Seduced and Betrayed

by Candace Schuler

  The first shocking chill of it was just what she needed, sending a jolt through her overheated senses, soothing the itch that seemed to come from inside her skin. She gave herself up to it, letting the momentum of her dive send her gliding along the bottom of the pool. She surfaced at the shallow end, pressing her hands against the wide, tiled steps for leverage, pushing up and out of the water, her head back, her spine arched so that her thick, shoulder-length hair was slicked away from her face as she broke the surface.

  The breeze was there to meet her. It played over her wet skin, first cooling, then caressing it, causing goose flesh to ripple across her arms and her nipples to pull tight and pucker as if they'd been touched. She pressed her hands to her breasts and sank back down into the water. It danced around her like a lover bent on seduction, lapping at her shoulders, undulating against her stomach, swirling between her thighs.

  With an inarticulate sound, part a cry of dismay, part a sigh of surrender, Ariel rolled over onto her back and let the water cradle her... let the memories take her.

  They were all there, hovering at the edge of her mind, as crystal clear, as real, as immediate, as if they had happened the week or the day or the hour before, instead of twenty-five years ago.

  The first time he had touched her.

  The first time he had kissed her.

  The first time he had made her cry.

  * * *

  "I don't care how brilliant he's supposed to be," Constance Cameron fumed. "He's crude and arrogant, and he's stepping all over your lines. And, what's more," she said accusingly, her red-lacquered finger pointed directly at her daughter, "you're letting him get away with it."

  "Mother, please," Ariel pleaded, "it was just a read through. And he's supposed to be crude and arrogant. He's in character."

  "In character, my eye," Constance snapped. "That young man is uncivilized and oversexed by nature. And I don't care where the studio found him or what they say about this so-called great talent of his, he's all wrong for this part. Worse, he's all wrong for you. You have an image to protect."

  "Mother, please. Someone might hear you," Ariel said, nervously eyeing the young man in question.

  He lounged negligently atop the chopped Harley hog where they were supposed to be playing their first scene. One foot was propped up on the gas tank, one elbow braced behind him on the leather seat as he flirted indolently with the script girl. Already in costume, he wore heavy black motorcycle boots, tight faded jeans with a peace sign sewn on one knee and a ribbed white tank style undershirt that fit his leanly muscled torso like the skin on a grape and showed off his deep tan to perfection. His hair was dark and thick, tumbling over his ears and the back of his neck, falling nearly to his shoulders. He wore a red bandanna tied around his forehead to keep it out of his face.

  Ensconced there atop the huge black motorcycle, like a young prince on his throne, he was the quintessential bad boy of every good girl's secret dreams—wild and disreputable and as cocky as a prizewinning rooster. It made Ariel go all weak in the knees just to look at him.

  Not that she'd ever admit it out loud, not in a million years. Especially not within earshot of her mother.

  "I don't care if he hears me," Constance said, knowing very well who her daughter meant by "someone."

  "I don't care if everyone on the set hears me. This is your career we're talking about, Ariel. I never should have let you talk me into allowing you to do this movie. You were doing just fine playing Chrissy."

  "I've been playing Chrissy since I was eleven years old." Too good to be true, perfect, boring, predictable Chrissy Fortune. "And everybody says the show probably won't last more than another two or three seasons, anyway. You know that. So I couldn't keep playing her forever. And you did agreed I should try something different," Ariel reminded her mother.

  "Not this different." Constance shook her head. "What will your fans think when the show starts again next season? Little Chrissy Fortune involved with a ruffian like that?"

  "But I'm not playing Chrissy Fortune, mother. This is a completely different character. That's the whole point."

  "It's not the—" Constance broke off as the director approached them.

  He smiled kindly at Ariel. "Are you ready to try it for the cameras, my dear?"

  "Yes, Mr. Ostfield," she said, nervous but willing. "I'm ready."

  "No," Constance said imperiously and put her hand on her daughter's arm, stopping her when she would have walked onto the set beside the director. "She is not. Not until you can assure us that that vile young man—" she made the last three words sound like a disease "—isn't going to keep stepping all over Ariel's dialogue. And I want someone to clean up this script. This is not the script I approved. I never agreed to let Ariel allow herself to be pawed. And I want this line in scene twenty-three—" she tapped a manicured nail on the line of dialogue in question "—changed. Ariel Cameron does not use four-letter words."

