Stripped

by Edie Harris

  When she’d removed as much as she could with the trimmer, she flicked it off and moved to the trailer sink to run a clean towel under warm water. Settling the towel over the lower half of his face, she massaged the bristles until they were damp, then squirted a dollop of Barbasol into her palm.

  She applied the lather to his cheeks, jaw, top lip, throat…and lingered. She shouldn’t have lingered, but the skin underneath the short bristles darkening his face was warm and inviting, and it had been so long since she’d touched a man’s face, intimately.

  It was that last word—intimately—that shook her from the illicit little stroll her mind had started taking and shocked her back into the present. The makeup chair wasn’t supposed to be intimate, it was supposed to be work. Where the hell was her professionalism today?

  Not that Declan seemed to notice, oblivious to the turmoil messing up her insides. She knew better than to give in to weakness where a man was concerned.

  She washed her hands, letting out a carefully controlled breath as she turned back to her workstation. All that yoga had to be worth something more than simply maintaining her flexibility. Zen. Be freaking Zen.

  The razor caught the light when she lifted it from the counter. Dark eyes widened. “Wait. Wait a sec. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way?”

  “Um. Yes?” She studied the razor, which she had to admit, could have doubled as a prop in Sweeney Todd. “I’ve done this before.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better, Fiona.”

  Her stomach fluttered when he said her name. “I promise not to slit your throat.”

  “Not helpin’.”

  “Just hold still.”

  “Famous last words,” he muttered mournfully, eyes squeezed shut. She had just lowered the blade to his neck when he shook his head. “Nope. Nope, can’t do it.”

  Scowling, she pulled the razor away. “Are you kidding?”

  “If you decapitate me, I’m gonna have a hard time doing this film. Can’t imagine them being happy with you if they had to recast again.”

  “I’m not…I wasn’t going to decapitate you.” This was her job. He might think she was a flake for not knowing about the whole Lunsford-drug-arrest situation, but that didn’t mean she went around slicing necks willy-nilly like a Dexter wannabe.

  He lifted his hands from under the drape and raised them pleadingly on either side of his head as he pinned her with an intense gaze. “O’ course not. But I’ve changed my mind on that whole ‘living dangerously’ thing. Can we, I dunno, not and use a safety razor, instead?”

  He looked so ridiculous sitting there, tired-eyed and lathered in white foam, hands by his ears as though she were holding him at gunpoint and demanding his wallet. Worst stickup ever. “It won’t be as close a shave.”

  “That’s kinda what I’m countin’ on, darlin’.”

  The laugh escaped her before she even realized she wanted to laugh, not at him but with him. He grinned through the shaving cream before lowering his hands to the arms of the chair. Actors Being Actors? Maybe. Or maybe he was simply a funny guy. A funny, nice guy.

  A funny, nice guy whom she needed to get cleaned up, more for her own peace of mind at this point than anything else. “You still want me to do it?” she asked, rummaging through the same plastic bin from which she’d pulled the electric trimmer until she found a fresh, old-school safety razor that would’ve done someone’s grandfather proud.

  “Yes.” Just yes, nothing else, and somehow that single syllable soothed the feathers he’d ruffled by accusing her of trying to kill him. Even though he couldn’t have been serious about that.

  It was the work of a minute to scrape the stiff bristles from his throat, cleaning the blade as she went. The underside of his jaw was quickly revealed with each quiet swipe of the razor. Her fingers under his chin urged him to present his right cheek, then, a few moments later, his left. Each gentle flick of her wrist removed a layer of camouflage, not only from him, but from herself.

  Intimacy. The word came to mind again, brilliant and dangerous, but everything in her rebelled against reacting. Three years ago, she’d made a choice about intimacy and decided that, rather like the whole concept of “fun,” her supply had run out. No bottomless well of it lived inside her.

  Alone was easier, safer.

  Using a fresh damp towel, she wiped the remaining lather from his face and neck. When she lifted the warm towel away, she wanted to smile, because there was so much about his face worth smiling over. “Aw, look at that. You’re kind of pretty, after all.” Cheeks pink, jaw sharp, eyes bright regardless of their dark circles of fatigue, Declan Murphy was…vibrant.

