by Penny Jordan
‘We’ve been separated for some time,’ Sarah told her, unwilling to discuss her relationship with Ben and yet unwilling to offend by seeming aloof
‘We all envy you like mad,’ Lois confided with another grin, ‘and my, oh my, won’t our Gina be surprised! She got him earmarked as her private property, and he must be relieved that she’ll have to back down a little now that you’ve arrived. Anything going on between the two of them was bound to cause unpleasant repercussions if it ever got back to the ears of her boy-friend. He’s one of our backers,’ she added by way of clarification, and Sarah didn’t tell her that Dale had already informed her of this relationship. ‘Guy fought damned hard to get the money for this film, and we’re all relieved that Ben agreed to take over from him. It’s hard enough getting money out of backers these days to produce a film, without having to contend with a director who’s a yes-man and cuts corners and costs at every turn.’
Sarah could see that the other girl thought highly of Ben, which she knew from past experience was an accolade in itself. The crew were notorious for being ‘anti’ directors, and if a director did command their respect one could be sure that it had been hard won.
Half an hour later, having accepted the cup of coffee Lois offered, Sarah opened the door of Ben’s trailer. Slightly larger than Dale’s, it was on its own away from the others. Privileges of power, Sarah thought wryly, wondering why Ben had opted for seclusion. So that Gina could visit him unnoticed? She told herself she was being stupid, especially in view of all that she had been told, and anyway, why should it concern her if Gina and Ben had an affair?
Unlike Dale’s, the living area of the trailer was cluttered with mounds of paper. A typewriter sat uncovered on the table, and Sarah glanced curiously at it. The administration unit was fully equipped with all manner of electronic marvels, including a word processor, and she couldn’t understand why Ben should need a machine in his own living accommodation. Shrugging her shoulders, she investigated the doors leading off the corridor. One opened on to a kitchen very like Dale’s, only larger, with a breakfast bar in it. Next to it was a bathroom, and guessing that Ben would choose the bedroom nearest to it, Sarah pushed open the other door, into what was patently the unused bedroom.
Most of her luggage was still in Dale’s car, and since she couldn’t unpack she might as well make herself some belated breakfast and then explore the set. A swift glance at the schedule Lois had given her confirmed that she would not be needed until towards the end of the week, but she noticed that she had a wardrobe consultation first thing in the morning, and doubtless there would be many other things to fill in her time.
Half an hour later, having breakfasted on toast and coffee, and cleaned up after herself, she decided it was time to make her tour of the site, and familiarise herself with what was going to be her home for the next two or three months.
CHAPTER THREE
THE film company must have several million dollars tied up in the location site alone, Sarah decided, pausing to marvel at the swimming pool which had been dug in the sand and formed from some sort of plasticised liner. At one end a bar had been erected, complete with a ‘coconut matting’ roof and realistically weathered tables and chairs. To one side of it was a partially open restaurant where she guessed most of the crew and cast would take their meals, although it was possible to be entirely self-sufficient by using the freezer and fridge built into the trailer kitchens. A dozen or so people were seated outside the bar, the men drinking beer and the girls a mixture of the former and lemonade, reminding Sarah that the Spanish climate was a hot one and that she would be wise to protect her complexion from it. She did not need to be told how important it was not to let her skin burn—apart from the undoubted pain of doing so it could have a disastrous effect on any film shot out of sequence—she could hardly appear pale-skinned at the beginning of a scene, and then bright pink halfway through it.
She ought to have bought herself a sunhat before leaving England, but there had been so much to do she had forgotten it. She did have plenty of sunscreen, thanks to Carew, but she would need a hat if she was not to suffer from sunstroke. It wasn’t even midday yet and the heat was almost suffocating. She glanced longingly at the pool, and then reminded herself that she was here to work, not play. She would go and watch the shooting, she decided on impulse. She had never seen Ben direct and it would be as well to discover what type of method he adopted—whether it was of the ‘stick’ or ‘carrot’ variety. It was a well known maxim in Hollywood circles that the better the director the more his cast loathed him. Suppressing a shiver, Sarah wound her way through the seemingly haphazard arrangement of trailers back to the administration centre.
