Unscripted

by J. S. Marlo

  “You’re not suggesting…” The revolting idea that Joe might be the one responsible caught in her throat.

  “I couldn’t determine what started the fire.” A tender kiss brushed her forehead. “I’ll go back tomorrow and review the scene again.”

  Saddened by the tragedy, she buried her head in the crook of his neck. He smelled of soot and smoke. “Before I landed, I saw a blaze raging about sixty kilometers from the ranch. I was afraid you’d been called away.”

  “They didn’t ask for reinforcements. Rumors are flying it was a meth lab that exploded in a warehouse, but I won’t know the details until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Too many explosions had rocked her quiet world this week. “Can we go to bed? I’m tired.”

  “I need to take a shower. Would you care to join me?”

  That was one proposition she never refused.

  ***

  Riley sipped her coffee on the veranda, enjoying the morning sun.

  Heeding his dad’s request, Hunter had taken Friday off to fix a broken stall inside the stable, but before he began his chore, he strolled to the main road to pick up the mail.

  He walked back, flipping an envelope between his fingers, visibly puzzled.

  “What is it, Hunt?” Few letters ever roused her son’s curiosity.

  “Did Dad change his name to Ollie Kendrick?”

  “No. Why?” Their disparate last names had never caused confusion or problems, except in the mind of Ollie’s mother. “Is the letter addressed as such?” She placed her steaming mug of coffee on the veranda railing, freeing her hands in anticipation of the mysterious letter.

  “See for yourself.” He handed her a white envelope then leaned over her shoulder. “Is it from the studio?”

  The envelope didn’t include a return address, but it was postmarked in Winnipeg. “The studio has no reason to send a letter to your dad.” And on her employment record, her spouse was listed as Oliver Durham, not Ollie Kendrick.

  “If Medusa could see Dad’s name written like yours, she’d give new meaning to the term hot flashes.”

  “Hunter!” While her mother-in-law deserved the nickname, Riley condemned its public use. “A little respect for an old lady, please. You’re not ten years old anymore.”

  “I’m not, but she’s still a Gorgon. Are you going to open the letter?”

  The roots of resentment grew deep inside her son, as deep as his knowledge of Greek mythology. For the life of her, Riley never understood why her mother-in-law treated her and her children with contempt.

  Her index finger slipped under the flap and ripped it. A color photo was inside. She pulled it out.

  “Who’s the guy?”

  In the picture, she stood with Blythe by the passenger side of his car in the underground parking garage of the studio. The wistful tension too often etching his face had ebbed away, replaced by smoother, gentler lines.

  “Blythe.” She’d worn that skirt only once, the morning of the boat scene shoot. The photo had to date back to Monday. “We were leaving for the lake. It was taken the day his boat exploded.”

  “He’s the guy whose wife is in a coma, right?”

  “Yes. Blythe is a good friend.” Blythe’s arm seemed to encompass her waist as he reached for the door handle, but the appearance of impropriety was an optical illusion. He’d never come close to slipping an arm around her.

  Afraid her son might have gotten the wrong impression, she looked at him and saw admiration in his eyes.

  “Whose car is that?” The tip of his finger focused on the yellow convertible parked at the top left corner of the picture.

  “Nick Jensen’s. He plays Luke, the British rescuer.”

  “Are you good friends with him too? Any chance he’d let me drive if I go visit you at the Studio?”

  Laughter rumbled in her chest. If a perfume ever managed to capture the pheromones released by sport cars, it’d enslave the entire male population. “Sorry, Hunt. No one but Nick drives his Porsche.”

  A long sigh betrayed his deflated hope. “That’s one downside to becoming a firefighter. I’ll never be able to afford wheels like that. Can I keep the picture?”

  “Sure.”

  As Riley debated keeping the envelope to show Ollie, she looked inside again. There was a note she’d missed.

  Beware, Ollie Kendrick. Forbidden romances flourish at Arctica Studio.

  The printed message dumped a trailer load of snow on her warm, sunny day.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Good morning, Blythe.”

  Riley’s blank expression and the lack of intonation in her voice confounded Blythe. Granted he was a few minutes late to pick her up at the airport, and he’d forgotten the coffees, but he’d planned to remedy the situation on their way to the studio. It wasn’t like her to be upset over trivial matters like these. “Hello, Riley. How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful.” Pulling her suitcase behind her, she headed for the exit, and he had to hurry to catch up with her. “How’s Claire?”

  Weeks ago they’d agreed not to ask questions about his wife mere hours after his meeting with her doctor. At best, Blythe needed the morning to absorb the latest news. At worse, he needed the entire day. That Riley breached their agreement before they even reached his car didn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  “My in-laws graced me with their presence and managed to alienate the doctor. They contested the results of the tests he ran last week and requested new ones.” A repeat of the neurological tests wouldn’t change the results, but after many tears, Doctor Salinski had capitulated. “You have children, Riley. Can mothers ever let go?”

  “No.” A peculiar light glinted in her eyes. “But sometimes they have to.”

  The cold front sweeping between them sent chills inside his chest, and he could only think of one reason to explain her sudden detachment. Her family. “Is everything all right at home?”

