Sparked (city2city: Hollywood) (10 page)

Loudly. Insistently. Without stopping.

Alert after alert for e-mails, voice mails, and texts lit up the phone’s screen, and Fiona’s cheeks burned. Her glasses slid down her nose as she tapped through the tidal wave of communication informing her that, yes, Lunsford had indeed been arrested in a very public manner for— “Cocaine? Seriously?” An inarticulate noise of frustration caught in her throat.
 

She ignored the low chuckle from the man behind her.

Then came the e-mail from the head of production, Joanne, stating that the first block of filming for
Vendetta
would be delayed two days while a replacement Count Vargas was found. Followed by an email saying that a replacement—“Dublin native and rising European film star Declan Murphy”—had been cast and would be flying into Los Angeles as soon as possible. Followed by yet another e-mail informing the necessary parties, of which Fiona was one, that screen tests for Mr. Murphy’s costume, hair, and makeup would take place on Tuesday morning before the
new
official start of filming began on Friday.

Here it was, Tuesday morning, and his curiosity pummeled her like a dodgeball in gym class as he waited for her to look at him. To apologize.
 

Crap. She had to apologize.
 

Slowly, carefully, Fiona slid her phone into the pocket of her jeans and turned to face him, professional smile firmly affixed. “Mr. Murphy.”

“Miss O’Brien.”

Smug laughter lurked in his tone, and it set her bristling. “I’m sorry for not being up to speed on the situation.” She was politeness personified, even as she swore at herself for not noticing the very pointed absence of the other key artists, Amy and Beth. Not to mention Paulie, the head of design for
Vendetta
’s hair and makeup team.
 

“Perhaps we should start again.” He unfolded from the chair and stood before her, hand extended. “Declan Murphy.”

Tall. He was tall. And broad, in all the right places. Lean in other also-right places. Fashion designers probably adored him, but he didn’t look as though he adored them back. The simple cut of his rumpled clothing spoke of sales racks and mall stores. Light-wash jeans hugged his long thighs, hinting at lean muscle hiding beneath, and the shirt buttons running down his torso were open at the collar to reveal a spray of dark hair, sleeves rolled up to show off strong forearms dusted with that same hair.
 

Perfect white teeth worthy of a toothpaste commercial gleamed at her through the forest of his black beard as he smiled, drawing her gaze upward until her eyes met his, taking in the appealing laugh lines at the corners. Faint color warmed his high cheekbones, fair skin scrubbed clean and glowing with health.
 

Damn it, he was going to be ridiculously good looking underneath that beard. She could just tell.
 

There was nothing for it but to slide her hand into his, though she knew it was a mistake the second she did. Long fingers carrying faint calluses curled around hers, his palm large and enveloping. The firm grip sent spears of heat racing up through her wrist, up her arm, and across her shoulder to gather and tingle at her nape. Goosebumps sprang to life under the loose sleeves of her chambray shirt.
 

She pumped their joined hands, once. “Fiona O’Brien.” But when she tried to pull away, he refused to release her.

“A pleasure to meet you, Fiona.”

She had the distinct impression he meant those words to be genuine. “I…you, too.” Studying him warily, she ignored the weird tension that had collected in her chest the moment they’d touched. “Congratulations on the role.”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Chance of a lifetime, right?” Then his thumb stroked over the backs of her knuckles.
 

An accident, surely, a mistake made when he’d readjusted his grip. She tugged her hand free. “Have a seat,” she murmured, gesturing toward the chair. As he situated himself, she whipped the phone from her back pocket and shot off a text. Time to bring in the cavalry.
 

Her phone dinged a moment later.
 

Evidently, the cavalry was going to take its sweet time picking up Starbucks this morning.

Clean him up. Be there in 30. Want caffeine?

No, she did
not
want caffeine, thank you very much. Her mistakes this morning already had her wired. With another polite smile in Declan’s direction as she put away her phone, she leaned against the counter, glancing over the tools she’d laid out not even half an hour earlier. Foundation mixed to the wrong shade, a silicone scar that likely wouldn’t fit Declan’s proportions, brown liner and shadow intended for a man with tawny coloring. None of the work she’d put in with Lunsford was usable anymore.
 

