Bad Attitude (11 page)

Molly looked again at her red boots, then back at Mitch. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know what you're doing?”

“Of course. I love to shop. Maybe not as much as I'd have loved to stay at Moral Courts with you, but hey, I'm a new man! You've done exactly what Peter asked you to do. You've created a new and improved …” he paused and whispered “… Mitch Marlow.”

“Then I can safely assume the outfit you have in mind consists of more than a white leather vest and red leather, cowboy boots?”

“Indeed. We need two more items to complete the outfit I have in mind. Just trust me.”

In the next store he urged her to try on a pair of jean shorts.

“I can't wear these.”

“Try them,” he urged.

She put them on reluctantly.

“Great. We'll take them. Wrap them up.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked, thinking about thighs that weren't perfect.

“Sure. Don't you like them?” Mitch asked, not seeming to understand.

“They're fine,” she said, suddenly feeling very good.

“One last purchase and we're finished,” Mitch said, adding the package to the others. He checked his watch. “We've got a half hour till everyone's meeting at South Forty.”

“Let's just get the white blouse I tried the vest on with,” Molly suggested.

Mitch shook his head. “No blouse.”

“No blouse?”

“I think it's sexy when you button it and wear it by itself.”

“Then we can leave,” Molly said, though she wasn't altogether certain about the vest idea.

“We still have something to buy to complete the outfit,” Mitch insisted.

“What?”

“Come along,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to Victoria's Secret.

“I don't think they allow men in here,” Molly said, hanging back.

“Will you come on,” he said, tugging her inside.

Surrounded by all the lace and silks displayed in the store, he looked even more virile.

“Can I help you?”

The salesclerk didn't even acknowledge Molly's presence. She was completely focused on Mitch. Molly wanted to smack her. She was feeling very possessive and wondered where the feeling had come from.

“We'd like to see what you have in thigh-high stockings,” she heard Mitch say.

Before Molly could collect herself to object, the salesgirl was back with samples.

Mitch glanced over the flat, narrow boxes and picked out one. “We'll take these.”

Molly continued to watch, open mouthed, as he handed the salesgirl a pair of white, bow-patterned lace, thigh-high stockings.

“Stockings go under something, Mitch,” Molly insisted. “Jean shorts and cowboy boots don't allow for that.”

“The stockings are great,” Mitch maintained as they rode down the escalator. “I want you to go into the ladies' room and change into everything. When you see it all on together, you'll realize it's a great look for you.”

“I don't know, Mitch.”

“I do,” he said. “Go ahead and try everything on. I'll wait for you out here.”

Full of misgiving, Molly went inside. If she didn't like the outfit, she didn't have to come out of the ladies' room, she decided.

Two girls were putting on makeup and spraying their hair. “That is so hot!” they said when Molly walked out of one of the stalls.

“You don't think it's a little too—?”

“No,” the two girls said in unison. One of them asked where she'd gotten the stockings, and they went out, chattering about wearing the same look with their cowboy boots, leaving a trail of hair spray behind them.

“Well, I guess if it plays in the Midwest …” Molly said to her reflection in the mirror. She did look very feminine … and very sexy. Madonna would be proud of her.

Picking up her shopping bag, she went out to submit to Mitch's inspection, suddenly feeling like a girlfriend. She was getting into dangerous waters and didn't seem to be able to swim to the shallow end of the pool.

The appreciative grin on Mitch's face when he saw her reinforced her confidence.

“Didn't I tell you how great you'd look?” he said, taking her arm.

“Mitch, people are gawking,” she whispered, secretly enjoying the moment.

“‘Cause you look so hot,” he whispered, nibbling at her ear.

“Don't be ridiculous. They're looking at you, Mitch. You're the celebrity.”

“They don't know that. But they do know you look hot, baby. I'm getting you out of here, before some young stud decides he can take my woman.”

Sweeping her up, he proceeded to do just that.

“Mitch, will you please put me down!” she demanded, hiding her face. “You're making a spectacle.”

“Don't worry about it, Red. Just enjoy being swept off your feet,” he teased.

“You can't carry me to the car! I'm too heavy.”

“Boy, you must have been dating some weak Nellie. You're a handful, but I like having my hands full. Just hang on and enjoy the ride, Red.”

“Mitch!”

“Shut up or I'll kiss you.”

“Mitch!”

“I warned you,” he said. His lips came down to meet hers.

It seemed to take forever, but finally they were at the car. He set her down then and opened the door.

Molly felt dazed as they pulled out and into the traffic. She'd never been romanced quite like this. Mitch didn't do anything by halves. But only a lunatic would fall in love with a Hollywood heart-throb.

“How far is South Forty?” Molly asked, suddenly in the mood to dance. To do anything but be alone with Mitch.

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Which way are we going?”

“The long way.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to make a stop along the way.”

“Oh.” She didn't ask why, figuring he wanted to sneak a cigarette in a men's room or something. She could hardly complain, after the way she'd blown her diet.