  No wonder he preferred the beard—without it, he was prettier than Christopher Lunsford.

  “Hush your mouth.” He adopted an affronted expression even as he poked a finger between her ribs, teasingly.

  Except that it didn’t feel like teasing when her lips parted and his hand curled into the bottom of her shirt. Not aggressive, not pulling, just holding on, and it did the strangest thing to her insides. “You struggle with physical boundaries, don’t you?” As evidenced by his thumb over her knuckles, his hand on her wrist, his face in her palm, and now…now this. Not touching her, per se, but with the excess fabric of her shirt caught in his fist, she was coaxed closer.

  Her pulse sped up when her knees bumped his.

  He slowly shook his head. “Not usually.” His hold on the chambray loosened, fingertips barely skimming the hidden curve of her hip. “But I think I want to misbehave.”

  Nibbling at her bottom lip, she allowed their knees to touch again. “Did I give you any indication I wanted you to make a pass?” Prickles of heat danced over the exposed skin of her wrists and forearms, made vulnerable by the rolled-back cuffs of her shirtsleeves.

  “No.” His hand passed over her hip once more, firmer now but making no demands.

  “Yet here you are, making a pass, anyway.”

  He froze, eyes darting over her face, studying, assessing. “Should I stop?”

  The prickles morphed into flames, flickering and low but flames nonetheless. The section of her brain that refused to bend to her need for control rolled around in the heat between them, like a puppy in a pile of leaves. “Would you, if I asked?”

  “Yes.” There was that yes again, an almost exotic sound from his lips. This one word carried so much weight that she suddenly felt crushed beneath it. Nothing simple about that yes, not how he said it, and certainly not how he meant it.

  Because he did mean it, she could tell. “Why?”

  “Why would I stop?” Frowning, he dropped his hand.

  She caught his wrist, her grip too tight, but she was helpless to relax her fingers. He didn’t seem to mind, his lips parting, an audible breath whooshing from between them. Of its own accord, her thumb found the underside of his wrist and decided to pay him back for that first touch, when he’d shaken her hand.

  Shaken her hand, and shaken her foundation. “Why are you making a pass at me?” she clarified, needing his answer. Actors Being Actors she could forgive, and lay down the ground rules for working together over the next few weeks. If this was real, however, if this zing lighting up her bloodstream was an actual thing, then she had some thinking to do. Though how it could possibly be a thing, she didn’t know, since she’d only met the man this morning.

  Stuff like this only happened in the movies.

  A flush, all too obvious thanks to his fair skin, spread over his cheeks. “Because I like your laugh.” Slowly, so as not to dislodge her hold, he twisted his wrist until he could grip her forearm. Blunt fingertips swept over sensitized skin, and she shivered. “Because,” he murmured as he tugged her closer, “I want to make you laugh again.”

  This was crazy. She was crazy. “I don’t feel like laughing now.”

  “Good. Neither do I.” He perched on the edge of the chair. She leaned down, until the puff of his breath buffeted her lips.

  Footsteps sounded behind he
r. “Fiona?”

  TWO

  Crap. The cavalry had arrived.

  She snatched a pair of tweezers from the counter, whipped back around, and plucked an errant hair from one of Declan’s eyebrows with a decisive yank. “There. That’s better.” As if his brows were her reason for standing so close.

  “Jesus,” he hissed—but, to his credit, he didn’t question why she’d done what she had, and dropped his hand from her hip before the others could see.

  Turning, she fixed the new arrivals to the hair-and-makeup trailer with a bright smile. “Look who finally decided to show up for work today.”

  “Be nice. I brought coffee.” Wes Jackson—with two Starbucks cups in hand—strode over and handed her one before wrapping his arm around her shoulders for a tight hug. “How are you doing?”