Studying the new subject before her with a trained eye, she took in the beard, the hair, the spacing of his features. Without a word, she dropped to a crouch, opening the large aluminum box tucked under the counter. She could feel him watching her as she rummaged, pulling out pencils, pots, and palettes, applicators and tweezers and scissors. Standing, she placed her loot neatly in front of the mirror, removing any evidence that a different man was meant to be in the makeup trailer with her this morning, and turned. “So.”

One brow arched. “So.”

She forced a smile—forced because nothing was going as planned. Forced because she was alone with a large, strange man. Forced because…because…
Because he’s attractive, and you choose never to notice attractive men for a reason
. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
 

“Oh?” He didn’t sound pleased about that.
 

“Have you seen the original sketch for Count Vargas?”

“No, but if you’re thinkin’ to turn me into some gold-plated pretty boy like Lunsford, I’ll tell you right now that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
 

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news but all of…of
that
”—she gestured at Declan’s beard—“has to go.”

Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his face, the rasp of crisp hairs audible against his palm. “I’m gonna miss this beard.”

Fiona said nothing as she located a cloth drape in one of the cubbies, whipped it around his neck, and clipped it closed beneath a fall of soft black curls. She glanced toward the mirror.

Declan stared back. “I’ve been growin’ it since I wrapped a miniseries back in December. What do you think?”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“And why’s that?” His tone was almost…playful.

Playful might be a stretch for her, but banter she could do—one of the perks of having a lawyer mom and artist dad. “Because I think you look like Davy Crockett coming off a three-week bender.”

His hand moved under the drape, very obviously clapping over his chest in melodramatic pain. “Ouch.”

She rolled her eyes, because here was the familiar, something she termed Actors Being Actors. She relaxed a bit more. Her entire life had been spent around performers of one kind or another, and he’d just proved himself to be simply another in that herd.
 

But she couldn’t afford to relax too much. She couldn’t afford to be unprepared.
 

People who had something to prove never could. “So we’ve got a couple of options here, Mr. Murphy.”

“Is one of them keepin’ the beard?”

“No.”

“What did my beard ever do to you?” He grabbed her hand, long fingers encircling her naked wrist, and lifted her hand to his jaw. Springy hair abraded her palm, the hint of warm skin humming just beneath. “See? It’s a nice beard.” He grinned up at her as he leaned into her touch. “I think it likes you.”

She’d frozen in place the moment he touched her, tension returning full force under the weight of his playing. He
was
playing. He had to be, because this was nothing more than Actors Being Actors. No man would flirt this outrageously at six in the morning with a woman he’d met less than half an hour ago. Ridiculous.

Swallowing with a throat gone dry, she tugged her hand free. “It’s a very nice beard.” It wasn’t a lie, even if lumberjacks weren’t her usual. “But you can’t keep it.”

He leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “You’re no fun.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She preferred it that way, having tapped out on fun a long time ago. “Now, your options.”

“Hit me, Miss O’Brien.” Her last name was less a taunt on his lilting tongue, and more a caress.

But that was her imagination, nothing more, regardless of the fact that he had manhandled her in order to make her pet his beard, the weirdo. “Either I shave you, or you shave yourself.” When he hesitated, she continued, tone brusque, “Barbering was part of my training. I know my way around a razor.”

“It’s less the razor and more the face that I’m worried about.” Another scrub of his hand over his bushy chin. “But why not live dangerously, right? Go for it.”

Not pausing to ponder why she felt secretly pleased at his choice, she plugged in the electric trimmer she pulled from a plastic container sitting in one of the cubbies. The trailer was filled with a quiet hum that turned quickly to an insistent buzz as she started working in earnest. Scruff fell away, floating silently to cascade along the protective cloth draped over his upper body.

When she’d removed as much as she could with the trimmer, she flicked it off and moved to the trailer sink to run a clean towel under warm water. Settling the towel over the lower half of his face, she massaged the bristles until they were damp, then squirted a dollop of Barbasol into her palm.
 

