Phoenix Falling (34 page)

With a sigh, she relinquished the pleasant daydream and crawled into bed, hoping that sleep would come. She'd almost drifted off when the memory of what Charles Winfield had said jarred her back to wakefulness:
Don't let him push you away.

Was that what Kenzie was doing—pushing her away because he thought he should, rather than because it was what he wanted? Could be. He'd always seemed unhappy with himself, not her.

But if he was being noble and self-sacrificing, like John Randall, it was damned effective. It took two to make a relationship work, only one to end it.

As he just had. Again.

Chapter 26

"Mind if I sit down?"

Val glanced up and saw that Greg Marino was hovering with his lunch tray. "Not at all. Glad to have you join me." She smothered a yawn as he sat down opposite. "Do all movie productions feed you as well as this one? These meals make me want to curl up and nap afterward."

He dug into his beef Wellington. "Good food is essential, actually. When people are away from home and working like crazy for months on end, they need as many comforts as can be provided."

"Makes sense." Having finished her curried chicken, she bit into a fresh baked raspberry tart. "If I weren't slaving away like a workhouse child in a Dickens novel, I'd be a blimp by now."

"On you, it would look good."

She grinned. "Coming from a man who's filmed some of the most beautiful women in the world, that's a lie, though a gallant one."

"Beautiful women are just part of the job. A lot of 'em are all bones and hyper as race horses. The camera loves those angular faces, but it's like shooting porcelain dolls. Not quite real." He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "I like a woman who looks like a woman. You do."

Looking sexy and dim was the curse of Val's life. "Half the reason I went to law school was a desire to shock people who think I look more like a barmaid than a woman who scored eight hundreds on her SATs."

"When I was nominated for an Oscar, I got a lot of juvenile satisfaction thinking about the reactions of all those people who thought I'd never amount to anything." Greg smiled blissfully at the thought. "Now that we're within a couple of days of wrapping up, what do you think of your first moviemaking experience?"

"It's been fascinating and exciting and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. But I'll be glad to go home."

Greg choked on his coffee. "You're kidding, right? You really want to go back to Buffalo or Boston or wherever it is you come from?"

"Baltimore, and yes, I do." She smiled at him fondly. They'd often hung out together at the end of the long work days, and it would have been easy to tumble into bed with him. He'd made it clear he was willing. But she was trying to simplify her life, and men were never simple. "Fantasy is fun now and then, but reality suits me better."

"But you're so good at getting things done. You could make a career in production, no problem. If Raine can't find you another job, I can. You'd be a hotshot producer making tons of money in no time."

"If money was that important to me, I'd have made a lot of different choices along the way. Making movies requires a touch of the gypsy, and I don't have that. Not to mention the fact that there's an awful lot of sitting around and waiting for something to happen, which would rapidly drive me crazy."

"This movie is less crazy-making than most—we're clipping along at a pretty good pace." A craft service girl passed with fresh tarts, so Greg snagged a couple. "I hope Raine keeps directing. I'd work for her again in a New York minute."

"I've watched all the dailies, but I'm a civilian," Val said. "Is
The Centurion
going to be as good as it looks?"

He turned serious. "I hope so. We've all busted our balls on this job. But a movie can be lost at any stage. In the casting, the shooting, the editing, the mixing. So many things can go wrong that sometimes I'm amazed any good stuff is ever released."

"No wonder directors and producers are control freaks." She hesitated, wondering if she should ask her next question. "Are all productions this tense at the end?"

"This one is tenser than most, but I think it's because of the scenes that are being shot." He ate half a tart in one bite. "Real gut-wrenchers. Plus all the press craziness. A couple of times I've wondered if Kenzie was going to freak out, and Rainey is looking pretty frayed, too."

Val frowned. The tabloids were having a field day at Kenzie and Rainey's expense, with Nigel Stone dropping heavy hints of shocking revelations to come about Kenzie's past. Cynically she wondered if some slander was being timed to hit just as production ended.

There was also frenzied speculation on the state of Raine and Kenzie's marriage. The Pamela person had done a good article refuting the reconciliation story and quoting Rainey at length—headlined "Just Good Friends"—but there had been plenty of wild stories, including an American female wrestler claiming she was the cause of the divorce because she was pregnant with twins by Kenzie. Rainey didn't read any of that rubbish, but she knew it was out there and it must be adding added to her tension.

But the real source of tension was on the set. Kenzie had already filmed several devastating scenes with Sharif that explained why he'd returned to England emotionally traumatized. Their climactic scene would be shot that afternoon. In the morning, he and Rainey would tackle revelations, love-making, and reconciliation. Val wondered how that would go. She couldn't imagine acting a love scene with a man who was in the process of breaking her heart.

Relationships were hell. Why couldn't people reproduce asexually like amoebae?

No doubt Rainey and Kenzie would act those last scenes admirably. Professional to the core, they'd rather be carried off in straitjackets than admit they couldn't fulfill their obligations. But Val would be profoundly glad when this production was over so Rainey could get away from Kenzie and start to heal.

Amoebae really had the right idea.

* * *

Bare to the waist and artfully decorated with bruises and artificial sweat, Kenzie paced tautly across the set, innards churning, while the lighting was adjusted. Hell was having to choose between artistic honesty, and showing the deepest scars of your soul to a camera. Why was he doing this?

