Wild Honey (9 page)

“Sasha—” He caught her by the arm and swung her around.

The silence exploded with what he was going to say, what he
didn’t
say. His jaw flexed against the raw, dark emotion in his eyes, and finally, he exhaled. “You were brilliant,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re a natural actress. Do the scene half as well on camera, and it will be a masterpiece.”

Acting? He thought she was acting? She stepped back and turned away as several members of the crew emerged boisterously out of the shadows.

“C
UT!
S
TOP ROLLING!”
Marc Renaud called to his camera operator. A stifled sigh of resignation echoed through the set as sound men, mixers, and prop people shifted position restively, adjusted equipment, and waited to do their director’s bidding.

Sasha sagged out of Carlos’s arms and sank back on her knees, too exhausted to ask Marc what was wrong now. It was going on a dozen times that he’d stopped them mid-scene since they started the actual filming, and her nerves were rubbed raw. Tears of frustration stung at her eyelids as she turned her head away briefly on the pretext of brushing hair from her eyes.

Carlos heaved a sigh, patted Sasha’s shoulder in a show of support, and stared up at Marc. “What’s the problem?” he asked, a faint accusation in the question.

“It’s still not working.” Marc’s voice was low, barbed.

Sasha looked up at her director, confused by the shadowed intensity in his features. Whatever accounted for his dark disposition, he’d become increasingly moody with every take.

“Jesse, you’re a wanted man—” Marc said the words impatiently, approaching them. “The pack is closing in for the kill. Lisa, you’ve just turned your back on
everything
you know and love. You’re frightened of this man, of the passion he arouses, of what’s going to come of all this insanity. Let me see the desperation.
Make me feel it.
”

Sasha’s hands became fists in her lap. She wasn’t giving him desperation? She’d given him everything she had in her, time and again. Her impromptu rehearsal with him had left her so unnerved, so defenseless, she literally had come apart in the first take with Carlos. She’d wept and agonized, the emotion coming from her very core, a depth of feeling she wouldn’t have believed possible in front of a production crew. When Marc had insisted on additional takes, she’d thrown herself into them. She and Carlos had riveted the crew to silence with their emotional nakedness.
What did he want?

“Let’s try it again,” Marc called, returning to the edge of the set. “Where we left off. In position.”

Mustering strength, Sasha drew herself up, caught hold of Carlos’s arm, and looked up at him. Her voice was hoarse with fatigue as she spoke the first line, her hands unsteady. She’d barely finished the sentence when Marc stopped her again. He raked a hand through his hair, stared at her a moment, and then quietly requested that she, Carlos, and the crew take a five-minute break.

Sasha sank down on the bed and watched nervously as Marc drew his camera operator and an assistant director aside for a conference. Marc shook his head several times, in obvious disagreement with the other two men, and finally he turned away from them. He seemed to be coming to a decision as his eyes flicked to Sasha. “That’s it for today,” he said, addressing only her. “You can go.”

“Go? Go where?” She sprang up, unable to disguise the stunned hurt in her voice. “I know you’re not satisfied with the scene,” she said, “but at least let me try to get it right. I’m sure I can.”

“The scene isn’t ready to shoot,” he explained with calculated patience, “and I can’t justify holding up a fifty-man crew for any more rehearsal time. Bink will drive you back to the beach house.”

Indignation crackled along the stripped wires of Sasha’s nervous system. She tossed her hair back, her chest rising with a quick, tight breath. “That’s not fair—”

Carlos caught hold of her hand from behind, startling her to silence. “Don’t fight Renaud,” he advised,
sotto voce.
“Do what he wants. I’ll talk to him once you’re gone.”

Smoldering with fury, Sasha’s gaze connected dead-on with Marc’s eyes. “All right,
fine,
” she blurted out at last, wincing at the tight squeeze of Carlos’s hand. “I’ll go, but I’m doing it under protest.”

A sound technician scrambled out of Sasha’s way, dragging his equipment with him as she stalked off the set. By the time she reached the makeup room, she was in tears and nearly wild with frustration and confusion. The man was a monster! She’d opened herself like a wound in the scene with Carlos, and still it wasn’t enough for him? She pulled off the shirtdress, slipped into her sweats, and threw her things together. What
did
he want?

