Because most of the scenes still to be completed were those that had to be reshot with Brenna replacing Tammy Silvers, Dominic's demands were focused almost exclusively on Brenna. When she arrived back at the cottage, she was too weary to do anything but go over her lines and then fall into bed in total exhaustion. She was often too tired to bother to eat, and, always slim and fragile looking, her appearance soon became positively ethereal.
It was this fact that caused Dominic's tightly leashed temper to explode one morning with all the accompanying fireworks, just two days before production was due to be completed.
They had barely begun shooting that morning when he called a strident “cut.” He strode angrily toward Brenna, his face darkening ominously. “Wardrobe!” he bellowed furiously. “Dammit, get me someone from wardrobe! What the hell are they trying to do to me?”
Brenna stared at him in confusion as he took her by the shoulders and spun her around swiftly, cursing steadily beneath his breath. “My God! They've made you into a damn caricature!”
Sandra Stafford, the dark, plump wardrobe mistress, scurried hurriedly onto the set, her eyes anxiously fixed on Dominic's angry face. “Mrs. Stafford,” Dominic said sarcastically, “perhaps you weren't aware that Miss Sloan is not supposed to be a holocaust survivor from a concentration camp, but a cosseted daughter of an affluent family.” His hand tugged angrily at a loose fold of material. “In short, Mrs. Stafford, her gowns are supposed to fit!”
The wardrobe mistress stared in horror at Brenna's green gown. Though Dominic's condemnation had been exaggerated, the gown was undoubtedly ill-fitting and cumbersome looking.
She cast a frightened look at Dominic's forbidding countenance and said nervously, “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Dominic. We'll correct it right away.”
“In the interim the entire cast and crew sit around cooling their heels,” he said caustically.
A flush of anger tinted Sandra Stafford's cheeks pink, as she answered defensively. “I said I was sorry, Mr. Dominic, but it's not really wardrobe's fault. That gown was a perfect fit when we made the final alterations four days ago. Miss Sloan must have lost weight.”
“She's right, Jake,” Brenna put in quickly. “The dress did fit on Tuesday.”
Dominic's displeasure was immediately directed toward Brenna. Turning his back on the relieved wardrobe mistress, his dark eyes went over Brenna critically. “For God's sake, Brenna, you must have lost ten pounds in the last three weeks,” he said explosively, his black eyes flaming. “How irresponsible can you get! Didn't it occur to you that your appearance can't change from scene to scene?”
Brenna could feel the humiliating color rise in her face at this public denunciation. She raised her chin defiantly. “I didn't do it on purpose,” she defended herself. “It just happened.”
“A stroke of fate, perhaps,” Jake said with intimidating softness. “Mother nature waves her magic wand, and you lose ten pounds.”
“I may have missed a few meals,” Brenna stammered uncomfortably.
“She skipped a few meals,” he said sarcastically. “May we inquire how many?”
“I don't remember,” Brenna said defensively, becoming angry in her turn. Surely this castigation wasn't necessary. “I told you I didn't do it deliberately.”
“Leave her alone, Jake,” Michael Donovan said lazily.
They both turned in surprise, squinting against the glare of the lights to see Donovan's familiar figure leaning indolently against a pillar in the far corner of the sound stage. Donovan's red hair burned like a dark flame in the dimness of the shadows as he straightened, and strolled causally forward. He was dressed informally, as usual, in a cinnamon brown shirt and fitted khaki slacks that explicitly molded the strong lines of his thighs.
“Well, well,” Dominic drawled sardonically, “the wanderer returns. When did you get home?”
“Last night,” Donovan said laconically.
She had forgotten how piercing those blue eyes were, Brenna thought with a shiver, as his mocking gaze examined her face with a familiar intimacy.
“Hello, Brenna.” he said softly.
“Good morning, Mr. Donovan,” she said with a composure she didn't really feel. It was only the surprise of seeing him so unexpectedly that caused that tingling warmth in her veins, she told herself stubbornly.
