Michael’s hands rolled into balled fists as he felt his Latin jealousies rage inside of him. He wanted to rip the cameras away, throttle the man who dared to kiss the woman he loved and take Charlotte away from this unnatural place. He would seal his possession of her with his own mouth, his own body.
The love scene continued relentlessly. He watched, transfixed, nailed to the spot, as the actor ripped at Charlotte’s gown savagely and she struggled against him. Michael took a step forward, fists bunched. In one graceful swoop the man moved to straddle her and the sheet fluttered back, exposing Charlotte’s full, rounded breasts and her dark, pink nipples, hard and erect.
Michael strangled a cry in his throat, turned and fled the room, seeking the refuge of the cold nor’easter outdoors.
The scene ended minutes after Michael left. The director called, “Cut and print,” the crew sighed and applauded, and Charlotte pushed Brad away and curled up under the sheet, wrapping herself tightly with the fabric. Freddy Walen, standing in a shadowy corner, saw Michael leave and smiled in smug satisfaction. He’d been watching the way Michael suffered during the scene, relishing each grimace and clenching of his jaw.
This was good, he thought to himself. Very good. He couldn’t have planned it better. A man in his situation would react in only two ways: one, to be jealous—as this one was. The other was to puff out his chest and be pleased to see other men lust after his woman. Better that he was jealous. Raw emotions were always easier to manipulate. He followed him out, smiling again when he caught sight of Mondragon standing outside the door, his hands rammed into his pockets, his face a mask of pain.
“What are you doing here?” he asked Michael, sizing him up.
Michael glanced down at Freddy briefly, turned up his collar and looked away. “What do you want, Walen?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. What do you want hanging around Charlotte all the time? She’s doing her work. Work that doesn’t include you. In any way, shape or form,” he said pointedly.
“Anything that has to do with Charlotte’s way, shape or form is my business.”
Freddy was infuriated. The confidence of the man was galling.
“Well I’ve got a message for you from the director. He wants you off the set. You don’t belong here.”
Michael took a step forward, menacingly. Freddy pushed out his chest and stood his ground. The two men stood face-to-face, glaring.
“I’ve got a message for that pimp director,” Michael said, his voice deep with anger. “You tell him I’ve read the script for that scene and nowhere does it say that Sommers character was supposed to tear off Charlotte’s gown. You tell him for me that unless he wants his lead actor to get his fancy face rearranged, he’d better stick to the script. Got it?”
Michael turned on his heel and stomped away, not waiting for Freddy’s reply.
Freddy bit his retort and smiled, satisfied. He returned to the set, anxious to check on Charlotte. He was furious about that stunt Sommers had pulled and was going to have words with George about it. He hurried to Charlotte’s side, relieved to see her sitting up, wrapped in the sheet and arguing hotly with the script director.
“Nice work, babe,” Freddy said, surprising her.
“Freddy, when did you get here?”
“Soon enough to watch this scene.” He grabbed her robe from the costume assistant and handed it to Charlotte.
“Here, put this on before you catch cold. You’ve got a break before your next two scenes. Then it’s a wrap. I saw the dailies and you look great, just great. This is going to be a good film for you.”
She slipped into the robe, barely hearing what Freddy was saying to her as her eyes searched the set for Michael.
“He left,” he informed her.
She swung her head around to look at Freddy. “Who? Michael?”
“Yeah. I guess he couldn’t watch, not that I can blame him. You and Brad make a nice couple. Are the sparks there for real?”
Her mouth twisted into a frown of disgust. “Really, Freddy. Get serious. I can’t stand Brad Sommers. The creep attacked me in this scene.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
“Calm down, honey. The man’s in love with you and it has nothing to do with publicity.”
“I don’t care. Because I don’t even like him. And I’m furious that he practically stripped me during that last scene. What was he trying to pull? That wasn’t in the script. You go and tell him for me that if he tries anything like that again, I don’t care if the film’s running and they print it, I’m going to kick him so hard he’ll be singing soprano. I won’t even tell you what he was trying under those sheets. It’s a good thing that Michael didn’t see.” She looked around the set again, worry revealed in her eyes. “Where did you say he went?”
“Who knows? Who cares?” He gripped her arm, staring into her eyes. “I thought we discussed this Mondragon guy. He’s not good for your career. He’s not good for you. He’s not your type.”
She yanked her arm free. “And just what is my type?”
“Someone like Sommers. Someone with class. Someone like you. Hey, Mondragon’s a good looking guy. I can see why you had a little fun with him, but enough’s enough.”
Charlotte turned on Freddy, anger shooting from her eyes like lightning.
“Michael Mondragon is not some fun that I picked up. He is the man I love and I won’t tolerate you insulting him that way. You manage my career, Freddy, not my life. I don’t remember asking you for your permission, nor do I intend to stand here and listen to another ten-minute monologue on how to conduct my personal life. So far I’ve done everything you’ve asked and done it well. I’m living up to my part of the bargain.” She pointed her finger at him. “You just live up to yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to change into some clothes and go find Michael.”
