Honey Moon (20 page)

"What do you think, Eric?" she asked softly. "How do I look?"

He shrugged, his face blank of any expression. "Okay, I guess. The wig's a little weird, though."

Her bubble burst.

Jack Swackhammer, who was directing his first episode since Honey had gotten him fired, stepped into the shade beneath the oak tree. "Honey, we're going to begin with you in the swing." He motioned her toward the rope swing, which had been embellished with corny purple satin ribbons and puffy lavender tulle bows.

Honey did as he asked, and they began blocking out the first shot. Since there was no dialogue in the scene, all she had to do was let Eric push her, but she was so tense she felt as if she would break apart if he even touched her.

"We're laying in an orchestral track on top of the video— lots of strings and schmaltz," Jack said. "Ray'll play it for you while we're shooting to get you in the mood."

She wanted to die from embarrassment when one of the speakers began emitting a romantic orchestral score.

"Will you relax?" Eric grumbled from behind her as the cameras rolled and he began to push.

Her insides cramped as she realized that she knew how to be Janie but she didn't have the faintest idea how to be Janie's fantasy of herself. "I am relaxed,"

she hissed, finding it easier to talk to him since she didn't have to face him.

"Your back is like a board," Eric complained.

She had never felt more awkward, more at a loss. She knew exactly who she was when she was dressed in jeans with her dog's dish haircut, but who was the creature in the fairy-tale gown?

"You worry about yourself, and I'll worry about me," she retorted, the skin beneath her lace dress hot with embarrassment.

He gave the swing a hard push. "It's going to be a long afternoon if you don't take it easy."

"It's going to be a long one anyway, because I have to work with you."

"Cut! We don't look like we're having a good time," Jack drawled from his position next to the first camera. "And we seem to have forgotten that some of our viewers can read lips."

Because she was embarrassed and unsure of herself, she took refuge in hostility. Lifting her head, she spoke directly to the camera. "This is bullshit."

The swing jerked to a stop.

Jack ran his hands through his thinning hair. "Let's settle down and try it again."

But the next take didn't go any better, nor did the one after that. She simply couldn't relax, and Eric wasn't helping. Instead of acting romantic, he behaved as if he hated her guts, which he probably did,

but he didn't have to be so obvious about it. She tried to remember if he had eaten any of her cookies.

At Jack's orders, Ray, the sound man, turned off the music. The director looked at his watch. They were already behind schedule, and it was all her fault. This time she wasn't causing trouble on purpose, but nobody would believe that.

"How about a break?" she suggested, jumping up from the swing as Jack approached them both.

The director shook his head. "Honey, I understand that you've never done anything like this before, and you're bound to feel awkward—"

"I don't feel the slightest bit awkward. I'm as comfortable as I can be."

He apparently decided it was a waste of time to argue with her because he turned on Eric. "We've done

at least ten shows together, and this is the first time I've seen you do half-assed work. You're holding out. What's going on here?"

To Honey's surprise, Eric didn't try to defend himself. He stared down at a bare spot in the grass as if he were trying to make up his mind about something.

Probably whether or not he could kiss her without throwing up.

When he looked up, his mouth had thinned into a grim line. "All right," he said slowly. "You're right. Give us a chance to improvise a little . . . work it through.

Just start to roll and then leave us alone for a while."

"We're on a tight schedule," Jack replied. And then he threw up his hands in frustration. "Go ahead. It can't be any worse. Okay with you, Honey?"

She nodded stiffly. Anything was better than what they had been doing.

There was a sudden purposefulness about Eric, as if he'd made some sort of decision. "Have sound

crank up the music a little so the two of us can talk without everybody on the crew listening in."

Jack nodded and returned to his position behind the camera. Connie scampered over and touched up their makeup. Within moments, the lush sound of strings filled the set.

Honey's stomach clenched. The Binaca! She'd forgotten to spray her mouth.

What if her breath was bad?

"We're rolling," Jack said, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the music. "Marker. Action."