Bink and the limo were waiting for her outside the sound stage’s main entrance when she stormed out. It wasn’t until the beach house came into view that Sasha realized she couldn’t go into that prison of a building. She needed some air, some breathing room, or she was going to explode. She tapped on the opaque window that separated her from Bink, and it rolled down with an ominous whoosh.

“Bink, there’s somewhere else I’d like to go,” she told him, “my health club.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror and shook his head. “The boss said I was to shuttle you back and forth from the studio—and nowhere else.”

“Well, fine,” she said, “You’ll shuttle me down to The Fitness Factor, and
then
you’ll shuttle me back here. I only need an hour or so to speak to my manager.”

“Sorry, no can do. I’ve got my orders. The boss—”

“Your boss can take a long walk off a short pier!” Sasha fell back in the seat, exasperated, and feeling very much like a six-year-old on the brink of a tantrum. She closed her eyes for a moment, calming herself. They hadn’t invented the beach house that could hold Sasha McCleod. She would figure out a way to get where she wanted to go if she had to swipe a bicycle!

Moments later, as Bink helped her out of the limo and into the expansive garage with its stable of cars, the solution hit her.

The southbound 405 freeway was already thick with commuter traffic when Sasha gunned the classic 1968 Corvette Stingray up the on ramp. In her haste, she’d chosen the sports car because it looked to be the oldest and least expensive of Marc’s impressive chorus line of luxury cars. But now, checking out the digital-display instrument panel and the switches, knobs, and levers on the in-car entertainment system, Sasha realized she’d miscalculated. This baby was souped up and streamlined. One touch of her toe to the gas pedal and she was at warp speed.

Yes, she had made a mistake. She had hotwired a fully customized fantasy wagon. She had undoubtedly picked the most expensive car of the bunch!

By the time she reached The Fitness Factor, she’d calmed herself with the knowledge that she would be back at the beach house well before Marc arrived. He always worked late at the studio, sometimes well into the night. If she timed this excursion right, he would never know she was gone.

Sasha found T.C. right where she knew he would be, in the juice bar, gossiping with a sweet young thing in a shocking chartreuse leotard. His companion was the new aerobics instructor he’d hired, she reasoned, approaching their table.

“Compadre!” T.C. belted out, dodging as she playfully boxed him on the shoulder.

“Compadre?” Sasha puckered her brows in a mock frown. “When did you start calling me that?”

“When you put me in charge of this place.” He winked and waved her into a chair at the table.

“Speaking of which,” she said, nodding to his companion as she sat, “how are things going?”

“Magnifico.” He shrugged immodestly. “What else? That studio mogul of yours sent down a CPA to get our books in order and streamline the accounting operation. I haven’t had to do a lick of work since you left. By the way,” he said, motioning toward his young companion, “this is Cindy, our new slave driver. She runs a mean aerobics class.”

Flushing prettily, Cindy stood and excused herself. “I’m about to start the next session,” she told Sasha. “Why don’t you join us?”

T.C. grinned. “Shimmy into some skins and jump along.”

Sasha immediately realized that was just what she needed, a good workout. It would clear her head, bring her back to earth. Maybe she could even make some sense of what had happened earlier. “Sure, be down in a minute,” she said, nodding to the departing Cindy.

T.C. sobered as he stared at her. “What’s wrong, boss? I can always tell when you’re upset. Your earlobes swell up. Trouble in tinsel town?”

Sasha touched her ear, caught his droll grin, and avenged herself by stealing his glass of juice for a test sip. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble,” she admitted, deciding the fruity concoction had possibilities. “Umm, papaya-coconut?”

She proceeded to tell him about the dismal morning in detail, including her torrid rehearsal with Marc. T.C. had always functioned as a kid brother/father-confessor, the one person in Sasha’s life she could pour her heart out to without fear of lectures or disapproval. And she knew T.C. would keep what she told him confidential.

“And then,” she said, finishing the story, “when he couldn’t get the button undone,
he ripped my dress.
Can you imagine?” She fell back in the chair and hooked her leg over the side. “Okay, so it
was
in the script, but who’d have thought he’d actually do it! What do you think, T.C.? Am I in over my head?”

