He blinked—at my touch or my words, I couldn’t tell which—and the spell was broken. He stepped back and looked away, so I turned and slipped through the trailer door, eager to escape the inexplicable primal atmosphere suffocating the small space.
As I rushed away, I wasn’t sure whether to categorize my response as fight or flight. But one thing was for certain: Marc Romero had the power to cause a serious adrenaline rush.
Chapter 4
I rapped on Chloe’s trailer door, ignoring the sting to my knuckles.
Chloe appeared a few seconds later and her greeting smile was immediately replaced with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?”
She nodded, so I climbed into the trailer and made my way unsteadily over to the sitting area.
“You don’t look well, Lena. Is everything OK?”
I shook my head and held up a hand while I took a few fortifying breaths. I’d just had a heated discussion with Tania, who wouldn’t even consider raising the issue of Marc with the production manager or producers. Apparently the arrangement was a done deal and if I didn’t agree to go along with it, I’d be in breach of my contract. When I’d raised the fact that Marc hadn’t been stipulated in the contract I’d signed, she’d highlighted a clause that dealt with keeping the cast and crew safe. If I wanted Marc to go away, the only way to do that would be to break my contract—and that meant not starring in this film.
Chloe sat down opposite and waited for me to speak. She wore a deep blue shift dress, short like mine. It was made from thick linen and the color set off her auburn hair, which had been styled into a neat bob. If I weren’t so distressed I would have smiled at our 1960s outfits.
“Marc Romero.”
Chloe frowned. “What about him? I saw him briefly earlier but he seems to be keeping out of your way.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“What?”
I held up a hand again. “Sorry. That came out wrong. He’s pretending to be my boyfriend.”
“Why? Don’t take this the wrong way, Lena, but he could get any woman he wanted. I don’t think he needs to pretend.”
I sighed. Chloe was young and I wasn’t doing a very good job explaining. “I’ll start again . . .” I did my best to outline the situation to her, including production’s stance on the arrangement.
“Let me get this straight,” she said when I was done. “He’s not just pretending to be your boyfriend while we’re on-set? He’s going to go places with you? Like to premieres and stuff? So the whole world is supposed to think you’re in love?”
I winced a little at the rapid-fire questions. It sounded even worse when she said it out loud. “Yes. Until he finds the person responsible or until we finish filming, whichever comes first.”
Chloe leaned back in her seat, looking thoughtful. “Damn. Why can’t he pretend to be my boyfriend?”
I shot her a sharp look.
She grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I can think of worse guys to be your pretend boyfriend, that’s all.”
“I can’t.”
“He’ll look good on camera,” Chloe pointed out helpfully.
“Oh my God.” I leaned on the table and put my head in my hands. “There’ll be interviews. This is a disaster.”
“You’ll have to come up with a story about how you met,” suggested Chloe. “And how you fell in love.”
I groaned. It was either that or cry. “It’s bad enough I’m just getting over my disastrous marriage, now I’ve got to deal with this.”
“Your marriage wasn’t a disaster, Lena.”
She was right. My marriage to Duncan Moore, a Hollywood producer twenty-five years my senior, hadn’t been a disaster—at least not initially. Despite derogatory coverage in the media that Duncan was a cradle snatcher and I was an ambitious young actress trying to take advantage of him, our marriage had lasted five years. We’d been happy and in love, until I’d worked out Duncan’s love for me was grounded more in Hollywood than me as a person. But I wasn’t going to think about it at the moment. I had Marc to worry about now.
“I know,” I told her. “But this is a disaster. You and the producers are the only ones who know Marc’s real identity and they want us to keep it that way.”
“So what’s your boyfriend’s name then?”
“Nathan.”
“Nathan?” Chloe frowned. “Nope. Doesn’t suit him.”
“I’m not certain he can act either, which could be a serious problem.”
“You never know. Didn’t he do undercover work before becoming a security specialist?” she asked.
I straightened in my seat. “You know, I actually have no idea.” It was the first time I’d realized Marc knew practically everything about me whereas I knew almost nothing about him.
“Or maybe I heard he used to be a detective or something,” she pondered. “I can’t remember.”
“I don’t know. I guess I should find out.” I gave her a pained look. “Seeing as he’s my boyfriend.”
Chloe giggled. “You might even have to kiss him in public.” I must have paled because she put her hand on my arm. “It could be worse.”
“I know I’m the older and more experienced one and therefore should have more perspective, but I’m really not sure I see the bright side.”
Chloe grinned. “You never know . . . he could be a good kisser.”
*
I managed to get through the rest of the day on-set avoiding Marc to the best of my abilities. As much as that was possible when a person was your boyfriend, anyway.
We hardly spoke on the return journey in the car later that night, which was a blessing. I was exhausted and not up to our usual adversarial banter. It had been a sixteen-hour day all up, and there’d be plenty more of those in the coming weeks. The schedule of a feature film could be punishing and bordered on insane when you considered things from a logical point of view. From a creative perspective, I understood it though. When I was in character, I lived and breathed the story, so I didn’t really mind. Plus I’d get a few days off here and there because I wasn’t in every scene.