  “Yes, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  The uncharacteristically sharp reply further increased his suspicion, but the airport parking lot wasn’t the place to discuss whatever bothered her. As they came within feet of his car, she relinquished her suitcase to his care. After loading it into the trunk, he took his place behind the wheel and turned on the ignition. Riley was already buckled up and staring straight ahead out the window. Tension radiated off of her, and he hoped that she would loosen up when he began talking.

  “On Friday afternoon, the safety board concluded its investigation of the explosion.” Remembering too late how much the incident had rattled her, he braced himself for her reaction. When she remained silent, he quickly glanced her way as he navigated through the parking exit.

  Her gaze was now fixed on him. “Sorry, I’m preoccupied.”

  Understatements of that magnitude rarely passed her lips. “I see that. Is something wrong?”

  “No. What did the report say?”

  Disconcerted by the curtness in her voice, he refrained from probing any further. “The technicians were issued two different sets of instructions, and in the confusion that followed, they installed the wires on the wrong side of the boat. When the rubber dinghy approached the boat, it clipped one or more wires, causing a short circuit that precipitated the explosion. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “I see. Will they reshoot the scene this week?”

  “No. One of the cameras recorded the full incident. Martin liked the improvised explosion and the vantage point from which it was shot. Apparently it looked very authentic.”

  “Authentic?” Her spontaneous chortles finally melted the ice between them.

  ***

  The warning note about a flourishing romance haunted Riley’s waking moments. Someone had fabricated accusations based on an innocuous encounter in the parking garage and targeted her marriage. If that person intended to create a rift between Ollie and her, he or she was out of luck. Ollie had seen nothing improper about the photo and dismissed the crafty note as
office politics, but not before asking who she’d ticked off at the studio. Offhand, Riley hadn’t been able to name anyone spiteful enough to attack her reputation.

  New doubts had surged this morning at the airport when Blythe dashed inside the terminal as if his life depended on it. Afraid the picture might hold a different truth for him, she’d kept him at arm’s length, but then he’d made her laugh, and her resolve had melted.

  She should have mentioned the silly note when she had a chance instead of entertaining the absurd notion he might harbor secret feelings for her. Blythe was a good man trapped in a difficult situation, a man who needed a friend, not a lover. Knowing she was happily married, he’d never shown any disrespect toward her in that regard. She valued their friendship, and now she was ashamed of her childish behavior.

  “You’re late, Ryle. Were you stuck in traffic, or did Huxley grow tired of playing chauffeur?”

  Stunned by the greeting, she halted in the middle of the room, and the strap of her laptop bag slid from her shoulder onto the crook of her elbow. When Ollie asked her about any enemies she made, one name should have jumped to the top of the list.

  “Hello, Paul.” She grabbed her bag by the handle and walked to her desk while keeping the obnoxious writer in her line of vision.

  “They’re shooting the love scene between Carson and Vivian today.” Slouched in his chair, he flipped through colorful pamphlets. “Andy left you in charge.”

  “The scene inside the remote cabin?” But Carson and Vivian didn’t admit their feelings until the end of the episode, and no other segments of that episode, or the previous one, had been filmed yet. While it was routine practice to shoot scenes out of order, she’d noticed that Martin tended to finish one episode before starting a new one. “What about the previous episode?”

  “Can’t shoot it until Huxley’s scar heals. Did you know his image has taken a dive since the blast? He’s not as attractive as he used to be, is he?”

  If that was bait, she wanted to shove it right back down his throat. She stowed her bag underneath her desk and sat before the urge to lurch at him overrode her common sense.

  He tossed one of the pamphlets at her, and it landed on the corner of her desk. “Casa Grigia. It’s an Italian restaurant not too far from your hotel. Ever been there?”

  Understanding dawned on her. Somehow he’d found out about her dinners with Blythe, and he sought revenge because she’d refused his invitations and his gifts. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing.” His innocent little act didn’t work on her. “And you won’t do anything ever again.” She crossed her arms over her chest and schooled her face into a hard, icy look. “My marriage is off limits. Do we understand each other?”

  “I wasn’t going to ask you out. Geez, you’re touchy. Andy left a note for you.” He threw another piece of paper at her, and it landed on the floor. “Deal with it, and stay out of my hair.”

  Infuriated by his attitude, she went to pick up the note.

  Riley,

  I talked to Martin. A deep cut to the cheek will be among the injuries Carson suffers at the hand of his ex-wife’s lover. The scenes in which the scar is the most recent and visible will be shot first. Once it heals and enough makeup can be applied to hide its contour, Martin will go back and shoot the previous scenes where Carson doesn’t have a scar.

  Andy

  Pleased with the news, Riley couldn’t help but smile.

  ***

  The content of the script raised Blythe’s blood pressure. He looked around the conference table for Andy but caught Bella’s victorious smile instead. The senior writer was conveniently absent from this morning’s briefing.

  Seated at the end of the table, Martin gathered the notes scattered in front of him. “Andy is away for the day. Any problems with the script, go see Paul.”

  Blythe should have guessed the little weasel was behind the scenario. Without waiting for Martin’s formal dismissal, he left the conference room and headed for the Pencil Wing.

