The Burning Point

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Hard to overlook the endless series of yellow lined tablets you consumed in your trailer when on location," he said dryly. "You finished it?"

  "Done, and almost through preproduction." She'd buried herself in the project in a frantic attempt to hold pain at bay. Every penny she could spare had gone into setting up a production company to do the prep work. "I've got most of a cast and crew lined up, and a financing package put together. With a bankable star, I'll get the green light."

  "I presume this is where I come in."

  "Your signature on a letter of intent would secure all the financing I need," she said bluntly. "I hear your next movie has fallen through so you have the time free, and God knows you love to work." That had been one of the problems in their marriage. Despite his laidback appearance, Kenzie was a workaholic.

  "I doubt you can afford me. What's your budget for the film?"

  "The total budget is about half the salary you're getting for the movie you're shooting now." She rubbed damp palms on her skirt "Though I can't afford your usual price, I've built in a million dollars for salary, plus major profit participation. With even modest success, you'll do very well." A lot better than she would. "It won't hurt your market value to work on a little picture like this. People will know you're just helping your ex-wife out." Her voice turned sardonic. "That will enhance your nice guy image."

  "So I'll make money, and look like a gentleman," he said, unimpressed. "I don't need either, and the drawbacks of working with you greatly outweigh the advantages."

  She caught his gaze. "You're perfect for the part, Kenzie. And it's the kind that wins Oscars."

  Though he didn't move so much as an eyelash, she had his full attention. After a long silence, he said, "Let's talk about it in the gym. A couple of your exercise outfits are still down there."

  She was going to have to continue her pitch while doing leg lifts and bicep curls? Well, if that's what it took.... "Okay. I could use the workout."

  She left before he climbed from the bed, unable to bear the intimacy of seeing him casually naked. As she headed for the gym, she wondered for the thousandth time if they'd had a real marriage. At the time she'd felt close to him, despite the subjects undiscussed and the declarations unmade. They'd managed to get beyond die movie star thing.

  Yet even at their closest, she'd never truly understood Kenzie. He was as much a mystery to her now as when they'd met Even more so, perhaps.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Rainey had been jubilant when her agent called to ask her to read for the part of Marguerite St. Just in The Scarlet Pimpernel. Though she loved making small, quirky movies and had built a decent career with them, Pimpernel was the big-time: big budget, big names, and a rousing classic story.

  She immersed herself in the script for days before her audition, until she knew exactly who Marguerite was. She even booked sessions with a dialect coach to help her create an alluring French accent, and a movement coach to teach her to curtsy and dance in proper eighteenth-century style.

  As she arrived at the studio, one of Hollywood's hottest young female stars was leaving the audition room. Well, she hadn't expected the competition to be easy.

  As always on such occasions, the room was full of people evaluating her as if she were a slab of overdone steak. She recognized the film's director, two producers, a famous casting director, and half a dozen executive types.

  The director, Jim Gomolko, looked as if he'd bitten into something sour when he told her to go ahead with the test scene. But she'd come prepared. Dressed in a flowing dress with a period flavor, she curtsied gracefully to the executives, using her carefully practiced French accent as she thanked them for their kind consideration.

  An expressionless male assistant fed her lines as she performed the scene where Marguerite first meets Sir Percy. She began the scene coolly, for as the most acclaimed actress in Paris Marguerite was used to men wanting to bed her. She'd learned to keep admirers at a distance.

  Yet there was something about this Englishman, a hint of steel beneath his languid manners and wicked wit. As the scene progressed she gradually realized that this was a man of surprising depths and passions, one who could keep a woman intrigued....

  When she finished her reading, the executives were nodding approval. Gomolko said, "I want you to read again with someone else, Ms. Marlowe."

  One of the suits spoke into a cell phone and five minutes later Kenzie Scott ambled into the room. Rainey caught her breath, electrified. Though Scott was rumored to be on board for Pimpernel, her agent had told her the deal wasn't set yet.

  Rainey had kept her fingers crossed because she was a great admirer of Kenzie Scott's work. And--well, of his looks, too, she was only human. But even more, she respected his acting. Though she preferred his early work, before he'd become a major star, he brought depth and nuance to even the most macho action roles.

  He looked across the room at her as if she was the most fascinating, desirable woman he'd ever seen. Every cell in her body kicked into overdrive. Tall, dark, and charismatic, he was almost supernaturally handsome. He was often mentioned in the same breath with Cary Grant, and not only because of his chiseled features and the faint cleft in his chin. The real similarity lay in his easy, aristocratic British charm. On screen he could project strength, intelligence, wit, vulnerability--all at once if the role called for it. Those qualities were strikingly vivid in person.

  Kenzie bowed, a perfect Georgian gentleman despite his khakis and polo shirt. "Mademoiselle St. Just, your performance tonight was brilliant."

  With a pang of regret she realized that the admiration in those amazing green eyes was because he was in character. Since he was working from memory, she slid into Marguerite. Recklessly she tossed her script over her shoulder, pages fluttering to the floor while she prayed she'd remember her lines.

