High-Stakes Playboy (4 page)

All she managed to get out in response to Tyrone was, “I don’t own a miniskirt.”

He just shook his head. “Me and some of the girls are taking you shopping the minute we get back to LA. Jeans, then. You got any tight ones?”

Actually, she did. When she was sitting on a camera boom, she couldn’t afford to catch her clothing on the lift or wiring. While she rooted around in a drawer for a pair of clean jeggings, Tyrone rooted around in her closet. She pulled on her pants, and he held out a pair of slouchy ankle boots to her.

“We’re getting you some proper heels when we get back to L.A., too,” Tyrone announced as she stomped into the soft leather boots. He looped a narrow, sparkly scarf casually around her neck and stepped back to survey his work. “Mmm-hmm, now we’re talkin’,” he declared, wagging his chin and wearing a
bitch, please
face.

“Okay, Marilyn. Go have yourself the mother of all hot flings.”

Chapter 3

M
arley stood outside the motel’s bar listening to the raucous shouting inside. A professional football game was on the big screens and, judging by the catcalls and booing, an unpopular call had just been made by the officials.

“Do I have to go in?” she wailed under her breath at Tyrone. The makeup artist had insisted on escorting her downstairs to see Flyboy’s reaction to her grand transformation. Which meant she couldn’t make a run for it. Genuine panic clawed at her throat. Damn Tyrone, anyway.

“Go on. He won’t bite you...or maybe he will...you lucky bitch.”

With a last glare at Tyrone for making her go through with this, she took a deep breath, waited until another shout went up and slipped into the dark bar. It was crowded and she eased around the edges of the mob to wedge herself into the darkest corner she could find and bellied up to the bar.

Please let no one see her in this clown makeup. Please let them not laugh their heads off at her bad Marilyn impersonation. Please let her become invisible in the next ten seconds. A flashback to the one and only time she’d tried to doll herself up in high school and had been laughed out of the dance in about two minutes flat came back to her in all its humiliating detail.

Film crews were notoriously quick to pick on one another, particularly on the new kid on the block. Mean girls in the ninth grade had nothing on a bunch of stuntmen, lighting techs and grips. She’d been crazy to think this might be the place where she finally got to experience sex.
Please let no one laugh at me. Please let them just ignore me.

It took her about two seconds to pick out Archer’s tall, perfect profile. No surprise, he was surrounded by a bunch of fawning women, most of whom Marley recognized as actresses. Her heart sank. She could never compete with those beautiful, bold women flirting so openly with him. Archer didn’t look too heartbroken at their attention, either. Not that Marley blamed him. Why wouldn’t he go after the gorgeous girls?

Relief actually coursed through her. She was off the hook. She could slide back into her safe anonymity and not put herself and her fragile heart on the line tonight.

But that darned little voice was at it again. This time it whispered in disappointment.
If not now, when are you ever going to break out of your plain, boring shell?
She ordered it to shut up and pulled her shell a little more tightly around herself.

Glumly, she ordered a soft drink on ice. The bartender took pity and stuck an umbrella in her glass to disguise her wimpiness. Marley had never been drunk and didn’t plan to do
that
for the first time in front of her coworkers, either.

She might look a little like Marilyn Monroe, but she completely lacked the sex symbol’s innate hots. The essence of what had made Marilyn who she was had been that effortless heat she’d exuded. Men just looked at her and lusted after her. No one would ever react to Marley Stringer, rookie camerawoman, like that.

A couple of guys she’d never seen before drifted over and introduced themselves—a prop guy and a pair of set constructors. She mangled small talk badly enough with them that they drifted away before long. See? No sex appeal whatsoever. She was the anti-Marilyn.

Heck, even that much attention from strange men had been intensely uncomfortable for her. How in the hell was she ever going to have sex if she couldn’t get over this stupid shyness? Were it not for Tyrone throwing her encouraging looks and glares by turn from his table a few yards away with the other makeup artists, she’d have bolted already.

Adrian Turnow appeared in the bar entrance and a shout of greeting went up to him. He was an interesting man. Brilliant eye for visual art. Bit of a loner himself. When she’d met him briefly a few weeks ago, he’d put her at ease more than anyone else on the crew. She sipped idly at her soda as he advanced into the room, looking around for someone.

She was startled when he made eye contact with her and even more startled when he did a hard double take. She looked down quickly, fiddling with her drink’s lime-green umbrella. How much longer until she could slip out of here without Tyrone dragging her back in?

