Her Leading Man (45 page)

“
So,” she said, “you see why I can’t marry
you.
But I
would
love to continue our relationship as
it
is.”

What she really wanted was to beg him to remain
her lover.
True,
that
was shocking, and it probably
went against everything Martin valued in
life,
but
Christina thought she might well dry up and die
if she lost him She could
envision herself as an old
woman, alone with her medical degree and her
patients.
And
lonely. Oh, so lonely.

He didn’t stop frowning
.
Christina felt a
chill invade
her heart. If he liked her idea, he wouldn’t
frown, would he? She
wanted to shout at him that
n
one of
this was her fault any more than it was his;
that
she
wasn’t responsible for the stupid school’s
polices
;
that if men only valued women as they ought,
n
one of
these problems would exist. But pointing out
the
obvious wouldn’t solve anything, so she held her
tongue
.

After several tense moments, he shook his head
slowly
. “I don’t know, Christina. That sort of
thing
goes
against the grain with me.” He smiled a
very
small
, very sad smile. “I feel guilty enough
about
w
hat we’re doing without perpetuating our
relation
ship
outside the sanctity of marriage. Call me
old
-fashioned
.
I can’t help it.”

“
I don’t think you’re old-fashioned, Martin. I
think
you’re
an honorable man.”

She felt disheartened and defeated—two emotions
she’d had little to
do with thus far in her life, primarily
because she’d always been able to
foresee an
end to her struggles. And—this was the important
part—she’d always
struggled either alone or with her
family to support her.

This present problem wasn’t hers alone to solve.
This problem
involved another human being who
came to her complete with his own set of
principles,
beliefs, and values. That it was society and not
either
of
them keeping them apart wasn’t her fault or Martin’s. And they
couldn’t solve it without one of them
sacrificing something
important.

He squeezed her hands. “I don’t want to lose you,
Christina. I suppose
I’d rather keep having an affair
than lose you. I don’t like those two
options, thou
gh.”

“
I don’t
either.” But her heart lifted slightly.

Raising her hands to his lips, he smiled and said,
“I think we’ve
pounded our heads against this brick
wall long enough this evening. I don’t
know about
you, but I need some rest.”

“
So do
I.”

Oh, my, how she loved him. He knew exactly when
to stop talking and
make love. His timing was much
better than hers. She’d probably have
yanked
and
pummeled and fussed at the inequity of the world
for hours longer if
left to her
own devices.

It occurred to her that she needed Martin Tafft
almost
as much as she loved
him. He was sensible.
secure, and down-to-earth. She liked to think
of
herself as
sensible, but she knew her emotions we
re
likely to become exalted and overblown when it
c
ame
to things like women’s suffrage or her own
educatio
n.
It was difficult for her to be calm in the
face
opposition.

Martin very seldom got angry with others
, and he
looked for solutions to problems. He didn’t waste
time and energy
battling against insuperable odds.
Rather, he found ways around the
obstacles, or he
leveled the odds.

Yes, indeed. She needed him
.
A
lot.

With her heart full and her head swimming, she
reached for him He
obliged her, and they tumbled
back onto the bed, where they undressed each
other
and
proceeded to make beautiful love. The more
often they made love, the better it
got. Christina tried
not to think about her life without Martin and this
joy in it now that
she’d discovered both.

He entered her gently, then drove her to such an
exquisite peak of
pleasure that she
cried
out when
her body convulsed beneath him. He
kissed her hard
as he, too, achieved completion.

Christina went to sleep in his arms, her heart still
troubled, but having
solved at least one question that
had plagued her during the day:
s
he knew without
the shadow of a doubt that Martin loved
her as much
as she loved him.

Pablo Orozco’s expression was so noble that Martin
felt slightly queasy
as Ben, the cameraman,
experimented
with positioning the
actor for his close-up
shots
.

“
You’re supposed to be a slave, Pablo,” Martin
reminded
the hammy actor. “You’re certainly allowed
to be brave and
high-minded, but don’t forget you’re
also
scared that the Pharaoh’s men are going to get
you
.
”

Orozco said in the voice of a preacher extorting
his flock to enter
heaven in his wake, “
I
am
the
hero
of the picture. I know no fear.”

Martin sighed and reached for his worry lock. He
stopped himself
before his hand reached its goal,
and he didn’t tug on his hair. Instead, he
produced
a
sympathetic smile, which was very difficult to do,
and said patiently,
“Yes, yes, we all know you’re the
hero and that your character is an
excellent person,
but he’s still plenty worried. Don’t forget that if
Pharaoh’s brother
enlists the king in his pursuit of
you, not only will you lose your beloved
heroine,
whom
you went to great lengths to rescue, but
you’re also going to experience a
very unpleasant
death.”

