She shook her head. "Even if you carved it in stone and shouted it from the top of the Empire State building, I wouldn't believe you. It's not as if it's your word against hers. I know what I saw."
"Do you? This is Hollywood, where all things are possible and fantasies come true. How do you know it wasn't make up? Did you touch her bruises?"
"No, of course not, they were far too painful to me to go around poking them, for Pete's sake. Her face was all swollen too, that's not make up."
Mark threw up his hands. "They can do just about anything with make up now."
She did not like the logic of his explanation. He was far too convincing. Surely no one would go to such lengths to discredit him? Why would Helen bother to go to all that trouble? Mark watched her, his eyes narrowed.
"Having doubts?"
She raised her chin. "No."
"You were tricked! Admit it!"
"Oh, it's a very good explanation, and well portrayed. I'm sure you could explain just about anything and make people believe it. I saw how upset she was. Why would she go to all that trouble just to trick me?"
He snorted. "Ask yourself this: Why didn't she go to the press? Why didn't she lay a charge against me?"
"Probably because she was afraid of you."
"No, because she would have been found out, that's why."
"So you say."
He groaned. "Oh, god, you won't believe anything I say, will you? Tell me, did you see any cuts or bruises on my hands the next day? Do you think I could bash somebody's face in and not be harmed myself?"
"I didn't notice, but then I wasn't looking. Besides, you could have used a baseball bat, for all I know."
Mark looked desperate. "Okay, let's just say, for argument's sake, that the marks on her face were real. How do you know I did it? You only have her word on that, so that does make it her word against mine."
Carrin raised her brows. "Do you honestly think that she would deliberately do that kind of damage to herself just so that she could blame it on you?"
"No. Maybe her boyfriend beat her up because she lost her job. Maybe she was mugged. Perhaps then she saw a wonderful opportunity to make trouble for me, so she took it."
She snorted. "I doubt that. It would be too much of a coincidence, and very convenient, wouldn't you say?"
Mark sighed, shaking his head. The rage had drained out of him, apparently, leaving him calm but depressed. "I'm wasting my time here. You just don't trust me, do you? If I said the sun was going to rise tomorrow morning, as it has for millions of years, you'd start having doubts." He gripped her shoulders again, making her start. "Well I'm not going to let that bitch beat me. I'll find a way to convince you that you're wrong."
"Prove it," she snapped.
"I will, if that's what it takes." His grip eased, and his hands slid down her arms, then fell to his sides. "I've never mistreated a woman, Carrin, never. They've mistreated me. I've been slapped, scratched, and had things thrown at my head many times, because they didn't get what they wanted from me. But I've never fought back, and I doubt I ever will. Of course, you don't believe me, but I just had to say it."
"You've got a violent streak in you, I've seen it," she accused. "I saw you hit Simon, and the table." She gestured at it.
"Simon is a man, and the table, I'm afraid, is just a piece of fucking wood." He moved past her and headed for the door, pausing on the step for a parting shot. "Why don't you ask around, see how many other women I've beaten up?"
Carrin glared at the doorway long after it was empty. Her racing pulse slowed, and she picked up her script, settling down with it in front of her. She could not work on it; her mind whirled with agitated thoughts. How was he going to prove it? What if he hurt Helen to make her say what he wanted? No, surely not. Why did it bother him so much? Why hadn't he simply said 'believe what you want' and walked away? It could only be that he was worried about his reputation. That sort of rumour could do a lot of damage, especially with his vast following of female fans. What worried her now were the lengths he was prepared to go to protect his reputation.
Chapter Twelve
The tension between Carrin and Mark did not abate. Clearly her accusation and mistrust had hurt and upset him, or at least, he acted like he was. Carrin was still angry with him for the way he had used Patsy to get at her; although Mark's sudden lack of interest did not seem to affect the young make-up girl. Warren and Harold watched the two of them snap and snarl at each other with narrowed eyes, and Mark's bad mood put everyone on edge. They were now filming the fight scene between Jason Talbot and the hit woman, Sheena Marshall, in the desert.
