Bad Attitude (3 page)

“Is your trailer the equivalent of the costume trailer when it comes to safe sex for the whole crew, or is your ego that outsize?”

He laughed, a rich, seductive laugh that crawled up her spine, trailing sweet suggestion. “Water balloons. I use them for water balloon fights, you goose.” There was a cool stare on his face when she turned and he added, “Mostly.”

“Oh.” Molly was furious to find herself continually tongue-tied in his presence. Normally a glib comeback tripped off her tongue, but then, normally she didn't find herself mere inches from the country's leading heartthrob, who also just happened to star in her own private fantasies.

“Listen, since you're here and everything, would you mind doing me one more favor?” Mitch asked, pulling off his leather vest and beginning to unbutton his dusty chambray shirt.

“I … ah … ”

When he pulled the shirt from his pants and shrugged completely free of it, she closed her eyes and stood rooted to the spot, feeling for all the world like some nineteenth-century spinster.

She took a quick breath of surprise when she felt him reach around her again for something in the drawer, but her eyes flew wide open at his next words. “Here, this lubricant might help.”

Molly looked down, to see his long, slender fingers wrapped around a bottle of green herbal lotion. “My back,” he indicated, turning it to her, “feels like something out of a packet of Crispy Critters. Would you mind rubbing some of this on it for me?”

“Oh … okay,” she stammered, taking the bottle from him.

“I'll just sit down on the edge of the bed, so it will be easier for you to reach,” he offered. The bed groaned under his weight, echoing her own discomfort at being confronted by the wide expanse of naked, sinewy flesh.

Yeah, sitting down was good, she thought, fearing she might go completely weak-kneed, once she began touching his bare skin.

Opening the bottle, she squeezed some of the globby contents onto her palm and tentatively raised her hand to his bare back. Taking a deep breath, she touched his feverish skin, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Ahh … ” Mitch sighed as she began massaging the green goo into his back until it turned clear and disappeared.

“It smells like lime Jell-O,” she noted, letting her hands follow the contours of his back; it had a very masculine, triangular shape.

“Feel free to lick anytime.”

She didn't reply, but continued to stroke the ointment onto his back, just for the feel of his skin beneath her touch. It was impossible to touch, to press skin to skin and remain remote, as she'd promised herself she would. Finally realizing what she was doing, she stopped.

“All done?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yes.”
All done in
was more like it, she thought, putting the lid back on the bottle.

“Let me give you some advice, Red. Never go cliff diving naked, without protection.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You get burned
everywhere.”

“Including the press,” Molly commented dryly.

“Touché,” Mitch said, tossing the lotion back into the still open drawer. “I guess ol' Peter was plenty steamed when he saw the pictures that landed me on the cover of the supermarket tabloid, huh?”

“Like a lobster.”

“Oh, well, at least there was some benefit to it, as things turned out.”

“There was?”

“Sure. I got me a baby-sitter. Gosh, I haven't had one of those since I was—oh, say eleven or so. Her name was Monica and she taught me how to—”

“I don't think I want to know,” Molly said, rolling her eyes heavenward.

He told her, anyway. “Skateboard.” He nodded to the one leaning in the corner of the trailer. “What did you think she taught me, goose?”

She didn't answer, aware that her silence incriminated her.

“Now, I'm assuming you're a tad older than Monica was at sixteen, so does that mean you're going to teach me more advanced things than skateboarding?” he asked coolly.

“That's right,” she answered, deflecting the direction his conversation was taking. “I'm here to teach you how to stay alive.”

B
Y LATE SATURDAY
afternoon Molly was feeling pretty good about the way things were going. Mitch maintained his posture of cool indifference toward her being on the set as his baby-sitter. For almost a full week nothing untoward had happened. Maybe, just maybe, the gods would continue to smile on her, and this gig would come off uneventfully.

It could happen. Mitch could also be setting her up, lulling her into a false sense of security.

Having managed to get most of the paperwork she'd brought with her cleared up, she'd borrowed one of the paperback Westerns from Mitch's trailer. It wasn't doing a very good job of holding her attention, but then, it was up against some pretty tough competition—the face of the nineties. He was in the process of doing take number twenty, one of the difficult, climactic fight scenes, and she'd watched his frustration grow with every take.

How long, she wondered, before Mitch Marlow lost his legendary cool in front of the camera?

She wasn't to find out.

He got take twenty-one down dead solid, and it was a print. His pleasure was self-evident, judging by the war whoop he let out when he picked himself up from the dirt, giving the tired crew a mock bow.

His eyes finally rested on Molly. Staying in character, he ambled over to where she sat, knocking the dust from his leather chaps with his cowboy hat. Reaching her side, he closed the book and said, “Playtime.”

“You mean bedtime, don't you?” she asked, retrieving the book from him. He looked exhausted; the shoot had begun at dawn.

“Why, Red, I didn't know you cared,” Mitch said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Don't flatter yourself.”

Rather than appearing affronted, her words seemed to amuse him. “Ah, ah … Remember, it's in your job description that you have to tuck me in,” he dared her, leaning close.

“Wrong. My job is to keep you out of trouble. Period.”