“Marley?”

She looked up, startled. “Uh, hi, Mr. Turnow.”

“I had no idea you look so much like Marilyn Monroe.”

“One of the makeup artists was fooling around and tried the look on me.”

“It works. Very cinematic. You should stick with it.”

Um, okay. Did major film directors all talk makeup with their crew members?

He continued. “I just wanted to tell you that the footage you shot today was incredible. Best stuff I’ve seen in years. You’ve got a real future in this business. Gordon Trapowski was spot-on to recommend you to me.”

Gordon
had recommended her for this gig? She did not know that. Color her shocked.

She’d only met him once before she started flying with him on this movie shoot. He’d flown her in his chopper as a freelance pilot a few months back so she could film a big fire back at the local news station. He’d made a half-hearted pass at her but had backed off when she mentioned all her dates coming to disastrous ends.

He must have been impressed enough with her work to recommend her to a hotshot film director. Rumor had it Gordon came from old film industry money but that his family had fallen on hard times. That must be how he knew Adrian.

Speaking of which, the director was talking to her. “...you keep bringing in footage like today’s, I can’t justify yelling at you too hard. Still, in the future, I expect you to follow my instructions. If you have an idea for shooting something differently, tell me in advance and we’ll talk it over.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

“It took
cajones
to pull a stunt like that on your first shoot. Good job, Miss Stringer.”

The director moved away, and she could only stare in shock at his shaved head retreating across the bar.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked from beside her. A concerned
male
voice with a familiar, husky timbre.

Archer.

Hovering protectively over her, looking grim. “He didn’t fire you, did he?”

“No. He told me he loved the film we shot.”

She fully turned to face Archer, and he inhaled sharply. “What the hell happened to you?”

Oh, God.
She
did
look like a clown. Distress slammed into her. “Do I look ridiculous? I knew I shouldn’t have let Tyrone play around with my makeup.”

A big, warm hand came to rest on top of hers. “You’re fine. Better than fine.” Then he added a little menacingly, “Who’s Tyrone?”

“He’s one of the makeup artists,” she explained hastily. “This retro thing was his idea.”

“You look unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably good or unbelievably bad?”

Archer smiled and leaned in close enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne. It was as sexy, masculine and designer-cool as the rest of him. “Trust me. It’s good. I just didn’t expect you to be such a chameleon. You look really different.”

Her breath fluttered nervously as she ventured a peek his way. Lordy, that man was easy on the eye. Smooth talker, too.

“So tell me, Marley. Do you have any acting experience?”

“God, no.” She stirred the ice cubes in her drink around with her little umbrella. “Why do you ask?”

“That’s quite a transformation you’ve undergone in a very short time. I was just curious.”

She had no idea how to answer that. If she wasn’t mistaken, she heard a note of something strange in his voice. Almost like the suspicion from earlier.

“Hey, Archer. Who’s the hot chick?”

Marley looked up sharply at a burly guy with enormous biceps. Gordon Trapowski. He’d been her regular pilot on the movie shoot until Archer, today.

“Holy moly. Is that you, Marley?” Gordon exclaimed. “Day-umm, you clean up good.”

She supposed she ought to be complimented by the blatant shock on the guy’s half-drunk face. But it did make her wonder a little just how awful she’d looked before this makeover.

“You should stay away from this guy, Marley,” Archer warned under his breath. “Especially when he’s been drinking.”

“This sissy boy feeding you a line of bull?” Gordon retorted belligerently. He did, indeed, smell like a few too many whiskey shooters and Marley didn’t like the truculent glint in his eye. He looked like he was spoiling for a fight.

“Archie tellin’ you all about how he’s a glorified delivery boy? Lying about being a real warrior?”

“I’ve seen more combat than you ever will, Trap,” Archer commented casually.

Gordon made a rude gesture to show what he thought of that. The temperature between the men cooled off a few more chilly degrees. No love lost between these two. “You say the word, and I’ll take care of ’im for you.” Gordon’s words were just slurred enough to send chills down her spine.

“Archer’s not bothering me,” she said nervously.

“Yeah, well, he’s bothering me,” Gordon declared. He shoved Archer’s shoulder roughly. “Go back to them skinny actresses who’re too snooty to talk to the rest of the crew.”

