Pulling off the highway and onto the road that led to the movie location, Mitch began to hum a melody, something he was working on for Jesse. Once inside the trailer, he went on humming while he unloaded the groceries he’d bought.
As he took the items out of the sack, he thought of Molly. The food he’d bought would have her crying foul. He had, of course, smoked a cigarette or two on his way back from Stanton, but Molly wouldn’t know that he’d cheated while she’d stayed on her diet. He’d quit for real tomorrow.
He was just melting butter in a saucepan, its aroma wafting deliciously, when Molly entered the trailer and wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, stalking toward him and glaring. Now he was sliding the makings of a grilled cheese sandwich into the saucepan of melted butter with a nonchalant flourish.
“Unless I’m real mistaken, I believe I’m making myself a grilled cheese sandwich.” He lifted the sizzling pan, wafting the pungent aroma under her nose. “Would you like one, too?”
“You’re cheating,” she accused, pushing the offering away.
“What?” he asked. Had he left a cigarette butt somewhere?
“Are you nuts? You can’t cook stuff like that while I’m trying to diet off ten pounds,” she said, reaching to turn off the stove. “It isn’t fair, and you well know it. All you’re trying to do is sabotage my diet, so you can prove your ridiculous concept that men are more determined to accomplish their goals than women.”
Ignoring her snit, he turned the stove back on.
“You’re the one with the ridiculous concept. I can, of course, cook whatever I want. Just because you’re on a diet, it doesn’t mean I have to be on one, too. I’m the one who has to quit smoking, remember?” His quiet, sensible words were followed by a sexy grin. “You do know what that means, don’t you, Molly?”
“What?” she snapped.
“It means, Red, that I shall have to find something to do with my oral fixation….”
Mitch saw her flush beneath the freckles on the bridge of her nose. He knew it annoyed the hell out of her that he had the ability to make her flush at all. And he was fairly certain she wasn’t used to anyone having that sort of control over her. Molly Hill was the sort of young woman who liked to have the last word—not to be left speechless.
Molly didn’t respond to his suggestion and turned to rummage in the refrigerator.
Watching her, he wondered what it would be like to leave her speechless in bed. On second thought, he decided he’d rather have her making wild, throaty sounds as he brought her to satisfaction. He raised an eyebrow at the idea. It was strange how she kept creeping into his head at the oddest moments.
At this moment, studying her backside, covered in second-skin, Lycra leggings trimmed with lace, he had a compelling urge to stroke it. To pull her back against him and nestle her against his sex.
What would she do if he acted on his impulse?
Their earlier conversation about independent women came back to him. Now that would be a change! A woman who didn’t expect him to be Mitch Marlow, movie star. A woman who maybe wanted him and not his celluloid image.
He smiled, relishing the idea. Just for once, he would welcome the chance to lie back and simply enjoy. He could really go for Molly using his body as her own, personal playground.
Molly had been right. Kathleen Turner was his type of woman. Perhaps he’d been wrong to claim not to be a thrill seeker. Maybe the kind of thrill that fired his engines was the idea of having his agent really on top of things….
Molly turned from the small refrigerator, empty-handed. “I guess I’ll eat the catered meal with the crew. I don’t see why you can’t, as well.”
“Because I have special tastes,” Mitch said, resisting the urge to laugh at how that sounded.
She frowned at him.
“Well, it was you who said I’m spoiled.”
“Great. What am I supposed to do, then, while you’re in the trailer, cooking all this mouth-watering food? Will you please tell me that?” she asked crossly.
“Oh, I’ve thought of that one, too,” he answered, all too accommodatingly. Reaching into the grocery sack, he brought out the remaining contents; a bag of carrots and another of celery.
She took them from him, telling him beneath her breath what he could do with them. Tossing the plastic bags onto the counter, she turned back to him with a bright smile. “Tell you what,” she said as he slid his grilled sandwich onto a plate. “You’re such a damn fine cook, why don’t you be a prince and do these up into sticks for me?”
He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and picked up the vegetables along with her challenge. “Sure thing, Red. Hey, I can be a nineties sort of man. No problem.”
He knew that he was making her very nervous and was glad. While he quite liked her self-confidence, if he got her all disconcerted, he might yet tumble her into bed.
He took a bite of his grilled sandwich and finished up the carrot and celery sticks. The rain was doing its job in their dance of seduction. Its steady assault was inching up the frustration level, degree by degree.
For the moment he was content to let Molly pretend there was no electricity between them. Sooner or later he’d bed her hot body.
And then he really thought about it—thought about how difficult she could be.
Molly Hill … he must be suicidal!
“HELLO, MR. KETTERIDGE,” Molly said, munching on a carrot stick.
“Do you know who Robert Abernathy is? Do you?”
Molly winced and took the phone away from her ear.
Mitch grinned, able to hear Peter’s outrage from across the room.
Molly waited for Peter to vent his rage. He was on another one of his tears. His yelling didn’t really mean anything. She knew it intimidated a lot of people, but it didn’t faze her. She knew it was only part and parcel of his expansive personality. He could yell a never-ending stream of orders and then give an agent trainee tickets to a coveted event plus a free dinner.
