Page 22 of His Girl Hollywood
Arlene wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous. If this picture didn’t work out, he could go back to Broadway and act as if nothing ever happened. It washercareer that hung in the balance. She was the one who wouldn’t get another chance if this wasn’t a smash hit. But telling Don that would only make things worse.He didn’t need her anxiety on top of his own. Calming him down, getting him to focus—that was what mattered. “You’re making it much harder than it needs to be. Forget about the cameras, the lights, all of it, and imagine you’re dancing alone. For yourself only.”
“But I’m not dancing! I’m making love to Rita Carter!”
Arlene laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Is that what’s got you so worked up? Surely, you’ve made love to a hundred girls as pretty as Rita. Don’t worry about her. She’s a professional. Do your job well and you’ll be aces in her book.”
He squeezed his lips together in a moue of frustration. “Not really off to a bang-up start on that front.”
“No,” she agreed, trying to flatten a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. At least he had some self-awareness. “But seriously, Don, imagine the blocking, the lines, the kiss as if it’s one of your more difficult pieces of choreography. Like the steps you were making up on Monday. Visualize it, execute it, and voilà. That’s all it really is.”
He tensed and closed his eyes, blowing air in and out his nose, clearly counting each exhalation. He gritted his teeth and she barely heard what he said next. “There haven’t been hundreds.”
“Okay, dozens then.” He laughed, loud and halting, not much mirth in it, and caught Arlene’s gaze. She was startled at the hurt there, the confusion. The other night she had thought Don arrogant and cocky, elbowing in on her authority. Now, he seemed like a lost little boy. “I guess even pretending to make love to someone is hard for me. Because when I care for someone, they…” She was startled to hear him choking back a knot of emotion. “They tend to get hurt.”
She could tell that each word cost him. She wanted to ask him to elaborate because frankly, that didn’t make any sense. Was he telling her he was a cad? That he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake? As much as he seemed to think it was some soul-baring confession, that wasn’t exactly a shocking revelation to her. Afterall, she was a card-carrying member of the Don Lamont Broken Hearts Club. Regardless, she didn’t have time to coach him through his issues with women right now. Which left one option—walking him through the scene physically until he got it.
“Don, look at me.” He met her eyes again, and she tamped down the flurry of butterflies in her stomach.It’s an old habit, that’s all,she told herself.Muscle memory, nothing more.She swallowed and pushed on. “I am right here watching. There’s a whole crew here. It’s just make-believe. No one’s going to get hurt. I’ll show you. Put your arms around me.”
Don did as he was told, and Arlene instantly regretted it. He had one arm around her waist and another resting on the nape of her neck. How many nights had she dreamed of this? Imagined what it would feel like? She’d resolved to be careful. To keep things professional. That was all she was doing, wasn’t it? Being a director who helped her leading man get a scene right by any means necessary. Hell, he had his arms around her only so that she could teach him how to hold another woman.
“That’s perfect, just right,” she told him, careful to keep her voice steely, authoritative but kind. “Now, give me the lines.”
Don’s eyes met hers and something sparked there. “Say, you’re a pretty good dance teacher.” He hadn’t ever delivered the line like that before. It was low and in the back of his throat, a purr of desire beneath it. It made her shiver with want, and how she hated herself for it. She clenched her jaw together, almost cracking a tooth with her need to prevent the slightest physical tell of what his voice did to her. He was acting. Finally.
He held her a bit more tightly and she arched an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?” He had the audacity to wink at her. All his nervousness was gone. It was replaced by a twinkle in his eye and that cocksure grin that turned the scar on his cheekinto a zigzagging dimple. It would make audiences swoon. She knew because she was having trouble keeping her knees from giving out—but she could not let that happen. Because if they did, well, she’d never hear the end of that. She leaned into Don, bracing her knees, hoping no one noticed how wobbly she felt. John Sidell coughed from behind the camera. Shit, he’d definitely noticed.
“It’s your line,” Don whispered. Arlene was suddenly aware that the set was very quiet. Everyone—the cameramen, the electricians, even Rita Carter herself—had their eyes glued to the two of them.
“Why, I never!” The line came out like a croak and she cleared her throat, desperate to regain control of herself and the room. “That was a dirty trick if I’ve ever seen one.” She swatted at him with a little more force than necessary, a reminder more for herself than for him. She used the movement to shove him away ever so slightly, putting distance between them. The crew needed to see that she was merely giving him instruction as rote as if she were stirring a sugar cube into a cup of tea.
