Femme Fatale (6 page)

Chapter Five

Blake tossed and turned on the shifting cushions, banging his elbows into the kitchen cabinets more times than he could count. He was a damned fool for turning down Olivia’s offer. This was the real world, after all, and people hooked up all the time. No one would think twice if he came out of her trailer in the morning as fresh as a damned daisy.

When dawn peeked through the windows, he gave up on sleep and went for a run. The desert played him a symphony of bird calls and insect noises as the sun rose in a magnificent rush of lavenders, pinks, and peaches. He was a couple of miles beyond the set when his cell phone rang in his fanny pack.

He stopped and dug it out, panting, “Ramsey.”

“Frank Santerros. How’s Hollywood?”

“We’re not technically in Hollywood, but I’m settling in.”

“Lead actor’s not giving you any trouble?”

“Nah. I’ve got him under control. I’ve had troops with a lot worse attitudes than his.”

Santerros laughed but then his voice went serious. “The CIA just briefed me that the Russkies have picked up one of our undercover field agents.”

Blake’s gut leaped. Not that he wished an American operative ill, and the guy was no doubt getting the crap interrogated out of him right now. But, it gave the CIA a compelling reason to reconsider its initial refusal to trade Carmen back to Mother Russia.

He asked tersely, “The CIA gonna think about trading the ice bitch for their spy?”

“Maybe. Any sign of Russians sniffing around the set or hassling you?”

“Nah. No one’s gonna find me out here in the middle of nowhere. What’s the word from your end?”

His boss answered reluctantly, “We’ve intercepted some chatter from the Russian intelligence agency. They’ve got feelers out for you. They’re definitely hunting you. But if we can get the CIA to play ball, they should call off their dogs.”

“Thanks for looking out for me, boss.”

“You’re a good man, Blake. One of my best. So keep your head down, eh? Just lie low for a while, dude, while this thing with Carmen works itself out.”

Surely it couldn’t be that easy. “What’s the catch?”

“Worst case scenario, you’re done as a field operative. But you’d make a hell of a desk jockey here in the Pentagon. Straight shot to colonel, for you.”

Driving a desk for a living sounded only slightly less awful than bamboo spikes jammed under his fingernails. But if his country required it of him, he supposed he could deal with the boredom. Still, he readily admitted to being an adrenaline junkie. He hated sitting still.

“Don’t end up on the front page of the L.A. Times for the next few weeks, and you should be golden.”

He grunted a reply and ended the call.

That meant no Olivia Harper. No way. No how. No where. Damn. All he had to do was keep his dick in his pants and play the simple consultant on a zombie flick.
Way
down the food chain, even within the movie crew.

His decision bothered him more than it should have and he wanted to punch someone.

Not only did he have to worry about his safety, but if he happened to be with Olivia, her life would be in danger as well.

No Olivia.

When he returned to the set, it was nearly time for his fighting lesson with Jeremy McDaniels, and he went straight to the actor’s trailer. One of the costume girls was just slipping out the door. She smiled shyly and hurried away.

“Ramsey. You’re here. Good. I just had me some ass, and I’m wide-awake. Let’s do this fighting thing.”

Blake refrained from commenting on the guy’s wake-up routine. Each to his own. And this was Hollywood, after all, not the real world. Instead, he asked, “Where did you leave off in your training with the last consultant?”

“He was supposed to teach me how to handle myself in a fist fight. Show me some moves so I’ll always win.”

“If you want to win a fist fight, you bring a knife. And if you want to win a knife fight, you bring a gun.”

“Always pack more heat than the other guy, huh?” Jeremy laughed. “Good advice.”

Blake shrugged. It had worked for the U.S. Marines the past few hundred years. And when that didn’t work, they made a point of being meaner and more determined to win than the other guy. It helped to believe in what they were fighting for enough to die for it, too. But he sensed this actor wouldn’t grasp the importance of character traits like duty, honor, and country in winning fights.