Because of Rainey. Because of Charles. Because the bloody show must go on.

"Pictures up, gentlemen," the first AD called.

He entered the simulated tent, canvas on one side and camera on the other, and let himself be tethered to a post with a long chain. As he settled on the rug that floored the tent, Sharif watched with dangerous intensity, deep in his character. Playing Mustafa required him to be in control of a complex relationship that stimulated him on many levels, and he was doing it magnificently.

In contrast, John Randall was just a bleeding victim with a fractured sense of self. Kenzie should have demanded to play Mustafa.

The sexual scenes had been merely hinted at, with shots of a dark hand on pale skin, shadows moving behind canvas, and other images that made it clear what had happened without being graphic. More explicit were scenes of flashing debate, a rope securing a bloody, abraded wrist, reluctant admiration, and moments of odd tenderness, including Mustafa nursing his captive through a near fatal fever. Now all those conflicting emotions must come to a head. Kenzie stared at his nemesis, and let himself fall into a pit of despair.

Rainey gave the signal to start. His long robe swirling around him, Sharif stalked across the tent toward Randall. "For months, we have argued and fought and learned to know each other as only two warriors can, yet still you wish to leave? Very well, I shall let you go." His lips drew back from his teeth. "Beg for it."

Mentally and emotionally at the end of his tether, Randall struggled to his feet and managed to say, "A British officer doesn't beg."

"Then you will die in the desert," Mustafa said softly, his eyes glittering with menace, "and the wind and sand will polish your bones."

"Kill me and be done with it! Do you think my life has any value left?" It was a cry from the heart of a man pushed beyond his limits by physical and emotional abuse that had turned his normal life into a hallucinatory memory.

Face twisted with anger and frustration, the desert chief grabbed Randall's shoulder and shoved him to his knees. "Beg, you English swine!"

"No!" Randall snatched the dagger from the sheath at Mustafa's waist and held it to his own throat. "Kill me if you must."

The two men stared at each other, Randall's life weighing in the balance. Then Mustafa wrenched the weapon away and slammed it back into the sheath. "Go then! I'll not taint my blade with the blood of an unbeliever."

The scene ended with the camera zooming in on Randall's haggard face, showing the victory that had come at a price so high it was really defeat.

"Cut and print. Well done, both of you," Rainey said in a voice pitched softly so as not to break the mood. "Once more, and then we'll do the close-ups."

Kenzie stood, the words and emotions of the scene churning in his mind. Love and hate. Antagonism and mercy. Disgust... and desire. The culmination of all the painful, difficult scenes he and Sharif had played together. "This isn't right. It's weak."

Rainey blinked. "I thought the scene worked pretty well, but there's always room for improvement. What do you suggest?"

He rubbed his forehead, smearing his makeup. Why the hell was he doing this? Crucified by the Muse. "Forcing Randall to beg is... too obvious. Too much a 1930s B-movie. There needs to be... more between them. More conflict, higher stakes. Vulnerability."

"The scene is based on the book, so the sensibility is late Victorian," Rainey said. "What would go beyond that to make it work better now?"

He tried to pace, only to be jerked short by the chain on his left wrist. He pivoted, scowling. "Randall's ambivalence needs to be clearer. Mustafa wants to force him to recognize that on some level he was attracted to his captor." That the upright Victorian officer had experienced a dark, unwilling satisfaction in some of what was done to him. "Isn't that the core of the story? That Randall can't bear to acknowledge that he has ever been less than a one-hundred-percent pure heterosexual, even for a few minutes?"

"That's Randall," Rainey agreed. "How do you think it should be played?"

"Instead of making his captive beg for freedom," Kenzie said slowly, his head throbbing, "Mustafa should say that he'll free Randall, if... if Randall will admit that he loves him."

"Yes!" Sharif exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "I love my upright, maddening English officer, I don't want to lose him. I cannot bring myself to kill him, yet keeping him against his will would be cold ashes in my mouth. I offer him a bargain. I will allow him to go back to his cold northern land if just this once he admits the truth that lies between us."

"That's brilliant! Edgy and complicated and painful, just like their relationship." Rainey's gaze met Kenzie's, and it was as if she was talking about them, not the fictional characters.

He turned away. "Sharif, shall we try this as improvisation?" He usually avoided ad-libbing since he wasn't sure about coming up with the right words, but this character and this dilemma he knew in his bones.

Since Sharif agreed, Rainey let them go ahead. Instead of angry threats, Mustafa used a raw, tormented voice that revealed more than he intended. Randall retreated as far as the chain would allow, futilely trying to escape that agonized demand. He couldn't bear to admit what Mustafa wanted to hear. Yet if he denied this secret, loathed side of himself, he would never be free to return to his real life.

He closed his eyes, imagining Sarah, his touchstone, the bright angel who had moored him to sanity. For the sake of her and his family, he would speak the words Mustafa wanted to hear. What did a small lie matter, if it would secure his freedom?

He closed his eyes and said haltingly, "I... love you," speaking the words his enemy—his honored, loved, and hated enemy—wanted to hear. He told himself his "confession" would make no difference to who he really was.

Yet it made all the difference in the world.

There was a hushed silence after Rainey whispered, "Cut and print."