  Holding a woman in his arms and whispering sweet nothings in her ear had never bothered him, but he drew the line at intimate contact, and Paul was aware of the stipulation.

  He stepped into the writers’ office and slammed the door behind him. Riley jumped in her chair, but Paul didn’t flinch an inch.

  “Huxley.” The little weasel twirled a pencil between his fingers as if he had no care in the world. “To what do we owe such a grand entrance?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t have a clue.” His breathing came fast and hard, burning his lungs, and his fingers clawed, scrunching the script in his hand. “I don’t kiss my co-stars, Paul, and I certainly don’t unbutton their shirts. This is garbage.”

  A triumphant smirk distorted Paul’s mouth. “I agree, and I tried to tell Ryle, but she insisted, and Andy caved in.” He tipped his head in Riley’s direction. “It’s her script. Go bark up the right tree.”

  The color drained from Riley’s beautiful face. Somehow the little weasel had managed to set him against her, and Blythe had walked into the trap with both feet. How careless of me. His temper worsening by the second, he glared at the scheming writer. “Get out, Paul. Now.”

  As smug as a used-car salesman, the man slowly stood and walked through the door. Once he disappeared into the hallway, Blythe closed the door behind him.

  “If the daggers in your eyes could kill, Paul would be bleeding to death on the floor.”

  Grateful that she broke the silence first, he advanced toward her desk. “It’s not garbage, Riley.” In the heat of anger, he’d denigrated the scene, thinking it belonged to Paul. He’d meant to deflate the little weasel’s ego, not hurt her feelings. “The scene is well-written, but you picked the wrong character to seduce Vivian. I don’t do passionate love scenes.” That was something he’d promised Claire when he married her.

  “I heard you the first time, Blythe.”

  “Riley, it’s not—”

  “Don’t.” Sunk in her chair, she looked more dejected than a drenched kitten. “When I wrote the script, I didn’t think much about the intensity of the love scene between Carson and Vivian. In my mind, it was milder than the steamy encounters between Luke and his conquests. When Andy hesitated and said I might need your approval, I should have clued in, or at least been more inquisitive. Instead, I asked Paul.”

  “Let me guess.” His anger fading, he sat on the corner of her desk and offered a sympathetic smile. “Paul experienced a sudden memory lapse?”

  “I’m sure there was nothing sudden about it.” A wistful sigh crossed her lips. “He said not to worry, that you wouldn’t have any qualms about a kiss and two buttons.” Her hair had grown, and reddish brown curls sensuously brushed her ear when she shook her head. “You warned me to be careful around him, but I still took his words at face value. How stupid of me. How do I solve this?”

  Paul’s shifty schemes and unscrupulous conduct never ceased to appall him. How the little weasel slept at night eluded Blythe.

  “Depends if you’re willing to swallow your pride and walk on the set to give Martin the revised version.”

  She bolted upright from her chair. “Paul isn’t winning this round.” Greener than a clover patch in the morning mist, her shamrock eyes shone with fierce determination. “Tell me how you want me to rewrite the scene.”

  “Skip the buttons, Shamrock, and end the scene when I lean in to kiss her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  On set, the replica of the log cabin was exactly as Riley had pictured it in her mind.

  The inside of the cabin showed two adjacent walls. One had a dirty window in its middle, the other had a stuffed moose head nailed over a stone fireplace, and in the corner was Carson’s first aid kit, its contents spilled on the floor.

  A crewman laid a fake polar bear skin rug under the window while another stacked a few logs by the unlit fireplace.

  With their scripts in hand, Blythe and
Isabella paced the vicinity of the set. Every so often, the actress looked up and glared at her, but she was mad at the wrong person. Paul was the one who’d tricked Riley into writing that scene, knowing full well it wouldn’t fly with Blythe.

  The revised script had required so few changes that Martin didn’t even blink when she presented it to him. If the actress wanted to stab someone over the revisions, Riley would be thrilled to direct her toward the right target.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Nick Jensen’s approach. He stopped beside her. “You burst her bubble.”

  “Me?” Riley glanced from him to Isabella. “How so?”

  “With Claire in a coma, Bella set her sights on Hux.” Standing by her side, Nick had dropped his British accent. “It was pretty obvious she’d hoped to win his affection during the scene, but you eliminated the kiss.”

  Riley had no clue why he confided in her, or when he’d been made aware of the changes in the script. The actor wasn’t even in that scene. “Isabella could always try to catch Blythe off guard, no?”

  “The script calls for her to respond timidly, and Bella prides herself on her professionalism. I doubt she’ll throw the scene in order to make lip contact, but I’m sure Hux is ready for the possibility.”

  Ollie had called the schemes and machinations occurring at the studio office politics, but she preferred the term office drama.

  A makeup artist applied fake blood to Blythe’s face and arms. The result was unnerving. He looked as in dire shape as he did when the rescue crew had pulled him out of the water after the explosion.

  Inside the cabin, Isabella lay on the bear rug with an arrow seemingly protruding from her thigh, and more fake blood was added to the bear skin.

  The moment Blythe stepped onto the set to kneel by Isabella’s side, his demeanor changed. He became Carson.