Wild Honey (6 page)

He swirled the brandy once, watched its colors flash in the light. “Don’t ever interfere with this room again,” he said, startling her with the quiet force of his voice.

He looked up slowly, pinning her with his gaze, seeming to speak directly to her pounding heart. “Disorder I can take or leave. What I can’t take, Sasha, what I
don’t
need, is mothering.”

Even as he said the last word she caught a glimpse of something in his features, a nuance so quick she couldn’t describe it, yet it stunned her. It could have been that same melancholy she’d seen in the picture, the fleeting sadness that only a high-speed camera could have captured. She knew only that her senses had registered something—and that her stomach was twisting.

All the air in the room seemed to have disappeared. She was caught in a vacuum that snared the silence, stretching it taut. A question filled Sasha’s mind, and she gave in to an impulse. “Am I very much like her? Like Leslie?” she asked.

Now it was Marc Renaud’s turn to be confused. He stared at Sasha’s rich, strange eyes, the golden halo of hair wisping around her face where it had strayed loose from the restraints of its thick braid, and thought that no one could be less like Leslie than she. Given the events of current weeks, he’d lost all respect for his missing star, personally and professionally—he’d lost all tender feelings for her long ago. He harbored no such disrespect for Sasha. Quite the opposite.

Whether it came out of his directorial skills or some other less-practiced instinct, Marc Renaud often knew things about people they didn’t know themselves. What he knew about the tawny, long-limbed blonde across the room disturbed and compelled him. She was an endangered species, he suspected, an uncompromising woman caught in a world that existed by compromise. If he was right about her, she would fight at the drop of a hat for something she believed in, reasonable or not, fashionable or not. Under other circumstances Marc might have admired that quality in her—or in anyone. It was rare enough in his business.

But he had a picture to salvage.

Make that a career, he thought grimly.

He swirled the brandy again, drank from its perfumed heat. Fortunately he sensed something else in her. There was a quiver of uncertainty hidden beneath her fire and pride. Sasha McCleod was a fraction less sure of the world than she appeared.

That tiny flaw was all he needed.

“You’re nothing like Leslie,” he said, keeping his voice neutral, “except for the physical resemblance. That may be enough for our purposes, then again...” Letting the sentence hang, he walked to the chair where he’d dropped his coat, took out a pack of Gauloises, and glanced at her. “Mind?”

“Yes,” she said, the quiver of uncertainty now evident in her voice. “I do mind.”

After a second’s hesitation he tapped out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter from his jacket. Glancing at her, he took a long drag and let the smoke curl up into his nostrils. What would the woman who’d been known to pluck cigarettes out of men’s mouths do now, he wondered.

She stiffened, struggling with her convictions. Her eyes shot darts of fire.

He took another drag and walked toward her, aware of the flush that stained her cheeks. Bending to crush the cigarette out in an ashtray on the coffee table, he said, “Let’s talk about the movie.”

“By all means,” she said, her body taut as a bowstring.

He sprawled at one end of the couch, and she sat on its opposite arm, resistance knit into her posture.

Marc drew his tie off and dropped it on the table. Uncompromising? he thought, almost chuckling. She looked like a ramrod drill sergeant perched there on the couch. At ease, he wanted to tell her.

Her obstinance triggered an awareness. He was used to seeing respect, even a little fear, in an actress’s eyes. What would it take, he wondered, to bring that kind of vulnerability to her eyes? The question ignited a strange sensation inside him. His first impulse was to touch her gently, to bring warmth to her porcelain skin. Lord, the urge was almost painful. It squeezed off his breath for a second.

Without warning, a second impulse came in its wake, much more primitive and powerful, an ancient male need for mastery in matters of rebellion and women. He subdued the reaction before it could ignite the spark in his loins. Hungry for a cigarette, he turned away and fed his addictive nerves with a deep breath of oxygen instead. Lord, she had an uncanny effect on him. He’d never experienced anything like it before.

“Do you know anything about how I work?” he asked finally.

“Extensive rehearsal,” she replied without hesitation. “I’ve read that’s your style. And lots of takes, as many as it requires to get the shot you want.”