  She responded to Kenzie's dazzled Sir Percy by playing the scene ardently instead of the coolness of her first reading. They were from different nations, different ways of life. To a loyal daughter of France, this languid aristocrat was all she was taught to despise, while she was an actress, a woman to be bedded, not wed. Yet they both were caught up in a blazing attraction too powerful to deny, no matter how much it cost them.

  When they finished the scene, the executives were sitting upright in their chairs. One of the producers muttered, "Jesus, who knew she was so hot?

  Gomolko made a rueful face. "You were right, Kenzie, she's Marguerite. You've got your deal. Do you want the part, Ms. Marlowe?"

  "Yes!"

  "I'll contact your agent right away to work out the details."

  As she stammered her thanks, the room erupted with excited talk, leaving her and Kenzie in a small zone of privacy. Now that they weren't acting together, she felt shy with him. Reminding herself that soon they'd be rolling around on a mattress together, she asked, "What did Gomolko mean about the deal?"

  He smiled, tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. "I told him I wouldn't take the part unless you were cast as Marguerite."

  No wonder the director had regarded her with misgivings--he'd been afraid he might have to choose between the actor he wanted and an actress he didn't want. "Then I owe you quite a thank-you. Why did you want me in particular? We've never even met."

  "I've seen most of your work, and knew you were right for Marguerite."

  She groaned. "Please don't tell me you saw Biker Babes from Hell."

  He laughed. "That movie proved you could handle Marguerite's adventurous side. But I was already convinced. You should have won that Oscar for Home Free."

  She thought of the awards ceremony wistfully. Attending dressed to kill and not showing a shred of disappointment when she didn't win had been a major test of acting skill. "There was a strong field of nominees."

  "You were the best." He touched her hair with gossamer delicacy. "This red-gold is your natural color?"

  She shivered, a little breathless. "Yes, but usually I play drab, worthy brunettes."

&
nbsp; "The time has come for you to play a glamorous woman of the world, Raine."

  "People who know me well call me Rainey."

  He repeated that in his beautiful deep voice. He'd trained at RADA--the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London-- which gave him an unfair advantage, she thought dizzily. Earlier he'd been Sir Percy admiring Marguerite, but his expression now made it clear he hadn't insisted on her for this movie solely because of her acting.

  So be it. She'd attained success through discipline and unrelenting work, not wasting her time on high-profile affairs to get her name into the gossip columns. But a life without occasional recklessness wasn't worth living. Kenzie Scott was gorgeous, likable, and attraction crackled between them like a high-voltage current. If they had a fling, it would be by mutual choice.

  How much simpler life would have been if he'd only wanted an affair....

  Chapter 2

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Kenzie warmed up in the gym as Rainey changed in the dressing room. He was insane to listen to her proposal, but when she'd marched into his bedroom, cool as an ice queen, he'd been struck with such longing that he'd have agreed to anything to keep her there a little longer.

  He was on the elliptical cross-trainer when she joined him. Her lovely apricot hair tied back, she was dangerously attractive in a spangled green leotard and tights that revealed every inch of her slight, elegantly proportioned and toned figure.

  They'd shared countless exercise sessions in the last three years. An actor's body was a primary tool of expression and required relentless work to maintain. The grueling fitness regimen had been a lot more fun when Rainey shared the sessions, bantering, discussing the news of the day, and improving the scenery. Now and then discipline had gone out the window and they'd exerted themselves differently, teasing and laughing until they ended up in a sweaty, relaxed tangle of limbs.

  As she began her warm-up stretches, he said, 'Tell me about your movie."

  "It's based on an obscure Victorian novel that I fell in love with years ago." She bent over and placed her palms flat on the floor. "The Centurion was written by a fellow called George Sherbourne who'd been an army officer in strange comers of the British Empire. It was considered strong stuff when it was published, practically treasonous, so it never became well- known."

  "What's the book about?"

  'Torture, guilt, and despair. The high price of empire for the soldiers who do the dirty work in distant, dangerous places. The saving power of love."

  "What's the storyline?"

  She sat, then locked her hands around her ankles and laid her forehead on her knees for a slow stretch. "John Randall is a British Army captain in the 1870s. Your classical hero-- strong, absolutely sure of himself, a little arrogant. A decent fellow, but not exactly a deep thinker. On leave home, he falls in love with a young neighbor, Sarah Masterson. Since she's the prettiest girl around, naturally he feels he deserves her, while she's dazzled by him. They become engaged, and he promises to leave the army and take up life as a landed gentleman after one last campaign in North Africa."

  "Where do the torture, guilt, and despair come in?"

  Rainey stood and disappeared into the locker room, returning after a moment with a script. "You can read all about it here. The short answer is that Randall is captured by Arab rebels in an attack where all of his men are killed. He's beaten and abused, and is finally released, a broken man.

  "Ironically, England is looking for something to be happy about in the wreckage of a nasty little campaign that went badly, so he's given a hero's welcome when he returns home. As Randall is dying inside, he's lionized, presented to the queen, and generally treated like the greatest thing since sliced bread. No one wants to hear about what really happened, and besides, he can't bear to talk about it."

  Kenzie felt a chill of recognition. This was a character he could understand. "Presumably things get worse before they get better."