  "No, of course, Ariel does not," Hans Ostfield agreed pleasantly, his Scandinavian accent giving the words a lilting, rhythmic sound. "But Laura Simmons does. And it is Laura Simmons who will say it. And it is not so bad a word, after all."

  "Nevertheless, Ariel isn't going to say it."

  "Mother, please. Can't we discuss this later? That line isn't even in this scene."

  "No, we cannot discuss it later. We'll discuss it now. You're not going to use foul language and you're not going to allow yourself to be pawed like some common little tart, and that's final."

  Hans Ostfield's expression turned steely. "You are aware, are you not, Mrs. Cameron," he said, still very pleasantly, "that it is entirely within my power to have you removed from this set?"

  "You wouldn't dare. I'm Ariel's mother. And Ariel is the star of this production."

  Without a word, Hans Ostfield lifted his hand, calling a security guard over with a gesture. "Please escort Mrs. Cameron out," he instructed. "She is not to be allowed on the set while we are filming."

  "If I go, Ariel goes," Constance threatened.

  "If Ariel goes, she will be in breach of her contract and the studio will put her on suspension. Or, perhaps, sue her. I do not think you want that, do you?"

  Constance eyed him for a moment, gauging the strength and determination of her opponent. "We'll just see about this," she said tightly. Turning on her heel, she marched to the door of the sound stage, completely ignoring the security guard who trailed behind her.

  Hans turned to his young actress. "I am sorry about that, my dear," he said soothingly. "But I think it will be better this way, don't you? Sometimes a mother is just too close to see that her little girl is growing up."

  "Yes, I—" Ariel didn't quite know what to say. No one had ever stood up to her mother like that. She was in awe. "Thank you, Mr. Ostfield."

  "Hans, please. We are all friends here. Now—" He took her by the hand. "I know you are nervous. But it is good for you to be nervous in this scene," he assured her, his accent making it necessary for her to listen closely to his every word, "because Laura is nervous, hoping to be kissed for the first time by Judd. It is simple, yes? Take what you feel here—" he touched his loosely curled fist to his chest "—as Ariel and use it to make Laura come to life. Do you understand?"

  Ariel nodded. "Yes, Mr. Ostfield... Hans, I understand. I'll try."

  "Good. That is all I ask." He patted her hand and then let it go, leaving her to the technicians from Makeup while he had a few words with her male co-star.

  "I want you to be gentle when you put your hands on her," he instructed Zeke as he approached him. "You are a rough character, and your words are sometimes rough, yes, but your hands must be gentle when you touch her, to show you are a man with soul. You understand what I am saying? You are already beginning to care for her. A man who cares for a woman treats her gently, especially when she is innocent."

  "Got it," Zeke said, nodding as if to himself as he internalized the instructions. "Treat her gently."

  "We are going for a
take," Hans said, instructing the cast and crew that this wasn't a rehearsal or run-through. "For the freshness of the first kiss, you understand. So even if a mistake is made, I want you to keep going." He paused, waiting while one of the makeup artists rushed in and spritzed Zeke with a spray bottle, leaving a light sheen of fake sweat on his bronzed skin. "Are we ready, then?" Hans demanded.

  The two actors nodded.

  "Places, everyone," Hans instructed.

  Ariel took a deep breath and took her mark in front of the Harley.

  "Congratulations, Princess," Zeke said, as he swung his leg over the leather saddle of the bike to sit astride it. "I didn't think you had the guts."

  "Guts?"

  "I figured America's sweetheart would go running after mommy like a good little girl."

  "I'm not-"

  "Quiet on the set!"

  Ariel obediently closed her mouth, just like the good little girl he'd accused her of being.

  "Roll film and..." The scene clapper came down. "...action."