She turned to Eric for direction and saw that he was studying her. He looked deeply unhappy. And then, as she watched, he seemed to go inside himself. She had observed him do this when he was getting ready for a difficult scene, but she had never been standing quite so close. It was eerie. An absolute stillness came over him, a blankness of expression, as if he were emptying himself out.

And then his chest began to rise and fall in gentle rhythm. A transformation came over him, subtle at first but gradually becoming more visible. He seemed to come into focus before her eyes in a new form. The ice chips melted in those turquoise eyes and the furrows eased from his forehead. Her bones turned to gelatin as the hard lines around his mouth softened. Before her eyes, he became young and sweet. He reminded her of someone, but for a moment she couldn't think who it was. And then she knew.

He looked like all of her daydreams of him.

Picking up her hand, he drew her over by the tree. "You should wear dresses more often."

"I should?" Her voice came out like a small croak.

He smiled. "I'll bet you've got your jeans on underneath."

"I do not!" she exclaimed indignantly.

He settled his hand on the small of her back, just below her waist, and squeezed gently. "You're right. I don't feel any jeans."

A tremor passed through her. He was standing so close that the heat of his body warmed her through the lace of her dress. "Shouldn't I get on the swing?" she asked, stumbling slightly over the words.

"Do you want to?"

"No, I—" She started to dip her head, but he caught her chin with the tip of his finger, making her look

at him.

"Don't be afraid."

"I'm—I'm not afraid."

"Aren't you?"

"This wasn't my daydream," she said miserably. "It was the writers. They—"

"Who cares? It's a beautiful daydream. Why don't we enjoy it?"

She caught her breath at the husky intimacy in his voice, as if they were the only people left in the world. The sunlight filtering through the leaves of the tree threw lavender shadows across his features. They played hide-and-seek with his eyes and the corners of his mouth. She couldn't have torn her gaze away from him if she'd had to.

"How do we enjoy it?" she asked breathlessly.

"Why don't you touch my face, and then I'll touch yours."

Her hand trembled. It tingled at her side. She wanted to lift it, but she couldn't.

He gently clasped her wrist and drew it upward between their bodies until she touched him. As she brushed the side of his jaw, he released her, leaving her on her own.

With the tips of her fingers, she felt the slight hollow in his cheek, right beneath the ridge of bone. Her hand moved on to the corner of his jaw, his chin. She touched him as if she were blind, memorizing every dip and rise. Unable to stop herself, she slid her fingertips to his bottom lip and explored its contours.

He smiled beneath her touch and lifted his own hand to her mouth. Under the touch of his fingers, her mouth became beautiful. His eyes bathed her with admiration, and hard knots unraveled inside her until all of her became beautiful.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he whispered.

Her lips parted, and her heart raced. His breath fell softly on her skin as his head dipped. He drew her against his body so tenderly she might have melted there from the warmth of the sunlight. She anticipated his lips for a fraction of a second before they brushed against her own. And then her senses sang as he kissed her.

Castles and flowers and milk-white steeds danced through her mind. His mouth was gentle, his lips chastely closed. A spell of wonder and innocence enveloped her. The kiss was pure, unsullied by awkwardness or lust, a kiss to awaken a sleeping princess, a kiss that had been formed from the gilded web of daydreams.

When their lips finally parted, he continued to smile down at her. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?"

Mutely, she shook her head, her customary glibness deserting her. He drew her away from the trunk of the tree into a patch of sunlight and kissed her again.

Then he reached up, pulled a leaf from the tree,

and tickled her nose with it.

She giggled.

"I'll bet you don't weigh anything." Without giving her a chance to reply, he picked her up in his arms and swung her in a slow, looping circle. The skirt of her dress tangled in his fingers and the sleeves of his shirt billowed. Thousands of tiny bubbles rose inside her. She tossed back her head, and her laughter seemed to mingle with the breeze and the sunlight that lit sparks in his dark hair.

"Are you dizzy yet?" he asked, laughing back at her.

"No ... Yes . . ."