She also knew tenacity and determination to get what you wanted were the qualities that made a good agent. They were what got you the beach house, the sports car, the prestige and the power. In a word, the success she wanted. She could learn a lot from Peter Ketteridge, and she was smart enough to know it.
Smart enough to know, too, that Hollywood had changed.
In the past the studio heads, movie stars and the producers had been the ones who held the reins of power, but no more. In the new Hollywood the power had shifted into the hands of agents. Today they packaged movies, made the money deals and controlled the careers of their clients.
Moving gingerly, Molly put the phone back to her ear and answered Peter’s question.
“Yes, Robert Abernathy was the therapist I put on your Rolodex. Right?”
“Right. And I went to see him at your suggestion.”
“If you went to see a therapist, why aren’t you more relaxed?”
“I’ll tell you why, Ms. Hill. It’s because Robert Abernathy is a hydrotherapist, that’s freaking why!” Peter yelled.
“But I still don’t understand, Mr. Ketteridge,” Molly said. “I’ve never heard of a hydrotherapist.
“They put the water where? You’re kidding,” she said when he told her.
“No, I’m not kidding. This is L.A. I don’t want you putting any names on my Rolodex without checking with me first, especially ones my mother gives you. Understand?”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I take it Mr. Abernathy was your mother’s idea.”
“Yes, he was another of her finds,” Peter said dryly. “Listen, you have any idea what could have happened to the Forster contract?”
“Isn’t in the file?”
“No. Do you remember reading it?”
“Yes.”
“Is Mitch there?” Peter asked.
“Yes.” Molly handed over the phone.
&nbs
p; “Planet Hollywood wants to display the bike the studio gave you from Dangerous in the restaurant. What do you think?” Peter asked.
“Sure, they can display it. I’m not planning on riding it anymore.”
“You’re not?” Peter asked, his surprise audible. “Why?”
“Oh, I’m thinking of becoming a more responsible person. I know how happy that would make you, Peter.”
“I hope that’s Ms. Hill’s influence.”
“Yeah, you could say it’s Molly’s influence.”
“Still, I hear the film is going over budget….”
“Yes, I know the film is going over budget, Peter. It’s still raining, so they can’t shoot. I don’t think there’s anyone you can take a meeting with about the rain. You have to learn to chill out, Peter. Why don’t you try getting a personal trainer or something to work out the kinks?”
“I’m fine. It’s you that needs taking care of. You tell Molly to call me as soon as shooting starts.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll have Molly call you. But Peter, I got to tell you,” Mitch said, looking at Molly. “They’re bringing in chimps and parrots by the truckload. I think they may be relocating the rain forest.”
He stared at the phone. “He hung up on me! The guy has no sense of humor! But then, I don’t imagine I would, either, after six high colonics.”
THEY COLLAPSED TOGETHER onto the sofa. The trailer, though lushly appointed, was really too small for two strangers to have their separate space. And so they were constantly in each other’s. The occasional brushing touch was inevitable.
Now they were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, fitting together in an intimate and familiar way.
“Hello, Red.” His voice was whisper sexy, acknowledging their closeness, acknowledging her femaleness.
Molly turned her head and thought she saw simmering, sexual desire. She caught her breath.
No. He’s an actor, she reminded herself. This is all a game to him. He can make me see whatever he wants. Most especially when it’s what I already want to see.
She jumped from the sofa, picking up the dishes and glasses from dinner and carrying them into the kitchenette.
Mitch didn’t comment. Instead he asked her to bring his guitar while she was up, pleading his still tender ankle.
Feeling like a skittish schoolgirl, she brought it to him.
Still disturbed by the sensual feelings Mitch aroused in her, Molly busied herself cleaning up the kitchenette, while he began to strum the guitar, tuning it. The rich, seductive sound of his voice began to crawl over her body; he was singing the words to the new ballad he was working on for Jesse.
His singing further unnerved her when she focused on the lyric and found herself caught up by the words of love. She closed her eyes, allowing images of the two of them in a romantic setting to surface.
You’ve gotta snap out of it, she told herself, blinking her eyes open when she realized what she was doing. One thing was clear; cabin fever, plain and sensual, had set in.
Finishing in the kitchenette, she faced Mitch.
“Would you mind terribly not doing that right now?” she asked.
“You don’t like it?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“It still needs some work,” he said with a shrug, setting aside the guitar. “Speaking of work, I have a job for you, if you’ll do it.”
“Me?”
He nodded. “I need someone to rim my lines with me. I’m having some trouble getting them down.”
“I don’t know….”
“Well, if you’d rather I ask Heather…”
“Where is Heather? I haven’t seen her hanging around here lately.”
“I think her nose is out of joint, since you aced her out as my woman….”
“Your what!”
“Well, I could ask her, if you’d prefer.”
“No. I’ll read lines with you,” Molly said, resigning herself to the task.