If I’d thought Marc had a sensitive bone in his body I would have suggested he was giving me my space, but he was more likely working through the details of the case. Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less and left him to muse.
When we pulled up at the gates to my house, I moved to get out of the car, but he grabbed my arm.
“This is a full-service investigation, so stay where you are.”
I was too tired to argue so we waited while the gates opened, then drove through. When we arrived at the front porch, I reached around to retrieve my bag from the back seat. By the time I’d done that, Marc was already out of the car and opening my door.
I got out of the car, careful to avoid eye contact. I was still annoyed at Marc’s and the production team’s underhanded methods of ensuring my personal safety, but I was too tired to start a fight.
As I went to walk past him, he reached out and squeezed my hand. “Goodnight, Princess. Or should that be sweetheart?”
I glared at him and batted his hand away, determined not to say anything.
“Or babe? Would that be better?”
I stomped up the front steps a little louder than I had intended, but still said nothing.
“Doll? How about doll?”
I could hear laughter in his voice and it made me want to respond with something particularly rude, but I restrained myself.
“No? Alright. Have it your way, Princess. I’ll be here again tomorrow at six am.”
I opened the front door and stepped inside.
“What? No goodnight kiss?”
To this day, I swear a breeze caught the door and it slipped from my fingers, slamming shut loudly.
Chapter 5
It was mornings like this that reminded me why I loved living in California.
I’d moved around a lot as a child, but I’d always enjoyed the West Coast the best. Standing on the
sand, with the water lapping at my feet and the sun warming my back, I gave thanks for my choice of career. Today this beach was my office.
Of course, it wasn’t all glamorous. When I’d modeled in my late teens and early twenties, I’d been subjected to an extensive range of extreme weather when shooting outdoors. Gale force winds had required entire cans of hairspray to tame my elaborate hairstyles, as well as regular breaks to warm up because goosebumps were never a good look for a fashion model.
Today the conditions were perfect. A light breeze carried the scent of the salt, and the early autumn morning was already warm. It was just as well. My cute little blue and white 1960s bikini certainly wasn’t providing much coverage.
“Lena can you go stand over there?” Neil, our DP, pointed to a massive rock, trying to get an idea of how the natural light would work in our next shot.
El Matador State Beach on the Malibu coast was known for its craggy outcroppings and the rocks were a feature of the cove. The largest of them had a series of small arches created by the constant pounding of the sea over many thousands of years.
I moved to the spot Neil had indicated. I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun, which was climbing above the steep clay slopes towering over us. The crew rushed up and down the series of weather-beaten stairs and dirt paths etched into the hillside, busy setting up.
At the top of the cliff lay a small parking lot, which our production team had taken over. There was so little room that some of our convoy had parked by the side of the Pacific Coast Highway, and security had cordoned off the entrance to the lot from the public.
That hadn’t stopped Marc, of course. He was down on the sand with a small group of extras, whose job was to look like other beachgoers while Ben and I filmed the next scene. It was the point in the story where Jean falls for Toby, and the location of their first kiss.
Marc’s presence was upsetting on a number of levels, most of all because he didn't really need to be this close. There was no risk of anything happening to me in this sort of environment. If he thought carrying on the charade of being one of the extras was necessary, it wasn’t. It was just annoying.
I needed to focus and fully immerse myself in Jean’s character, instead of worrying about him brooding on the sidelines. From a distance, it looked as though he wasn’t really engaging with the other extras. They were chatting among themselves, but Mr. Personality stood to one side—no surprises there. All the male extras were wearing super tight 1960s shorts common to that era, except for Marc. He wore a casual pair of tan chinos, and I suspected wardrobe hadn’t had much luck convincing him to wear the shorts. For which I was eternally grateful. The last thing I needed right now was to be confronted with Marc’s bare legs. It was difficult to take one’s security specialist seriously when he was half-naked.
The fact that I only wore a bikini didn’t bother me in the slightest. I’d been a model for enough years to dispense with self-consciousness, and besides, Marc had barely given me a second glance since we’d arrived. He was too busy trying to remain inconspicuous.
“Lena, Ben, places please.”
Ben arrived at my side and grabbed my hand, his enthusiasm like that of an eager puppy. He pulled me close so the bare skin on our thighs touched.
I glanced over at him and smiled. The intimacy between us came easily. The hardest part of this scene would be transforming that affection into something more sexual. He looked gorgeous in his blue shorts and with his bare tanned chest. I didn’t doubt the women watching the film would be captivated by his sweet brand of sexiness. Beside him, I looked pale, but I knew my fair skin gave me a sort of innocence that would play well into this scene.
It was another few minutes before Manning was satisfied. When we received our cue, we started walking hand in hand along the water’s edge.