Five minutes later he pulled back into Moral Courts. This time he rented the room. Seconds later he was back in the car with the key.

“What's going on?” she asked, knowing the answer perfectly well.

“You wanted to dance, right?”

Molly nodded.

“Well, I'd be much too uncomfortable to dance in my current condition,” he explained, letting her into the room.

“Mitch …”

“Shut up and kiss me, Red,” he said, kicking the door shut with one booted foot and pulling her into his possessive embrace.

His kiss was hungry with need.

When she responded with equal fire, his arms tightened, bringing her closer still. His hips ground against hers and he shuddered.

“I thought we'd never get here,” he said, drawing a breath, then holding her away from him for a slow, leisurely perusal.

“You like the outfit, I take it,” Molly said, posing for effect, luxuriating in the way he made her feel.

“I like the woman in the outfit,” he vowed, his voice a raspy drawl. He pulled her back to him and took possession of her mouth once again.

Deepening the kiss, he unzipped her jean shorts, slid in his hand to cup her, then slipped his finger inside.

Pleasure rippled through Molly. He almost brought her to orgasm while he kissed her senseless, caressing her without stopping.

She was breathing shallowly and could barely see when he unzipped his own jeans after she'd unbuckled his belt.

“Touch me, Red,” he whispered.

Her hand freed his blatantly hard desire, her fingers circling the throbbing, while he cupped his hands over her buttocks, squeezing, rhythmically kneading.

“I have to have you … now!” he cried with a low moan. Pulling down her shorts, he dropped to his knees, covering her with a sucking kiss.

Just as her knees were about to buckle, he pulled her down to straddle him, thrusting into her waiting, moist acceptance.

Molly arched to meet him, and their raging passion slammed into a body-quaking, mutual orgasm.

The room was silent but for their ragged breathing.

Mitch rested his head in Molly's riotous red curls.

“Good golly, Miss Molly …” he said with wonderment. They collapsed onto the floor, weak, sated and healed. Neither would ever be the same again.

Mitch lifted Molly's hand to his lips, kissed her palm and sighed happily.

Molly broke the silence.

“I have to know something, Mitch,” she said, her tone serious.

“Anything, Red … anything at all.”

“How did you sign the register?”

“What?”

“How did you sign the register when you got the key for the room?” Molly repeated.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes,” she said, propping her head on one hand.

A wicked grin preceded Mitch's answer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Peter Ketteridge.”

S
OUTH
F
ORTY'S
parking lot was jam-packed.

The scattered couples Molly and Mitch passed on their way in paid them little heed. They were lost in their own flirtations.

Mitch pulled his white Stetson low as they approached the dance hall. He paid the entry fee, and they were getting their hands stamped when Heather came storming out, a glowering Sonny Sims not far behind her.

She brushed past without a word. They heard her scream something derogatory at him. Moments later Sonny returned, without Heather.

“To hell with her,” he said. “Let her leave. I don't need her prissy ass telling me what to do.”

Mitch raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses, but said nothing; the two of them made their way across the cavernous room toward an empty table. A waitress came up and took their orders and they settled back to watch the crowd, looking for familiar faces.

The evening was in full swing, with experienced performers circle dancing the country two-step on the outer edge, and less experienced dancers doing whatever they could in the center of the floor.

Mitch noticed a corner had been made into a shop that sold cowboy boots, hats and jeans. Country gear was, in fact, the clothing of choice. Everyone was dressed in some version of Western cool, though no one looked as sexy as his Molly.

She'd simply knocked him silly. Now he could even empathize with Sonny Sims. Having it bad for a woman was the scariest thing on earth.

The waitress returned with their beers and an order of buffalo wings for the next table. He couldn't believe he was hungry again. Did being in love make you hungry? He didn't know. He'd certainly never felt like this before.

“So you two decided to have some fun, after all, did you?” Angie said, coming up to the table with the key grip in tow. She picked up Molly's beer and took a sip. “Come join us on the dance floor,” she shouted, pulling her partner along with her.

“Let's boogie,” Mitch said, standing and offering Molly his hand.

He knew she was glad the place was packed. No matter how often he assured her the outfit, he'd bought her was fine, he knew she still felt self-conscious. How ridiculous, when she was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen! All that red hair and curves meant danger. Said woman.

He pulled her into his arms for a slow dance, even though the music wasn't slow. The band was playing a Dwight Yokohama tune about living wild and dangerously. He certainly was doing just that, but Molly would see to it that the film was finished without any more crises, and then she'd be gone.

To her he was just a job. The attraction between them was only a fringe benefit.

He cupped his hand on the back of her neck, beneath her long tresses, and pulled her close for a sweet and lazy kiss.
God, woman, what are you doing to me?
he thought. He couldn't let himself love again. Losing hurt too much.

He couldn't even make any promises. There was nothing less secure than an actor's life.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was Sonny—if a man as big as Sonny could tap—it felt more like a shove.

“Go away,” Mitch said, shrugging off the intrusive hand.

“I'm cutting in.”