While he went to the closet to get copies of the script, she tried to prepare herself for a long night. Still, she was so nervous and jumpy that a sudden clap of thunder made her scream.
Mitch came running. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Molly answered, embarrassed. “I saw a bug or a …mouse or something, but it’s okay now. It’s gone.”
“A bug or a mouse? Musta been some bug.”
“Do you have the script?” she asked. When had she become a dithering idiot? Did sexy, gorgeous Mitch Marlow make all women act like idiots? Or was it just her?
“Got ‘em,” he said, holding up the scripts. “One for each of us.”
“Where do we start?” she asked, taking one from him.
“Page fifty.”
Molly flipped through the script.
“Then take off your gown,” Mitch read.
The way he said it made Molly want to do it. Except she wasn’t wearing a gown, and she certainly wasn’t acting out any love scene with him. But something about his words sounded familiar. Then she recalled the dream she’d had while reading the script—the dream in which she had played the starring role….
“Mitch.”
“That’s not your line. Your line is ‘What?’ Go ahead, read it.”
Oh, hell! He wasn’t going to give up. The only thing to do was to get it over as quickly as possible and not to let him see her sweat, as the commercials said.
“Molly … ?”
“Okay, okay. What?” she read.
“You heard me. I said, take off your gown. I want you to scrub my back, and if you don’t want to completely ruin that pretty velvet, you’d best take it off.” Mitch lay back across the sofa.
“I’m not taking off anything.” Molly’s reading was perfectly in character.
“That was good,” Mitch commented.
He continued reading his part. “Do I have to get out of this tub and make you, miss?” He gave her his best, Clint Eastwood-stony stare.
“No!” Molly was surprised by the energy that came naturally with the line. “No. Okay. I’ll do it, but you have to promise to keep your head turned away.”
“I promise,” Mitch read, laughing wickedly on cue.
Searching for a prop, Molly grabbed a white dish towel and advanced toward him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, the perfect inflection in his voice as he watched Molly approach.
“Blindfolding you,” Molly said. “It’s in the script, remember.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Mitch objected.
“Uh-uh. If it’s in the script, we have to follow it,” Molly insisted, deciding it would be easier to read the love scene with him if he were blindfolded.
“How am I supposed to read my lines?” he wanted to know.
“Just a minute. I have a solution,” Molly said, disappearing and returning a minute later with a silk scarf. “We’ll use this. You can see through it, but it will still give you the feel of being blindfolded.”
“You just happened to have this?” Mitch inquired, looking at her. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Shut up.”
“Then I can’t say my lines.”
“Then read your lines, but nothing more.”
Mitch looked at his script and read his next line.
“You’re taking all the fun out of this.”
“Not for me,” she read.
“Pretend you’re undressing,” Mitch instructed.
“Use your imagination,” Molly countered.
“Good idea,” he said, way too agreeably. A provocative smile played at his lips, but he stayed in character, pretending he heard the seductive sounds of her undressing before him.
“Go on. Your line,” he prompted.
“Hand me the soap,” she read.
Mitch felt for the imaginary bar of soap on the sofa that had suddenly become his bathtub. Locating the soap, he held it out to her,
just beyond her reach.
Sighing, Molly stepped forward, reaching for the imaginary bar.
Mitch grabbed her hand, catching her off balance, and she fell onto the sofa with him.
“Pretend you hear the water splash,” he instructed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Molly sputtered.
“Exactly what you want me to, Red….” Mitch knew exactly what he was doing and he knew his lines. His blindfold didn’t hide her secrets from him, either. This little game had been a pretense to get her where he wanted her—where, in fact, he knew she wanted to be.
She didn’t remember what happened next. Her dream had been interrupted by Angie telling her about Mitch’s game of chicken.
Well, he was about to find out that chicken was a game anyone could play. It didn’t always have to involve racing cars. But it always involved taking risks.
Risks like those she was about to take.
Taking a deep breath, Molly decided to lay her career, her ego and her heart on the table.
9
“WOULD YOU EXCUSE ME for a moment?” Molly asked, levering herself out of Mitch’s arms.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Mitch wanted to know, looking like a kid who’d just dropped his ice-cream cone after only the first lick.
“I’ll be right back,” Molly assured him. “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.”
In the small bedroom she rummaged through her clothes, coming up with a long, white cotton sweater and a pair of fluffy, white cotton socks. Peeling off her Lycra leggings and matching paprika top, she pulled on the sweater and socks—nothing else. After running a brush through her tangled curls, she let the humidity have its way and went back to Mitch.
“So how comfortable did you get?” Mitch asked, reaching to remove his blindfold.
Molly stayed his hand.
“No. Leave the blindfold on.”
Mitch’s hand hesitated a few seconds, then returned to his side. “Ah, a bad girl, after all.”
Was she a bad girl? Molly didn’t know about that. But she did know that having Mitch see her through hazy silk gave her the confidence to go with her desire, to take control.
“I thought we’d talk,” Molly said, aiming to disconcert him.
Bad Attitude Page 9