She applied the lather to his cheeks, jaw, top lip, throat…and lingered. She shouldn’t have lingered, but the skin underneath the short bristles darkening his face was warm and inviting, and it had been so long since she’d touched a man’s face, intimately.

It was that last word—
intimately
—that shook her from the illicit little stroll her mind had started taking and shocked her back into the present. The makeup chair wasn’t supposed to be intimate, it was supposed to be work. Where the hell was her professionalism today?

Not that Declan seemed to notice, oblivious to the turmoil messing up her insides. She knew better than to give in to weakness where a man was concerned.
 

She washed her hands, letting out a carefully controlled breath as she turned back to her workstation. All that yoga had to be worth something more than simply maintaining her flexibility.
Zen. Be freaking
Zen.
 

The razor caught the light when she lifted it from the counter. Dark eyes widened. “Wait. Wait a sec. We’re doing this the old-fashioned way?”

“Um. Yes?” She studied the razor, which she had to admit, could have doubled as a prop in
Sweeney Todd
. “I’ve done this before.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Fiona.”

Her stomach fluttered when he said her name. “I promise not to slit your throat.”

“Not helpin’.”
 

“Just hold still.”

“Famous last words,” he muttered mournfully, eyes squeezed shut. She had just lowered the blade to his neck when he shook his head. “Nope. Nope, can’t do it.”

Scowling, she pulled the razor away. “Are you kidding?”

“If you decapitate me, I’m gonna have a hard time doing this film. Can’t imagine them being happy with you if they had to recast
again
.”

“I’m not…I wasn’t going to decapitate you.” This was her job. He might think she was a flake for not knowing about the whole Lunsford-drug-arrest situation, but that didn’t mean she went around slicing necks willy-nilly like a
Dexter
wannabe.

He lifted his hands from under the drape and raised them pleadingly on either side of his head as he pinned her with an intense gaze. “O’ course not. But I’ve changed my mind on that whole ‘living dangerously’ thing. Can we, I dunno,
not
and use a safety razor, instead?”

He looked so ridiculous sitting there, tired-eyed and lathered in white foam, hands by his ears as though she were holding him at gunpoint and demanding his wallet. Worst. Stickup. Ever. “It won’t be as close a shave.”

“That’s kinda what I’m countin’ on, darlin’.”

The laugh escaped her before she even realized she wanted to laugh, not at him but with him. He grinned through the shaving cream before lowering his hands to the arms of the chair. Actors Being Actors? Maybe. Or maybe he was simply a funny guy. A funny, nice guy.
 

A funny, nice guy whom she needed to get cleaned up, more for her own peace of mind at this point than anything else. “You still want me to do it?” she asked, rummaging through the same plastic bin from which she’d pulled the electric trimmer until she found a fresh, old-school safety razor that would’ve done someone’s grandfather proud.
 

“Yes.” Just yes, nothing else, and that single syllable soothed the feathers he’d ruffled by accusing her of trying to kill him. Though he couldn’t possibly have been serious about that.

It was the work of a minute to scrape the stiff bristles from his throat, cleaning the blade as she went. The underside of his jaw was quickly revealed with each quiet swipe of the razor. Her fingers under his chin urged him to present his right cheek, then, a few moments later, his left. Each gentle flick of her wrist removed a layer of camouflage, not only from him, but from herself.

Intimacy
. The word came to mind again, brilliant and dangerous, but everything in her rebelled against reacting. Three years ago, she’d made a choice about intimacy and decided that, rather like the whole concept of “fun,” her supply had run out. No bottomless well of it lived inside her.
 

Alone was easier, safer.

Using a fresh damp towel, she wiped the remaining lather from his face and neck. When she lifted the warm towel away, she wanted to smile, because there was so much about his face worth smiling over. “Aw, look at that. You’re kind of pretty, after all.” Cheeks pink, jaw sharp, eyes bright regardless of their dark circles of fatigue, Declan Murphy was…vibrant.