As always on such occasions, the room was full of people evaluating her as if she were a slab of overdone steak. She recognized the film's director, two producers, a famous casting director, and half a dozen executive types.
The director, Jim Gomolko, looked as if he'd bitten into something sour when he told her to go ahead with the test scene. But she'd come prepared. Dressed in a flowing dress with a period flavor, she curtsied gracefully to the executives, using her carefully practiced French accent as she thanked them for their kind consideration.
An expressionless male assistant fed her lines as she performed the scene where Marguerite first meets Sir Percy. She began the scene coolly, for as the most acclaimed actress in Paris Marguerite was used to men wanting to bed her. She'd learned to keep admirers at a distance.
Yet there was something about this Englishman, a hint of steel beneath his languid manners and wicked wit. As the scene progressed she gradually realized that this was a man of surprising depths and passions, one who could keep a woman intrigued....
When she finished her reading, the executives were nodding approval. Gomolko said, "I want you to read again with someone else, Ms. Marlowe."
One of the suits spoke into a cell phone and five minutes later Kenzie Scott ambled into the room. Rainey caught her breath, electrified. Though Scott was rumored to be on board for Pimpernel, her agent had told her the deal wasn't set yet.
Rainey had kept her fingers crossed because she was a great admirer of Kenzie Scott's work. And--well, of his looks, too, she was only human. But even more, she respected his acting. Though she preferred his early work, before he'd become a major star, he brought depth and nuance to even the most macho action roles.
He looked across the room at her as if she was the most fascinating, desirable woman he'd ever seen. Every cell in her body kicked into overdrive. Tall, dark, and charismatic, he was almost supernaturally handsome. He was often mentioned in the same breath with Cary Grant, and not only because of his chiseled features and the faint cleft in his chin. The real similarity lay in his easy, aristocratic British charm. On screen he could project strength, intelligence, wit, vulnerability--all at once if the role called for it. Those qualities were strikingly vivid in person.
Kenzie bowed, a perfect Georgian gentleman despite his khakis and polo shirt. "Mademoiselle St. Just, your performance tonight was brilliant."
With a pang of regret she realized that the admiration in those amazing green eyes was because he was in character. Since he was working from memory, she slid into Marguerite. Recklessly she tossed her script over her shoulder, pages fluttering to the floor while she prayed she'd remember her lines.
She responded to Kenzie's dazzled Sir Percy by playing the scene ardently instead of the coolness of her first reading. They were from different nations, different ways of life. To a loyal daughter of France, this languid aristocrat was all she was taught to despise, while she was an actress, a woman to be bedded, not wed. Yet they both were caught up in a blazing attraction too powerful to deny, no matter how much it cost them.
When they finished the scene, the executives were sitting upright in their chairs. One of the producers muttered, "Jesus, who knew she was so hot?
Gomolko made a rueful face. "You were right, Kenzie, she's Marguerite. You've got your deal. Do you want the part, Ms. Marlowe?"
"Yes!"
"I'll contact your agent right away to work out the details."
As she stammered her thanks, the room erupted with excited talk, leaving her and Kenzie in a small zone of privacy. Now that they weren't acting together, she felt shy with him. Reminding herself that soon they'd be rolling around on a mattress together, she asked, "What did Gomolko mean about the deal?"
He smiled, tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. "I told him I wouldn't take the part unless you were cast as Marguerite."
No wonder the director had regarded her with misgivings--he'd been afraid he might have to choose between the actor he wanted and an actress he didn't want. "Then I owe you quite a thank-you. Why did you want me in particular? We've never even met."
"I've seen most of your work, and knew you were right for Marguerite."
She groaned. "Please don't tell me you saw Biker Babes from Hell."
He laughed. "That movie proved you could handle Marguerite's adventurous side. But I was already convinced. You should have won that Oscar for Home Free."
She thought of the awards ceremony wistfully. Attending dressed to kill and not showing a shred of disappointment when she didn't win had been a major test of acting skill. "There was a strong field of nominees."
"You were the best." He touched her hair with gossamer delicacy. "This red-gold is your natural color?"
She shivered, a little breathless. "Yes, but usually I play drab, worthy brunettes."
"The time has come for you to play a glamorous woman of the world, Raine."
"People who know me well call me Rainey."
He repeated that in his beautiful deep voice. He'd trained at RADA--the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London-- which gave him an unfair advantage, she thought dizzily. Earlier he'd been Sir Percy admiring Marguerite, but his expression now made it clear he hadn't insisted on her for this movie solely because of her acting.
So be it. She'd attained success through discipline and unrelenting work, not wasting her time on high-profile affairs to get her name into the gossip columns. But a life without occasional recklessness wasn't worth living. Kenzie Scott was gorgeous, likable, and attraction crackled between them like a high-voltage current. If they had a fling, it would be by mutual choice.
How much simpler life would have been if he'd only wanted an affair....
Chapter 2
∗ ∗ ∗
Kenzie warmed up in the gym as Rainey changed in the dressing room. He was insane to listen to her proposal, but when she'd marched into his bedroom, cool as an ice queen, he'd been struck with such longing that he'd have agreed to anything to keep her there a little longer.