  Zeke slipped seamlessly into his character. "So, Laura," he drawled, "you gonna take that ride with me or not? I know this private little beach over on the west side of the lake where nobody ever goes. It's real nice on a hot day." He smiled wickedly, infusing his words with a wealth of not-so-subtle innuendo. "We could go swimming."

  Ariel tried to act the way she thought a girl like Laura Simmons would act when confronted with a boy like Judd. She tried to be Laura—spoiled, self-confident and full of herself. She put her fingertip on the handlebar of the Harley and rubbed it slowly up and down the curving slope.

  "I don't know if I should," she said, giving him what she hoped was a teasing look from under her lashes. "My father says you're no good. And my mother says you're the dangerous kind. Mad, bad and dangerous to know, is what she said."

  Zeke leaned forward, draping his wrists over the handlebars of the bike. "And what do you say, Laura?"

  "Oh..." She brought her finger up the curving metal of the handlebars, hesitated for a split second, then trailed it up and over his wrist. Heat zinged up her arm. She licked her lips. "I think you like everyone to think you're dangerous but—"

  He turned his hand, catching her wrist, and waited until she lifted her gaze to his. "I am dangerous," he purred, his eyes glittering hotly as he stared at her. "You keep yanking my chain like you've been doing and you're gonna find out just how dangerous."

  It took her a second to remember her next line. "Prove it," she challenged breathlessly.

  Without a word, he pulled her around the handlebars by the wrist. When she got close enough, he swung his leg over the saddle of the bike so that he was facing her, then set his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her between his wide-spread thighs. Ariel's hands fluttered for a moment and then settled, gingerly, on his broad bare shoulders.

  "You ever been laid on the back of a Harley?" he asked, his voice low and sexy.

  "Of course not!" she said indignantly.

  "You ever been laid at all?"

  Ariel shrugged, hoping to convey careless nonchalance with the gesture.

  "That mean yes or no?"

  "It means it's none of your business," she snapped.

  Zeke grinned knowingly. "No, then," he said smugly. "I didn't think so. Hell, you've probably never been kissed, either, have you?"

  "I've been kissed plenty," Ariel retorted, forgetting she was quoting words someone else had written for her.

  "Yeah, I'll bet," Zeke sneered. "By some sweaty-palmed, pimply-faced high school jock who slobbered all over you like an eager puppy, right?"

  "I've been out with college boys, too."

  He tsked and shook his head, as if the information disappointed him. "You ever been out with a man, Laura?" he asked and drew her closer to his body, so that the outside of her thighs brushed against the inside of his.

  Ariel stiffened her spine and tried not to melt against him until the script called for it.

  "A man who'd know how to kiss you without mashing your lips against your teeth?" he murmured and touched his warm lips, oh so lightly, to the corner of her mouth. "A man who'd know just how to touch you—" he ran his hands up her sides, lightly, stopping just short of her breasts "—and where, so you'd beg him to touch you some more? A man who'd treat you like a woman—" his fingers tightened and he pulled her closer, so that her breasts touched his chest"—instead of a spoiled little rich girl?"

  It took Ariel a second or two to remember her line. "I'm not a spoiled anything," she said breathlessly.

  "Yes, you are." He ran one hand up under the heavy sheaf of her hair to the back of her neck and pulled her even closer. So close that his lips brushed against hers as he spoke. "You're a spoiled, self-centered little bitch," he said, making it sound like the sweetest endearment. And then he opened his mouth over hers.

  Ariel forgot all about the script. And the cameras. And the technicians who were watching them. She forgot everything except that she was being kissed within an inch of her life—for the first time in her life—by someone who knew exactly how it was supposed to be done. She sank against him with a soft murmur of approval and acceptance, letting her head fall back under the onslaught of his mouth. She tightened her grip on his bare shoulders, curving her fingers into the sleek, hard muscles beneath them. And when he drew back to speak his next line, she leaned into him and lifted her lips, seeking another kiss.

  It was exactly what Hans Ostfield had directed her to do, a flawless depiction of a young woman's reaction to her first taste of temptation. But Ariel wasn't acting. She was reacting, responding instinctively to the man who held her—and to her own pounding blood.

