Wild Honey (3 page)

The plastic zipper tab of the leotard cut into the soft flesh of Sasha’s thumb and forefinger. Her heart hammering, she lowered it fractionally and stopped as something took shape inside her, a tightening spiral of anxiety. It radiated into her belly, oddly exciting, wholly disturbing. She parted her lips, wetting their sudden dryness with a nervous dart of her tongue. With a shallow breath she lowered the zipper another inch and then her fingers locked, frozen stiff by the sensations inside her.

He exhaled, his thumb working at his lower lip. “The idea of a sensual role frightens you, doesn’t it?” he said quietly.

Sasha might have admitted the truth to anyone else but not to him. Her intuition was flooding her with signals, the strongest of which was that he already had decided against her for the part, whatever it was. Some sixth sense told her that he was testing her, pushing her to her limits, looking for a reason to reject her. The realization stirred her courage. “I’m an actress,” she said, her voice faint but firm. “And I’m not afraid of sensuality. If a role calls for it, I can be sexy. Believe it.”

The only movement in the room was the blink of his eyes. Energy moved in their blue depths, mesmerizing energy.

Sasha took a quick breath, and in the glance that passed between them, something unexpected happened, an unchecked impulse, quick and electric. She felt it like a hot wire to her nerves. Then her heart became a slow fuse, showering sparks, threatening to go off like a Fourth of July rocket. Stunned, she took a half step back.

Marc felt the impulse too. It ran like a current through his muscles.

Before either of them could speak, the door opened and a tall, graying man, trim in a navy blazer, walked into the room. He clapped Marc on the back in the jovial, placating gesture of a man who wanted everything to run smoothly. His gaze on Sasha, he spoke to Marc. “Well, what do you think? Will she work?”

Sasha’s heart jerked as Marc looked at her. Apparently everything hinged on Marc’s opinion, and she found herself hoping, however foolishly, that she
would
work in Marc Renaud’s judgment.

“Sorry, Paul,” he said to the studio’s head of production. “She’s a couple inches too tall. And she can’t take direction.”

Paul’s face fell. “The height can be hidden.”

Sasha’s first reaction was sharp disappointment. Her second was indignation.
Can’t take direction?
She drew the zipper of her leotard down several inches and pulled the ribbon from her braid. Combing her fingers into her hair, she loosened the plaits, shaking her head until a dazzling fall of white-gold hair shimmered around her face. “You wanted sexy, Mr. Renaud?” Tossing her head back, she drew herself up and met Marc’s gaze. Her mouth twitched with a devastating smile.

Paul’s jaw went slack. “Marc, what’s wrong with you? She’s fabulous.”

Stepping back, Marc acknowledged the golden firestorm of Sasha McCleod’s cascading hair. He knew unfettered loveliness when he saw it—and he knew
trouble
.
Take me on, Mr. Renaud,
her eyes seemed to say,
if you’re up to the challenge.
His blood stirring, he watched her amber irises become almost black...and felt his heartbeat accelerate. He’d almost forgotten the rush of excitement that came from dealing with someone like her, someone strong enough to challenge him.

He scrutinized her carefully. Physically she was extraordinary, close to a perfect match, but it would be insanity to risk her on this picture, and he knew it. There was too much at stake. She was strong-willed, and his intuition told him she’d fight him every inch of the way. No, he couldn’t risk it.

As he turned to an eager Paul Maxwell with the bad news, his final thought was of her eyes, the rich amber color of the wild honey he used to buy from the peasant farmers in l’Auvergne. Honey so drizzly warm, so sweet that the first taste always made his jaws ache.

“What do you say, Marc?” Paul Maxwell prodded.

Marc gestured toward the door. Drawing Paul with him into the murky hallway, he shook his head. “She’s not right.”

“But Marc—”

His self-control reasserted itself, icing his voice.
“I said
she’s not right. Tell them they’ll have to get me someone else.”

T
ORTUROUS GROANS ROCKED
The Fitness Factor’s gymnasium.

“Have mercy,” someone said weakly. “That’s
fifty.
”

“No more!” another pleaded.

“Ten situps to go,” Sasha called out from her pad at the head of the health club’s early-bird exercise class. “On the count. Altogether now. One—up! Two—up!”

