Wild Honey (7 page)

A hunk of cotton broadcloth came off in her hand. She stopped dead, stared at it, and moaned softly. The other ten percent of her nerves could be blamed directly on the tattered rag of a dress that Carlos soon would be ripping off her in a fit of passion. The flimsy breakaway shirtwaist already exposed an entire shoulder, half a breast, and three quarters of her left thigh. One careless move, and it probably would drop to her ankles of its own accord.

That awful possibility vanished as the first object of Sasha’s concerns came into view. The set was buzzing with activity, and Marc Renaud was at the center of it. She stopped to watch and to give herself a moment to adjust to being on a bona fide movie set complete with an internationally acclaimed director. This is it, she thought, compressing her lips. Her shoulders rose and fell with a sharp, anticipatory breath.
Break a leg.

Renaud was talking to his script supervisor and his camera operator simultaneously as Sasha moved to the fringes of the commotion. He hadn’t seen her yet, so she took the opportunity to check out his mood before she approached him.

His voice was too low for her to catch the words, but she could read the single-mindedness in his expression, the take-charge intensity in his gestures. This was a man who ruled his turf.
His
turf, she thought uneasily, glancing around the low-lit set—and he probably issued orders with all the warmth and sensitivity of a feudal warlord.

Ironically, by his clothes she might have taken him for one of the near-impoverished people in downtown L.A. The worn denims and baggy sweater spoke of his indifference to style, but they didn’t offset his innate aristocratic bearing or the classic bones of his profile. His high forehead and narrowly bridged nose had the dimensions of an ancient Greek statue.

It was his wideset mouth that seemed to break the rules of noble birth. The shaded curve of his upper lip settled almost angrily on a full, sensual lower lip. Fascinated, she found herself wondering if his mouth expressed the two opposing sides of his nature.

Her heart began to beat harder as she moved in closer then hesitated when the script supervisor glanced her way and whispered something to Marc.

She’d been spotted, she realized, stiffening as Marc turned to look at her. She locked up when she was nervous, and worse, she became too assertive. “Good morning,” she managed softly, determined not to fall into a defensive mode with him.

Marc considered her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Finally he nodded an acknowledgment and went back to his conversation.

Sasha teetered on the brink of disbelief. He wasn’t going to say a word, not
one
word? She’d had no idea how much his acceptance meant to her until that moment. The jolt of disappointment sharpened into hurt, anger, and the quick sting of wounded pride. Before she could get the chain reaction in hand, it had set off her damn nerves again! She walked to the portable coffee bar and mixed herself a cup of sugar-free cocoa. Well, what did she expect from a man who thought she was too tall and couldn’t take direction, she asked herself—the star treatment? Sipping the hot, tasteless brew, she ordered herself to concentrate on her lines—and on regaining her emotional equilibrium.

What Sasha didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was the dramatic effect she’d had on Marc Renaud’s equilibrium. Signaling for one of his assistant directors to field the crews’ questions, Marc stepped back, away from the free-for-all for a moment, to quiet his ricocheting thoughts—and to get another look at her.

In costume and makeup Sasha’s physical resemblance to Leslie was uncanny. It had caught him like an unexpected blow to the chest when he’d first seen her. Not that he could ever mistake her for Leslie. No, not by any stretch. Leslie’s appeal was her kittenish sensuality. Sasha’s was her fiery, hands-off
sexuality.
Beyond that, she had a strength and spirit about her that was almost tensile, a purity of purpose that could take a man’s breath away. They emanated from her, those qualities. They shone around her like a halo.

The dress that hung on her revealed every graceful line of her tawny, long-limbed body, and it also revealed her state of tension. The muscles of her stomach were drawn tight as steel bands, and the nipples of her breasts were budded against the thin fabric. It wasn’t cold in the room, not under the lights, he remarked to himself with a mirthless smile. No, she was nervous,
very
nervous.

That suited his purposes for the day’s scene. He needed her vulnerable, even frightened, if that could be arranged. Her character, Lisa, had to be on the ragged edges, riddled with fears and doubts, half crazy with pent-up love and passion. She couldn’t be played by a woman with a dead-bolt on her life and her destiny. He’d known all along the kinds of casting problems Sasha would present. He’d even tried to explain them to Paul Maxwell. She was too “together” to play Lisa. In order for this scene to work, she would have to unravel emotionally, come apart at the seams. That would require some inspired acting, he thought, glancing at his watch.

