Bad Attitude (8 page)

“You talk about liking yourself, yet you have this thing about your red hair and curves.” Leaning forward, he said, “You're the one who's obsessed with hipless blondes, Molly, not me.”

He'd touched her trigger button and she went off. “No. It's not me who's obsessed with hipless blondes. It's the society we live in. You can't be a woman alive in this time and not feel the pressure to be thinner, not feel dissatisfied with your body, no matter what shape you were born with.”

“So you're saying that being a hipless blonde would make you a happier person?”

“No, because I know perfection isn't possible. But you can't stop the effect of being bombarded every day by the media's message that being thin opens up the way to acceptable beauty as well as to personal and professional success. If you want to feel female, sexy and desired, you have to work for it—work out for it. The whole, morally superior attitude of the fitness maniacs annoys me.”

“So don't listen to it,” Mitch said, dismissing her qualms with a shrug.

“That's easier said than done,” Molly countered. “And anyway, it won't work unless men stop listening, too. They are being conditioned just as much as women are. They are being conditioned to want one stereotype of woman instead of the wide array available.”

She picked up a magazine and began flipping through it aimlessly. “Besides, it's almost impossible to tune out the message, when you're confronted with the so-called ideal everywhere you turn, from television to movies to … to magazines,” she said. The cover showed a blonde, applying makeup in her underwear.

Mitch laughed. “Boy, you really are on a tear about this, aren't you? Why are you so upset?”

“Upset? Why am I upset? I'll tell you why. It's because the message is getting worse. It's no longer enough just to be thin. Now you have to be toned. Soft must be replaced by hard. It seems to me there is a very deliberate campaign to make the female body more male.”

“Not by me.”

Molly glared at him.

“Okay, let's assume for a moment you're right. Why do you suppose the culture is demanding women become less feminine?”

Molly was abruptly aware that he was actually interested in what she thought. Was this part of his line? Was it pretense? Did she dare believe he was really interested in her?
Stop it. Don't get involved. You promised Peter. You promised yourself. Just answer his question,
she told herself.

“Well, since you asked, I think the current success of women in the marketplace is scaring the hell out of men. If you make women more like men, maybe they aren't as frightening.”

“I'm not scared of a real woman,” Mitch said, all movie-star confidence.

“You have the sense of a stone, remember?”

He let her remark pass. “Are you saying that men should be afraid of women?”

“No, I'm saying women are starting to catch on.”

“Catch on to what?”

“The fact that the beauty and body requirements imposed on women are extremely time consuming, compared to those imposed on men. You add housework, which women still do most of, plus child care, and there is no way a woman can compete equally with a man.”

Mitch folded his hands behind his head and looked at her; she saw a glint flash in his eyes. “You want to know what I think?”

She wasn't sure. “What?” she asked, nonetheless, letting curiosity win out.

“I think men have more determination. Men decide to do something and they do it. It's as simple as that.”

“What a line of sexist garbage!”

“You think so? Okay, then tell me and be honest. What change would you like to make about yourself that you haven't been able to make?”

Molly shrugged, the easy answer on the tip of her tongue—and off it before she could catch herself. “Lose ten pounds.”

Mitch looked surprised. “I thought you didn't buy into all that body image stuff.”

“I don't. But I do love fashion and I know if I were ten pounds thinner, the kind of clothes I enjoy wearing would fit better, okay?”

Mitch grinned big time, his eyes twinkling. “And here I thought you were just a bad girl who enjoyed wearing her clothes on the tight side,” he teased.

“Disappointed, are you?” Molly said, throwing her magazine at him.

He ducked. “Maybe just a little. Surely you know it's every guy's secret desire to be seduced by a woman who's bold enough to know what she wants. A woman who throws tradition to the winds. A woman who takes over on occasion, demanding exactly what she wants, when she wants it.”

It was Molly's turn to laugh, a deep, belly laugh. “And I think you've seen too many Kathleen Turner movies,” she said, shaking her head.

“Uh-uh. It's not possible to see too many Kathleen Turner movies.”