  "Come for a ride with me," Zeke murmured. "We'll go swimming at that beach over on the west side of the lake I told you about." He nuzzled her mouth with his, not quite giving her the kiss she craved. "Cool off."

  Swimming? Cool off? Ariel tried to think. "I..." What was the line she was supposed to say? "I..."

  "Think how good the water will feel," Zeke said, not waiting for her to remember. Stepping all over her lines. "All cool and silky against your skin." He pressed another teasing kiss to her lips, silently coaxing her to say yes.

  She was just on the verge of it, just on the end of forgetting all the reasons why she shouldn't even be with him now, let alone go swimming at some secluded beach with him. He was arrogant and oversexed and...

  "Come with me, Laura."

  Laura?

  Ariel's heated little fantasy burst like a bubble. Zeke wasn't holding her, kissing her, trying to coax her into giving in to temptation. It was Judd holding Laura; Judd kissing Laura; Judd whispering sweet tempting words that had been written by someone else for him to say to Laura.

  Ariel felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She stiffened in Zeke's arms.

  He tightened his hold on her. "Come with me," he said again.

  "I... I don't have my bathing suit," Ariel stammered, belatedly remembering her line.

  "That's all right. I won't look. I promise. I'll turn my back until you're in the water." He kissed the corner of her mouth again. "Say yes, Laura."

  "I..." She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the courage to see the scene through when all she wanted to do was run and hide. "Yes," she said and pressed her lips to his, playing it exactly as it had been written in the script.

  She held the final kiss like the trooper she was, her arms around Zeke's neck, her breasts flattened against his chest, her nerves screaming with tension and embarrassment, waiting for the director's indication that he'd gotten everything he wanted from the scene. It seemed to be taking forever.

  "And... cut," Hans said, finally. "Print it."

  Zeke stood up and thrust her away from him with his hands at her waist. "For Crissake, Princess, next time try to remember your lines," he snarled, and brushed past her as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

  Ariel stood there for a shocked moment, blinking back hot, confused tears and hoping no one had
noticed. Not his inexplicable rudeness, nor her own brief, embarrassing lapse into the fantasy they'd been creating for the camera.

  * * *

  They'd filmed the love scene at the lake less than a month later, in the man-made pond on one of the studio's back lots. It had gone much more smoothly, with no forgotten lines and no embarrassment except for what an eighteen-year-old girl might normally be expected to feel at being asked to surrender the top of her bathing suit once she'd gotten into the water with a film crew as witnesses.

  It would look better for the cameras, Hans had said, enhancing the illusion that Laura had succumbed to Judd's blandishments and was swimming naked. She'd hesitated at first but the water was murky and no one would really see anything—and Zeke had challenged her by taking his trunks off underwater and flinging them onto the shore.

  After the first three takes, Ariel almost forgot she was topless beneath the water. She played the scene over and over, as many times as Hans asked her to, beautifully. She was shy and giggly one minute, bold and flirtatious the next, as Laura and Judd played a teasing game of sexual retreat and advance. And when it came time for her to surrender herself to his embrace, she went easily, naturally, into his arms, letting him press her bare breasts to his chest, his bare belly to hers, while he cupped her head in his hands and kissed her senseless. She remembered feeling his erection, pressed against her stomach under the water, but there was no fear, no maidenly shock or revulsion. They were lovers by then, and she was used to his hands and his mouth and the feel of his lean hard body. Used to the heat they created in her....

  * * *

  Ariel rolled over in the water with a low moan, feeling that heat again—still!—and dived toward the bottom of the pool in an effort to alleviate it. But the coolness she sought was just an illusion, temporary at best, and the heat inside her was soul deep. She swam to the edge of the pool and levered herself out of the water in one smooth motion.

  There was only one way to deal with the pain and the memories, to dissipate the heat. Work. Hard work and lots of it. Maybe it was time to take a long, serious look at one of those movie scripts her agent was always trying to tempt her with. Or maybe she'd see how much clout she really had with the studio heads and suggest the idea for a documentary-style series on women entrepreneurs she'd been thinking about; they'd been trying to entice her to come back to prime-time TV ever since she'd walked away from Maggie and Me in its sixth successful season.