After the car chase, Jason caught up with his quarry, and they played cat and mouse, dodging amongst the rocks as they tried to shoot each other. When they ran out of bullets, they resorted to other means. Mark got progressively dirtier and sweatier, although the sweat was only water sprayed onto him. His shirt was torn and sand was rubbed into his hair even before the two assassins came to blows. When at last they did, blood was added to the actors' faces as the scene was shot. By the time the fight scene was half complete, Mark's face was battered and bloody. On one of his trips from the make-up tent, he leant close to her where she sat under an umbrella.
"Look familiar?"
"Go away," she snapped. It did look familiar, and very realistic. That, however, didn't mean that Helen's had been fake, just because the fake stuff looked so real. Mark strode away to complete the next few moves of the scene, then returned to the make-up tent for more blood and dirt. This time she went after him. His make-up was getting far too gory.
Carrin found Jerry splashing fake blood liberally down the side of Mark's neck and onto the front of his shirt. Mark glared at her as she entered the tent, and she ignored him.
"That's too much, Jerry."
The make-up artist paused and gave her a level look. "Harold said more blood."
"He's supposed to look like he's had a fight, not been chewed up by a combine harvester."
Jerry glanced down at his subject. "He does."
"No, he wouldn't bleed that much from such a small cut."
"Head wounds bleed a lot."
"Maybe, but soon the audience won't be able to see who he is anymore."
Jerry shrugged. "They know who he is."
"That's not the point. He's not supposed to look so ugly."
"Let the man do his job," Mark growled.
"I'm trying to do mine," she retorted.
"You've had your say. Jerry doesn't agree."
Carrin scowled at him. "Jerry's wrong."
"Jerry's the damned make-up artist, not you."
"I have eyes, I know what looks right."
Mark sat up, glaring. "You're just an advisor, not the bloody director."
Carrin's voice rose. "And you're just the actor, you have no say at all!"
"I'm not the one arguing with the expert."
"Oh, no, you're just venting a bit of bruised ego!"
"This has nothing to do -"
The tent flap was flung open, and Harold strode in, looking cross. "What the hell's going on here? The whole crew can hear you."
Mark ripped off the white cloth and stood up. "We're having a difference of opinion."
"I'm trying to give some advice. That's my job!" Carrin snarled.
Harold jerked a thumb at Jerry, who rolled his eyes and left the tent. "Whatever you're doing, you might try using a more reasonable tone of voice. Or are you both deaf?"
Mark snorted. "Carrin has a problem believing people; it has to be drummed into her."
"Only you, because no one can ever tell when you're lying," she shot back.
Harold looked from one to the other, Carrin flushed with rage, Mark coldly fuming. "Why don't you two just admit what you feel for each other and get it over with, huh? Then we can get on with the film."
Carrin gasped. "The only feelings he has are for his bloated ego!"
Harold looked at Mark, who shrugged and said, "She wouldn't be
lieve me."
The director sighed. "Why is it that everyone can see what's going on between you two except yourselves?"
Mark raised a hand. "Count me out."
"What's going on here is that he thinks he can run the whole show, since he's such a bloody superstar. Meanwhile, he's just an actor," Carrin growled.
Harold hesitated. "But he's also..."
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Mark shake his head slightly, and Harold trailed off. She swung to glare at Mark. "More secrets?"
He shrugged. "Just a little one."
Harold stepped forward and took her arm in a gentle grip. "Let's go and talk about this outside."
They left the tent, and Harold gestured to Jerry to carry on. Many of the crew stared at Carrin as she walked past, and she frowned at a few of them. Harold led her back to her chair under the umbrella and made her sit down.
"Now tell me what the problem is."
"Jerry's making him too bloody."
"I'm the one who says how the make-up is done, and the art director. Audiences love blood, and there's not enough of it in this movie. Okay, it doesn't look pretty, but it's a head wound, they do bleed a lot. It won't look so bad on film."