Crap, crap, crap.
Marley held her breath in panic. She
so
didn’t need to end up in the middle of a bar fight. She
hated
violence. She hated confrontation in all forms, for that matter. This was all her fault. Her damned jinx was going to get Archer killed in a bar fight. She said frantically, “Really, it’s okay, Gordon. We were just talking about work stuff.”

For his part, Archer had gone silent. And deadly. He’d turned into a panther, waiting, ready to strike, right there beside her. Dark eyes narrowed, he followed every move the bigger man was making with lethal intensity. How on earth was Gordon missing the threat?

“I don’t want a scene, Trap,” Archer said low and even. “You don’t want to upset the lady, do you?”

It wasn’t a stretch for her to look completely freaked out as the big man stared hard at her as though multiple images of her were swimming in his bleary gaze. A shout went up as one of the teams on the big screens scored a touchdown, and it seemed to momentarily distract him.

She looked around in panic for help. Gordon was going to break Archer in half. The motel didn’t employ a bouncer that she could see, and the bartender was not much taller than she was and probably didn’t top a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet.
Crap.

But then she spied Steve Prescott across the bar. He looked like the kind of guy who could handle himself in a fight. And he was the boss. If anyone could diffuse a brewing brawl, it would be him.

Gordon stepped up to Archer and literally chest-bumped him. Archer took a casual step back, smiling slightly. “That all you got, Trap?”

She hopped off her stool and headed for Prescott as fast as the crowded space would let her. Visions of Archer’s head cracked in half and him lying unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood spurred her to shove rudely past a half dozen crew members.

Finally, Steve Prescott loomed in front of her.
Thank God.
“Mr. Prescott,” she gasped. “Gordon Trapowski’s trying to pick a fight with Archer. You have to stop him. He’ll kill Archer.”

“Trap and Archer, you say?” the big Marine asked casually. “You’ve got that backward. Archer will kill Trapowski.”

“You have to stop them!” She laid a beseeching hand on his arm.

“I’ll mosey on over and have a word with them if it’s this upsetting to you. But, Miss Stringer—that’s right, isn’t it? And you look nice, by the way—Archer knows how to avoid a fight, and he can sure as hell handle himself if he ends up in one.”

Prescott started across the bar, sauntering far too casually for her, and she followed nervously in his broad-shouldered wake to where Gordon was snarling, and Archer looked as unperturbed as before. But that air of cold menace clung to him even more strongly.

“How we doing, fellas?” Steve asked lightly as he bellied up to the bar between them.

“Fine,” Archer answered casually. “You?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Buy you a beer?” Archer offered.

“Sure,” Prescott replied.

“Want one, Gordon?” Archer added.

“I’m gonna break your head in two, you arrogant sonofabitch,” Gordon snarled.

“Power down, Trap,” Prescott said mildly.

“Damned Prescotts,” the big man muttered under his breath. “You think you own the whole damned world.” He might be drunk, but he seemed to have enough sense left not to slug his boss. Trapowski shoved away from the bar and stomped off into the crowd, still muttering.

“He’s not done, Arch.”

“I’ll watch my six.”

“I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Prescott picked up his beer and strolled away.

Marley had no idea what had just transpired, but as quickly as the ugly confrontation had blown up, it had settled down. For now.

“What was that all about?” she asked Archer.

“Just Gordon being Gordon.”

“That’s some temper he’s got.”

“Trap and whiskey don’t mix,” Archer commented. “Didn’t want to get into a fight over you before I had a chance to buy you that beer I promised you.”

Was
that
what the two men had been snarling over? Two dogs fighting over a bone? Or, more accurately, her? The notion wouldn’t compute. Men did not fight over her. Especially not hot ones. Not that Gordon was her type at all. He was too burly. Too gruff. Too rough around the edges.

“Bartender, a beer for me and another one of what the lady’s having for her.”

“A beer and a soda coming up,” the guy replied.

“A soda?” Archer looked amused. “Let me guess. You’ve never had a real drink.”

“I have so,” she replied defensively. “I just don’t want to get drunk in front of my coworkers.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you somewhere you can have a drink in peace without these jokers crawling all over you.” He looped a protective arm around her waist and drew her close to his side. His muscular, hard, totally sexy side. He guided her toward the exit and she happened to catch Tyrone grinning like he’d just won the lottery. Okay, she owed the guy one. But then the makeup artist pointed at her and mouthed,
Screaming-hot sex.