She took a few steps, then turned and added, “Oh, by the way. Leave Melanie alone, too. She’s not feeling well and doesn’t need any lecturing, either.”
Freddy was furious with Charlotte’s attitude, not just about Mondragon but about everything. She was bucking him, and he didn’t like it one bit. He felt like slapping her in some way. Her affection for Melanie Ward gave him a perfect means.
“I have no intention of lecturing Melanie. I’m dropping her as a client.”
Instead of frowning in displeasure, as he expected, Charlotte’s face brightened and she smiled.
“Good,” she replied. Then she turned heel and strode from the room, leaving Freddy seething.
Charlotte dressed quickly and hurried outdoors, searching for Michael. She found him walking the gravel path that led to a small woodland not far from the hotel.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she asked tentatively, sensing his tension immediately. “I looked everywhere for you.”
“I needed some air.”
He kept his eyes averted, which bothered her a great deal. She felt the icy wall of his hostility wedge itself between them. “I told you not to watch. But no, you insisted.”
When he looked at her she saw anger, then hurt in his eyes. It was the hurt that made her stay and not walk away.
“I didn’t know how much it would pain me to see that man make love to you. It killed me to see you respond to him.”
“I didn’t,” she cried.
He grabbed her by the arms, so tightly it hurt. “You did. I saw.”
She tried to shake him away, but his grip only tightened. “That wasn’t me, it was Laura. The character. I can’t just turn off my body or its natural responses. Michael, look at me. I’m an actress. Love scenes are part of what I do. You can’t be this way.”
“Can’t I?” He yanked her against his chest and planted his lips on hers in a kiss that was devastatingly possessive. Positioning her between his legs, he slid his arms around her and hugged the breath right out of her.
She clung to him, feeling her knees weaken.
All that they had felt the night before, all that went expressed only in their eyes exploded between them.
“You’re mine,” he growled, his fingers digging into her shoulders, his teeth bared at her cheek.
“Yes, yes,” she responded, giving her heart and soul to him, an ancient instinct demanding that she choose him as her mate.
He pulled away, his eyes devouring her. She loved that sudden fierce desire that would fill him with a single-minded focus. It could happen at any time. One touch could spark it, like a single strike of a match could ignite a fuse. It made her feel desirable. It made her desire him.
His face tightened, his mouth pursed as he looked to the left toward the hotel. People loitered about, talking, waiting for the next shoot. To the right, the path led to a small woods not far off. Grabbing hold of her hand he strode into the woods, walking fast, his heels digging into the soft earth.
She hurried by his side, clutching his hand, trying not to smile, all the while thinking, yes, yes, yes. He searched the woods for a secluded spot, far from the path where someone might disturb them. At last he found one. Suddenly he veered to the left to where a cluster of evergreens provided a tent and the earth lay hidden under a thick layer of leaves.
He walked her to this spot and, without a break in stride, swung her around, slamming her back against the broad bark of a glorious sugar maple. His hips pressed against hers. She could feel the hardness of his arousal.
He meant for her to, and ground against her, his breath mingling with hers in a vaporous cloud at their lips. His hands spread open her coat and slid beneath her sweater to feel the warm silkiness of her skin. He felt her stiffen as his cold hands explored her. He meant to touch each part of her that had been touched by Sommers, to burn away with his own skin, his own scent, any trace that other man may have left on her body. It was as if a fever burned through him; he couldn’t touch enough, kiss hard enough, move fast enough. He wanted her now!
He began to tug impatiently at her pants. She lowered her hands to help him.
“Now, Michael. Now.”
His hands cupped her rear, lifting her higher against the hard wall of the tree. She felt a burning scrape where tender skin met coarse bark, then a sudden, fierce filling when he thrust high within her. She gasped and clasped him tighter around the neck, wrapping her bare legs around his hips as he thrust again, harder and faster, pounding her against the bark. She bit his neck, stifling her scream as she shook and tightened around him.
He gave one powerful shove that pinned her against the wood, cried out her name, then shuddered against her.
Nearby, birds fluttered in the air, pierced the sky with their high calls, then gradually circled and slowly came to rest on overhead branches.
Michael lowered his head and looked into her eyes, triumphantly.
She tilted her head and smiled shyly.
“I love you,” he said against the crown of her head. A simple declaration of fact.
Her heart expanded so; it took her breath away. “I love you, too.”
They both felt what this coupling had meant. They knew that here in the primitive setting of nature he had claimed her as his own—and she had accepted him.
Michael flew back to California that afternoon. Cruising high above the thick cloud cover, the plane suddenly lurched, causing him to shift in his seat. The movement released the faint scent of Charlotte’s Joy perfume still lingering on his clothes and skin. Instantly he was filled with a rush of memories of the past twenty-four hours: their farewell, her beautiful face upturned, her luminous eyes soft with longing, her soft mouth pressing against his own. Shifting again in the cramped space he smiled, imagining—hoping—that when she changed that afternoon for her next scene with Sommers, she would smell his scent on her as well, and remember that incredible coupling they’d shared in the woods.
He leaned back in his seat, comfortable in the knowledge that he trusted her completely. No Brad Sommers or Freddy Walen or any other man would steal her away from him. Looking out his window, he saw the sunshine pierce the clouds.