Carrin nodded and sighed. She had lost interest in the problem of the gore. Mark's hostility hurt, and she had not experienced it so intensely before. Harold sat on the chair next to hers. "Do you want to tell me why you and Mark are fighting again?"
"No."
"Maybe I can help."
She forced a smile. "You can't."
Harold nodded and stood up as Warren arrived to find out what was going on. He had heard about the argument all the way over at the refreshment tent. Harold pulled a face and headed for the make-up tent, while Warren took over his seat. The producer did not trespass upon her gloom, but sat in companionable silence, which she much preferred.
Soon Mark emerged from the tent, still scowling, arguing now with the director. He punctuated his harsh statements with curt gestures, clearly unhappy with something, but she could not hear what he was saying. Harold tried to reason with him, making soothing gestures. Mark turned at the edge of the staging area and made a short, final remark before he swung away and marched to his marks. Warren sat forward, looking worried.
"I don't like this," he muttered.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know, but Mark looks furious." He raised a hand and signalled to Harold, who walked over. "What's wrong with Mark?"
The director shot Carrin a glance. "He's angry."
"Should we postpone the shoot?"
Harold shrugged. "He wants to do it."
"It's complicated. What if he makes a mistake?"
"We re-shoot."
They swapped a look, and Carrin wished she could read their minds. Harold patted Warren on the shoulder.
"His timing's always good. It'll be okay."
Harold went back to his vantage point, and Carrin turned to Warren. "What's the problem?"
Warren shook his head. "Probably nothing. Harold's a bit worried about Mark doing this scene in his present mood, that's all."
Carrin turned to watch the scene, surprised to see Janice's stunt double taking up her position in front of Mark. As she studied the layout, the dangers became apparent. All the cameras were behind the stuntwoman, focused on Mark. Beyond him was a ridge of rock. Carrin looked at the script as Mark and the stuntwoman took up their positions in a fighting crouch. Alarmed, she glanced up as action was called. The stuntwoman bent and picked up a handful of sand, throwing it in Mark's face. As he raised his hands and staggered back, she kicked him in the chin. It did not make contact, of course, but Mark jerked backwards as if struck, stumbled into the ridge of rock and fell backwards over it.
Carrin and Warren jumped up as shouts of dismay came from beyond the rocks. A terrible fear clenched her gut, and she sprinted for the ridge, Warren pounding behind her. Racing around the stone barrier, she found Mark lying on the ground, a crowd of crew around him. A thick foam cushion the size of a double mattress lay next to him, but he had missed the soft landing.
"Mark!" Carrin choked back a cry of anguish and tried to push her way to his side. The safetymen who had been waiting for his landing were in her way, and others tried to get to him, including a white-clad man who was the location medic. All she could see clearly was Mark's ashen face as he lay on his back; the rest was a blur.
"Mark!" Carrin tried to elbow her way through the growing throng as cold dread clutched her heart. More and more people gathered, and some shouted for room and air. Carrin pounded on a back that blocked her way, determined to reach his side. He looked so terribly vulnerable, stretched out, his eyes closed. A pool of blood spread from under his head. Someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her away. She turned to fight them off, and discovered that it was Warren. He held on to her when she tried to pull away.
"Stop it, Carrin. You can't do anything except get in the way. Let the professionals do their job."
She craned to get a glimpse of Mark, but a wall of backs blocked her view. Warren put an arm around her and urged her away.
"No, I must see him, I have to see that he's all right," she said.
"Just wait here with me, they'll let us know."
Carrin became aware that tears ran down her face, her throat was tight, and a pain in her chest made it hard to breathe. Allowing Warren to guide her stumbling steps, she stared at the knot of people around Mark as he led her to a chair and pushed her into it.
"He'll be all right, won't he?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know. That's a five foot drop onto stone, and he must have hit his head."
"Oh, god," she sobbed, "It's my fault. I upset him."
