Her Leading Man (10 page)

At least that’s what Martin had always believed.
He’d held on to a
perhaps foolish confidence that
pictures would spread the word as he
perceived it
.
He’d even allowed himself to envision
world peace
and prosperity once or twice, although he knew it
would take more than
motion pictures to achieve
those objectives.

So far
,
the pictures had
n’
t
delivered on Martin’s
hopes. He hated to acknowledge the bitter
truth,
When
Christina’s hand touched his knee, he jerked
his head up, not having expected
it. Every blasted
time he came into contact with Christina Mayhew,
his body and mind
experienced the oddest sensations.
Now, for instance, all of his worries had
seemed to
fly
right out of his body the moment her hand rested
on him.

“
I’m sorry, Martin.” Christina sounded
sincere. “I
understand your great love for motion pictures. And
I agree with you.
It’s a shame everyone who works
in the industry doesn’t share your
integrity and vision.”

George nodded and murmured something unintelligible
but
conciliatory.

Behind them, Grandmother Mayhew snorted.
Christina
shot her a withering
glance
,
which slid off
the old woman as if she’d been greased. Nothing,
obviously, withered
that old coot.

Christina continued. “The pictures are a powerful
medium and a
phenomenal means of communication.
If everyone believed as you do, the world
would be
a
better
place.
I respect your appreciation for the
power of motion pictures and am
only
sorry
more
people
don’t.”

Martin was sorry about it, too. Darned sorry. He
sighed heavily.
“Yes, well, I guess there’s still hope.”

“
Yes.
I’m sure of it.”

Wonderful. Now
she was humoring him.

George cleared his throat, and Christina appeared
to be as startled as
Martin. Good God, he’d forgotten
George was even there.

“
Well,” the set designer said, “would you like
me
to
explain this to you? You and Miss Mayhew can
go over the shooting schedule
and plot out the action
scenes, using the drawing here. Then I’ll know
how
to go
about setting it all up. Which order to build
the set, and all that. You
understand.”

“
Right,” said Martin, trying to get down to
business and forget the strange effect Christina had
on
him.

“How
long is it going to take to put the
whole
set
together, George?”

As he gazed at Christina, who’d lifted her head
to peer
at George, Martin realized he’d be happy to
have
her
around to look at forever. He guessed she could
be considered beautiful, but
there was more to her,
at least in his estimation, than mere beauty. Her
big
hazel
eyes held a world of intelligence and curiosi
ty,
two
commodities sadly lacking in most of the actors
Martin came across in his work.
Most of the actors
he’d met were interested only in themselves.
Christina
seemed interested in a number of things other than
herself, and Martin
approved heartily.

“
It won’t take long. I did all the cutting and
molding
at the studio’s back lot in Los Angeles. All we
have to do is hammer
it all together and paint it. We
still have to paint hieroglyphics on the
tomb walls.
Martin’s got to let me know what to hammer together
first.” George
grinned

Studying him narrowly, Martin decided George
wasn’t too smitten
with Christina. He felt better about
George, although he wouldn’t have blamed
the young
man
if he had been intrigued. There was something
mysterious and alluring about
Christina
Mayhew
.

He turned his attention to Christina and tried to
study her for a
while. Perhaps it was her lack of
egomania that was so attractive, although
he didn’t
think that was the only quality separating her from
the majority of her
actress kin Every time his brain
tackled the problem—and it had been doing
so from
time
to time ever since she’d appeared next to those
blasted camels this morning—it
settled on the word
interest
. She was interested in things. That’s what was
so different about
her.

The only other actress Martin had ever met who
cared about anything
besides
herself and her look
s
was Brenda
Fitzpatrick
.
And Brenda had married
George Peters’s genius brother,
Cohn.

Maybe it was something as simple as native
intelligence.
Brenda was smart and curious, and Martin
liked her. Christina
was smart and curious, and Martin
wanted to grab her in his arms, rip her
clothes
off,
and make love to her until they both turned to
jelly.

He passed a hand over his face and wondered if
he was losing his
mind. The conversation George and
Christina had been carrying on had drifted
over him
like
fluff, and he hadn’t been paying attention. Now
he jerked his fuzzy brain back
to the set plans.

Concentrate
, he commanded himself.
Concentrate
on your damned job, Martin
Taff
t
. He’d never had
trouble concentrating on his work before.
He’d especially
never had trouble concentrating on his work
because of a woman.
He deplored all the hanky
-
panky
that went on during the filming of pictures.
He despised
directors and producers who took advantage
of young females eager to make it big
in
motion
pictures.