Donovan raised an eyebrow quizzically at her formality, and turned to Dominic. “You're in a foul mood, Jake,” he drawled. “I can't see that Brenna's done anything to deserve that serpent's tongue of yours. You've obviously been working the girl to a shadow. You're going to have more problems than a few pounds weight loss if you don't let up. She looks almost breakable.”
“I'm quite well, Mr. Donovan,” Brenna said coolly.
To her annoyance both men blatantly ignored the interruption. “My God, Michael!” Dominic said harshly. “I have a picture to finish. What do you want me to do, set up banker's hours for the girl? You're the one who gave me the deadline for this film. Now it's my job to try and meet it.”
“You're quite right, I did set the deadline,” Donovan said coolly. “And I'm the one who can change it. Brenna needs a rest. Schedule her out of the shooting today.”
Brenna's eyes widened with shock, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Dominic was before her.
“Schedule her out of…” he repeated dumbfounded, then continued explosively, “And what do you suggest we do while Miss Sloan ‘rests'?”
Donovan shrugged. “Shoot around her, or give everyone a day's rest. You decide, Jake,” he said carelessly. “But make up your mind that whatever you do today, it's not going to involve Brenna.”
With a firm hand on her elbow he half led, half pushed Brenna ahead of him off the set, past the gaping crew, toward the door that led to the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” she hissed furiously. “There's absolutely nothing wrong with me, and I have no intention of going anywhere with you!”
“Be quiet, sweetheart,” Donovan said serenely. “You're going to do exactly what you're told, for once.”
“For once?” Brenna sputtered indignantly. “You've done nothing but order me around since the moment we met, Michael Donovan, and I have yet to get my own way.”
Donovan's blue eyes gleamed mischievously. “But then, neither have I, love,” he drawled meaningfully.
Brenna blushed fiercely, and tried futilely to wrest her arm from Donovan's iron grip, as they reached the door. “You can't come in here and just whisk me away, without so much as a by your leave to anyone,” she protested. “And just look at me. I've got to return this gown to wardrobe!”
He pushed her through the door, and strode quickly toward a sleek gray Mercedes, dragging Brenna along behind him.
“I can do anything I want to do,” he said coolly. “I own the place, remember? As for the gown, we'll stop at your cottage and you can change. I'll send someone over to pick it up after we leave.”
“Leave? Where are we going?” Brenna squeaked. “Wasn't the entire purpose of this abduction so that I could get some rest?”
“Certainly,” Donovan agreed blandly. “And I fully intend that you do just that. Which doesn't necessarily mean that I'm ordering you to bed—” he grinned innocently, “—at the moment.” He opened the passenger door and seated her carefully before closing the door and running around to slip behind the wheel. “I'm taking you away from all this, brown eyes,” he grated, in a passable Bogart imitation.
“And what if I don't want to be taken away?” Brenna asked archly, trying to smother the fugitive amusement that this new, lighthearted Donovan produced. How many facets were there to Donovan's complicated personality, she wondered helplessly. Each encounter with this human dynamo left her struggling helplessly out of her depth.
He started the motor, but did not put the car into gear. He turned to face her, his expression serious. “You need a break, Brenna,” he said quietly, his fingers lightly tracing the faint shadows beneath her eyes that even makeup had
not been able to cover entirely. “Jake may be a cinematic genius, but he'll ride roughshod over anything that gets in his way. I'd forgotten you were so vulnerable, or I wouldn't have stayed away so long.” His tone was infinitely gentle, his eyes enfolding her in a flowering warmth that could be tenderness.
Brenna caught her breath, and forced herself to look away before that gaze completely dissolved any resistance she could muster to Donovan's powerful charisma. “I'm really quite all right,” she insisted shakily. “I'm much tougher than I look.”
His hand reached out to encircle one fragile wrist, and she jumped involuntarily at the sensation that passed through her at his casual touch.
