Tristan on a Harley (Louisiana Knights Book 3) (6 page)

“Speaking of needles, what’s this about?” she asked, her gaze shielded by her lashes as she lifted a hand and traced the rose design with a single fingertip. “Anything in particular?”

“You really want to know?” The words were deeper and slower than he’d intended, in no small part to keep his voice even in spite of the shiver that moved over him at her touch.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll tell you the story of mine if you’ll tell me yours.” He leaned backward a bit to glance at the top of her shoulders just below her neck. Unlike the tank tops she usually wore, her T-shirt covered the design done in sepia ink. It didn’t matter. He’d memorized the dandelion seed heads with their dancing, windblown puffs, and the writing beneath that said
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
.

She let her hand drop. “I don’t have a story. I just like the old Bob Dylan song.”

“Sure you do,” he said, recognizing that for another evasion. “And I just like roses.”

“Black roses with thorns? I’ve always heard that stands for death and pain.”

He met her gaze for long seconds before looking away. “Or not.”

She sighed, a soft sound of defeat. “Fine, then. My tat is because of my mother. She was bright and talented, a free soul long after the hippie generation, one who lived for the day at hand, brought me up the best way she knew how, and then died young. But I never knew what she wanted, and I’m not sure she did either.”

“Figures,” he said with a slow nod.

“What does that mean?”

“Only that you’re a lot like that.”

Outraged color bloomed across her cheekbones. “I am not!”

“No? You’re on board with the Boho trends, but are almost OCD about having everything clean and in its place.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Trey watched the hauteur that bloomed in her face with satisfaction. “There, that’s it. That’s your Zenobia expression.”

“What?”

“The look that crosses your face sometimes, a combination of superior intellect and mental withdrawal.”

She drew back to stare at him. “Who, me?”

“You,” he assured her with a firm nod. “Give Peabody that one during this test of yours, and the part of the warrior queen will be in the bag.”

“Maybe I don’t want it in the bag,” she said under her breath, looking away over his shoulder while something like embarrassment spread across her features.

“Sure you do. It’ll be a blast.” Why he was trying to convince her when it was the last thing he wanted, Trey didn’t know, except she seemed so cautious about it in some peculiar fashion.

“Maybe.”

“Now tell me I’m wrong about the OCD business, too.”

“Never mind. Let’s hear what your tat’s all about so I can psychoanalyze you.”

She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore; that much was clear. Not that he blamed her.

“I’m not sure you’ll believe it now,” he said with the twitch of his tattooed shoulder.

“And why is that?”

“Because mine’s also about my mom, though she’s very much alive, so no death or pain is involved. She grows roses, though, the old fashioned kind that still smell like roses should. And she loves romance novels, both new and old ones. A favorite quote of hers is from Anne Brontë, ‘But he that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose’.”

“But that’s—”

He waited, his breath caught in his chest, for her to say something sharp and derogatory. He could feel the heat of annoyance rising up the back of his neck in preparation for it.

She blinked, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. “In other words, a person afraid of getting hurt should never dream big.”

“Something of that sort,” he said evenly.

“That’s awesome,” she said with a smile of blinding brightness. “I like it.”

Had she taken the quote to heart for her try-out as the warrior queen? Trey didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: he didn’t much like the idea that he might have clinched it for her.

Trey had not said exactly why he wanted to restore his grandparent’s old house. Was it simply a matter of family pride and tradition, or a financial move? Or did he have something else in mind?

Such as getting married?

The thought plagued Zeni as she dressed for her screen test a couple of mornings later, adding to the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. A wife for Trey would change everything. She’d have to be careful what she said, how she acted, maybe even what she wore. Few women would appreciate the odd relationship the two of them shared, much less tolerate it. There would be no more outings to the old house he was restoring, and wouldn’t that be a shame?

She hadn’t noticed him with any particular female in recent weeks. Oh, he dated now and then, but it never seemed serious. When she’d first come to work at the Watering Hole, he’d had a live-in girlfriend, but that hadn’t lasted. One day the woman was there, and the next she was gone.

Not that her own love life was any better, Zeni had to admit. She hadn’t been serious about a man in her life since she got to Chamelot. Oh, she talked to those who came into the Watering Hole, flirted a little and enjoyed the attention, but couldn’t drum up any great interest. She’s been too busy settling in, getting to know her job, arranging her apartment and generally taking care of things.

Now she didn’t know if she could handle it if another woman commandeered Trey’s time or tried to take over at the Watering Hole. She’d have to leave, more than likely, though it was the last thing she wanted.