‘You want to know where they’re filming? Sure,’ Lois agreed laconically. ‘Why not come with me? I’ve got to take some stuff out for the boss. We’ll take one of the buggies.’ She glanced at Sarah’s uncovered head. ‘Go ahead and tell me if I’m stepping out of line, but shouldn’t you be wearing a hat, your being a redhead an’ all?’
‘I would if I’d had the sense to buy one in London,’ Sarah agreed ruefully. ‘First thing tomorrow I must find someone to take me to the nearest town so that I can buy one. Will anyone be going in?’
Lois shook her head regretfully. ‘I doubt it. There’s nothing in the can for sending off. We’ve been having problems with one of the cameras, but it’s okay now and the boss said only yesterday that he didn’t want anyone sneaking off to town—we’ve got too much lost time to catch up on. I expect he’ll make allowances for you, though,’ she told Sarah with a sideways grin. ‘He won’t want one of his leading ladies to go down with sunstroke—nor his wife to suffer from a headache!’ She laughed when she saw Sarah’s expression. ‘Honey, you’re going to have to toughen up some if you’re going to survive on location. You haven’t done much film work, I guess?’ she hazarded sympathetically. ‘Some of the guys don’t mince their words. You should have heard them this morning when they found out about you! Word is that you must be some lady to have been able to tie the boss down. I guess it’s not exactly news to you that the fact that he’s one very virile man hasn’t gone unnoticed in Tinsel Town.’
Sarah smiled and said nothing. Of course she hadn’t expected Ben to live the life of a monk when they separated, so why this curious pang of something that could almost be called pain, slicing through her body, cutting through her defences and leaving her aching and vulnerable to the white-hot pangs of jealousy ripping through her?
Lois led the way to a beach buggy parked not far away. ‘The film crew have commandeered most of the jeeps,’ she explained briefly, ‘but these little guys are far better than any car in the rough.’
‘What are they filming today?’ Sarah asked, trying to remember what she had seen on the schedule. Hadn’t it been some part of the Crusade; just before Richard ordered the execution of his Muslim hostages?
When she questioned Lois, the other girl agreed. ‘Originally the boss hoped to have it in the can by last week, but with the camera out of action… There’s an old castle out here that we’re using as part of the set. At the moment it’s standing in for the walls of Acre.’
Sarah knew from the script that in reprisal for refusing to release his Christian prisoners and to pay the ransom demanded of him, Richard had punished the Muslim leader Salah-ed-Din by putting to the sword the Muslim prisoners the Christian forces had taken when they captured Acre. For a Christian knight it was a barbaric act, especially when he had made his wife and sister witness it, but then Richard had been reputed to have a temper to match his red-gold hair, and Salah-ed-Din’s refusal to accede to his demands must have infuriated him, but Sarah knew that the script, while faithfully following actual events, had allowed a little fiction to creep in along with the death of one of the fictional characters, Richard’s lover, the knight Philip, who had left Richard on Cyprus to join the Knights Templar, a celibate fighting order, in order to do penance for their sin. This knight had been captured by a band of f
erocious warriors known as ‘Assassins’, a title derived from the fact that they ate the hashish drug. From her own careful research, Sarah knew that it was quite true that the stronghold of the Knights Templar had been attacked by the Assassins and that many had been killed in the hills surrounding the citadel.
She also knew that this scene now to be shot was the culmination of Richard’s relationship with his lover. Salah-ed-Din, unwilling to pay the ransom Richard demanded for the return of his prisoners, had instead offered to Richard the life of his lover. Richard had refused, and at the appointed time when Salah-ed-Din should have sent his ransom to the Christian camp, instead he had sent a dying man, his body tied to one of the creamy pale Arabian horses so greatly valued by the Moors, blood pouring from the wound in his side.
Declining to accompany Lois when she went across to Ben, Sarah attached herself to a group of extras just off set. The ancient castle was decrepit enough to have an air of authenticity, its walls half crumbling into the dusty sand, the sun glittering hotly on the pale stone.