“I have no doubt you have the heart of a lion,” he said lightly. “But it's obvious that your physical stamina doesn't match up. A puff of wind could blow you away.” His eyes darkened angrily. “What the hell could Jake have been thinking of to let you get in this shape?”
A sudden poignant warmth shot through Brenna, melting any remaining resistance. It had been so long since she had had anyone to worry about her physical well-being, she thought mistily. Not since Janine had died, had anyone expressed any personal concern for her. Even with Janine it had been she and not her older sister who was the caretaker. Thinking back, Brenna couldn't remember anyone who had given her this wonderful, comforting feeling of being treasured. She felt a sudden urge to surrender, to throw off the burden of independence and responsibility that seemed too heavy to bear, to lean on Donovan's vibrant strength that she knew would so effortlessly shield her. She knew this mood wouldn't last; soon her independence would reassert itself, and she would once again be ready to do battle in the arena. But not now. She was so tired. Surely it wouldn't hurt to lay aside her armor for just a little while and be young and carefree.
She turned once again to meet his eyes and asked quietly, “So what do you suggest?”
“I have a cottage on a tiny island just off the coast,” he said, his narrowed eyes on her face, weighing her every reaction. “We can be there by helicopter in an hour. It's quite beautiful and very peaceful. No telephone, no television, and no Jake Dominic to intrude on your rest. I promise to have you back in your own chaste little cottage before sunset.”
“You make it sound very appealing,” Brenna said slowly. It sounded like paradise, she thought longingly.
Donovan's rapier eyes read the wistfulness in her face, and he moved in with swift aggression. “I'm not about to rape you, if that's what you're worried about,” he said bluntly. “I would hardly incur the expense of a full day of lost production, just to get you into bed. That would make you very expensive, indeed. I don't promise not to try to make love to you, but it will be you that sets the pace. All you have to do is say ‘no.’”
“I'll go,” she said recklessly.
An almost boyish smile lit Donovan's rugged features. “Great,” he said tersely, and putting the car in gear, he backed out of the parking space and drove rapidly out of the lot.
six
THE WHIR OF THE SCARLET HELICOPTER'S rotors died to a whisper, and Donovan reached across to unsnap Brenna's seat belt with swift economical movements. “Stay where you are,” he ordered briskly. “I'll come around and help you down.”
Brenna nodded absently, as she peered eagerly through the window at the small clearing surrounded by towering pines. They had landed on a square concrete landing pad, and she watched impatiently as Donovan attached lines to the helicopter from steel links embedded in the concrete. He paused to look speculatively at the darkening sky to the west, before coming around to the door and opening it.
“Looks like we're going to get a bit of a storm,” he said, as he reached up and, placing his two hands firmly on her waist, swung her easily to the ground. “I was hoping the weather would be good, so that we could go out in the boat,” he said frowning. “Are you a sailor, Brenna?”
“I have no idea,” she said simply. “I've never been on a boat.”
She had said the same thing about flying, when they had arrived at the private landing strip on the outskirts of Twin Pines a little over an hour ago.
Shutting the helicopter door, Donovan took her hand in his and set off up the pebbled path that led across the clearing, into the dense stand of trees.
“I have an idea a man could become addicted to providing you with new experiences, Brenna Sloan,” he said thoughtfully. “It would give him a never-ending source of pleasure.”
She made a face, as she gave a half skip to keep up with his lengthy stride. “Where were you ten years ago?” she asked lightly. “Orphanage brats lead notoriously dull lives.”
His hand tightened protectively around hers. He didn't look at her as he asked quietly, “Was it very bad, Brenna?”
“The children's home?” She shook her head. “No, not really bad,” she said matter of factly. “Lonely, sometimes.”
They had reached the glade now, and Brenna cocked an eyebrow inquiringly. “Would it be too much to ask where we're going?”