"It was an accident. He missed his marks, that's all."
"Why wasn't a stunt man used?"
Warren grimaced. "Harold wanted a close up as he went over the rocks. Mark agreed to do it."
"It was too dangerous!"
"It shouldn't have been. If he'd landed on the cushion he'd have been fine. There were five guys there to catch him, too. Someone slipped up, not only Mark."
Harold came over, looking grave. "They're taking him to hospital. He has a nasty cut on the back of his head, and he's still unconscious."
"Is he going to be all right?" she demanded.
"We don't know yet. It doesn't look too serious. We'll know when he wakes up."
Shouts came from the crowd, and it parted to allow a stretcher through. Mark lay on it, a thick foam collar around his neck, and a drip already in his arm. Four men carried the stretcher, while another trotted beside it, holding the drip. The medic followed with his bag. Carrin jumped up and ran to the stretcher. Mark's pallor, and the way he lay so still alarmed her. She joined the procession at his side, desperate for some sign that he was not too badly hurt. They reached the ambulance, and he was loaded aboard, the medic climbing in beside him. Carrin climbed up, and he turned to her.
"Sorry, miss, you'll have to wait here."
Carrin opened her mouth to protest when Warren spoke from behind her.
"It's okay, let her in."
The medic moved aside, and Carrin slipped in beside Mark, sitting next to his head. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, misting as he breathed. Fresh tears ran down her face as she stared at his face, as peaceful as one asleep, only he was not. The back doors slammed and the siren wailed as the ambulance moved over the bumpy road that led to the highway. The paramedic attached a heart monitor, which began a reassuringly steady beep.
Carrin became aware that Warren sat beside her, his face grey with worry. He attempted to smile, but it was more of a grimace. Turning back to Mark, she stroked the hair from his brow, longing to wipe the sand and fake blood from his skin. She ran her fingers over his brows, wishing that he would wake up, open his eyes and give her that slight, famous smile. The feelings bottled up within her screamed for release. She wanted to weep, but the paramedic watched her sourly.
; Instead, she took his hand and held it, folding the long fingers around hers, their warmth reassuring. He was going to be all right, she told herself, he had to be. He could not leave her now, not when she had only just found him. It did not matter that he would never know how she felt, she just wanted to be near him as much as possible. She wanted to write more movies for him, and share a close and loving friendship that the bitterness of a failed affair would never spoil. She wanted to stand by him through thick and thin, share his joys and despairs, and help him to deal with the world. Even when she returned to Africa, she would carry him in her heart, see him in his movies and write to him. She would come for holidays on his ranch and ride the golden palomino he had given her over the rippling grass at his side.
This was a dream that could come true, unlike the one in which he loved her, and that possibility comforted her. She would always have his love in her dreams, and his friendship in reality. What more could she wish for? So long as he didn't leave her now, she would be happy. She squeezed his hand, willing him to live, to get better. She was startled when his fingers closed slightly, an almost imperceptible movement, and her eyes flew to his face. He still looked asleep, long dark lashes fanned against his pale skin. Had she imagined it? She squeezed his hand again, and again she got the answering pressure. Tears of joy burnt her eyes. He knew she was there, even though he was unconscious. Somehow, he knew. It was as if he was trying to comfort her, send her a message of hope. She bowed her head and laid her cheek against his hand, smiling through her tears.
There was a jerk as the ambulance stopped, the doors banged open, and a bustle of people invaded her quiet world with him. They rolled the stretcher out, and she tried to stay with it, clinging to it, but Warren pulled her away. Doctors and nurses surrounded the crash-cart as it was rushed into the hospital, running beside it. A doctor shone a light into Mark's eyes, another cut away his shirt. They snapped questions at the paramedic, who reeled off a list of symptoms and treatments already administered. Carrin hurried after them, towing Warren. She heard Mark's name mentioned, and the doctors swapped worried looks. Orderlies and nurses turned to stare at the passing crash-cart and its contents, and a buzz of excitement spread.
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