As he glanced once more at Christina, who was
smiling now at
George and saying something—Martin’s
brain was too fuddled to listen to her—he
understood
something else. He’d never met a woman
like her before. Ever. Not even
Brenda Fitzpatrick.

He
wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

He told himself he was only tired. That’s what was
wrong with
him
.
He needed to take a holiday
.
He
hadn’t had a day off in ten years. Until this
picture
came
along, he hadn’t even thought about taking time
off. He loved his work so much,
it was all he’d ever
wanted to do, and he’d never even considered taking
a break from
it.

But he was tired now. He promised himself a
three
-week vacation as soon as
Egyptian Idyll
was
wrapped up. Maybe he’d even take a
month
.
A month
off to go to Europe. Or maybe he’d sail off to
that
island.
What was it called? Tahiti? Where that crazy
artist had lived? That sounded
good. He needed a
change. A rest and a trip to some new surroundings,
and he’d be a new
man.

And wouldn’t it be pleasant if he could go there
with Christina? Just
the two of them, alone on a
tropical island. Making passionate love
in
the waves
as exotic birds sang around them and .
. .

“
So, is
that all right with you, Martin?”

Martin blinked and glanced at George, who’d asked
the question. “Um, I
beg your pardon?”

George eyed him strangely
.
“I asked if you
want
to hold
off filming the crowd scenes until the end.
Then you won’t have to haul the
horses and extras
in and have them all standing around and waiting
for
days.”

“
Oh.” Lord, he had to concentrate. What was
the
matter with him? “Sure. That’s what I’d
planned.”

“
Good
idea,” Christina murmured.

Sensing a deeper meaning in the two words,
Martin
peered at her
.
He took note of the
half smile on her
face. Was that an ironic smile? Did she know what
he’d been thinking
about?

As he reached up and began tugging on his favorite
tress, Martin told
himself not to be ridiculous.
Christina Mayhew might be pretty. And she
might
be
smart. But she could not read minds. Besides, if
she’d read his
recent thoughts, she’d have slapped his
face. Probably sicced her grandmother
on him
.

He decided to pretend he hadn’t allowed his mind
to wander. “Yes.”
After clearing his throat and swallowing
the lump in it he went
on
.
“While George
and his crew are
putting
this thing together, we’ll film
the desert shots.”

“
Right.” Christina was all business now “I’ve
read
the story line a couple of times.” She looked at
Martin
and
grinned. “Are you going to give us camel
-
riding
lessons?”

He grinned back, happy to have his thoughts diverted
onto this innocent
and amusing track. “Yup.
I’ve got a fellow coming to Indio in a couple of
days.
He’s
going to teach you and Pablo all about riding
camels.”

“
Pablo.” Christina grimaced. “I hope he falls
off
a
camel and breaks his arm.”

“
Good God, Christina, don’t even say such
a
thing!” Martin laughed, but he didn’t think it was
funny.

“
You don’t know what that man can get up to
with
his arms, or you wouldn’t be so quick to wish him
good
health.”

Martin sat up with a jerk, shocked. “What has he
done? I swear,
Christina, if he ever so much as—”
He broke off, realizing he was going to
offer to kill
Pablo
Orozco if Christina asked him
to.

He was losing his mind. He had to be. Martin Tafft
had never
entertained violent impulses in his life until
this minute. What’s more, he’d
always believed that
men who leapt to violent defense of women were
more often than not
only showing off. He hadn’t—until now—realized how absolutely pure
such defensive
urges could be.

Christina laid a hand on his a
rm
, and
his whole
body relaxed. “I didn’t mean it Martin. Don’t worry
about Orozco. I can
take care of myself with that
lout. He’s a pussycat. He only thinks he’s a
sleek
panther.”

Grandmother Mayhew offered one of her most
derisive
snorts. “I’ll hit him with my cane if he so
much
as tries
to get near my granddaughter.”

With a laugh, Christina turned to her grandmother.
“
Not while the cameras are cranking, please, Gran.
If you hit him every
time he touches me while they’re
filming, we’ll never get this picture in
the can.”

At the image of Orozco pawing Christina in
Egyptian
Idyll
, Martin’s palms started sweating, his skin
itched, and his head
buzzed. He had to get over this,
and soon, or he’d be fit for the loony bin
in no time
at
all.

Christina eyed herself in the mirror and turned
slowly, trying to
figure out what was wrong with the
image she saw reflected there. Well, sure,
it was idiotic
,
but there was something else the
matter, and
she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it
was.