“Let me get this right….“ Boy, either he was good at telling a woman what she wanted to hear, or he was too good to be true! “You're saying you like a woman who is independent?”

“Sure, why not?”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Sexually independent, maybe. That I'd buy. But a totally independent woman? Nah, I don't think so. A totally independent woman would probably drive you crazy.” A darn shame, too.

“Why do you say that?”

“You're a movie star. You haven't got a clue how spoiled you are.”

“Spoiled?” He looked affronted.

“Yes,
spoiled.
What do you think would happen if an independent woman's working hours didn't necessarily dovetail with yours? Would you be willing to accommodate that?”

Mitch winked at her. “I might.”

“Might?”

Mitch rubbed his hands on his Lycra-clad thighs. “Depends on how sexually independent she is—how adventuresome.”

“You think sex is an adventure? How male of you!”

“You don't think sex should be an adventure?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Oh, great! I'm locked up with one of the Hardy Boys,” Molly said with a sigh.

“Only if you're willing to play Nancy Drew….” he countered, visibly relishing the idea.

Molly shook her head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm going to change the subject back. I want to know why you asked me the question about what I'd change about myself if I could.”

“Oh, yeah.” It was obvious he'd been totally drawn off track by the idea of her being a bad girl. “I was about to challenge you. How about it, Molly? Are you up to going one-on-one with me?”

Oh, yes, she was more than ready to go one-on-one with him between the sheets. Her body was, her heart was. Only her head wasn't. But two against one had her saying, “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you're talking about,” Molly said suspiciously, narrowing her eyes.

“I'm talking about a little man-woman experiment.”

“I thought so—and I don't think so.”

“Wait. Here's the deal. I'll try to quit smoking, and you'll try to lose those pesky ten pounds you were just bemoaning having. What do you say?” he coaxed. “Let's ties who succeeds by the time the movie wraps.”

“No cheating,” Molly insisted.

He nodded. “No cheating.”

“A
NGIE, DON'T ΥOU HAVE
anything chocolate to eat at all?” Molly asked, her head stuck in Angle's tiny kitchen cabinet. She'd made a thorough search of the trailer and hadn't come up with so much as a box of Cocoa Puffs cereal while waiting for Angie to return.

“Chocolate? I thought you were on a diet. Don't you have some sort of man-woman challenge of the sexes going with Mitch, to see which sex is better at willpower and self-determination?”

“I'm going to start tomorrow. Okay? Mitch doesn't have to know. Right now I need chocolate. If I don't get chocolate, I may have to kill someone.”

“Let me guess who,” Angie said.

“I'll give you a hint.” Molly closed the cabinet door. “He's blond, blue-eyed and famous, and his name is Mitch Marlow.”

“You'll never get away with it,” Angie warned with mock seriousness. “Unless, of course, you blame it on Sonny, which won't work, since he went back on the road.”

“I know. So if you're really, really my friend, Angie, you'll find me some chocolate.”

“Will a half-eaten pack of M&M's do?” Angie held up the rumpled packet she'd pulled from her purse.

“You've saved my life,” Molly said, grabbing them. “Or you've saved his.”

Tossing a handful of the colorful bits of candy-coated chocolate into her mouth, she savored the rich, melting taste on her tongue. She closed her eyes in rapture.

“For heaven's sake, Molly. You look like you're having sex … great sex,” Angie said with a ribald laugh.

“I am. It's called safe sex.”

“Unsafe being—” Angie took the pack of M&M's from her and finished it off.

“Being next door.” Molly flopped onto the sofa. “Oh, Angie, you don't know what it's like, being locked up with your fantasy lover for days on end with the romantic sound of rain on the roof, endlessly coaxing … ‘Yes, yes, yes.'”

“So why don't you give in to your desires for him, if you fancy him so? Why keep torturing yourself with denial?”

“Come on, Angie. I'm not like Heather. I'd never recover.”

“From what?”

“From being involved with him only for the duration of the film.” Molly picked up a loose sofa pillow and hugged it.