He was on the elliptical cross-trainer when she joined him. Her lovely apricot hair tied back, she was dangerously attractive in a spangled green leotard and tights that revealed every inch of her slight, elegantly proportioned and toned figure.
They'd shared countless exercise sessions in the last three years. An actor's body was a primary tool of expression and required relentless work to maintain. The grueling fitness regimen had been a lot more fun when Rainey shared the sessions, bantering, discussing the news of the day, and improving the scenery. Now and then discipline had gone out the window and they'd exerted themselves differently, teasing and laughing until they ended up in a sweaty, relaxed tangle of limbs.
As she began her warm-up stretches, he said, 'Tell me about your movie."
"It's based on an obscure Victorian novel that I fell in love with years ago." She bent over and placed her palms flat on the floor. "The Centurion was written by a fellow called George Sherbourne who'd been an army officer in strange comers of the British Empire. It was considered strong stuff when it was published, practically treasonous, so it never became well- known."
"What's the book about?"
'Torture, guilt, and despair. The high price of empire for the soldiers who do the dirty work in distant, dangerous places. The saving power of love."
"What's the storyline?"
She sat, then locked her hands around her ankles and laid her forehead on her knees for a slow stretch. "John Randall is a British Army captain in the 1870s. Your classical hero-- strong, absolutely sure of himself, a little arrogant. A decent fellow, but not exactly a deep thinker. On leave home, he falls in love with a young neighbor, Sarah Masterson. Since she's the prettiest girl around, naturally he feels he deserves her, while she's dazzled by him. They become engaged, and he promises to leave the army and take up life as a landed gentleman after one last campaign in North Africa."
"Where do the torture, guilt, and despair come in?"
Rainey stood and disap
peared into the locker room, returning after a moment with a script. "You can read all about it here. The short answer is that Randall is captured by Arab rebels in an attack where all of his men are killed. He's beaten and abused, and is finally released, a broken man.
"Ironically, England is looking for something to be happy about in the wreckage of a nasty little campaign that went badly, so he's given a hero's welcome when he returns home. As Randall is dying inside, he's lionized, presented to the queen, and generally treated like the greatest thing since sliced bread. No one wants to hear about what really happened, and besides, he can't bear to talk about it."
Kenzie felt a chill of recognition. This was a character he could understand. "Presumably things get worse before they get better."
Rainey lifted hand weights and started slow bicep curls. "He doesn't want to marry Sarah because he feels tainted and unworthy, but there's so much momentum behind their engagement that before he knows it he's standing at the altar.
"The marriage starts disastrously, but even though Sarah is young and wildly naive, she's not stupid, and she truly loves him. Gradually she comes to understand what torments her husband, and her love pulls him back from the brink of destruction. At the end, she leaves everything she's ever known to accompany him to Australia so they can begin a new life in a place where there are fewer rules and family expectations."
Frowning, Kenzie gazed out the window, where a famous neighbor walked along the sand with two golden retrievers. Though Rainey's project would be an interesting change of pace from his usual heroics, making a movie with her would be hell, and this particular story might cut too close to the bone. "You don't really need me. There are plenty of actors who could do the role well."
"I had you in mind the whole time I was writing the screenplay. John Randall has a tremendous emotional range from arrogance to despair to hope, and I can't think of another actor who could do it as well." Her voice turned persuasive. "You'll get a chance to stretch acting muscles you haven't used in ages. You've been getting restless with all of these big budget thrillers. This is your chance to do something different, and knock a lot of critical socks off."
His soon-to-be-ex-wife knew how to bait a hook. She was a great fan of his work, claiming that he made acting look so easy that it was always the people around him who won the awards. She might be right, and while he didn't need an Oscar, he was human enough to want to be considered good as well as successful. "Are you playing Sarah?"
She shuddered theatrically. "No way. She needs to be painfully young and innocent. I was never that young."
"Maybe not in your personal life, but you could play nineteen with the right lighting and makeup."
"I've already got a terrific young English actress, Jane Stackpole, to play Sarah. I'll be plenty busy directing."
"Directing is a popular ambition."
Though his tone was neutral, she reacted vehemently, setting down her weights and stalking to the glass to stare out at the ocean. "When I was young, I wanted only to act. Now that I've done that for years, I want more. I want to tell my stories my way instead of being a puppet playing out someone else's vision. But you know how hard it is for a woman to get a chance to direct" A tremor, instantly suppressed, sounded in her voice. "I want to make this story, now, and to do that I need you."
The rigid set of her shoulders showed how much it was costing her to ask for his help. "Who else is involved?" he asked.
"Marcus Gordon will be the executive producer."
"Impressive. If he's on board, you shouldn't have any trouble with financing."
Her hands clenched. "He's always had a soft spot for me, but he's a businessman first Even though he thinks the script is terrific and that I can probably do a decent job of directing, he wants a bankable star like you to ensure that the movie at least breaks even."