Her office manager arched an eyebrow, then flexed an impressively toned bicep. “Say the word and I’ll clean his clock.”

Sasha smiled at his macho show of concern. It was such a relief to be home. Such a relief to be with people who cared. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Remembering the sensation of Marc’s fingers against her skin, she rolled her head back, gazed at the ceiling. “Actually, it was kind of thrilling in a prehistoric sort of way.”

“Uh-oh,” T.C. muttered, “you
are
in over your head. My advice is to get your sweat pants down to Cindy’s aerobics class and work off that silly smile.” He pointed a finger toward the stairway to the gym. “Git.”

“Coming?” she asked, rising to take his advice.

He lifted his juice glass. “Soon as I finish off what little you’ve left me of this ambrosia.”

The exercise class was everything Sasha had hoped. It was a thorough workout, and she didn’t have time to think about anything but counting out beats. She was muscling through the last of fifty tummy curls when T.C. rolled up behind her.

“Sasha—”

“Not now, T.C.,” she said with a gasp, hauling herself up and tucking her chin into her chest.

“Sasha, I think you’d better—”

“Ms. McCleod?”

Sasha bolted up to a sitting position and craned her head around in the direction of the angry male voice. Marc Renaud was standing in the doorway with an I-could-cheerfully-strangle-you-with-my-bare-hands glower on his face.

The entire class halted to get a look at him.

“What are you doing here?” There was accusation in Sasha’s voice as she sprang to her feet. “You followed me?”

“Call me impetuous,” Marc said angrily, “but I always follow women who steal my car.”

“I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it.”

“You and I need to talk, McCleod.” To the amazement of all assembled, he strode over, took her by the arm, and escorted her right out of the gym.

T.C. wheeled out into the hallway right behind them. Sizing Marc up with a glance, he inquired bluntly of Sasha, “What’s the word? Do I flatten this guy under my tires?”

“What a lovely idea,” Sasha muttered. “Perhaps another time, T.C. Mr. Renaud and I have some things to settle.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll just stick around,” T.C. declared.

“It’s okay, really. I’ll be all right.” Sasha’s voice had a note of insistence, but her office manager didn’t budge.

Marc folded his arms and proceeded to rub his jaw, an easy gesture, but not quite casual enough to hide his strategizing gaze. Apparently he was trying to decide how best to deal with Sasha’s bodyguard on wheels. “T.C.,” he said finally, “can we talk? Man-to-man?”

T.C. shrugged, glancing at Sasha for her approval. “Yeah, I guess so. Why not?”

Sasha watched as the two men conversed between themselves for all of two minutes. The exchange ended quickly and painlessly with T.C. shooting Sasha an I-kinda-like-this-guy grin and wheeling off.

“How did you do that?” Sasha asked as Marc returned.

“I can be charming when I have to. Actually I offered him the unlimited use of my little black book.”

“I see.”

“And I cemented the deal by promising not to do you bodily harm.” The smile he produced was a little slow in coming, but roguishly engaging once it arrived. “I won’t, either. Not quite yet anyway,” he amended under his breath.

Sasha tossed her hair, refusing to smile back at him. He had his nerve, enlisting the help of her office manager! “What do you want?”

“What do I
want
? That’s got to be the rhetorical question of the century. I want to know why you stole my car, why you violated our agreement and left the beach house unescorted.”

“I had a bad day.” Sarcasm tingled in her throat. “There was this French movie director who kissed me dizzy and—” She caught her breath, suddenly aware of the change in his eyes, the dark sparkle in their depths.

“Yeah, I had one of those days too,” he said.

Sasha found herself staring at him, struck by something she couldn’t put a name to. The dramatic shadings in his face and the subtle nuances of mood and emotion fascinated her. He was like an abstract painting, the meaning of which she couldn’t decipher but which she couldn’t look away from.

“Then perhaps you can understand why I’m upset,” she said at last, gradually aware that it was the sensuality knit into the curve of his smile that was making her stomach knot.

“Sure I understand,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. To talk about it.”

“Not to get your car?”

“
And
to get my car.”

He let the silence linger a moment, then caught hold of her wrist, startling her heart into near failure.

“I’d like you to come back with me,” he said.