“So who says it won't last?”

“Angie …”

“I'm serious.”

“Trust me, he's not.”

“He might be.”

“
Angie, he's an actor.”

M
ITCH HAD DRIVEN
to Stanton to get ammunition for his little war with Molly. On the return trip he was lost in reflection. The radio was off, and the windows were rolled up to keep out the steady rain. The movement of the windshield wipers accentuated his almost trancelike state as he thought about what Molly had said about Matthew's death.

She was right. He had to let go of the anger he felt over his brother's death and accept it. Only then could he proceed with his life.

The bad dreams weren't coming as frequently. He didn't wake up in a cold sweat anymore, seeing smoke billow from the wreckage of Matthew's racing car … didn't see Matthew's lifeless body lifted from it.

The fact that Molly had shared her own guilt over her older brother's death had been comforting. She was right; Matthew had been more of a thrill seeker than he. Mitch wondered if people like Matthew and Molly's brother Joey, who'd loved living on the edge, had ever thought about the pain they'd leave behind by their senseless risk taking.

Pulling off the highway and onto the road that led to the movie location, Mitch began to hum a melody, something he was working on for
Jesse.
Once inside the trailer, he went on humming while he unloaded the groceries he'd bought.

As he took the items out of the sack, he thought of Molly. The food he'd bought would have her crying foul. He had, of course, smoked a cigarette or two on his way back from Stanton, but Molly wouldn't know that he'd cheated while she'd stayed on her diet. He'd quit for real tomorrow.

He was just melting butter in a saucepan, its aroma wafting deliciously, when Molly entered the trailer and wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded, stalking toward him and glaring. Now he was sliding the makings of a grilled cheese sandwich into the saucepan of melted butter with a nonchalant flourish.

“Unless I'm real mistaken, I believe I'm making myself a grilled cheese sandwich.” He lifted the sizzling pan, wafting the pungent aroma under her nose. “Would you like one, too?”

“You're cheating,” she accused, pushing the offering away.

“What?” he asked. Had he left a cigarette butt somewhere?

“Are you nuts? You can't cook stuff like that while I'm trying to diet off ten pounds,” she said, reaching to turn off the stove. “It isn't fair, and you well know it. All you're trying to do is sabotage my diet, so you can prove your ridiculous concept that men are more determined to accomplish their goals than women.”

Ignoring her snit, he turned the stove back on.

“You're the one with the ridiculous concept. I can, of course, cook whatever I want. Just because you're on a diet, it doesn't mean I have to be on one, too. I'm the one who has to quit smoking, remember?” His quiet, sensible words were followed by a sexy grin. “You do know what that means, don't you, Molly?”

“What?” she snapped.

“It means, Red, that I shall have to find something to do with my oral fixation….”

Mitch saw her flush beneath the freckles on the bridge of her nose. He knew it annoyed the hell out of her that he had the ability to make her flush at all. And he was fairly certain she wasn't used to anyone having that sort of control over her. Molly Hill was the sort of young woman who liked to have the last word—not to be left speechless.

Molly didn't respond to his suggestion and turned to rummage in the refrigerator.

Watching her, he wondered what it would be like to leave her speechless in bed. On second thought, he decided he'd rather have her making wild, throaty sounds as he brought her to satisfaction. He raised an eyebrow at the idea. It was strange how she kept creeping into his head at the oddest moments.

At this moment, studying her backside, covered in second-skin, Lycra leggings trimmed with lace, he had a compelling urge to stroke it. To pull her back against him and nestle her against his sex.

What would she do if he acted on his impulse?

Their earlier conversation about independent women came back to him. Now that would be a change! A woman who didn't expect him to be Mitch Marlow, movie star. A woman who maybe wanted him and not his celluloid image.

He smiled, relishing the idea. Just for once, he would welcome the chance to lie back and simply enjoy. He could really go for Molly using his body as her own, personal playground.