Orozco lifted an eyebrow, interested in Martin’s
direction at last.
“Oh? What sort of unpleasant
death?”

Drat it, Martin should have known Orozco would
ask. The only thing
that ever interested the egotistical
ham bone was his own welfare. Martin had
learned
long
ago that Orozco’s interest in a picture extended
only to whatever
character he was playing.
Unhappily, Martin also knew nothing about
the
ways in
which Egyptian rulers of old eliminated folks
who annoyed them. Christina sat
on a camp chair
next to him, and he glanced at her, hoping for
inspiration.

She inspired him, all right, but not in answering
Orozco’s question.
She
inspired
him to hold her in
his arms and kiss her senseless. That
sort of
inspiration
didn’t help in the present circumstance.

She reached out, patted his hand, and grinned.
Martin took
heart.

Christina was the one who spoke in answer to
Orozco’s question.
“It’s well documented in the history
books, Pablo. Not only will Pharaoh’s
brothel
have
his slaves whip you to within an inch of your
life, but he’ll then have your
tongue cut out, wra
p
you up mummy-style, and bury you
alive.”

Orozco grimaced, and Christina added, “I think
they also used to
put big bugs in the caskets with
folks they were burying alive. The bugs
would start
gnawing on your flesh before you died
.”

“
Good
God,” Martin muttered. He stifled a laugh.

“
Awful, isn’t it?” she whispered back at him.
“But
look at Pablo. He’s glorying in it.”

She was right. The actor, still looking noble,
nodded
thoughtfully and said, “I see. Where did you
say you learned
about these burial practices
,
Christina?”

“
Oh, I love to read about ancient Egypt.” She
gestured
airily. “I’ve read tons of books about it.”

“
I
see.”

Orozco’s countenance then underwent an astonishing
transformation. He
still looked noble, but he also
achieved a definite air of
trepidation.

Martin shook
his head in wonder. “He’s really an amazingly good
actor.”

“
Yes, he is. As much as I detest him, I have
to
give him credit for his acting: skill.”
Christina didn’t
sound as if she
wanted to give Pablo Orozco credit
for anything.

Martin thought
s
he was swell. He knew how
much
she
loathed Orozco, and he
knew why. Orozco refused
to acknowledge her distaste for him,
but continued
to pursue her. It made Martin sick to watch
him slither and
slink around her, offering
smirks and
smiles and suggestive innuendoes.

Orozco’s continued chase didn’t sit well with
Christina, either.
Every day the filming progressed
,
she grew more
short-tempered. Still, she was as professional
in her way as Martin was in his,
and she
did a
great job as Orozco’s rescued lover.

“
That’s perfect, Pablo,” Martin, stifling his
dislike,
called out when the actor struck a pose and held it.
Leaving his chair
and turning to Ben, Martin asked,
“
Ready
to shoot?”

The cameraman nodded. “Almost. Let me get the
angle
right.”

They’d set Ben’s camera on a tripod and were
filming the first
few close-up shots in one of the
Desert Palm Resort’s oases. Another
camera, farther
away, would capture the scene, using Martin as the
hero, from afar.
Martin would edit and splice the
entire scene so that it would look as if
only one
actor was in the whole scene. That was his
aim
,
anyway.

At this point in the story, Orozco and Christina
were supposed to be
traveling across the Egyptian
desert, fleeing from Paul Gabriel’s character’s
wrath.
At
present, both of
Egyptian Idyll
’
s
stars were clad
in rags. Neither one of them had a hair out of
place
or a
smudge anywhere, but Martin knew the public
wouldn’t mind that. As long as
something—in this
case their costumes—conveyed a message, there was
no need to make
either one of them look less attractive.
Nobody went to the pictures to see
ugly or dirty
people; they went for the fantasy.

Martin thought grumpily that these few scenes
were truly
fantastic. Even if two slaves had managed
to drug a powerful ruler’s brother
and escape from
him, they surely wouldn’t have made it a hundred or
so miles across a
barren desert without at least getting
a sunburn or working up a
sweat.

The only thing that had happened to these two,
however, was that
their clothes had managed to get
ripped. Christina’s
makeup was flawless, her hair
was
clean and
shiny, and whatever thorns had
thrashed
her dress hadn’t nicked her skin once. It was a
fantasy,
all
right.

“
Move about six inches to your left, please.”
B
en
made another adjustment to the
tripod.
“I
want to
get
that short palm tree in the background.”