With each command, forty straining, sweating bodies wrenched themselves up from supine positions and touched their elbows to their bent knees. “Uncle, uncle,” someone screamed.

Sasha gritted her teeth, her stomach muscles burning with each effort. “Three—up! Come on, you pansies,” she said with a groan, “hustle the muscle! Four—up! Five—up!”

“What’d she have for breakfast? Steroids?” a breathless woman complained.

“Either that or she’s working off a truckload of frustration,” another said.

Give that lady a gold star
, Sasha thought.

“Six—up! Seven...” She grimaced as she routed the last trace of anger from her system. Exercise was the way Sasha McCleod purged her wrath, and the cavalier treatment she’d received at the audition the day before had generated some serious wrath.
Not right for the part, my fanny!
she thought indignantly. “Eight—up! Nine,” she counted. Paul Maxwell had tried to let her down gently, and even though he’d been the hatchet man, she knew it wasn’t he who’d cost her the job. It had been that blue-eyed ice cube of a Frenchman. Anger built anew. “Ten more!”

“No way!” a chorus of voices protested.

“Ease up, boss,” her office manager’s voice called from the gym doorway. “You’re killing off the clientele.”

“Okay,” Sasha agreed. Dropping to the floor, she stretched out, her arms limp, her legs spread-eagled. “Okay, you pansies, fall out for a cooldown. Don’t forget good deep breathing now.”

A collective moan of relief went up as bodies dropped one by one, to the gymnasium floor.

Too weak to move, Sasha heard a familiar swoosh of movement coming toward her, then a low chuckle.

“You’re beautiful when you’re wet, boss.”

Even with her eyes closed she could visualize her office manager’s irrepressible grin. “A little respect, T.C.,” she murmured. “Especially if you’re about to hit me up for a raise again.”

The rubbery squeak and screech of wheels against the hard wood floor brought her eyes open fast. Jockeying his shiny chrome wheelchair like a customized dirt bike, T.C. spun out a 360-degree turn right in front of her eyes, ending the spin with the front wheels teetering precariously in the air at a heart-stopping 45-degree angle.

Sasha propped up on one elbow. It was a performance she’d seen many times since T.C.’s skiing accident the year before, but it never failed to take her breath away with its stark proof of heart and mind over matter. T.C. had lost the use of his legs but not his will to soar with eagles. “I’m heading back to the office,” he told Sasha. “Need a lift?”

She shook her head. “I could use a heart monitor and some oxygen if you have any handy.”

He stared down at her spent body, wisdom in his young twenty-two-year-old features. “Trust me, you need a lift.” Anchoring his chair wheel with one hand, he held out the other to her. “On your feet, boss lady.”

Sasha took his hand. “Whoops!” she cried, half laughing, half groaning as he snapped her upright, twirled her around, and dropped her onto his lap.

The women in the exercise class managed a couple of “attaboys” and some weak applause as T.C. wheeled his chair around and headed for the hallway to the health club’s office.

“No speeding and
no wheelies,
” Sasha said, hanging onto his neck as he negotiated the door and made a smooth right turn. “I got motion sickness the last time you gave me a lift.”

“No wheelies,” he promised, “but you’re seriously cramping my style. I can lay rubber with this baby.”

Sasha believed him. So far there didn’t seem to be anything T.C. couldn’t do with his wheels. “I’m waiting for the tightrope act,” she told him dryly.

As they rolled down the tiled hallway, T.C. seemingly resigned to safe and sane driving, Sasha relaxed a little.

She was jarred back into awareness as T.C. accelerated toward the ramp that led to the business office downstairs.

“If you’re thinking about burning rubber down that ramp, think again,” she warned him, pulling his surfer’s T-shirt out of shape with her nervous grip.

“Burn rubber?” He chuckled dangerously. “Hell, I’m not even going to take the ramp.”

He cornered a sharp turn and stopped inches from the top of the stairway next to the ramp. “Hold tight, boss.”

Sasha glanced down the short flight of stairs and back at T.C., her eyes widening as she realized what he was about to do. “Oh, my God, T.C.! Don’t take the stairw—wah—wah—wah—wah—
waaaay!”
she wailed as they bounced all the way down, hit the landing, and skidded across the corridor into the office.

When he finally came to a gliding stop next to the desk, she had her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, her eyes squeezed shut. “Did we make it?” she asked, feeling for her pulse. “I think my heart has stopped.”