  Rainey lifted hand weights and started slow bicep curls. "He doesn't want to marry Sarah because he feels tainted and unworthy, but there's so much momentum behind their engagement that before he knows it he's standing at the altar.

  "The marriage starts disastrously, but even though Sarah is young and wildly naive, she's not stupid, and she truly loves him. Gradually she comes to understand what torments her husband, and her love pulls him back from the brink of destruction. At the end, she leaves everything she's ever known to accompany him to Australia so they can begin a new life in a place where there are fewer rules and family expectations."

  Frowning, Kenzie gazed out the window, where a famous neighbor walked along the sand with two golden retrievers. Though Rainey's project would be an interesting change of pace from his usual heroics, making a movie with her would be hell, and this particular story might cut too close to the bone. "You don't really need me. There are plenty of actors who could do the role well."

  "I had you in mind the whole time I was writing the screenplay. John Randall has a tremendous emotional range from arrogance to despair to hope, and I can't think of another actor who could do it as well." Her voice turned persuasive. "You'll get a chance to stretch acting muscles you haven't used in ages. You've been getting restless with all of these big budget thrillers. This is your chance to do something different, and knock a lot of critical socks off."

  His soon-to-be-ex-wife knew how to bait a hook. She was a great fan of his work, claiming that he made acting look so easy that it was always the people around him who won the awards. She might be right, and while he didn't need an Oscar, he was human enough to want to be considered good as well as successful. "Are you playing Sarah?"

  She shuddered theatrically. "No way. She needs to be painfully young and innocent. I was never that young."

  "Maybe not in your personal life, but you could play nineteen with the right lighting and makeup."

  "I've already got a terrific young English actress, Jane Stackpole, to play Sarah. I'll be plenty busy directing."

  "Directing is a popular ambition."

  Though his tone was neutral, she reacted vehemently, setting down her weights and stalking to the glass to stare out at the ocean. "When I was young, I wanted only to act. Now that I've done that for years, I want more. I want to tell my stories my way instead of being a puppet playing out someone else's vision. But you know how hard it is for a woman to get a chance to direct" A tremor, instantly suppressed, sounded in her voice. "I want to make this story, now, and to do that I need you."

  The rigid set of her shoulders showed how much it was costing her to ask for his help. "Who else is involved?" he asked.

  "Marcus Gordon will be the executive producer."

  "Impressive. If he's on board, you shouldn't have any trouble with financing."

  Her hands clenched. "He's always had a soft spot for me, but he's a businessman first Even though he thinks the script is terrific and that I can probably do a decent job of directing, he wants a bankable star like you to ensure that the movie at least breaks even."

  He studied her slim silhouette against the window, alarm bells going off in his head. Agreeing to this project would be a very, very bad idea. They'd rub against each other painfully every minute of every day. The odds were high that they'd end up in bed together again, which would mean another excruciating separation when shooting ended. He'd be tempted to forget common sense and try to get her back, while she'd probably want to strangle him, especially when he was making cinematic love to the toothsome young Sarah.

  But he couldn't resist Rainey. The fierce clarity of her will had attracted him from the moment he first saw her screen image. She had dreams and passions and the willingness to work to achieve them.

  He'd also worked hard, achieving great success in worldly terms, but he hadn't been building toward a goal like Rainey. He'd been running from life. He flowed while she burned. They were complementary personalities, and together they'd produced blistering, dangerous steam. He knew in his bones that they were better off apart, but th
at didn't prevent him from missing her like an amputated limb.

  The rationalizing part of his brain pointed out that even though making this movie was a terrible idea, there was no risk it would change their situation, since Rainey was resolved on divorce and nothing would change her mind. He'd be able to do one last project with her, and in the process help her achieve her dream of directing. If at the end he was crippled by sorrow--it wouldn't be that different from how he felt now. "Very well. I'll make your movie."

  She whirled to face him, startled. "Without even reading the script?'

  "I'm willing to trust you and Marcus Gordon that it's good." Wryly he paraphrased the words English judges had used when pronouncing the death sentence: "And may God have mercy on our souls."

  Book Excerpt

  from

  Twist of Fate

  Book 3 of the Circle of Friends Trilogy

  Prologue

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  He pushed away the remains of his last meal: shrimp Creole, corn bread, chocolate mousse cake, and single malt Scotch whiskey to wash it all down. He'd been liberal with the whiskey, wanting to dull the edge of his fear. He would die as he'd lived, with cold superiority.

  The guards arrived to take him to the execution chamber. He had come to know all the regulars on death row. None of them loved him--he'd made sure of that--but none of them looked happy about his last walk either. He hoped they'd have nightmares.

  It was only a few steps down the corridor to the place where legal murder was done. Face composed, he refused the offered comfort of a minister and scarcely glanced at the witnesses who had come to watch him die. He made a particular point of avoiding the gaze of the one family member present. No question about the nightmares there.

  The guards strapped him onto the gurney. It took effort, now, to act as if he didn't care.

  Three shots--the first for unconsciousness, the second to paralyze his breathing, the third to stop his heart. He flinched involuntarily as the first needle went in. Then the second stabbed...