Curve Struck (A Celebrity Stepbrother Romance) Page 7

  Declan would undoubtedly be furious. Paparazzi would camp on her mother's front lawn in Denver -- at least while her mom and Roger were still in the States. Hell, they'd probably even follow Melanie around until something juicier came up with another celebrity.

  So maybe she wasn't protecting Declan at all. Maybe it was her mom and her own quiet life she was trying to preserve.

  "So," Cammie said, unlocking the apartment door and holding it open for Melanie. "If I'm probably right, why don't you let me at least ask my guy?"

  "I don't want to do that to my mom." A real smile tugged at the top of her lip but she kept it concealed. It was easier to tell a truth out of context than a straight up lie. She'd have to remember that little trick later. "Besides, right now I just don't like the guy as a matter of principle -- the new stepdad smell isn't like a new car smell."

  Cammie giggled. "Honestly, new cars stink."

  Melanie rolled her eyes. "Coming from a woman whose car smells like tacos and patchouli."

  "You should be so lucky to have a car that smells like tacos and patchouli," Cammie swatted back before sticking her tongue out.

  "You're right." Melanie apologized with a tight hug. "Thank you for picking me up."

  "Ooh," Cammie squeed in the middle of the embrace. "You didn't give me one at the airport. You had me seriously worried until you said your mom got married on vacation. You looked so upset I thought maybe she called you up there to tell you she was terminally ill or something."

  Pulling back, Melanie studied her friend to see if she was joking. There was no hint of a tease in Cammie's features. She was absolutely serious.

  "I guess I'm just being a brat about it," Melanie offered, taking her rolling case into the bedroom they shared and putting away her clothes. "Everything just happened so suddenly."

  Another truth delivered out of context, she thought. Her mood at LAX was solely because of Declan -- what he'd done, what she had let him do and how her own body had betrayed her.

  "Well, if I know you," Cammie said, coming up behind Melanie and resting her chin on Melanie's shoulder. "Two weeks of work on the crazy paced set of some soap opera will leave you too happy and too busy to worry about ole Roger Dodger -- I mean Sir Roger Dodger!"

  "That," Melanie agreed. "And a little online snooping."

  Chapter Twelve

  Phone vibrating at three a.m. Monday morning, Melanie reached under her pillow and turned her alarm off. Rolling onto her side, she stuck one leg over the edge of her mattress so she would have a harder time falling asleep.

  From the opposite side of the room, she heard Cammie yawn, the bedsprings creaking as she stretched. "You sure you don't want me to drive you?"

  "I'm sure," Melanie answered and sat up, her torso sagging forward. "Go back to sleep."

  Cammie didn't respond, but a few seconds later, a soft whistle blew from her side of the room before being absorbed by her pillow. Smiling, Melanie slipped on her house shoes and quietly shuffled into the living room, shutting the door behind her.

  Her workbag waited near the door and she'd left her clothes for the day neatly folded in the bathroom after she had showered the night before. Stretching and releasing a monster yawn, she plodded into the kitchen and grabbed the breakfast smoothie she had made before going to bed.

  She took it with her into the bathroom, swallowing mouthfuls in between washing her face, applying her foundation and a little color to her cheeks, then getting dressed. Finished with the drink, she brushed her teeth, returned to the kitchen to rinse out the container then headed for the bus stop, the sounds of Cammie sleeping having warped from the whistle of an itty bitty choo choo train to the bone shaking rattle of an angry bear.

  An hour and a half later, Melanie arrived at the studio stage sound where the soap opera was filmed. After getting a visitor's badge, a security guard escorted her to the wardrobe area where her temporary supervisor, John McCabe, was waiting.

  Arriving a quarter of an hour early, she didn't expect to see such a sour expression on the man's face -- or for his expression to warp from sour to downright furious when the guard introduced her.

  "You can walk her right back off the lot," McCabe sniped. "Miss Archer doesn't have a job here."

  She wanted to protest that there was some mistake, but the look on McCabe's face made it clear he knew who she was. She didn't even need to ask him why she was being fired before she had even started.

  Hollywood lived on favors. Someone had called a favor in, or offered a favor, to get her fired with such venom. That someone had to be Declan Bain. Apparently rejecting him had bruised his ego badly enough that he was willing to trade favors with a nothing little soap opera to ruin a two-week gig that Melanie badly needed.

  Worse than that -- word would quickly spread about her getting pushed off the show because someone far higher up the food chain was pissed off at her. The effect would snowball.

  She might as well call her mom and accept Roger's offer.

  "Why is she still here?" McCabe yelled at the guard as Melanie stared mutely at the floor.

  "Miss?"

  The guard was on the old side, with a gentle voice. She looked up at him, her gaze wet with the need to cry, and offered him a nod and a faltering smile. She turned, letting him lead her out of the building and off the lot.

  Less than twenty minutes after she had arrived at her new gig, she was sitting at the bus stop, biting at her lip and waiting for the next bus on her route home to arrive.

  A cross-town bus stopped and a woman got off. She wore sensible shoes and a pink maid's outfit with a sweater wrapped around her thin shoulders. Like the guard, she was already in the third act of her life.