  Taking a moment to bury her face in the director’s shoulder, she breathed in her friend’s familiar scent. Coffee grounds, Big Red gum, and generic bar soap. Wes was a no-frills, no-fuss man, no doubt a result of his Texas roots, and Fiona had always appreciated him for exactly those qualities. He was a rock in an industry noted for its fickleness. “I’m fine.”

  “Couldn’t reach you yesterday,” he murmured against her temple. “Did you get my voicemail?”

  “Not until this morning,” she whispered before disengaging from Wes’s hold, raising the hot drink to her lips as she watched Declan unfold from the makeup chair. She couldn’t quite read the Irishman’s expression as he studied the two of them standing there.

  Wes extended his hand. “Declan, good to see you again, man.”

  “Likewise,” Declan returned with a smile, different from the smiles he’d given Fiona—all smooth around the edges, crinkles notably missing.

  “We’re glad you could be here on such short notice I know we caught you as you were traveling. You must be wiped.”

  “Cape Town to London to Chicago to L.A. That’s only, what, three planes?” His smile was friendly as he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Good thing I like flying.”

  Wes shook his head. “If we could’ve arranged the private plane, we would have. Sorry about that.”

  The drape still clipped to Declan flowed around him as he lifted his hand in a careless gesture. “No worries, seriously.” His gaze tracked the movement of the man behind Wes who had come over to wrap his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. “Introductions?”

  “Declan, this is Rick O’Brien, costume designer,” Wes said with a smile, indicating the man holding her, “and our Fiona’s father.”

  Rick was all geniality as he reached out a hand to shake Declan’s. “Good to meet you, Declan.”

  “You, too, Rick.”

  And this explained the calls from “Home” yesterday afternoon. Embarrassment soured the coffee on her tongue, and she carefully avoided her father’s gaze as the introductions continued. Paulie Michele was next, snow-white hair pulled sleekly back in a perfect queue, using both of his perfectly manicured hands to shake Declan’s one as he announced himself to be the head of hair and makeup. Then came Joanne Fallon from Production, a tiny middle-aged blonde in cargoes, fitted black tee, and brilliant purple scarf.

  “Go ahead and sit back down, Declan.” Wes took a drag from his coffee cup, gesturing to Fiona’s immediate supervisor. “All right, Paulie. Show Fi the game plan.” For all that he probably hadn’t slept in the past twenty-four hours, the director’s rugged face was alight with an excitement that had nothing to do with caffeine intake.

  Paulie produced a sketch from the leather binder tucked under his arm and moved to stand next to her. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to run, darling, but here’s the new sketch for Mr. Murphy here.” He pointed to various elements on the paper, explaining the changes in typical, quick-fire Paulie fashion. “Shorter hair, darker on the eyes, more of a slant to the brows.” The lead character in the Victorian-set Vendetta had a fairly menacing vibe, styled to reflect the seedier underbelly of his era combined with a deadly sort of sex appeal. “The pigment in the scar doesn’t have to be as strong, either, because he’s so fair-skinned.” After Paulie handed the sketch over to Fiona to tape to the mirror, he made his good-byes and exited the trailer, followed by Joanne.

  Wes turned to Declan. “I’m going to have Fiona cut your hair and do your face the best she can with what she has, knowing we’ll probably have to make a few changes before we start shooting on Friday. When she’s done, she’ll bring you over to Rick for costume fittings.” He checked the battered watch on his wrist. “We’ve got about an hour and a half before the light and sound crew show up, so let’s have him at Camera One no later than nine, okay?”

  “Got it,” Fiona responded, lifting her coffee cup in salute before setting it on the workstation counter.

  Wes winked at her and, with an encouraging wave from her father, the two men left her alone with Declan once more.

  She cleared her throat, hating the nerves frolicking in her stomach, like butterflies on acid. “So.”

  “So. Time for a haircut?” Declan grinned, and there were those crinkles again.

  Sexy crinkles, she thought, then shook herself. “You got it.”

  Sticking a pair of scissors in her back pocket, she moved behind him, focusing on the ebony curls she was about to send falling to the trailer floor. Her fingers tangled there, just above his nape, finding cool dampness at the roots left over from his morning shower. Without thinking, she glanced toward the mirror.