“Okay, company,” he called out, raising his hand, “let’s see what kind of damage we can do today. Sasha—”

She turned to him, startled, a sparkle of apprehension in her eyes. “What?” she asked, her hand drawing up protectively, covering the breast that was partially exposed. It was as though he’d threatened her somehow simply by saying her name. For a second he thought she might be about to gasp, a tiny, sexy puff of sound, and his body responded as though she had. The cords of his neck tightened and a chill ran down his arms.

“Let’s get to work,” he said flatly, “I’d like you and Carlos to walk through the scene a couple of times.”

Marc waved her onto the set and pointed a finger at Carlos. “You’re on the bed, semi-conscious, Carlos, and Sasha is standing over you. Sasha, remember, you hold this man’s fate in your hands.”

Sasha positioned herself by the bed, her hand still hovering protectively in the area of her breast. Smiling to himself, Marc wondered what she was going to do when Carlos ripped that dress off her during the actual filming. It should be quite a moment, he thought, especially since she obviously did not have on the body stocking she’d been told to wear.

What was underneath the dress, he wondered, more aware than he wanted to be of her willowy lines and curves. His stomach tightened as a subliminal flash hit him, an unbidden vision of her lithe, beautiful body...
nude.

His breathing altered for a moment, became deep and protracted.

In the time it took him to shake off the image, the set activity had slowed to a crawl as the crew waited for him. Ignoring the knot in his stomach, Marc walked to the bed to give Carlos a couple of pointers on his motivation. Finally, every inch the cold, pragmatic director again, he turned to Sasha.

“This man’s life is hanging in the balance,” he told her, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. He could see the tension in her features, and he needed to get through to her, to communicate the pivotal urgency of the scene. “Can you feel that, Sasha? Can you feel the power of Lisa’s position? Her horror of making the wrong choice?”

“I think so—”

“Say it like you mean it.”

She blinked, a snap of light in her eyes. “I’ve read the script, Mr. Renaud, several times. I understand the story and the character.”

“Marc,” he suggested quietly, “it seems to work better all around when people call me Marc.” He stepped back, held out a hand. “If you’re ready, then.”

Marc knew he’d shaken her up. He’d intended to. There was a good chance he’d have to shake her up again. He needed honest gut emotion for this scene, and if that meant baiting her, then that’s what he’d do. Actors were intriguing, unpredictable creatures, and he’d learned to use whatever worked. He nurtured when that got him what he wanted, he intimidated, he enticed. He worked best with actors who had the inner security to surrender themselves to the scene—and to the director.

Watching Sasha now, tracking her as she walked to Carlos’s supine body, he knew she would resist any obvious “handling.” The insecurities were there, but she covered them with an independence that bordered on rebellion. Why, he wondered. Had she been taught to do so by the military father Paul had mentioned? Whatever the reason, there was something rigid in her, some need to prove she was in control.

For one unchecked second his mind darted back into dangerous territory. What would it be like with her, he wondered. With this fiercely independent female? Would she be as frantic and sweet as he imagined? Would she cry out when he entered her? Or would she arch and sigh and entwine him in those long, long legs?

The last image cut into him like a knife. The sharp sensation in his gut left him short of breath and taut as a cocked gun. He stood there a moment, feeling it, fighting it, bringing himself under control, willing himself sane.

Moments later he
was
sane. Sheer force of will, the survival mechanism he’d honed and perfected in the blackest moments of his past, had cut out the impulse with a scalpel’s precision. Only a faint tripping of his pulse remained.

Moving into the shadows, he observed silently, letting Sasha run through the entire scene with Carlos. He wanted to see what she could do without interference. He had her pegged as too inflexible for any real acting range, but for the sake of the picture, he half hoped she would pull a rabbit out of the hat and prove him wrong.
Surprise me
, he thought as she hesitated at the door of the cabin, caught in the conflict of Lisa’s agonizing decision.