Fourteen
Charlotte didn’t fly home to California right after the film had completed shooting a few weeks later. Instead, she took the short flight from Maine to New York to keep an appointment with a financial adviser recommended to her by the producer of the film. Charlotte didn’t have a great deal of money to invest, at least not by the producer’s standards. By her standards, however, the post-tax, post-agent, post-expenses dollars she’d set aside to invest was a veritable fortune. At some point during the past few weeks her perspective on her life had crystallized. The eerie juxtaposition of Melanie’s suicide attempt and Michael’s declaration of love showed her how fleeting life was—and how precious love was. She wanted permanence in her life and had resolved to attain it.
Her visit to Bessemer Trust lasted two hours. In that time she’d set up a portfolio that invested a sizable portion of her capital in high risk ventures that would double her money quickly—or lose it even more quickly. Charlotte surprised Kenneth Clark with her ability with numbers and her keen sense of money. She had been, after all, an excellent accountant. The fact that she was now investing her own money only sharpened her skills.
When she returned to California, she maintained her forced march. The first appointment she made was with Mrs. Delaney, the elderly widow who owned the house she rented. Mrs. Delaney didn’t want to meet with her at first. She was a frustrated, irritable old woman who felt the world had done wrong by her. Like most people, however, she was soon won over by Charlotte. Together they walked through the garden. Charlotte helped her water the roses and threw sticks for Mrs. Delaney’s two overweight Scotties. Mrs. Delaney seldom had visitors, invited no one, and other than her housekeeper, rarely saw anyone. Charlotte was patient with her, thinking of her mother, giving the older woman time to vent her frustrations and to talk endlessly about her sorry relatives. Eventually, Charlotte guided the conversation to pleasanter topics, such as the dogs, the garden, Mrs. Delaney’s collection of Japanese porcelains. Given the opportunity, Mrs. Delaney could discuss these happier topics with more animation.
After the afternoon tea was served, she agreed to sell Charlotte the squat, postwar tract house on the bluff.
“You what?” Melanie’s hands framed her face, the very picture of surprise.
“I bought the house,” Charlotte replied with feigned nonchalance, setting down her purse on the front table. She cast a sidelong glance at Melanie’s stunned expression, then burst out laughing, hugging Melanie with the sheer joy of her first house purchase. The two women danced and sang around the house, a tall, slender figure holding hands with a small, curvaceous one.
“Whatever did you do to make that old battle-ax sell?”
“She’s really very nice, beneath that cold exterior,” Charlotte replied. “She reminded me a lot of my mother, actually. A hard life and disappointments can sour a woman. She didn’t even care about the house. Hung on to it for lack of anything better to do with it. She’s got plenty of money, she’s just lonely. I think we should invite her over once in a while for tea, or maybe a game of canasta. She likes to play cards. So did my mother.”
Charlotte felt a sudden pang of homesickness for her mother. She’d sent Helena a generous check every month with a long letter informing her of everything that was going on in her life. She never failed to include her dreams, her hopes and her successes. In every letter, Charlotte begged her mother to come live with her in California and never work another day in her life.
Helena never wrote her in reply. The checks came back, uncashed.
“When you want something, Charlotte Godfrey, you get it,” Melanie exclaimed. “I saw it in your chart right away. You are a Leo through and through.” She didn’t want to tell Charlotte that she saw a difficult time ahead for her as well. She’d found it best to keep that kind of revelation to herself.
“I made another stop today. For you,” she said, handing Melanie a packet.<
br />
“What are these for?” she asked. She absently shuffled through the brochures. “Cooking school? You can’t be thinking I’m going back to school? At my age? Don’t be ridiculous. School is for young people. I’m too old to go back to school. I’d be laughed out of class.”
“Is this the same Melanie Ward I know? Talking about age?”
“No, it’s not the same Melanie. And you know it. My body is worn out with rehab travails. Age is an issue.”
“No, that’s not true. You showed me that. It’s certainly not true when you’re talking about going back to school. There are plenty of men and women in their forties who return to school. Older, too. In this day and age it’s normal for people to change careers at least twice in their lifetimes. It seems to me that you’ve only had one career so far, so isn’t it time that you open the door for another?”
“I can’t,” Melanie said, back-stepping. “You know me. I’m all body and no brains.”
“Again, not true. Melanie, you always see the glass half-empty. A positive outlook is good for the soul.”
“What if I’m not a born optimist, like you? To me, the glass is half-empty somedays and half-full on others. Sometimes, it’s bone-dry.”
“Or overflowing. Optimists are made, not born. You can’t always change your circumstances, but you can change the way you react to them. For one thing, depressed people bring you down. Spend time with people who are upbeat.”
“Yeah, well I have you for my roommate. I’d have thought that was cheerful enough to last a lifetime. You and your lists,” she muttered, sifting through the brochures.
“Exactly,” Charlotte persevered. “I’m the queen of list-making. My favorite holiday is New Year’s Eve just because I get to make new ones.”
“I know what you’re trying to do….”
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