I listened to Toby as he talked about his childhood—lies or truth, Jean and the viewers would never know. The lines flowed smoothly between us, our instinctive rhythm a sign we were working well together and that there would be strong on-screen chemistry. I knew the crew felt it too. They could sense this pivotal moment between Toby and Jean would set the tone for whether the movie would be a success or a failure.
The sunlight caught Toby’s bright blue eyes and he stepped closer, his focus entirely on me. Jean was the center of his world, or at least that’s what she believed, and she was about to make a choice that would change her life forever.
I gazed at Toby, my expression a mixture of uncertainty and longing, as I attempted to resist my feelings. I cast a glance over my shoulder, knowing it was my final chance to escape. Soon the attraction that was drawing us together would come to a head, but for now, I would make the viewers believe Jean had a choice.
“I can’t resist you, ma’am,” Toby breathed, captivated by Jean’s beauty. “I don’t want to.”
I paused before my next line, which was cemented in my mind: It’s Jean. And you don’t have to. You can have me.
I cast one last desperate glance over my shoulder, then went to say the words that would change their lives—but they got stuck in my throat when I saw the extra striding past. A bolt of surprise jerked through me, hot and sharp, when I recognized who it was.
Two tanned, olive legs sauntered past, powerful yet graceful, a dusting of dark hair covering them. And that ass. Oh my God, that ass. It was the sort of perfection that made women want to stop in the street and do something politically incorrect like cup its firm roundness and croon, “Oh, yes.” Above that, a sculpted back and shoulders finished the picture, muscular and broad. I imagined gripping onto those sturdy shoulders and . . .
I let out a strangled cry.
“Cut!”
Toby’s character dissolved in an instant and Ben shot me a confused look. His back had been to Marc, so thankfully he hadn’t witnessed the reason for my unusual behavior.
I slapped my hand to my mouth in horror. Oh my God, what had I done?
Surprised murmurings erupted from the cast and I quickly turned away. I could feel myself going red with embarrassment so I took a few long strides until the water covered my ankles and toes. Anything to cool me down.
“Lena? Are you alright? What happened?”
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I coughed at the dryness in my throat.
“Lena?”
I finally met Ben’s concerned eyes.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Would you believe a bug got caught in my throat?” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“A bug?”
“Yes.” I patted my chest for good effect and coughed again. At least my voice sounded husky. “It flew right into my mouth when I went to speak my line. I’m so sorry. That was a great take too.”
Ben blinked, then shrugged. “That’s OK. We can do it again.”
I nodded then gave him an apologetic smile. “Would you mind getting me a drink of water? It still feels like it’s caught in my throat.”
“Sure.” Ben bounded off to find one of the runners, only too willing to help.
I kept my back to the crew continuing my metered breathing in the hope it would slow my heart down.
“Lena?”
I cringed at Manning’s voice, then forced myself to turn around.
His gray eyes were thoughtful. “Would you like me to have him removed?”
“Who?”
His mouth curved. “Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my—”
Manning held up a hand, his eyebrows raised. “Oh? Either way, I think it might be best.”
I didn’t bother to protest again. There was no point. Manning was one of the few people privy to the security arrangement. “Yes, please.”
He nodded and walked away, obviously having the maturity and professionalism I currently lacked.
Oh my God, Lena, I admonished myself silently. Get a grip, will you? It’s not like I hadn’t seen attractive, half-naked men before. I’d acted in movies and posed for cameras with plenty of men far more n
aked than that.
I crossed my arms across my bare stomach. I suddenly felt very exposed and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
If nakedness wasn’t an issue for me, then I had to ask myself: what was it about Marc Romero that reduced me to an incoherent hot mess?
Chapter 6
Somehow I got through the rest of the day’s filming. There were several scenes shot on the beach, including a particularly heated kissing scene between Ben and me. Thankfully, Manning was true to his word and Marc was nowhere in sight. I was probably imagining it, but I felt like I was being watched—which was an extremely silly way to feel given all the crew were doing exactly that. I couldn’t have cared less about them. It was Marc’s attention that unsettled me. Although I couldn’t see him, I wondered if he was skulking in the shadows somewhere, keeping an eye on me.
By the time we were done, the sun was low in the sky and I felt like I’d had enough UV exposure and salt air for one day. I joined the crew and climbed up the steep stairs to the parking lot, listening to their conversations without participating.
When we reached the top I saw Marc waiting for me with his back to the dark nondescript sedan he drove. He pushed away from the door and walked toward me. He stopped when he saw me hesitate and shoved his hands into the pockets of the leather jacket he wore.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned back in the direction I’d come from.
Manning’s blue eyes appeared concerned. “Are you OK?”
Resisting the urge to glance behind me, I nodded.
Manning dropped his hand. “I know this . . . arrangement is unusual, but we’re worried about you, Lena.”
I grimaced. “I know.” I wasn’t angry or upset with Manning. It was the production company that had made the decision, not him. “I guess it would be nice not to have to act all the time, that’s all.”
He sighed. “Yes, I know, but I’m told he’s the best.”
Heartbreaker (Hollywood Hearts Book 2) Page 3