their opinion more than Ford’s.

  “Yeah. But it’s not specifically a no-sex thing,” Penny tells me. “It’s more about romantic entanglements in general. He doesn’t like to shit where he eats.”

  “But he’s happy to do it anywhere else,” Phoenix says with a laugh. “That man probably has more sex than all the rest of us combined.”

  “So those rumors are true, too?” I ask. “The ones that say he turns into some sort of sexual deviant whenever he’s working on a film?”

  “It seems that way,” Penny says. “He always has some new model girlfriend hanging around.”

  “Oooh, look at Maggie blush!” Jade says. “I think we have our answer. You’re jealous, aren’t you? I knew you were Team Orlando!”

  “Well…yeah. If I had to pick one,” I admit.