Zeni liked Chamelot and the people who lived there, enjoyed knowing nearly every person who walked through the door. She had almost begun to feel that she belonged. She also liked working with Trey, liked knowing that she was furthering his business interest and that he depended on her. That was all there was to it, of course; there was nothing personal in her outlook. She didn’t do personal.

Yes, and though she didn’t mind making his appointments and paying his business bills when he was out of town, she resented being a stand-in for his future bride. What was he thinking, having her help decide the furniture and paint colors in the home he would share with another woman?

Zeni donned the black slacks and white shirt Trey had recommended for the screen test, but couldn’t resist adding a long and dramatic necklace of bright red Murano glass beads. She’d spent several hours shampooing the semi-permanent color of her latest embellishment from her hair, and was reasonably satisfied it was now close to her glossy natural brown. When almost ready, she held her big hoop earrings up to her ears and turned her head this way and that.

No. They didn’t go with her classic look. Too bad. She could have used something to boost her morale. Putting them away, she picked up her shoulder bag and headed out of the apartment.

It didn’t hurt that she was met by whistles and calls of encouragement as she passed through the Watering Hole below. It was a mystery how everyone knew where she was going, but their approval helped calm the butterflies inside her.

The fairgrounds where the movie people had set up shop was a scene of controlled chaos. Equipment trucks were parked in a long row, forming a barricade between the area and the town. Their thick electrical supply lines snaked everywhere like black umbilical cords. Engines rumbled, generators hummed, and golf carts raced here and there, raising clouds of dust that hung in the air. Three motor homes and a couple of trailers were parked far enough away from the hubbub for a promise of quiet, though it was doubtful such a thing was delivered. From the largest of the permanent exhibit buildings came the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and morning muffins and doughnuts courtesy of the Watering Hole and Trey’s early morning delivery. People came and went, scattered over the acreage like an army of automatons.

Some distance back from the general melee was the old rodeo arena and the area designated for the town’s medieval fair. From what Zeni had heard the evening before, the organizers were none too pleased at the preempting of their usual spot at the head of the fairgrounds. The lady mayor had done her best to mollify them, so it was said, but even the promise of having selected fair events highlighted in the movie wasn’t enough to quiet the grumbling. Future publicity was no match for present inconvenience.

Zeni had no idea where she was supposed to go, but was finally directed to the main exhibit hall. As she gave her name, the woman behind the reception desk inside the door, overweight and with flyaway hair and bad skin, glared up at her.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “You were supposed to be at makeup fifteen minutes ago.”

“And I would have been, if anyone had taken the time to tell me,” Zeni answered, channeling Zenobia’s imperious attitude.

There was no relenting in the woman’s round face. “Go now. They’re waiting for you.”

“Where might makeup be, if it isn’t too much to ask?”

The woman waved one heavy arm. “Over there. Can’t you see?”

What Zeni saw was a trailer with a miniscule sign that did, indeed, identify it as the makeup station on close inspection. “You’re too kind,” she said in dry tones, before turning and striding in that direction. If there was one thing she’d learned from her mother, it was the coals-of-fire brand of extreme politeness.

She could feel the eyes of the receptionist burning into her back as she walked. The further she moved away from her, the more she regretted her retaliation. It must be difficult, dealing all day long with self-absorbed actors and other movie types, people who were more attractive than normal—good hair, good features, and good body shape—through nothing more than blind luck in the genetic sweepstakes.

Not that Zeni counted herself among them; she was okay but not exactly a raving beauty. Her eyes were a bit too big, her nose tip-tilted instead of straight, and her figure less than perfectly symmetrical—it was more like an hour glass, in fact. Altogether, it was imperfect enough that she could understand the receptionist with the cranky attitude.

The makeup artist was competent, though a bit like a butterfly, flicking sponges and brushes over Zeni’s face with a light touch, flitting back and forth between her features and his makeup tray that had seen better days. It was difficult for her to sit still while he removed everything she had applied so carefully before leaving the apartment, replacing it with a far heavier layer. Noticing the signs of nervous stress in her face, he set up a calming chatter about past celebrities he’d had in his chair, his partner who was coming out from L.A. to visit, Derek’s habit of yelling at people, and the role of his personal assistant who seemed to have a uniquely personal place in his life as well as having been a co-star in his Western series.

When he finally revealed her new look in his mirror, with the greater depth and more exotic tilt to her eyes, as well as higher cheekbones and her mouth done in five luscious lipstick shades, she was impressed. Even more remarkable and appreciated was that he took the time from his schedule to walk her over to where the tests for smaller parts were being filmed, giving her a word of encouragement and a quick hug before leaving her at the door.

“Zeni, honey!”

