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 corners 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 disappeared 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 r
ole 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 he 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 wordly 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."
Rainey climbed into her car, still dazed by Kenzie's agreement. At heart she'd been sure he'd refuse, but once again, she'd failed to understand him. Maybe he felt he owed her for breaking their marriage? Or maybe he just wanted a shot at an Oscar.
Whatever his motives, The Centurion was in business. As the realization sank in, she threw back her head and gave a triumphant biker babe war whoop, feeling like herself for the first time in months.
Grinning, she put her car into gear and set off. Time to seal the deal with Marcus Gordon. She'd chosen her words carefully to give Kenzie the impression that Marcus was definitely set as executive producer, but she'd been stretching the truth to the breaking point. A sure sign she'd spent too many years in Hollywood, where the art of the deal had been raised to heights that would make a camel trader blush.
She swung onto the freeway, hoping she'd reach Marcus's home on time for their meeting. Negotiating the details of Kenzie's contract had been time-consuming, especially since they'd continued exercising the whole time. For her, settling everything without the intervention of Kenzie's sharp-toothed lawyer had been too good an opportunity to pass up.
By the time they finished, she'd been sweating and unfit for the sight of a man from whom she wanted a lot of money. She showered in the locker room of the gym, then swiftly redid her hair and makeup before racing out.
She was looking forward to being a director and not having to worry every minute about how she looked.
Bending the speed limit, she reached the Gordon estate only a couple of minutes late. The butler buzzed her through the gate and she parked in the shade of a stone wall. As she entered the sprawling house, she mentally prepared herself for the role of Successful, Confident Businesswoman and Director. Compared to her meeting with Kenzie, this one would be easy, though equally critical.
The butler led her out to a multilevel patio with a spectacular view over the Los Angeles basin. As she stepped into the sunshine, Marcus rose from a poolside dining area shaded by a bougainvillea-covered arbor. Wiry, balding, and barely average height, he didn't look like one of Hollywood's most powerful independent producers, unless one looked into the shrewd gray eyes. "You're looking remarkably fine, Raine."
Recognizing an oblique reference to her impending divorce, she hooked her arm through his and headed to the arbor area where his wife waited. "Nothing like hard work and clean living to keep a sparkle in the eye, Marcus."
No trophy wife, Naomi Gordon was frankly plump and silver-haired. She and her husband had maintained a famous partnership for almost forty years. Rainey kissed the older woman's cheek, leathery from decades of sun-loving. "Hi, Naomi. I hope you don't mind my letting business intrude on Sunday brunch."
Naomi laughed and gestured to one of the chairs. "When do we ever really get away from business? At least you've never shoved a script under the door of the stall when we were both in a ladies' room."
"Good Lord, has that happened to you?"
"Seven times. And Marcus has even more lurid tales." Naomi smiled affectionately at her husband.
Rainey set down her briefcase and settled into a chair as Marcus poured her a mimosa. The tangy fresh-squeezed orange juice was delicious, but she only sipped from the tall glass. She didn't want the champagne in the drink to fuzz her wits.
Though Marcus Gordon could be tough as nails, he'd always gone out of his way to help her, possibly because he'd known her mother. In his studio head days, he'd had Clementine under contract for a movie about a self-destructive rock star when the singer had self-destructed herself. Rainey remembered him vaguely from then. A father himself, he'd always been kind to her. Not like some of Clementine's visitors.
One of Naomi's house rules was no business talk until the food had been consumed, so conversation was casual as they ate exquisite napoleons made of sauteed vegetables and puff pastry, followed by a heavenly fresh fruit compote.
As the dishes were cleared away, Marcus leaned back in his chair. "Time for your pitch. We like your script. Now what do you want from us?"
"The money to make this movie." Rainey passed out copies of her detailed proposal. She'd hir
ed several very sharp people to help on the preproduction, painstakingly working out the details of budget, locations, and shooting schedules. "And a distributor who will market it well."
"You don't ask much," Marcus said dryly. "Let's look at what you've got."
Naomi raised her brows as she skimmed through. "You've certainly done your homework on the prep. You can start shooting as soon as you get the green light?"
"I hope to begin within the next few weeks."
Marcus pursed his lips as he looked at a page. "The battle scene in New Mexico will be expensive."
"Yes, but it's essential to show this ugly, chaotic little war a long way from John Randall's home, and it will cost a lot less to shoot in New Mexico than in the Sudan. The big welcome home scene is another money shot that's needed to demonstrate Britain at the height of her power and prosperity."
Marcus nodded agreement and flipped to another page. "Clever to keep all of the English location shots in one general area. That will save money. It's still a tight budget, though, in both dollars and time."
Rainey gave him her most confident smile. "I wouldn't propose it unless I was sure I could make it work. I've got great people in all the key positions. They don't have the biggest names, but they're first-class talents."
"You've chosen well." Naomi exchanged a glance with her husband.
He nodded slightly and turned to Rainey. "Your figures look realistic and the script is first-class, but you don't have a leading man listed here, and I suspect there's something else you aren't telling us."
Marcus had a well-earned reputation for uncanny perception. It was time to reveal her deal-breaker. She'd start with that, then hope that Kenzie's consent would make it all possible. "As the director, I want final cut."
He whistled softly. "The top directors in Hollywood fight to get that. Explain to me why you think you deserve final cut on your very first production."
"I know I'm asking a lot, but I won't settle for less." She leaned forward, her intense gaze going from one to the other. "I've got a clear vision of what this movie should be. I don't want to make blockbusters--I want to do small, character-driven stories that are ultimately hopeful. This kind of movie isn't particularly fashionable, but there's a solid market for stories that aren't all guns and gloom. Stories with heart. Think October Sky, The Winslow Boy, Crossing Delancey. I want to make these kinds of movies, and I want to do it my way, not risk being overruled by some studio executive who thinks he knows better than I."