  Declan stared at her, their gazes meeting with a bang of invisible sensation that vibrated through her arms like a shockwave. The hands in his hair clenched of their own volition, and she watched as his lips parted and a pink flush washed over his fair cheeks. All at once, she wanted to apologize and back away, worry fighting with the idiotic attraction springing to life within her.

  I want to misbehave.

  Nope, not happening. She snagged the scissors and a comb and began cutting. Curl after silky curl drifted away, until she could see his nape, the shape of his ears. Short minutes later, what had once been a shaggy mess was now a more modern take on a Byronic crop.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  “Like it,” he confirmed, shaking his head to watch the shortened strands move against his scalp. He smiled again.

  He had to stop smiling at her. Needing a moment to repress her instinctive reaction to that smile, she finished the coffee that had gone mostly cold before starting in again. A brow trimmer tamed the most unruly aspects of his thick black brows, tweezers shaping the arches into something elegant yet still very masculine.

  “Quick thinking, by the way,” he murmured. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks for rolling with it.” A blast of air from an aerosol can on the counter cleared the stray strands lingering on his face and neck.

  “I’m an actor, darlin’. You probably could’ve slugged me, and I’d have gone along with it.”

  “Hitting you is the last thing I want to do.” Astringent cleaned the surface oils from his face, and soon he was looking up at her with an expression that seemed almost…expectant. Her skin prickled in awareness, but she turned her attention to the prosthetic on the counter, unwilling to let her mind drift to where his surely was.

  I want to misbehave.

  Based on measurements of Christopher Lunsford’s features, Fiona had created a mold and cast the fresh silicone scar on Saturday. That scar sat ready to go on the transfer-paper backing she’d prepared prior to Declan’s arrival in the trailer this morning. She lifted it, turned to him, and laid the scar precisely across his forehead before dampening the transfer with a sponge. “Have you ever worn a fake scar for a production before?”

  “No.”

  “It shouldn’t itch. If it does, let me know—I’ll either reapply or cast one from a different material.” She slowly peeled back the transfer paper. “It won’t move perfectly with your facial muscles, not exactly. Kind of like a real scar.”

  Fiona knew a thing or two about real scars
.

  She studied the way the scar split his face in two, from his left temple across his forehead and down to his right cheekbone. “Scrunch your forehead for me, please.”

  He did, brows drawn, eyes narrowed but still trained on her. His gaze fairly battered her, a knockout punch of heat with every heartbeat that she struggled to ignore. “And?”

  With brisk efficiency, she traced the line of the scar with her thumb, testing how the silicone adapted to the ridges in his flesh. “Does it tug anywhere? Can you feel the edges lifting?”

  “It feels fine.”

  She frowned. “I think it’s short. A quarter inch on each end, maybe.” She tapped the ends with her forefingers. “This should be closer to your hairline, and this tucked below your earlobe.”

  “Will it work for today?”

  “Yes, but I’ll cast a new mold this afternoon. That scar wasn’t made for you.” Too late, she realized how her words might be interpreted.

  A beat of tense silence—not delicious this time—filled the trailer before he murmured, “I know it wasn’t. So I appreciate you makin’ a new one, just for me.”

  “I…” But no words came as she wavered over the need to apologize. Instead, she nodded jerkily and began applying his makeup, jaw clamped shut. Her control was being tested this morning, as it hadn’t in a long time.

  Twenty minutes later, his dark eyes rimmed in darker liner, thick lashes coated in clear mascara, the contours of his face subtly—menacingly—shadowed, Fiona finished dabbing a barely tinted balm to his lower lip, trying not to notice how that lip gave beneath the pad of her finger. It wasn’t the sort of thing she was allowed to notice. “Done,” she announced, voice breaking slightly lower than usual after working in silence for so long. After removing the clip holding his hair off his forehead, she stepped aside, allowing him to view his final reflection in the mirror.

  “Oh, cool.” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and turned his head while his eyes tracked his reflection. “I look like a proper badass.”