Halfway into it, Marc knew she was giving it her best despite the nerves, that she could never give anything less, and the grudging respect of one strong competitor for another built inside him. She was proud. She was beautiful. She was spectacular, but, dammit, she was one lousy actress. Her facial expression was wooden, her movements stiff and hopelessly self-conscious.

“Hold it!” he called out. “Sasha, come here.” He waved her over. “Take five,” he told the cast and crew.

He took her by the arm and drew her aside, aware of the resistance in her body—and the quickening energy in his own. “The first thing I want you to do is relax,” he told her, careful to keep his voice low, his own responses in check. “You’re making it happen. Do you know what I mean by that, Sasha? I want you to
let
it happen. Don’t perform, give yourself over to the role. Don’t do Lisa,
be
Lisa.”

“I’m trying,” she insisted softly.

“I know.” Her warm, firm flesh gave under the slight pressure of his fingers. “Too hard, Sasha. You’re trying too hard. Let it happen.”

She quieted, met his gaze, and her expression softened. He could feel her opening up, surrendering a little. He smiled at her faintly, and something happened through their eyes, some transference of mental energy, some fusion of understanding. For an instant Marc’s breath got trapped somewhere in his chest. He felt connected, linked to her by a grounding current of electricity. This was more than a director advising his star, it was male and female, an instinctive communication between the sexes. The cords of his neck contracted, and the effect rippled down his muscles like a wave. What arrested him most was the wonderment in her expression, the whiskey hues in her eyes. She was wildly, incredibly beautiful.

“Let it happen?” She glanced down at his hand, a hushed, sensual tremor in her voice.

An impulse flashed through Marc, primal, straight out of the evolutionary past—the biological urge to take, to conquer and possess.
He wanted her now, on the floor, beneath him. He wanted to bury himself inside her, this golden woman he’d done nothing more to than touch—

He stifled the urge as quickly as it hit him, but she must have seen it in his eyes, felt it in his grip on her arm. She drew back, blinking at him with that startled look he’d seen before. It occurred to him that he hadn’t released her yet, that he had to let go of her. When he did, the current of electricity arced up his arm.

He heard the normal buzz of activity behind him on the set, but he was totally disconnected from it. Lord, what had just happened, he wondered. This time his willpower hadn’t cut off the response. This time it was taking him more than a moment to recover. His heart pounding hard, he stared at her until finally the director in him overrode the man. “All right—” he called out to the milling crew, “let’s try it again.”

Riptides of tension permeated the set from that point on. Even the crew talked in hushed tones, as though a loud voice might set some unknowable and irreversible chain reaction of events in motion. Marc called for rehearsal after rehearsal, forcing Sasha and Carlos to play the scene repeatedly, sometimes from the beginning, occasionally from a problem area, but always with the unspoken demand that they give more of themselves.

Sasha’s responses remained unnatural and self-conscious, but Marc was relentless. He believed now that she had it in her to do the scene right. The capability was there. It was locked up as tight as a teenager’s diary, but it was
there
, the emotion, the conflicted passion—everything she needed.

They worked straight through lunch, and by midafternoon, with the production crew ready to mutiny, Marc called a break. Sasha collapsed on the bed of the set as the cast and crew departed. Trembling from the strain of the morning, limp with emotional fatigue, she closed her eyes. She was too drained and upset to think about eating.

Hearing someone approach, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She knew it was Marc, and she’d been waiting for this moment. Pent-up frustration escaped her like steam from a simmering tea kettle. “We’re running this scene into the ground,” she said, staring at his shadowy form by the foot of the bed. “Why? It was better twenty times ago. I’m exhausted.”

“That’s why.” He came into the light, pointed to the reddening stains on her face. “I wanted this from you, what you’re feeling now—
emotion
, the real thing. The question you should ask yourself is why I had to exhaust you to get to it.”

He leaned against the brass bed frame and folded his arms, revealing some of his own weariness. “A little advice? When you get to the end of your rope, Sasha, don’t tie a knot and hang on.
Let go.
Do you understand? Let go, take the fall.” His voice softened. “I’m trying to get you prepared for the camera. When the camera is ready, you have to be ready.”