“You’ve been reading the entertainment columns. At least they’re half right this time. I do use rehearsal, but I want the shot on the first take if I can get it. That’s when everything’s sharp-edged and new.” Sensing the relaxation of her posture, he sat forward on the couch. “Of course, in your case, none of the rules apply. We’ll be using every trick in the book to get what we need. I’ve even arranged for some coaching.”

Her eyes reflected interest.

“For the next two days,” he told her, “you’ll be working with voice and acting coaches. You’ll be watching videotapes of Leslie’s work and, of course, you’ll see all the footage we’ve shot so far....”

Sasha listened, her rigidity dissipating. Suddenly their plan for her to take Leslie Parrish’s place in a picture was more than just a crazy fantasy. It was a crazy reality.

“I’d like more time to prepare you,” he said, “but the picture’s already over budget and behind schedule.”

She smiled. “That’s okay. I didn’t expect two days.” Paul had been right about him, she realized. There was an odd passion in his voice when he talked about his picture. It humanized him, even melted the coldness in his eyes a little. Suddenly she became acutely aware of the way he propped his foot up on the rung of the coffee table and was leaning into it, the contours of hard thigh muscle beneath the fabric of his slacks, and particularly the dusting of dark curly hair that was flirting with the open neckline of his shirt. He would have to have fabulous body hair, wouldn’t he? she thought.

“I’ve got a videotape of Leslie that I think you ought to see. It was taken a year ago in Tahiti, on location for our last film. It’s the woman I want you to study, not the actress.”

Sasha nodded, curious, and at the same time strangely unsettled at the possibility of seeing Marc and Leslie together in paradise. What had gone wrong between them? Sasha studied his profile as he leafed through the legal pad she’d been snooping in earlier. He didn’t have the look of a star-crossed lover as he stopped at the movie overview she’d read and skimmed it silently. He had the look of a man completely preoccupied with his pet project.

“We’ll have to reshoot the love scene first,” he said more to himself than to her. “And we’ll pick up the rest of the studio shots as quickly as possible. Gemini is tightening the screws. They’re leasing the Paramount lot at an astronomical rate.”

“Love scene?”

“Shouldn’t present a problem,” he assured her, glancing up. “We’ll film it from various angles, avoiding close-ups of your face.”

Tension curled inside her. If he meant the love scene she’d read earlier, the paper it was written on would sizzle if a drop of water hit it! It was emotional and beautiful, yes, but she wasn’t at all sure she could play it with the wild abandon it called for. “Paul told me I was being hired for action shots, swimming, long-distance running, that sort of thing.”

“Paul isn’t this picture’s director,” he said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “He doesn’t understand the editing process. I’ve been reviewing footage, and I’ve decided there are scenes that have to be reshot. It’s that simple.”

“But the love scene. Isn’t that crucial?”

“It’s the pivotal point of the movie. Unfortunately Leslie played it as if it were a visit to her dentist.”

Tension curled again, a slipknot pulling tighter as Sasha struggled against it. “I see...and would that be the nude scene you were referring to at the audition?”

“Normally, yes, but for you we’ll work something out. A flesh-colored leotard, maybe,” he said, smiling, his eyes straying momentarily to her breasts. “You seem to like leotards.”

He hadn’t touched her, but he might as well have for the way Sasha reacted. A flush tingled her skin, and she felt warm, short of breath. “I’m an actress,” she insisted, her voice faint, her pride involved. “I don’t need a flesh-colored leotard.”

Marc blinked and grew still, disbelief mingling with irritation. He rose, walked to the bar, lit a cigarette, and took a quick drag. “I’m a director,” he said, a stream of smoke issuing out with the words, “and under the circumstances I’ve decided to forego the nudity in that scene.”

“What circumstances?”

Go easy, he cautioned himself silently, settling his cigarette in the nearest ashtray. He’d dealt with prima donnas before. Most of them needed reassurance, some needed a swift kick in the derriere. This one, he decided, needed to be reasoned with. But another image seared his thoughts before he could stop it. A rearing palomino, her graceful legs pawing the air, her cornsilk mane flying as she refused the bit. A white-gold animal with a spirit too strong to be broken.

He swallowed what felt like a soft groan in his throat.

She stood up. “What circumstances?” she repeated.

“Think about it, Sasha,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “There’ll be enough tension on the set without imposing a nude scene on an untested actress.” Approaching her, he added quietly, “It’s not you, believe me. I’d have to do this no matter who we brought in. A tense set equals a lousy picture.”