He smirked. He might not have the delectable Miss Harper, but at least one of his prayers would be answered. “Put up your fists.” The actor did as ordered, and Blake reached out to correct the guy’s wrists. “This fist is your shield and this one is your weapon. Think in terms of a punch traveling down your arm to your elbow. Like this…”

…

Shooting the crowd scene was as big a mess as Olivia had expected. She didn’t envy Adrian trying to control the chaos. Managing five hundred extras roaming around as zombies and staging mass fight scenes was like trying to herd cats. But somehow, the director got the shots, and the day came to an end.

Olivia collapsed in her town car with a sigh of relief. She looked for Blake to see if he needed a ride, but he was nowhere in sight. Reluctantly, she told the driver she was ready to leave. Better this way—if no one saw them leave together, there’d be no speculation about them.

She showered in her suite. After a light dinner, she read the shooting schedule and the latest corrected script to prepare for the next few scenes. A series of technical shots at night were on tap. No dialogue, just a bunch of close-ups of her and Jeremy emoting fear, doubt, and terror. No big.

Idly, she paged through the next few days’ worth of scenes. She knew all her lines but ran through them anyway. The air conditioner fan kicked on and blew the script to the next page. The heading leaped out at her. LOVE SCENE.

Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.

She checked the date in the corner.
Three days from now
. She had three days to figure out how to pull off a convincing love scene. Her steamy kiss with Blake in the dive pit last night hadn’t been a bad start. But that was a far cry from a full out love scene. She and Jeremy would be expected to get more or less naked between the sheets, and furthermore, to act like they knew what they were doing. She had faith Jeremy would know exactly what to do. He was a lech of the first water.

But not only had her TV career never included any steamy love scenes, her practically non-existent social life hadn’t included many, either. Until recently, she’d spent her private life trying to dodge the press and not feed rumors or scandal about herself. And it was darned hard to date anyone in Hollywood without either of those erupting. She’d managed a few furtive semi-dates, with one ending in a fumble of quickie sex, but that was about it.

Knowing Jeremy, he wouldn’t cut her the slightest break or help her through the scene with one ounce of sympathy. He was furious that she kept stealing scenes from him. She knew he was out to show her up or even to humiliate her outright in front of Adrian.

Well, Lord knew, his chance was coming. In three fricking days.

She paced the suite in agitation, her panic growing with every lap of the living room. She had to do something. But what? She had no idea where or how to hire a male hooker to give her some pointers. Her shooting schedule was too tight to go out partying and pick up some random guy in the next few days, either. And it wasn’t as if she could hire a sex tutor between now and then. Not to mention, if anyone found out about her doing any of those things, she was toast. Burnt, dried out, totally ruined toast.

She stopped pacing abruptly.

Blake.

He could help her. He’d already announced that he planned to bed her…soon. And he’d understood about her reputation, so he wouldn’t kiss and tell. In fact, no one would know what they were up to as long as they were discreet. It was the perfect solution.

Now all she had to do was convince him.

A quick phone call to the front desk confirmed that Mr. Ramsey was, indeed, staying in the hotel although the staff wouldn’t release his room number. Not even to her. Cursing the hotel’s excellent privacy policy, she settled for having the operator ring her through to his room.

She waited impatiently for him to pick up the phone, but it kicked over to voice mail. Closing her eyes in immense frustration, she left a message.

“Hey, Blake. It’s Liv. Give me a call when you get in. Or better, come up and see me. I’ve left a key for you at the front desk.”

She called the desk clerk and arranged to have a key ready for Major Ramsey explaining that she needed to discuss the next day’s stunt choreography. She hung up, feeling like a sophomore in high school. She didn’t owe the hotel staff any explanations for her behavior. She was an action-movie star. She could have whatever man she wanted up to her room.

Then why did she feel like she was breaking every rule of decent behavior, and if her parents found out, she’d be grounded for the rest of her life? Would she
ever
kick the Midwestern good girl baggage?

This is only for the part,
she reassured herself. She didn’t want him.

But she did.

Irritated about being a wuss, and at Blake for not being around, she grabbed the phone. The hotel operator put her through to his room again. And again, she got his voice mail. “Blake, it’s Olivia. Please call me as soon as you get this. It’s urgent. I really need your help.”