Grinning, T.C. pressed his fingertips to the throbbing artery in her neck. “Took a lickin’, but you’re still tickin’.” He helped her out of the chair and steadied her until she had her balance.

“Someday, T.C.,” she promised ominously, straightening her leotard and pulling up her leg warmers, “you’ll give the wrong person a ride on that thing—a hijacker, I hope—and you’ll end up in Cuba.”

Helping her rearrange the leg warmers, he smiled up at her. “Scared you, huh? Sorry.”

“Don’t try to make up,” she said, fighting back an answering grin. “You’re not a bit sorry.”

The phone rang, cutting off his protestations of remorse. As he wheeled past her to the desk to answer it, she swiped his towel and held it up to her heated face and neck. The paperwork could wait. What she needed was a tall, icy glass of carrot juice and a soak in the Jacuzzi.

She was on her way out the door when she heard T.C. say, “Yeah, she’s here. Paul who?”

She halted midstride, her heart galloping. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. There’s a better chance that it’s the apostle from the Bible than Paul Maxwell, the production chief she’d met the day before.

Still, she couldn’t move.

“Yo! Sasha!” T.C. called. “Paul Maxwell.”

She whirled around. Her feet seemed to move independently of the rest of her as she scrambled back into the office, took the phone receiver from T.C., and caught herself. Holding the phone against her chest, she said, “Steady, girl.”

“What’s going on?” T.C. asked, watching her.

She shushed him, counted to ten silently, and put the phone to her ear. “Mr. Maxwell?”

“Sasha,” he said as warmly as though they were long-lost friends. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She held the towel to her flushed brow. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Wonderful, glad to hear it. Forgive me if I get right to the point, Sasha, but I’m afraid I need to talk to you as soon as possible. I’ve got—well, let’s call it an interesting proposition for you. How does one o’clock in my office in Century City sound?”

She grabbed T.C.’s wrist and looked at his watch. “One would be fine.”

“Great, just great,” Maxwell replied. He engaged her in another moment or two of cordial conversation—of which Sasha registered not one word—before he signed off with a pleasant good-bye.

Not quite sure what to do with the phone, Sasha handed it to T.C.

“Paul Maxwell must be somebody important,” he said, letting the receiver drop into the cradle with a clunk. “I haven’t seen you this spacey since that time lightning struck the swimming pool when you were doing your laps.”

“Yes, he is important, T.C.,” she said absently, turning to stare out the office’s one window. “And what’s more, I have the strangest feeling that my meeting with him this afternoon could be the start of something...”

“Big,”
T.C. added.

Sasha turned, laughed...and felt the oddest shiver run down her spine.

Paul Maxwell’s office was a tour de force in the blending of modern form and functional space. From the panoramic view of the L.A. skyline to the pale pastel modular furniture and acrylic accent pieces, it rivaled a science fiction movie for futuristic panache.

Sasha discreetly assessed her surroundings while Paul Maxwell concluded some business with his secretary. After his phone call that morning, she’d done some fast catching up on the industry in the Hollywood trade papers. She knew Gemini Pictures was considered the hot new studio in a town where “hot” and “new” were magic words. She also knew they’d had an unprecedented string of hits over the past year, each one “box office gold” according to the papers.

As the secretary left, Paul considered Sasha with a warm smile. Returning his smile, she considered him back. He didn’t look like a man “crumbling under the pressure of multimillion-dollar deals” as the trade papers had characterized the typical studio production chief.

“May I get you a drink?” he inquired, touching a button on his desk. On the opposite wall, an impressionistic mural rose to reveal an amply-stocked wet bar.

Glancing down at her clasped hands, her fingers a bloodless white at the joints, Sasha realized she was more nervous than she cared to admit. “No, I guess not,” she said as he started for the bar.

He fixed himself a vodka on the rocks, took a sip as though to test his bartending skills, and splashed in some more vodka. “I met with the studio’s president after the audition yesterday, Sasha,” he said, turning back to her. “I showed him the videotape of the commercial your agent sent us. Afterward he was as convinced as I am that you’re the actress we need for this picture. So”—He fingered the rim of the glass—“we’re overruling Marc.”

“I see,” Sasha said, her voice betraying none of her incredulity and confusion. They’d overruled the picture’s director because of her yogurt commercial?