“Then I guess you're right, after all,” he said with a shrug. “Tucking me in wouldn't be such a good idea.”

Pulling up a chair, he sat down beside her. “You got any plans for what's left of the weekend? Got a boyfriend flying in?”

“No boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Really. How about you?”

“Despite my regular appearances in the tabloids, I can assure you I don't have a boyfriend.”

“You know what I mean. Am I going to have to deal with Miss Debutante flying in and trying to coax you into another crazy stunt?”

“No. I don't think her daddy, the banker, was any too pleased with the press last weekend generated—which was exactly the whole point of her doing it. You can rest assured, I won't be doing any naked cliff diving this weekend.”

“Peter will be thrilled to hear it.”

“What? Do you write daily reports on my behavior for Peter?” he demanded, fixing her with a cold stare.

“We keep in touch. We wouldn't have to if you'd deal with your brother's death,” she said heatedly. There, now it was out in the open. She wondered how Mitch would deal with her blunt words. No matter. He had to deal with the reality of his brother's death, and the sooner, the better.

That she knew firsthand. She'd allowed her grief and guilt over her older brother's accidental drowning to steal her childhood. Joey had wanted to be an astronomer, so she'd let her parents talk her into becoming one. She'd let her parents talk her into everything.

For some crazy reason she'd thought if she was a good enough girl, maybe Joey wouldn't be dead, after all. And Mitch believed that if he was bad enough, Matthew wouldn't be dead, either.

The silence continued to stretch out between them, disturbed only by the sounds of the crew finishing up for the day. Finally Mitch spoke, breaking down the wall that had suddenly sprung up between them.
“I miss Matthew, damn it.”

“I'm really sorry. I know how you feel,” Molly said, hearing the pain in his voice.

“No, you
don't
know how I feel,” Mitch retorted angrily. “Everyone keeps telling me they know how I feel with so damn much compassion. Well, I don't want their compassion. And I sure as hell don't deserve it. If it wasn't for me, he'd still be alive. Every night when I close my eyes I see the horrifying crash, the debris flying everywhere, and Matt's car turning over and over.”

“You're not responsible for Matthew's death. It was an accident,” Molly reasoned, touching his arm. “Surely you can't blame yourself for something that—”

“Matthew flew over for the premiere of
Dangerous.

“It was the night before the race. He knew better. He should have been at home, getting his rest, not out partying the night away with me. The flight back and the residual jet lag are what killed him.”

Mitch stared into space. “His reflexes would have been sharper, but for his coming to celebrate my movie.”

“He wouldn't want—”

“He'd want to be alive.” Mitch cut her off, throwing himself out of his chair and stalking away. His slumping shoulders evidenced the black mood that had settled over him like a villain's cloak.

Molly watched him go, touched by the anger, the guilt in his declaration—a declaration she knew he'd not meant to make. Anger and guilt had loosened his tongue, but his admission hadn't freed him. She knew that until he found some measure of solace, he would be looking for any escape from his grief, not much caring what form it took.

B
ACK IN HIS TRAILER
, Mitch picked up the phone and dialed the Ketteridge Agency.

“Listen, Peter … ” he began, caught off guard at first when Peter answered his own phone. “Ah … this … ah, this isn't working out.”

“What's wrong? Is there a problem with the movie? Don't tell me this. I don't want to hear it, Marlow. What have you gone and messed up now?”

“Nothing. There's no problem with the movie. The movie is on schedule, maybe even a little ahead of schedule.”

“Then it's working.”

“Not for me. I want you to call off your baby-sitter, you hear?”

“No can do, Mitch. The studio brass insist.”

Mitch swore beneath his breath and wondered whether to believe his wily friend.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for belly-aching. If your behavior weren't so out of control, you wouldn't need to be sat on,” Peter said.

“Yeah, well, Ms. Molly is real big on control. You got to get rid of her, Peter, she's driving me nuts.”

“Nuts?”

“Yeah, nuts. She watches me like a hawk. You'd think I was some actor always in his cups she was trying to keep sober. Hell, I can hardly take a pee without her tagging along.”

“What'd she do? Make some disparaging remark and bruise your ego?” Peter asked.

Mitch ignored the feeble attempt at sarcasm. “I don't need a baby-sitter.”

“That's not what the tabloid headlines showed.”

“Okay, I don't
want
a keeper.”

“Why not?”

Mitch refused to go into that. He wouldn't admit to himself, much less to Peter, that somehow Molly was getting to him…. She might make him care—about this movie, his career, maybe even about her. She'd already made him voice his fears about Matthew's death, when he hadn't even whispered them to himself.

“Look, I'm not planning on offing myself, if that's what you're afraid of. You'll get your fifteen percent. If I have to have a baby-sitter, replace her with someone else.”

“You mean someone you can charm the pants off.”

“Peter, you have way too active an imagination.”

“I don't need an imagination, when the
International Intruder
has pictures.”

“Screw the
International Intruder”

“She's staying. Get used to it,” Peter said and hung up.

Mitch grumbled beneath his breath and went to take his shower. He didn't want to get used to Molly Hill.

Something warned him that wouldn't be a very good idea at all.