Too wound up to sleep, she stepped out on her deck. The evening air was sultry with residual heat from the day. The pool was blue and inviting, the same turquoise of the ocean rolling up onto a white sand beach. Safe up here on the penthouse, tucked out of sight of the paparazzi, she stripped off her clothes and dived into the pool naked, reveling in the slide of cool water across her skin. She swam a few laps hard and fast, and then slowed down to a more leisurely pace, down and back, down and back.

Out of breath, she stopped at the end nearest the penthouse, slicking her hair back from her face as she stood up in the armpit-deep water. God, that felt good.

“What’s the crisis?” a male voice asked tersely from the shadows beside the sliding glass doors.

She jolted and dropped instinctively to her neck in the water. “Jeez, Blake. You shouldn’t sneak up on a girl like that!” Had he been watching her swim naked, or had he just stepped out here? How much had he seen in the choppy water?
Badass, Liv. Badass
.

“Pass me a towel,” she demanded.

“Don’t get out on my account. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

He
had
been watching her!

“What’s the crisis?” he repeated.

She noted wryly that he still hadn’t passed her a towel. The pile of neatly folded terry cloth rescue for her modesty taunted her from its rack a million miles away by the patio door. Trapped in the pool, she propped her elbows on the edge, her chin resting on her hands, her body plastered against the concrete side. It was about as much cover as she could get.

“I have a problem.” She cleared her throat. “I was hoping you could help me out with it.”
“Sure. What is it?”

Now that the moment was upon her to proposition him, she found her tongue tied in a big, fat knot. This was not how she’d envisioned having this conversation. “You’ve got me at a bit of a disadvantage, here.”

“Yeah, I do, don’t I?” he replied casually. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, flashing her a holy-cow display of flexed muscles. It reminded her sharply that this was a mature, confident, self-possessed man, not some snot-nosed, self-absorbed, emotionally stunted actor. This was also a man who demanded honesty.

He waited silently, his laser sharp gaze never leaving her face. At least he wasn’t being a sleazy jerk and trying to get a freebie peek at her. Of course, he’d probably gotten an eyeful while she was swimming.

A shiver that could be ice cold or burning hot, or maybe both, chattered down her spine. The good news was that what he’d seen hadn’t sent him running for cover.

Knowing him, he was going to stand there waiting for her answer until she gave him one. Even if it took all night and she permanently wrinkled into a prune. She took a deep breath and jumped off the cliff. “I have to film a love scene in three days.”

“And?”

She huffed. “And we’ve already established that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing with guys. Not in that department, at any rate.”

“You handled yourself just fine in that pit.”

Their kiss had made an impression on him. Warmth slid down her spine.

“But that was just a kiss.”

“Honey, that was not just a kiss. That was the mother of all kisses.”

She’d thought it was pretty fantastic, herself. “But I have to get into bed with Jeremy and act like I know what I’m doing.”

Blake frowned and asked a tad sharply. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

She winced at the bald question. “No. Of course not.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“Let’s just say my previous…experience…hasn’t exactly prepared me to be—” She had no idea what word to use.

“A femme fatale?” he supplied.

“Exactly.”

“So you need to find a way to have gnarly sex in the next three days so you’ll know how to fake it with McDumbass.”

“Yes!” She was so relieved that he grasped her problem without her having to spell it out that she could cry.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Dammit. He
was
going to make her say it. “C’mon, Blake. Don’t make me say it aloud. I’m embarrassed enough already. You did say you were planning to…well, you know…very soon…I was hoping we could move up the timetable slightly…”

She’d expected his face to light up. For his eyes to burn with that white heat the way they did when he was about to kiss her. But instead, his face clouded over. A frown knit his eyebrows into a line.

“What?” she said, alarmed.

He sighed. “You have to understand that I need to be careful. Very careful.”

An image of him laughing with Sheila, Adrian’s damned gorgeous assistant, flashed through her mind. “You’ve met someone else?” she asked in a small voice.