Molly had been right. Kathleen Turner was his type of woman. Perhaps he'd been wrong to claim not to be a thrill seeker. Maybe the kind of thrill that fired his engines was the idea of having his agent really on top of things….

Molly turned from the small refrigerator, empty-handed. “I guess I'll eat the catered meal with the crew. I don't see why you can't, as well.”

“Because I have special tastes,” Mitch said, resisting the urge to laugh at how that sounded.

She frowned at him.

“Well, it was you who said I'm spoiled.”

“Great. What am I supposed to do, then, while you're in the trailer, cooking all this mouth-watering food? Will you please tell me that?” she asked crossly.

“Oh, I've thought of that one, too,” he answered, all too accommodatingly. Reaching into the grocery sack, he brought out the remaining contents; a bag of carrots and another of celery.

She took them from him, telling him beneath her breath what he could do with them. Tossing the plastic bags onto the counter, she turned back to him with a bright smile. “Tell you what,” she said as he slid his grilled sandwich onto a plate. “You're such a damn fine cook, why don't you be a prince and do these up into sticks for me?”

He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and picked up the vegetables along with her challenge. “Sure thing, Red. Hey, I can be a nineties sort of man. No problem.”

He knew that he was making her very nervous and was glad. While he quite liked her self-confidence, if he got her all disconcerted, he might yet tumble her into bed.

He took a bite of his grilled sandwich and finished up the carrot and celery sticks. The rain was doing its job in their dance of seduction. Its steady assault was inching up the frustration level, degree by degree.

For the moment he was content to let Molly pretend there was no electricity between them. Sooner or later he'd bed her hot body.

And then he really thought about it—thought about how difficult she could be.

Molly Hill … he must be suicidal!

“H
ELLO
, M
R.
K
ETTERIDGE
,” Molly said, munching on a carrot stick.

“Do you know who Robert Abernathy is?
Do you?”

Molly winced and took the phone away from her ear.

Mitch grinned, able to hear Peter's outrage from across the room.

Molly waited for Peter to vent his rage. He was on another one of his tears. His yelling didn't really mean anything. She knew it intimidated a lot of people, but it didn't faze her. She knew it was only part and parcel of his expansive personality. He could yell a never-ending stream of orders and then give an agent trainee tickets to a coveted event plus a free dinner.

She also knew tenacity and determination to get what you wanted were the qualities that made a good agent. They were what got you the beach house, the sports car, the prestige and the power. In a word, the success she wanted. She could learn a lot from Peter Ketteridge, and she was smart enough to know it.

Smart enough to know, too, that Hollywood had changed.

In the past the studio heads, movie stars and the producers had been the ones who held the reins of power, but no more. In the new Hollywood the power had shifted into the hands of agents. Today they packaged movies, made the money deals and controlled the careers of their clients.

Moving gingerly, Molly put the phone back to her ear and answered Peter's question.

“Yes, Robert Abernathy was the therapist I put on your Rolodex. Right?”

“Right. And I went to see him at your suggestion.”

“If you went to see a therapist, why aren't you more relaxed?”

“I'll tell you why, Ms. Hill. It's because Robert Abernathy is a hydrotherapist, that's freaking why!” Peter yelled.

“But I still don't understand, Mr. Ketteridge,” Molly said. “I've never heard of a hydrotherapist.

“They put the water where? You're kidding,” she said when he told her.

“No, I'm not kidding. This is L.A. I don't want you putting any names on my Rolodex without checking with me first, especially ones my mother gives you. Understand?”

“Yes, yes. I understand. I take it Mr. Abernathy was your mother's idea.”

“Yes, he was another of her finds,” Peter said dryly. “Listen, you have any idea what could have happened to the Forster contract?”

“Isn't in the file?”

“No. Do you remember reading it?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mitch there?” Peter asked.

“Yes.” Molly handed over the phone.

“Planet Hollywood wants to display the bike the studio gave you from
Dangerous
in the restaurant. What do you think?” Peter asked.

“Sure, they can display it. I'm not planning on riding it anymore.”

“You're not?” Peter asked, his surprise audible. “Why?”