“The cabin is about a quarter of a mile from here,” he said. “I thought we'd stop there first to take some steaks out of the freezer, before we take a hike around the island.” His eyes appraised the horizon critically. “It looks like the storm may hold off for a while. It's moving slowly.”
After that, they moved in companionable silence through the woods. Brenna breathed in the pinescented, pungent air with warm contentment. For a city bred person like herself this simple walk through the woods had all the attraction of the exotic. She was as lighthearted and happy as a child at this moment, and a great part of it was due to this man, who was holding her hand with such casual camaraderie.
From the moment she had agreed to come to Donovan's island, he had been everything one could have wished in a companion. He had carefully kept any sign of sexual awareness from his attitude during the time he had driven her to the cottage, and waited while she quickly changed into white shorts, sneakers, and a yellow sun top. She had washed the heavy makeup off and hadn't bothered to replace it, relying on the glowing perfection of her healthy skin. She had hurriedly brushed out the elaborate hairdo, letting her hair fall in its usual gleaming curtain down her back. Then they had hurried like two eager schoolchildren to the airstrip to board the helicopter. Somehow it did not surprise her at all that Donovan could pilot the helicopter himself, and was also licensed to fly the Lear jet that was hangared at the field. A man as dominant as Donovan would want to be fully in command, wherever he was.
They had been walking for about five minutes and Brenna could see the outline of the redwood chalet in a distant clearing. She asked curiously, “Don't you find such a totally isolated hide-away inconvenient? I should think you would at least want a telephone to keep in contact with your business interests.”
Donovan shook his head decisively. “No way!” he said curtly. “I bought the island two years ago for the express purpose of having a place to go when I wanted to do some writing. I wouldn't get anything accomplished if I could be reached by phone. If anything urgent comes up, Monty can always hire a helicopter or a launch to bring him over.”
They had reached the clearing now, and Brenna saw the A-frame chalet. The cabin, while charming, was really quite small. When she commented on this, Donovan smiled, his blue eyes dancing.
“It was quite large enough for the original owner's purpose,” he said dryly. “I bought it from one of Dominic's playboy buddies, who had it built to his own specifications.
Suspecting that she knew the answer already, she asked, “And that purpose was?”
“A love nest,” he said succinctly.
“I see,” Brenna said thoughtfully, her eyes gleaming curiously, a question trembling on her lips.
“And, no, I have never used the cabin for that reason.” He anticipated her question with a grin. “I come here to work.”
Donovan unlocked the door and, with a mocking gesture, indicated that she should precede him, then followed her closely so that he could
see her reaction. He wasn't disappointed.
Brenna gazed around as wide-eyed as a child. A love nest, indeed, she thought faintly. The chalet had a floor plan that provided no privacy whatever. The living room area flowed into the tiny kitchenette with only the free-style cabinets to divide the room. A spiral staircase led to a half-loft that was occupied by a king-sized bed and two bedside tables. The decor was contemporary, with the accent on comfort, and sang with glowing reds and orange. A huge stone fireplace dominated one wall, with a long, scarlet couch and a white fur rug placed cozily before it. There was an almost overpoweringly intimate atmosphere about the chalet, and she was filled with a strange tension under Donovan's mocking stare.
“What, no communal bathing?” Brenna asked jokingly, her eyes not meeting his.
“Now that you mention it,” he said lazily, and sauntering over to the far wall, he slid a decorative panel aside to reveal an enormous emerald green sunken tub, surrounded by several white potted ferns.
“The poor fellow was painfully obvious, wasn't he?” Donovan commented casually. “One hopes his little playmates came here with the same aim in view. One look at this setup would send any shrinking violet running for the hills screaming bloody murder.”
He slid the screen closed, and, ignoring Brenna's scarlet face, strode quickly to the tiny kitchen. Rummaging in the compact freezer, he triumphantly extracted two paper-wrapped packages and put them in the portable microwave, pushing the button to defrost.
“All set,” he announced crisply, coming around the counter into the living room area. “Shall we go?”