  The woman offered a friendly nod, which Melanie returned before she resumed staring blankly at the road.

  She saw the tires of a limo go by at a crawl on the opposite side of the street. She expected it to pull into the studio lot's main drive, but it continued on.

  Another minute passed of her gnawing at her lips, her hands pressed into fists. There was no reason other than Declan's interference that she could think of for the treatment she had received from McCabe. She had briefly spoken to the man before in securing the position based on the recommendation of someone else within his department. He had been brisk but polite, with a light polish of amicable.

  This time his expression had been boiling over with a barely contained rage.

  The front of a shiny black car pulled into view, its slow rate of travel pulling Melanie out of the irate fugue into which she had settled. The car, another limo or the same one that had just passed, stopped in front of her despite the signs clearly marking the space as buses only.

  Given her last limo-related experience, she tensed as she heard the driver's door open. When his head actually appeared above the roof of the car, she wanted to puke.

  Declan's driver. She hadn't gotten his name but had a good look at him before leaving the private airfield. Her memory wasn't so bad she'd forget a face in just a few days.

  He trotted quickly around the back of the limo after casting a quick glance at the roadway. He didn't have to step into any lanes, so she guessed he was wary of a bus or cop car.

  "Miss Archer," he said, moving to the rear door and opening it. "If you would allow me to drive you this morning."

  She stared blankly at the man. Some new game of Declan's no doubt.

  The actor could go screw himself. The way he had her blood riled up, she'd go live in England just to spite him.

  The driver checked the road again, his grip on the handle tightening.

  The woman on the bench scooted a little closer and elbowed Melanie. "If you don't want to, tell him to give me a ride, honey."

  She finished with a good natured chuckle, but Melanie shook her head.

  "You don't know who his boss is."

  The woman shrugged. "Unless it's a gangster, I say you get in. Car like that doesn't stop even once for most people."

  "There's an envelop
e in the back seat for you, Miss Archer," the driver said.

  "I don't care if there's candy and a free puppy," she snarked at him as a cop car rolled by.

  "Please, Miss Archer..." the driver started, his voice going tight and his face straining. "It's a lot easier to lose a chauffeur's license. I'll take you anywhere you want to go, I just need you to get in the car."

  She looked at the cop car that had slowed as if it were considering whether to turn around, then at the maid, whose gaze was urging her on. Finally she looked at the driver. Was he a good actor, like his boss, or a pawn, just like Melanie?

  "Fine," she growled, her mind going to the full can of pepper spray in her backpack as she marched past the driver and barreled into the back seat.

  She looked around the passenger area for the fabled envelope, even lifted her bottom up and patted beneath her to see if she had accidentally sat on it.

  "One moment," the driver said as he hurried to get in behind the wheel and draw his seatbelt across his chest, one eye on the rearview mirror to see if the cop car was circling back.

  He put the limo in gear and pulled forward then reached next to him, found what he was looking for and passed a large manila envelope to Melanie.

  She flipped it over to see the front, expecting something other than the pre-printed name of a successful production company. She placed the envelope flat on her lap, her hands atop it and wrestling with one another.

  "Where are you taking me?" she asked, grateful that the driver hadn't rolled the window up and forced her to figure out the controls before she could interrogate him.

  "To the Paravista lots, Miss Archer."

  Her hands grew more agitated, her thumbnails taking turns scraping at their opposing palm as she tried to decide whether or not to open the envelope.

  As if opening it would commit her to something.

  With a slow breath out, she broke the seal and extracted the papers inside. The contents didn't vary much from her last film. A formal job offer, a non-disclosure agreement and the like. The only thing that mattered to her from the stack of papers was the position title and job description. The job she was being offered wasn't that of a wardrobe girl, nor a step up as the key costumer, but a position as a costume design assistant.

  She blinked and re-read the description a second time. It was all "at will," of course, but she would work directly with the costume supervisor, break down the script to identify the characters and costuming needs of each, help research costume styles during pre-production, and prepare production schedules for the department.

  Flipping back to the name of the production company, her mouth folded into a thin line. The film, not so much as outlined in the job offer, would most likely be contemporary in nature. A dramatic romance or some suspense movie that involved a lot of guns and at least one car chase. Still, the responsibilities would be a big bump up her career ladder -- the kind of bump she'd been dreaming about but couldn't reasonably expect for a few more years.

  Coming any other day, she would have jumped at the offer. Only this was Declan's doing and she didn't know if it was an apology or a strategy for obtaining some unknown goal.

  "Shall I take you somewhere else instead," the driver asked, interrupting the game of table tennis going on inside her head as she bounced between elation and suspicion over the papers in her shaking hands.

  Taking one last look at those three little words that would be her job title for the next several months, she shook her head.

  "No, take me to Paravista."

  Chapter Thirteen

  The driver, whose name was Russell as she learned when they reached Paravista Studios, waited while she got a visitor's badge at the main security gate then drove her to the offices assigned to the production company with which she would be working. Before leaving, he gave her his card.

  "In case you want to leave early, Miss Archer."

  Palming the card, she cocked an eyebrow at him. "And if I don't want to leave early?"