Don responded to her attempt to get some breathing room by grabbing the hand she’d swatted him with, knitting his fingers with hers. Then, he gripped her more tightly, eliminating even the smallest sliver of daylight between them, and pressed her against his chest, adding a possessive tension to the hand on her neck. One that seemed to sayMine.
“But,” he drawled, a sexy new languor in his voice, “you have to admit it was a trick that worked in your favor. Let me buy you dinner for the lesson?” The way he saidbuy you dinnerwas downright filthy. Like he was offering instead to slowly undress and lick every inch of her. She gulped and looked pointedly down at her feet, determined to disengage. She didn’t want that anymore. She couldn’t.
He chucked her by the chin and locked eyes with her, refusing to lessen his grip. She squirmed, trying to nudge his hand that was drifting dangerously close to her bottom further up her back. She should slug him. But he was making progress, and she needed him to see he could do the scene as written. It would only confuse him further if she slapped him for doing exactly what she asked of him.
It was her line now. Before production had begun, she’d memorized the entire script back to front lest anyone accuse her of being unprepared. The moment called for her, no—nother—Rita’s character to look up at him through her downcast eyelashes, meeting his flirtatious inquiries with one of her own. Arlene ignored that stage direction, steadied her face, and delivered the line as dryly and matter-of-factly as she could. “What if I require something else?”
Studying her face, Don smiled. No, not Don. Danny Garnett. A character. A fantasy. “That can be arranged.” His voice was as intoxicating and smooth as her father’s favorite brand of whiskey. She realized with dismay that his hand was still clasped over hers, and he raised it to his cheek. Cupping his jaw, she ran her finger over the scar in his dimple; she couldn’t help herself. It had been so long since she had touched him, even casually.
Before she knew what was happening, he pressed his lips to hers. This time her legs did give out, as she gave herself over to the kiss and melted in his arms.This is right. This was how it was always supposed to be.
He raised his hand from her neck to tangle his fingers in her hair, and she let out a little puff of air, suppressing a moan. He bent her head back a bit, giving him a different angle, and licked ever so slightly at her lips. She started to open for him, losing herself completely, when a voice from the back of the soundstage brought her to her senses.
“I think he’s got the hang of it now.” It was Rita Carter, and Arlene could hear the smirk in her voice. It punctured her temporary bout of insanity. Because that’s all it was.
She immediately sprang back, pushing her hands into Don’s chest and shoving him away from her. She reached for her hair, frantically smoothing it. “Damn it,” she muttered so only he could hear. This was exactly what she’d pledged not to do. Let him under her skin, let her memories and their former fondness for each other make her forget herself. They were here for one reason—to make a movie. Which she had been helping him do, helping make sure that he didn’t cut this thing off at the knees. He’d made it through other dialogue sequences this week, but this was the most important one by far. She’d merely intervened to insure this didn’t become another wasted day and she’d been carried away by the moment—the lights, the dialogue. She had always been a hopeless romantic after all. Why, if this had been Dash Howard or, hell, Flynn Banks, she probably would’ve reacted the same. That was the power of the movies.
She could not entertain that any part of herself, even the tiniest sliver of her heart, had cracked open to grant him the space to wriggle his way back into it. She knew better than to allow that.
She looked at him and was sucker punched by the dazed look of bemusement on his face, as if he too was unsure of the time or place that he found himself.
“Yes,” she squeaked, embarrassed by how affected she still was by the kiss. She recovered herself, trying to imbue her voice with a steeliness she did not feel. “Yes, that’s perfect. Just like that, Mr. Lamont.”
She marched back to her director’s chair, pretending that nothing had happened and hoping the rest of the crew would follow suit. He called after her, “Thank you, Miss Morgan. That was very…instructive.”
The way he said the wordinstructivemade her stop in her tracks. It was dripping with the promise of something more, the suggestion that, for him at least, the kiss had been something besides merely educational. But she refused to acknowledge it more than she already had, resuming her determined stride to her safe haven behind the camera.
She’d only meant to get him to loosen up, to show the abundant charm she knew he could possess on-screen. They weren’t supposed to get to the end of the scene. He wasn’t meant to kiss her.Or,whispered a small voice she loathed,did you kiss him?Had she? No. He definitely had kissed her. It was his fault entirely.