Hollywood Baby Affair. Anna DePalo
the kid-glove treatment.
I don’t want you to ruin your manicure.
Thanks for your concern, but there’s a manicurist on set.
They’d had a few brief exchanges over the course of filming that had made her blood boil. If the world only knew... True, his magnetism was enough to rival that of the biggest movie stars, so she wondered why he was content with stunt work, but then again, his ego didn’t need any further boosting. And the rumors were that he wasn’t who he seemed to be and that he had a shadowy, secretive past.
There was even a hint that he was fabulously wealthy. Given his ego, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d put out the rumors himself. He was a macho stuntman ready to save a damsel in distress, but Chiara could save herself, thank you. She’d learned long ago not to depend on any man.
She opened her mouth, but instead of an existential scream, her next line came out. “Zain, we’re going to die!”
“I’m not dropping you,” he growled in reply.
Chiara knew his voice would be substituted later with her costar’s by the studio’s editing department. She took perverse satisfaction in calling him by her costar’s character name. And since Rick was pretending to be her costar, and her costar himself was just acting, she was two steps removed from reality.
And one long fall away from sudden death.
Even though both she and Rick had invisible harnesses, accidents could and did happen on movie sets. As if on cue, more explosions sounded around them.
As soon as this scene was over, she was heading to her trailer for coffee and maybe even a talk with Odele—
“Cut!” the director yelled through a bullhorn.
Chiara sagged with relief.
Rick barely loosened his grip as they were lowered to the ground.
She was bone-tired in the middle of a twelve-hour day on set. She didn’t dwell on the other type of tired right now—an existential weariness that made it hard to care about anything in her life. Fortunately filming on this movie was due to wrap soon.
Action flicks bored her, but they paid the mortgage and more. And Odele, her manager, never stopped reminding her that they also kept her in the public eye. Her Q score would stay high, and it would keep those lucrative endorsement deals flowing. This film was no exception on both counts. Pegasus Pride was about a mission to stop the bad guys from blowing up the United Nations and other key government buildings.
As soon as her feet hit the ground, she ignored a frisson of awareness and stepped away from Rick.
His dark hair was mussed, and his jeans clung low on his hips, a dirty vest concealing his tee. Still, he managed to project the authority of a master of the universe, calm and implacable but ready for action.
She didn’t like her reaction to him. He made her self-conscious about being a woman. Yes, he was all hard-packed muscle and latent strength. Yes, he was undoubtedly in top physical shape with washboard abs. But he was arrogant and annoying and, like most men, not to be trusted.
She refused to be intimidated. It was laughable really—after all, her bank account must dwarf his.
“Okay?” Rick asked.
His voice was as deep and rich as the hot chocolate she wished she had right now—damn him. It was a surprisingly damp and cold early April day on Novatus Studio’s lot in Los Angeles. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Dozens of people milled around them on the movie set. “All in a day’s work, right?”
His jaw firmed. “This one is asking for more than usual.”
“Excuse me?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Have you spoken to your manager recently? Odele?”
“No, why?”
His gaze moved to her trailer. “You may want to give it a go.”
Uh-oh.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and showed her the screen.
It took a moment to focus on the newspaper website’s headline, but once she did, her eyes widened. Chiara Feran and Her Stuntman Get Cozy. Is It More Than High Altitudes That Have Their Hearts Racing?
Oh...crap. Another online tabloid had apparently picked up the original gossip site’s story, and worse, now Rick was aware of it, too. Heat rushed to her cheeks. He wasn’t her stuntman. He wasn’t her anything. Suddenly she wondered whether she should have sent that first story into internet oblivion when she’d had the chance by denying it. But she’d been too relieved they were focusing on a made-up relationship rather than the real pesky issue—her father.
At Rick’s amused look, she said abruptly, “I’ll talk to Odele.”
He lifted her chin and stroked her jaw with his thumb—as if he had all the right in the world. “If you want me, there’s no need for extreme measures like planting stories in the press. Why not try the direct approach?”
She swatted his hand away and held on to her temper. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Is that direct enough for you?”
He laughed at her with his eyes, and said with lazy self-assurance, “Get back to me.”
As if. In addition to her deadbeat father making news, she had to contend with burgeoning rumors of a relationship with the last stuntman on earth she’d ever walk the red carpet with.
She turned her back on Rick and marched off. The man sent a red mist into the edges of her vision, and it had nothing to do with lust. She clenched her hands, heart pounding. Her jeans and torn tee were skintight—requisite attire for an action movie damsel in distress—and she was aware she was giving Rick a good view as she stomped away.
At her trailer, she banged through the door. She immediately spotted Odele sitting at a small table. The older woman lifted her head and gave Chiara a mild look from behind red glasses, her gray bob catching the light. If Chiara had learned anything during her years with her manager, it was that Odele was unflappable.
Stopping, Chiara touched her forehead. “I took pain medication for my headache an hour ago, and he’s still here.”
“Man problems have defied pharmacology for decades, honey,” Odele replied in her throaty, raspy voice.
Chiara blurted out the gossip about her and Rick, and the stuntman’s reaction. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to actresses!”
“You need a boyfriend,” Odele responded cryptically.
For a moment, Chiara had trouble processing the words. Her mind, going sixty miles an hour, hit the brakes. “What?”
She was one of those actresses who got paid to be photographed sporting a certain brand of handbag or shoes. She glanced around her trailer at the gleaming wood and marble countertops. She had more than she could possibly want. She didn’t desire anything, especially a boyfriend.
True, she hadn’t had a date in a long time. It didn’t mean she couldn’t get one. She just didn’t want the hassle. Boyfriends were work...and men were trouble.
“We need to retain a boyfriend for you,” Odele rephrased.
Chiara gave a dismissive laugh. “I can think of many things I need, but a boyfriend isn’t one of them. I need a new stylist now that Emery has gone off to start her own accessories line. I need a new tube of toothpaste for my bathroom. And I really need a vacation once this film wraps.” She shook her head. “But a boyfriend? No.”
“You’re America’s sweetheart. Everyone wants to see you happy,” her manager pointed out.
“You mean they want to see me making steady progress toward marriage and children.”
Odele nodded.
“Life is rarely that neat.” She