  "There are several bus stops outside the studio's perimeter," he answered, his tone still friendly. "I'm sure one of them serves your route."

  Melanie nodded, understanding his point. If she didn't want the job after talking to the production company's supervisor, she could get a ride home. If she took the job, Declan wasn't giving her a ride to work every day -- which was the last thing she wanted anyway. Not only did she intend to avoid him on set as much as possible and off of the set completely, but her arrival in the limo had already attracted too many stares.

  She was just glad the time of day meant that most of the people she would be working with had already arrived and were busy at their stations.

  "Good-bye, then," she said, extending her hand.

  Russell looked at it, both brows arching.

  "Am I breaking some kind of protocol?"

  He nodded faintly and she withdrew her hand to wrap it around the strap of her backpack.

  "Good day, Miss Archer," he said, waiting for her to head into the building so he could finally leave.

  "And a good day to you," she said, turning away.

  Inside the building, she received instructions on how to find Michael Strake, the producer whose name was on the job offer. That she was supposed to report to him instead of directly to the costume supervisor or lead designer was surprising. But often pre-production didn't include a supervisor and she knew the job hadn't randomly fallen in her lap.

  Even without Russell showing up and driving her to the studio, she would have known that.

  Approaching the door to the producer's office, Melanie's knees went weak as she heard voices -- two of them, both masculine, one of them Declan's.

  Damn it! She didn't want to deal with him so soon.

  Closing her eyes, she braced herself, lifted her hand and knocked.

  "Come in," the second voice called, the one she presumed belonged to Michael Strake.

  Opening the door, she found Strake and Bain seated in a pair of club chairs positioned on the opposite side of the room from an imposing wooden desk made of teak or some other rare and expensive wood.

  Forcing herself to take a slow breath and bring her vocal chords under control, Melanie extended the envelope toward the producer.

  "I received this..."

  He didn't take it, just lifted a bored looking eyebrow.

  "Did you sign it?"

  His tone had an adversarial tinge that made her pause before she shook her head.

  "Are you going to?"

  Good question. She didn't have an answer.

  Her gaze slid to Declan, who was studying her with a quiet interest. It didn't matter that she'd been furious with him since Saturday and stunned by the day's machinations -- the first impression that struck her in looking at him was appreciation.

  He's not his characters, she reminded herself. He doesn't have a heart of gold or a deep and caring nature. He's not Brady Pine in The Other Side of Never or Justin Fell from Rough Waters. He's a Hollywood star who think he owns the world -- including you.

  Strake turned to Declan, his voice roughening. "You have a reason for pushing this on me?"

  Keeping his gaze focused on Melanie, Declan answered the man, his tone casual but very matter of fact. "I'm not pushing anything on you. It was already in my contract that I have final say over who designs for me in this piece of shit, pseudo-porn flick you're so hot to film."

  Melanie's brows shot up at his description of the movie.

  "Don't worry, Mel. If you wouldn't have been embarrassed to work on that Shades deal, you won't be embarrassed to have your name attached to this."

  She doubted it was the content of the film that would eventually lead to her embarrassment. It was the man sitting in front of her who would be her public ruin.

  Changing tactics, Declan took a poke at her professional pride. "But, hey, if you don't think you can manage to dress a half naked man -- it'll take about five minutes to find someone who can."

  Chapter Fourteen


  Three hours later, after reading through the script several times and taking copious notes, Melanie looked at a set of preliminary designs that had been worked up by her predecessor.

  All while trying NOT to imagine Declan Bain wearing them.

  She reached the black leather "banana hammock" with studs along its front seam just as she took a sip of her Coke Zero. Cold fizzy soda shot through and out both nostrils as her eyes landed on the image.

  "Let me guess, the cock sling?" Declan asked, making his first appearance since she'd left him sitting in Strake's office.

  She flashed the sketch at him and he nodded.

  "I call it a banana hammock," she said. "I guess cock sling works, too, just less discreet."

  Sliding onto the stool placed on the opposite side of Melanie's worktable, he flashed a sly grin. "I'd say discretion is overrated, but I'm a man with secrets."

  "Why are you here?"

  Before capitulating to his expert manipulations in Strake's office, she had silently promised herself that rule number one for the job was keeping as much distance from Bain as she could. That meant physically, personally, and emotionally. She wouldn't be rude, but there would be no water cooler conversation even if they were at the water cooler and surrounded by people.

  Every word out of her mouth needed to have a professional reason for leaving her.

  Reaching into the back pocket of his body hugging gray jeans, Declan pulled out his phone and tapped through to an app.

  "Scheduling reasons," he answered, the sly grin resurfacing. "And to make sure you understand which outfits have no chance in hell of being worn onscreen by me."

  Remembering that the last time she saw him at the other studio he'd been wearing a war kilt and nothing else, she rolled her eyes, but remained silent as she placed the sketches on the table and oriented in his direction.

  Pulling the cock sling one out, he tossed it over his shoulder in the general direction of the garbage can. He pulled another sketch out, one with him wearing what looked like a bomber jacket, and threw it over his shoulder, too.