That call came from Granny Chauvin. White-haired, petite, bright-eyed and younger than her ninety-something years, she was waving with both hands. “Come here and sit by me. I heard you were up for a nice little part in this here movie. And so am I! Can you believe it?”

Zeni would have been delighted to see anyone she knew, but Granny was one of her favorite people in town, maybe in the world. She might have known she would be here, Zeni told herself as she moved toward her. She was always involved up to her sweet little neck in anything that went on in Chamelot.

“What are you here for?” she asked, dropping onto the seat of the metal folding chair beside Granny, one of several lined up in the darkened end of the building, facing what appeared to be a makeshift set.

“Nothing exciting, just playing the grandmother of the bride, or maybe great-grandmother, in some kind of wedding scene. All I have to do is walk down the aisle in a fancy dress, holding onto the arm of a handsome young man acting as an usher—no hardship, I promise you! Then I sit in the church pew looking solemn, like I’ve done for a bazillion real weddings.”

Zeni gave her a droll look. “For this you need a screen test?”

“Oh, no, dear. I’m just here to see what’s going on!” She said on a chuckle, her face pink with pleasure. “But I see you’re all made up. What are you about to do?”

“A test for a dream sequence, or so I was told. I suppose they want to know if words will come out when I open my mouth. I can’t imagine I’ll really need to act.”

“And you’re far too level-headed to make this deal into something it’s not, unlike some I could name.” Granny nodded in the direction of a group of teens who sat giggling and chattering in breathless excitement, when they weren’t tapping their thumbs on their cell phones. “It’s all in good fun, not a major step to stardom.”

“It might be good fun,” Zeni said, “if it weren’t so nerve-wracking.”

“Now, never you mind.” Granny reached to pat her hands that were clamped on the shoulder bag she’d placed in her lap. “You’ll be just fine. All you have to do is be your own sweet self.”

If Granny thought she was sweet, she must be the only one, Zeni thought in wry self-knowledge. Still, she smiled her appreciation for the thought.

“Yes, and I can’t tell you how glad I am to see that nose ring of yours gone. I’ve worried time and again about it getting infected, you know. Besides that, it doesn’t look all that sanitary on someone working with food.”

“Granny!” she exclaimed in laughing protest, though she wasn’t really surprised. The elderly lady had come to an age where she said exactly what she thought, and devil take the hindmost.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but—the truth is the truth, dear.”

No doubt it was, Zeni thought, and wondered if she’d ever be able to wear the ring again without remembering it.

“Zenobia! Where’s our Zenobia?”

That call, impatient and harried, reverberated under the building’s metal roof. It was a moment before Zeni realized they were actually paging her. The implied demand for instant obedience put her on the defensive. She wasn’t used to being addressed that way, had never been used to it even before she came to Chamelot. And in recent months, she’d been the boss, or the next thing to it, at the Watering Hole.

“They’ve got your name all wrong, but I think it’s you that Derek and his people want, sweetie. Here, let me hold your shoulder bag while you’re busy.”

“If you don’t mind,” Zeni answered. She rose to her feet with an unhurried flexing of thigh muscles then called out in clear tones. “I’m here.”

The group that was busy under the brilliant lights and amid a tangle of cables, booms and cameras, parted as if at a royal command. Derek Peabody turned to locate her, searching the gathering of extras with an irritated scowl. Seeing her, he started forward with both hands outstretched.

“Zeni, my Zenobia,” he said, dropping his voice to a deep, caressing note. “How stunning you look, perfectly gorgeous. But then, I knew you would. My eye for a face never fails. The camera will absolutely make love to you, having itself a digital orgasm.”

She might not be familiar with L.A. or the movie business, but Zeni knew bull when she heard it. She lifted her chin, and her voice turned cool. “Thank you. I think. Now what am I supposed to do?”

“What majesty, excellent! You’re already in character. Come now. Stand just over here, on this mark, and let me tell you what the test is all about.”

As she was led away, Zeni glanced back at Granny Chauvin. The elderly lady was clapping her hands while her eyes danced. But she stopped almost immediately and began to search in her purse, digging out her cell phone. High-tech-granny, that was her. No telling who she was calling.

“What we have here is a scene from the lead actor’s dream. He’s a football quarterback pulling down megabucks as a star in the NFL, one who makes a habit of dating sweet young things. But he’s secretly into one dominant, bad-ass woman, and that’s the kind he sees in his dreams. In this one, he meets a grand female who has kicked the Romans out of her country and then conquered a nice slice of the known world. That’s you, love, the great Warrior Queen, Zenobia, who ruled from sand-choked Palmyra about 200 AD, more or less.” He flipped his hand back and forth to indicate the unimportance of this historical fact.