A line of brightly striped pavilions had been erected at the base of the walls; the tents of the Christian army. Some distance away were another group of tents, this time representing those of the Muslim forces, and it was in a mock-up of one of these that the filming was taking place.
The actor playing the Muslim leader sat impassive and cross-legged before a small brazier, white-robed and impressive, half a dozen ferociously warlike attendants at his back.
Seated opposite him on a small stool, arms folded across his chest, sat Dale, and Sarah caught her breath at the change in him. Make-up and period clothes had transformed him into exactly what she had visualised Richard to be. Contact lenses had changed his grey eyes to steely blue, and watching him, Sarah found it hard to believe that he wasn’t Richard in the flesh, her vivid imagination instantly transporting her back in time to the twelfth century, her senses instantly responsive to the scene being played out before her.
Salah-ed-Din was speaking, his voice even and devoid of all expression, his smile cruelly mocking, as he murmured softly, ‘It is indeed regrettable, Lord Richard, that we have not as yet been able to collect the full sum of the ransom you demand.’ He shrugged fatalistically. ‘We are a poor people, and have to squeeze the money out like water from the desert.’
‘With a ruby on your finger the size of a pigeon’s egg?’ Richard mocked. ‘You know my terms. If the hostages and the money are not paid over within the month, the garrison of Acre shall be put to the sword.’
The Muslim leader laughed softly. ‘Ah, Richard. Always so sure; so frank! But I think this time I shall be the victor. Why should I pay you good money when there are other ways? The Chief of the Assassins has lately sent me a gift. I would show it to you,’ He clapped his hands and Sarah found she was holding her breath, her throat and chest hurting even though she knew what was coming.
‘Is it true that the French King leaves us?’ the Muslim enquired as his bodyguard disappeared.
‘You are behind the times,’ Richard responded. ‘He has already gone.’
There was some commotion beyond the tent, and Sarah gritted her teeth, one half of her knowing that she was being stupid because none of what she was seeing was real, the other half totally caught up in what was happening.
‘Ah, here is my gift,’ the Muslim leader exclaimed in gentle satisfaction as his men reappeared, carrying what on first sight appeared to be a bundle of rags. ‘Bring it here so that the Lord King may view it better,’ Salah-ed-Din commanded softly.
Instantly obedient, his bodyguards tumbled the bundle on to the floor. A man lay there, his pale skin heavily bruised, blood staining the palms of his hands, his breathing shallow, the dark hair disordered and the white tunic bearing the Cross of the Knights of Malta dusty and torn.
‘Lift his head.’
Sarah glanced at Richard. He was totally absorbed in the man before him, dark colour running up under his ruddy skin, fingers biting into the palms of his hands.
‘The Assassins were curious to witness the method by which the prophet you call Jesus died,’ Salah-ed-Din told Richard softly. ‘Fortunately I managed to curb their enthusiasm before it went too far.’
The camera panned on to the bloodstained palms, the torn surplice with the slit along the side, thickly encrusted with blood, and Sarah shivered despite the heat of the afternoon.
‘He will not know you, Lord Richard.’ The words came softly, tenderly almost. ‘He has been given the drug hashish. Our physicians can save him. You have only to give the word. This man whom you so dearly love—you hold his life in your palm. I will give him to you instead of the ransom.’
‘No!’
The word was ripped from Richard’s throat, his face a tortured mask. Sarah discovered she was holding her breath again, this time her palms wet with sweat.
‘No?’ Salah-ed-Din questioned.
‘No,’ Richard repeated more firmly, with less anguish. ‘Were the terms of our treaty only one dinar and one prisoner, they could not be altered, nor would he wish me to do so.’ He bent forward and touched the dark hair yearningly, wiping the blood from the cut lips before pressing his own against them in brief agony, and then turned to leave the tent, throwing curtly over his shoulder, ‘You have fourteen days to find the ransom money.’