He watched the fire dart in her eyes, and again the image of a shying golden horse overwhelmed him. Again his urge was to gentle her, to quiet her frantic heart under his hands, to melt her limbs to the wild honey he used to love....

It’s not you, palomino, it’s me.

Thinking he saw relief in her eyes, he felt an answering response in his muscles. The truth was he couldn’t handle having her naked anywhere near his set. Looking at her, he knew two things. He’d been right when she’d asked Paul Maxwell to get him another actress for the picture. She had the power to distract him, to foul his creative instincts. She promised to be the final disaster in a series of disasters.

Another truth rocked through him as he walked to the bar to pour himself another drink. It crackled loudly in his brain. It roared like a brushfire, flaring through him, galvanizing his nerves.
He wanted her.
The impulse was ancient, primitive, and powerful. It was new and painful and sweet. He wanted her like he’d never wanted a woman before in his life.

“T
HE CONFLICT IS
eating you up inside, okay?” said the blond, boyish acting instructor who’d been working with Sasha for the last two days. Crouched by the arm of Sasha’s makeup chair, he added, “You’re desperately in love with the fugitive that you helped bring to justice, and it’s tearing you apart.”

“Desperately in love—” Sasha mouthed the words, provoking her makeup man into a sigh of annoyance. The ponytailed cosmetician cranked her head around and applied another smudge of purple shadow under her eyes. She had to look gaunt and beautiful and deeply troubled for the upcoming scene, which shouldn’t be too difficult, she allowed, given her lack of sleep and jittery state of mind.

Sasha hated nerves in any form. She had no patience with anxiety attacks whatsoever, and so when they came, always unbidden and at the worst possible moments in her life, she had precious few coping mechanisms at her disposal. Nerves were her Achilles heel, her undoing. Given a choice at birth, she would gladly have foregone a nervous system altogether if an alternative had been available. As it was, she accepted nature’s burden, made the best of it—and wore her locket.

Only half listening to her coach, she reached for the antique gold heart, but her fingers found only the warm, bare skin of her throat. Anxiety crested again as she remembered she’d been told not to wear any jewelry for the scene. This was to be their first day of actual filming, and though no one had said as much to her, she knew the movie sank or swam by her performance. Could she do a convincing Lisa? Could she do a convincing Leslie
doing
Lisa?

“You’re risking
everything
,” her young instructor was explaining fervently, “your profession, your personal ethics, even your life. You’re going against your own instincts, Lisa”—he paused to let her register the name of her character—“and you’re doing it for love.”

“Love.” Sasha risked the makeup man’s ire to glance down at her coach. “I think I understand Lisa’s conflict. I’m just not sure I can convey it.”

He stood and squeezed her hand as though to transfuse her with his boundless confidence. “You can. Just be there, Sasha, be in the moment. Let your feelings exist, acknowledge them, express them, and you’ll be terrific.”

Sasha caught her own reflection in the mirror as the makeup man angled her head up and began etching a nasty-looking scratch on her cheek. Let her feelings exist? She was flirting with a full-blown panic attack!

“Be there, Sasha!” Her coach headed for the door, flashed her a thumbs-up sign, and disappeared.

Abandoned, Sasha mentally replayed the scene they were going to shoot. She’d arrived early to run lines with Carlos, her leading man, who had impressed her as a brooding type with artistic temperament to spare. He was always muttering about his instrument and finding his center. If he was upset about redoing the love scene with Sasha, he didn’t bother to mention it. In fact, she had the distinct feeling he thought she
was
Leslie. Self-absorbed, she decided, remembering not to smile, that was the word for Carlos. Furiously self-absorbed.

Moments later, making her way through the cavernous sound stage to the set, Sasha drew in a steadying breath. Much as she wanted to deny it, the prospect of working with Marc Renaud accounted for at least ninety percent of her nerves. She hadn’t seen him since their conversation in the beach house, and despite his brief attack of sensitivity then, she had no reason to think he’d be anything but icy and autocratic on the set. No doubt she made things worse between them with her bred-in-the-bone aversion to authority. They seemed to be natural adversaries, destined to clash unless one of them could learn to defer gracefully.
Don’t bet the rent it’ll be him,
she thought, tugging the fraying collar of her costume into place.