“No,” Mitch said.

It was obvious that Sonny was spoiling for a fight. Well, he'd come to the right place. Filled with frustration, Mitch would be only too happy to oblige him.

Big as a mountain, he'd make an easy target.

“I'll dance with him,” Molly said.

“No, you won't,” Mitch declared, holding her tight; Molly wouldn't like him fighting.

“Let the little lady make up her own mind. Maybe she'd rather dance with a real man instead of some candy-ass actor like you.”

“Shut up,” Mitch warned; people were starting to take an interest in their altercation. “Go find Heather and make up. Leave us alone.”

“Heather doesn't want to make up. All I hear from her is, ‘Why can't you be more like Mitch?' Maybe we should just change partners. I'll dance with Molly and you can go find Heather.”

“You're causing a scene,” Mitch pointed out, trying to maneuver away from the angry wrestler.

“I don't care. And don't you be talking down to me, boy. I'm just as big a star as you are. And I earned my star status in the ring, with real men. I'm not just some pretty boy.”

“You can say that again,” Mitch grumbled beneath his breath.

“What was that?” Sonny demanded. He was plainly looking for any excuse to turn their disagreement into a full-fledged fight.

“I said there are lots of women here who'd be happy to dance with a superstar like you. Why don't you go ask one of them? Let it be, man.”

“Who do you think you are? Frigging' Paul McCartney?” Sonny asked, enraged. The growing crowd encouraging him to make an open challenge, Sonny was either going to dance with Molly or fight with him.

“Come on, Mitch,” Molly whispered, trying to free her hand. “I'll dance with him once and he'll be satisfied. Don't let him push you into doing something foolish. It's only one dance.”

“You're not dancing with him,” Mitch insisted. “This isn't about dancing. He wants a shot at me because of Heather. He's got it into his head that there was something between us, when there wasn't.”

“I'm losing patience,” Sonny said. “Is she going to dance with me or not?”

“Not.”

“Oh, hell. She's not in Heather's league, anyway,” Sonny snarled.

Mitch let go Molly's hand and decked Sonny with a punch he couldn't have seen coming. “That's right, she's way out of Heather's league, you bastard,” Mitch said, standing over him.

The crowd fell silent when Sonny got up and staggered toward Mitch.

No one paid much attention to the cameraman who edged forward to snap photographs of the brawl that ensued.

M
ITCH LAY SPRAWLED
on the sofa in the trailer. “How do you feel?” Molly asked, handing him an ice pack.

“Like I moved a mountain,” he groaned.

“More like the mountain moved you.”

“You can say that again. That guy felt like a freight train when he hit me.”

“You need to grow up, you know that. It's time you stopped using your brother's death as an excuse for your wild and reckless behavior. It's long past time you took responsibility for your own actions.”

“Molly, my head hurts. Don't yell.”

“I'll yell if I want to. And you, the next time you look in the mirror at that handsome face of yours, take a real good look. You're being nothing but a scared adolescent, if you'd rather be dead than grow up. If you're successful, it doesn't take anything away from Matthew.”

“But … Molly, I was only trying to protect you. I didn't mean to start a fight, honest, I didn't.”

“I could have protected myself. Your starting the fight last night was a cop-out—little-boy stuff. And frankly, I don't have time for little boys.”

The telephone rang.

“Hello,” Molly said in a surly tone.

“Is Mitch alive? I hope so, so I can kill him.”

“Yes, Peter, he's alive.”

“Is he in any shape for filming?”

“No, he won't be in any shape to go before the cameras until his face heals … it could take days. Yes, I know how much that is going to cost the studio.”

“I sent you there to make sure something like this didn't happen.”

“I know I'm responsible,” Molly agreed.

“Tell him it was my fault,” Mitch said.

“You want to talk to Mitch?” Molly asked Peter, only too happy to hand over.

“No. I want to talk to you.”

“Me?” she said, resigned to hearing the worst.

Molly rubbed her eyes. She had hardly slept at all during the night. She'd been up, nursing Mitch's cuts and bruises. She didn't want to talk to Peter. He didn't sound as if he was in a very happy mood.

“This is just what I needed this morning, when I can't even move,” Peter growled.

“What do you mean, you can't move?” Molly asked, looking at the receiver, puzzled. Had she heard aright?

“I reached for a newspaper and threw my back out,” Peter explained. “Have you seen the morning edition of the
International Intruder?”

“No, I haven't. Why?”

Peter told her with quiet fury.

“No!” she cried.

“What?” Mitch asked with a groan. “What is it?”

“I don't believe it,” Molly said when Peter repeated the news.

“What?” Mitch asked again, wincing this time.

“You're fired, Ms. Hill.”

“I understand, sir,” Molly said. She hung up.

“What?” Mitch persisted, sitting up with a great deal of agony.

“You'll be happy to hear you finally accomplished what you wanted to do since I got here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Peter just fired me.”

“He did what? Why?”

“Seems the two of us made the cover of the
International Intruder.”