He set her on her feet, keeping his arm behind her waist so she didn't fall. And then he twirled her again, dancing her in and out of the shadows. She felt light and graceful and achingly alive, an enchanted princess in a fairy-tale forest.

Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her again.

She sighed when he eventually drew away. The music swirled around them, bathing them in its magic.

He cupped her cheek as if he couldn't get enough of her. He turned her again and again. Her lips tingled, and the blood sang in her veins. Finally she thought she understood what it was to be a woman.

They stopped moving. He held her still in front of him and looked beyond her.

"Do you have what you need?"

His voice jolted her. It sounded different, harder.

"Cut and print!" Jack exclaimed. "Fantastic! Great work, both of you. I may need a couple more close-ups, but let me check the tape first."

Eric stepped away from her. She felt a chill as he transformed himself before her eyes. All the warmth disappeared. He looked edgy, restless, and hostile.

His name seemed to stick in her throat. "Eric?"

"Yeah?" The day wasn't warm, but beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He walked behind

the cameras toward one of the director's chairs and snatched up the cigarettes he had left there.

She followed him, unable to hold herself back. "I—It— uh—it went pretty well, didn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess." He lit a cigarette and took a deep, uneven drag. "I hope we don't have to do a piece of shit like that again. From now on do us all a favor and keep your adolescent sexual fantasies to yourself."

Her daydream shattered. He had been acting. None of it was real. Not his kisses, his whispers, his gentle, loving touch. With a soft exclamation of pain, she turned into an ugly duckling again. Picking up her skirts, she raced for the solitude of her trailer.

Dash stood less than twenty feet away observing it all. He had seen how skillfully Dillon had maneuvered her so the cameras could photograph them from different angles, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such an urge to hurt someone. He told himself it wasn't any of his business. Hell, he'd done worse to women in his life. But Honey wasn't a woman yet, and as Dillon bent over to retrieve his script, Dash found himself walking up to him.

"You're a genuine sonovabitch, aren't you, pretty boy?"

Eric's eyes narrowed. "I was doing my job."

"Is that so? And what job is that?"

"I'm an actor."

Dash opened and closed his fist at his side. "A bastard is more like it."

Eric's eyes narrowed and he tossed his cigarette to the ground. "Go ahead, old man. Take a swing." He braced himself, the muscles beneath his shirt tightening.

Dash wasn't intimidated. Dillon had Hollywood muscles, built on high-priced gym equipment instead of hard work and barroom brawls. They were cosmetic muscles, no more real than the kisses he had given Honey.

And then Dash saw the sweat glistening on Eric's forehead. He had seen men sweat from fear before,

and they always looked wild in the eyes. Dillon just looked desperate.

He knew then that Eric wanted him to hit him, and as abruptly as it had seized him, he lost his desire to draw blood. For a moment he did nothing, and then he pushed his hat back on his head and gave Dillon

a long, steady gaze.

"I guess I'll pass for now. I don't want a young stud like you humiliating me in front of everybody."

"No!" A vein began to throb in Eric's temple. "No! You can't do that. You—"

"So long, pretty boy."

"Don't—"

The plea stuck in Eric's throat as he watched Dash walk away. He fumbled for another cigarette, lit it, and drew the poisoned smoked into his lungs. Coogan didn't even respect him enough to fight him. At that moment he admitted to himself what he had refused to acknowledge before. How much he admired Dash Coogan—not as an actor, but as a man. Now that it was too late, he knew that he wanted Coogan's respect, just as he'd always wanted respect from his father. Dash was a real man, not a pretend one.

The smoke was choking him. He had to get out of here. Someplace where he could breathe. An image of needy, light blue eyes swam before him. He stalked from the set, pushing his way through the equipment and the crew, trying to escape those eyes. But they stayed with him. She was so desperate for love that she didn't have any sense of self-preservation. She hadn't even put up a fight, just let him throw her right over the edge of the cliff.

His lungs burned. Stupid. She was so goddamn stupid. She didn't understand the first rule of fairy tales. She didn't understand that little girls weren't ever supposed to fall in love with the evil prince.