‘Phew!’ Behind her Sarah heard someone let out a pent-up breath. ‘Gut-gripping stuff,’ someone else agreed, and there was general laughter in the release from tension.
‘Can it, Rick,’ Sarah heard Ben saying coolly as he strolled up to Dale.
‘Satisfied, oh master?’ Sarah heard Dale demand caustically, adding, ‘God, Ben, I’m not doing it again. I’ve already sweated blood over this scene!’
‘And came up with a first-rate performance.’ It was said so quietly Sarah barely caught it, trying to suppress her feeling of surprise at Ben’s praise, although logically there was no reason why she should feel surprised. Ben was quite right, it had been a first-rate performance, the credit, she suspected, as much due to the director as to the cast. Dale was extremely proud of his rogue male image, and could surely only have been persuaded to accept the role because of the film’s box office potential.
‘I’m going to get cleaned up,’ exclaimed the actor who was playing Richard’s lover. Sarah recognised him from a tough spy series she had seen on television and suppressed a small smile as she heard him to say to Dale, ‘I don’t know about you, but the only way I’m able to play this is by telling myself you’re a delectable female, dressed up in male clothing!’
General laughter greeted the comment, and the group round the set started to disperse.
‘Want a ride back with me?’
Sarah jumped. She hadn’t seen Dale approaching and was just about to reply when a shadow darkened her vision, Ben’s fingers curling painfully round her upper arm.
‘No need,’ he informed Dale coolly. ‘She’s coming back with me, aren’t you, darling?’ Before Sarah could retreat he bent his head. Her lips parted on a startled cry of panic as his fingers snapped round her wrists, pinning them to her sides. With a callous lack of concern for her feelings, Ben’s mouth closed over hers. Time swung back leaving Sarah dizzily suspended in space, a helpless groan smothered in her throat as his fingers left her wrist to circle it; stroking, caressing, his mouth leaving her lips to find the hidden susceptible spot behind her ear.
Her breathing ragged, Sarah tried to pull away, her voice slurred and unsteady as she begged him to let her go.
‘Kiss me,’ Ben ordered thickly against her throat, his fingers stroking along its vulnerable length, and Sarah knew with a sickening sense of unreality that he wouldn’t let her go until she obeyed; and worse—that the reason for his command was to humiliate her in front of Dale. Closing her eyes, she tried to force her trembling lips to keep still, her body stiffly unyielding as she forced her mouth to brush Ben’s fleetingly. His hand tightened in her hair, his fingers spread against the back of her head, for
cing her mouth to remain in contact with his, his mocking, ‘If that’s the best you can do, you’re no actress,’ whispered against her skin and making her retort savagely, ‘I loathe the feel of you so much I can’t act!’ invoking first a muttered curse, and then not the cruel embrace she had tensed herself against but instead, the sensual brush of his tongue over the outline of her closed lips, again and again until her senses stirred in spite of herself and her mouth parted on a husky moan,
‘Say again that you loathe me—if you dare,’ Ben murmured triumphantly, lifting his head to scrutinise her softly flushed face and betrayingly languorous eyes.
‘What a pity Dale didn’t stay to see how much you loathe me,’ Ben taunted sardonically as he released her. ‘Perhaps then he’d appreciate how I felt when I found the two of you together—you in his arms, not three days after you had promised yourself to me.’
‘What are you doing, Ben?’ Sarah demanded tiredly, pulling away from him, unaware of the defeated droop of her neck, or the brilliant disorder of her hair, cascading round her shoulders as she turned away from him. ‘Keeping your hand in as an actor? Pity there’s no appreciative audience. I’m tired,’ she added wanly. ‘I’d like to get back to the site. If you don’t want to take me I’ll go as I came, with Lois.’
‘I’ll take you,’ Ben informed her grittily. ‘Go and collect your hat and we’ll leave.’
While Ben had been kissing her, stamping her irrevocably as his property, Sarah thought bitterly, everyone else had moved tactfully away: the camera crew were dismantling their equipment, people making a general move towards packing up, and it was plain that filming was over for the day.