“Oh, I'm thinking of becoming a more responsible person. I know how happy that would make you, Peter.”

“I hope that's Ms. Hill's influence.”

“Yeah, you could say it's Molly's influence.”

“Still, I hear the film is going over budget….”

“Yes, I know the film is going over budget, Peter. It's still raining, so they can't shoot. I don't think there's anyone you can take a meeting with about the rain. You have to learn to chill out, Peter. Why don't you try getting a personal trainer or something to work out the kinks?”

“I'm fine. It's you that needs taking care of. You tell Molly to call me as soon as shooting starts.”

“Yeah, okay. I'll have Molly call you. But Peter, I got to tell you,” Mitch said, looking at Molly. “They're bringing in chimps and parrots by the truckload. I think they may be relocating the rain forest.”

He stared at the phone. “He hung up on me! The guy has no sense of humor! But then, I don't imagine I would, either, after six high colonics.”

T
HEY COLLAPSED TOGETHER
onto the sofa. The trailer, though lushly appointed, was really too small for two strangers to have their separate space. And so they were constantly in each other's. The occasional brushing touch was inevitable.

Now they were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, fitting together in an intimate and familiar way.

“Hello, Red.” His voice was whisper sexy, acknowledging their closeness, acknowledging her femaleness.

Molly turned her head and thought she saw simmering, sexual desire. She caught her breath.

No. He's an actor,
she
reminded herself
. This is all a game to him. He can make me see whatever he wants. Most especially when it's what I already want to see
.

She jumped from the sofa, picking up the dishes and glasses from dinner and carrying them into the kitchenette.

Mitch didn't comment. Instead he asked her to bring his guitar while she was up, pleading his still tender ankle.

Feeling like a skittish schoolgirl, she brought it to him.

Still disturbed by the sensual feelings Mitch aroused in her, Molly busied herself cleaning up the kitchenette, while he began to strum the guitar, tuning it. The rich, seductive sound of his voice began to crawl over her body; he was singing the words to the new ballad he was working on for
Jesse.

His singing further unnerved her when she focused on the lyric and found herself caught up by the words of love. She closed her eyes, allowing images of the two of them in a romantic setting to surface.

You've gotta snap out of it,
she told herself, blinking her eyes open when she realized what she was doing. One thing was clear; cabin fever, plain and sensual, had set in.

Finishing in the kitchenette, she faced Mitch.

“Would you mind terribly not doing that right now?” she asked.

“You don't like it?”

“No, it's not that.”

“It still needs some work,” he said with a shrug, setting aside the guitar. “Speaking of work, I have a job for you, if you'll do it.”

“Me?”

He nodded. “I need someone to rim my lines with me. I'm having some trouble getting them down.”

“I don't know….”

“Well, if you'd rather I ask Heather…”

“Where is Heather? I haven't seen her hanging around here lately.”

“I think her nose is out of joint, since you aced her out as my woman….”

“Your what!”

“Well, I could ask her, if you'd prefer.”

“No. I'll read lines with you,” Molly said, resigning herself to the task.

While he went to the closet to get copies of the script, she tried to prepare herself for a long night. Still, she was so nervous and jumpy that a sudden clap of thunder made her scream.

Mitch came running. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Molly answered, embarrassed. “I saw a bug or a …mouse or something, but it's okay now. It's gone.”

“A bug or a mouse? Musta been some bug.”

“Do you have the script?” she asked. When had she become a dithering idiot? Did sexy, gorgeous Mitch Marlow make all women act like idiots? Or was it just her?

“Got ‘em,” he said, holding up the scripts. “One for each of us.”

“Where do we start?” she asked, taking one from him.

“Page fifty.”

Molly flipped through the script.

“Then take off your gown,” Mitch read.

The way he said it made Molly want to do it. Except she wasn't wearing a gown, and she certainly wasn't acting out any love scene with him. But something about his words sounded familiar. Then she recalled the dream she'd had while reading the script—the dream in which
she
had played the starring role….