The good idea was to bed her.

Take her to bed and off his mind.

Once he buried himself in her soft curves, he wouldn't be wanting her comfort. Wouldn't care what she thought about what he did. Wouldn't care what she thought about him.

H
OURS LATER
, Molly returned to the trailer she shared with Angie, tired of watching the regular evening poker game. The key grip had gone off in search of some local talent, so Angie had been invited to take his place. After showing initial reluctance, she'd allowed them to coax her into playing, only to make them wish they hadn't.

The youngest sister in a family of boys, she'd told Molly, Angie had mastered the game in her somewhat misspent youth, so it had been hard for Molly to contain her amusement as she watched Angie fleece the guys; even the intense, young director had lost some heavy coin.

Mitch had tried to talk Angie into sitting on his lap to bring him luck. Angie had rebuffed him, saying he needed a new line. Heather had then plopped into Mitch's lap, uninvited.

Molly had fumed and tried to read the movie script, listening for Mitch's voice over the snippets of conversation that drifted toward the trailer.

His sexy good looks turned her on, but it was his voice that blew her away. Its rich timbre sent her blood coursing, her pulse racing and her imagination into erotic overdrive.

Unfortunately, he apparently had the same effect on Heather Sims—Heather, who had the confidence in her own body's appeal that Molly did not. Heather, who was every man's type. Heather, who could juggle a husband, a lover and still have time for lunch.

Being born a blonde and petite in a culture that worshiped both was Heather's good fortune. But throwing herself at Mitch was pure opportunism.

Being only human, Molly couldn't help envying Heather's upcoming love scene with Mitch. The very thought of it brought on a frisson of jealousy.

The voices outside grew distant, her eyelids fluttered, and she began to imagine herself in Heather's role ….

Looking down, she found herself dressed in red velvet, sitting before a mirrored dressing table.

Red? Red wasn't her color. Her dressmaker had made a terrible mistake. She tugged on the bodice cut far too low that pressed her breasts together, showing amazing cleavage.

She was going to have to speak to … Funny, she couldn't remember her dressmaker's name. Wait! No, it was Angie. Yes, that was it.

She'd have to wear the dress tonight, of course; it was a present from her father for her birthday. But in the morning she'd talk with Angie. If she'd only kept her mind off her card playing and on her sewing, this wouldn't have happened. Card playing? Now where had she gotten the idea her seamstress played poker? Women didn't gamble, only men
—
even if it was 1880.

Suddenly the door behind her opened.

Her eyes widened when she saw the outlaw's reflection—Mitch's reflection—in her dressing-table mirror. Shaggy, blond hair fell to his broad shoulders. Trail dust clung to him—he was either in a hurry to get somewhere or away from someone.

She opened her mouth to scream, but closed it when he drew his pearl-handled revolver from the holster that rode low on his hip and leveled it at her.

“You're an … ” She swallowed dryly, sinking to the delicate brocade-covered bench.

“That's right, I'm an outlaw. And that was a real smart move, your not screaming, miss,” Mitch said, studying her in the mirror with his deep blue eyes. Raising his eyes to meet hers once again, he pushed up the brim of his black Stetson with the tip of his gun barrel, then holstered it.

“My, my, but you're a sight f or sore eyes,” he said, coming up behind her. “‘Course, I've been looking at nothing but a trail of posse dust for the last couple of hours.”

“What … why are you … what do you want?” she asked, forcing the words through chattering teeth.

His blue eyes raked her again, this time accompanied by a lazy, wicked smile. Leaving her, his eyes surveyed her bedchamber and came to rest on the copper tub of cooling bathwater in the alcove to the left. “I think a bath for starters … ” he said, drawing her to her feet to face him, his forefinger tilting her chin, so that she was forced to look at him. “Then we can discuss what other favors you might bestow on me.”

She pulled herself free, hitting the bench of her dressing table with the backs of her knees. “I think you should leave,” she said imperiously, keeping her chin high.

He chuckled. “Surely, miss, your daddy has warned you about defying the wishes of an outlaw,” he said, ambling over to the tub and removing his soft leather gloves, trailing his fingertips through the few remaining bubbles. Raising his fingertips to his nose, he sniffed. His eyebrows rose. “The water still carries your scent.”

She felt herself blush to the shade of her red velvet gown and sat tongue-tied by his provocative action.

Taking off his hat, he threw it onto the bedpost. Its masculine presence was a marked contrast to the frills of the bed linens. He was so out of place in this soft, feminine room. So why was her heart racing? She turned to the outlaw, who, she saw to her horror, was undoing the kerchief at his throat.

“But you can't!” she exclaimed. He shrugged out of his leather vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Stop it and leave this very minute, before my father comes upstairs and finds you here in my bedroom!” Her words were a feeble protest—she was way too fascinated by what Mitch was uncovering to scream.

Mitch chuckled again. “Right now your father can't find his cufflinks. I heard him swearing about it as I sneaked up the back stairs.

“Don't even think about screaming,” he added, drawing his pistol from its holster, only to lay it on the windowsill beside the copper tub. “You see, if your daddy should come up here, I'd have to shoot him—and you wouldn't want that, now, would you?”