He studied her slim silhouette against the window, alarm bells going off in his head. Agreeing to this project would be a very, very bad idea. They'd rub against each other painfully every minute of every day. The odds were high that they'd end up in bed together again, which would mean another excruciating separation when shooting ended. He'd be tempted to forget common sense and try to get her back, while she'd probably want to strangle him, especially when he was making cinematic love to the toothsome young Sarah.
But he couldn't resist Rainey. The fierce clarity of her will had attracted him from the moment he first saw her screen image. She had dreams and passions and the willingness to work to achieve them.
He'd also worked hard, achieving great success in worldly terms, but he hadn't been building toward a goal like Rainey. He'd been running from life. He flowed while she burned. They were complementary personalities, and together they'd produced blistering, dangerous steam. He knew in his bones that they were better off apart, but that didn't prevent him from missing her like an amputated limb.
The rationalizing part of his brain pointed out that even though making this movie was a terrible idea, there was no risk it would change their situation, since Rainey was resolved on divorce and nothing would change her mind. He'd be able to do one last project with her, and in the process help her achieve her dream of directing. If at the end he was crippled by sorrow--it wouldn't be that different from how he felt now. "Very well. I'll make your movie."
She whirled to face him, startled. "Without even reading the script?'
"I'm willing to trust you and Marcus Gordon that it's good." Wryly he paraphrased the words English judges had used when pronouncing the death sentence: "And may God have mercy on our souls."
Excerpt
from
A Holiday Fling
Novella in the Circle of Friends Word
(A spin-off of The Spiral Path.)
My full-length contemporary romance The Spiral Path had a couple of appealing secondary characters who were single and a little lonely, so they immediately popped into my mind when I decided to do a contemporary Christmas story for this collection. Greg Marino and Jenny Lyme are both in show business, and they're both genuinely nice people who love their work. But he's American and she's English, he's behind the camera while she's in front, and when their paths had crossed a dozen years before, their careers swiftly took them away from each other. Can this time be different?
Chapter 1
The Tithe Barn Community Center
Upper Bassett
Gloucestershire, England
"The Carthage Corporation wants how much?" Jenny Lyme blinked, thinking she must have misheard.
The head of the community center council, who happened to be her mother, Alice Lyme, repeated the figure. There were far too many zeros.
"Property costs the earth here in the Cotswolds, even in an out-of-the-way comer like Upper Bassett. Throw in the barn's age, and the price goes even higher." Patricia Holmes, third member of the council present--and Jenny's big sister--scribbled figures on a tablet. "Even if we sell every seat to every performance of the Revels, there is no possible way we can raise enough." She pushed the tablet away with a frown. "Resign yourself to the fact that some rich London stockbroker will buy the place and tart it up for use three or four weekends a year."
"No!" Jenny said vehemently. "The tithe barn is the heart and soul of Upper Bassett. Without it, our village identity will wither away."
"You're right. Many of my fondest memories occurred here." Her mother sighed. "But the lease is expiring, Carthage is determined to sell, and we simply don't have the money to meet their price."
"Do you think a bank would give us a loan using the property as collateral?" Jenny suggested without much hope.
"That might buy us some time, but even in a good year, the center only breaks even." Patricia pushed her glasses higher on her nose. She was a schoolteacher, and the gesture was very effective at convincing her classes that she meant business. "We will never be able to make enough money to pay off a loan, even assuming some bank officer is demented enough to give us one."
Jenny rose f
rom the battered chair and crossed to the door of the small office. The ancient music ensemble was practicing on the stage at the far end of the bam. She had discovered her passion for acting on that stage, and she couldn't bear thinking that soon no more local children would have such an opportunity to perform, play, and build lifelong friendships. "If my career were in better shape, I'd donate the money myself."
"Your career is fine," Patricia said loyally. "You can't expect to go from one smashing series right to another, but you're still working."
"Even if you could afford it, that might not be the best thing for the village," Alice added. "This is a community center--it needs to be saved through collective action, not by one successful woman raiding her retirement savings."
Jenny supposed they were both right. Her career was having a slow spell but it wasn't dead yet, and her mother made a good point that the center belonged to all of them and should be saved by joint efforts. That was why Jenny had stepped in to produce and direct the upcoming Revels, combining the considerable local talent with her own skills and connections to create a professional-quality show. She was even performing as Lady Molly, the female lead.
But it wasn't enough. "The Revels are going to be marvelous. If only there was a way to use the production to generate more money--" She stopped as an idea struck.
"You've got that dangerous look in your eyes, Jennifer," Alice said warily. "Care to enlighten us?"
Jenny turned back to the office and leaned against the door frame as two identical pairs of blue eyes regarded her. The women of the Lyme family looked ridiculously alike, with dark hair, pale, flawless Welsh complexions, and deep blue eyes. She hoped that she and Patricia would age as gracefully as their mother was doing. "This isn't dangerous. It just occurred to me that we could film the Revels and sell videotapes of the performance. Get it reviewed or mentioned in some of the London papers. If we do a really good job, maybe we could sell broadcast rights to the BBC for next Christmas."