Bad Attitude (5 page)

“Well, lust, sure,” Molly admitted. “But it's just chemistry, Angie. I would never allow myself to become involved with a movie star. I'm not the one who's suicidal, remember?”

“I don't understand. Most women would leap at the opportunity to be Mitch Marlow's main squeeze.”

Molly just looked at Angie. “Think about it. He's starred in my fantasies since his first movie—mine and every other woman's. And he knows it. He's not going to settle for just one woman, and I couldn't bear being just one more in a long list of women whose hearts he's broken.”

“Aren't you being a little cynical?” Angie said.

“Am I? It isn't necessary to use more than one hand to count on your fingers the number of happy Hollywood marriages.”

Angie nodded. “I have to admit you're right about that.” Finishing Heather's dress, she shook out the wrinkles and held it up to see the result of her handiwork.

Gazing at the size two gown, Molly sighed.

“What?” Angie asked, hanging it up with Heather's other costumes.

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel intimidated by a world that has just one measure of female perfection. Can you believe that decades of women have been brainwashed into insecurity by a seemingly innocent toy they were given to play with as children?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Barbie. Because of her we all believe subconsciously that the perfect female is a blonde with diamond-shaped spaces between her legs at ankle, knee and thigh top. Space between the ears is undoubtedly an added bonus. Why is beauty equated with having legs that go all the way to one's armpits?”

“You aren't serious. You can't really believe that junk, Molly.”

“Not intellectually, maybe. But it is emotional baggage. All it takes some days is one Heather Simms to make me feel as if I'm a float in the Rose Bowl Parade. Having these wild, orange curls doesn't help. It's like having a neon sign on your head.”

“You're being dumb.”

“I know. I know. I've accepted the fact that I will never be a Barbie doll and I like who I am now. Well, I could deal with losing ten pounds permanently, instead of every bathing-suit season. Haven't you ever felt you didn't measure up?”

“Are you kidding? I had even more impossible standards to measure up to than Barbie. I had six brothers, remember. G.I. Joe was my role model. Mostly I was judged by how well I could shoot a basket or slide into second base.”

“When I was growing up, I was never allowed to sweat. My parents were overprotective and encouraged me to do quiet, safe activities.” Molly smiled ruefully. “Speaking of G.I. Joe, though, it's funny, but in a way he has become the new role model for female perfection in the nineties.”

“G.I. Joe?” Angie looked at Molly as if she'd taken leave of her senses.

“Well, take a look at Linda Hamilton in
Terminator II.
Heck, she even makes G.I. Joe look like a wimp.”

“Yeah, she had a certain appeal, but can you imagine how much time she had to spend in a gym to look like that? Not only could you not have a life, but it must be painful.”

“I think the sinewy muscles Linda Hamilton displayed in that movie appealed more to the female audience than to men, and they appealed to women because they were a show of female empowerment. But since I don't like to sweat, I'll have to be empowered by my mind. Besides, I agree with a writer friend of mine who says, ‘No pain … no pain.'”

At that moment the key grip knocked on the door and yelled, “Call for you Ms. Hill. It's a Mr. Ketteridge from L.A.”

“Speaking of pain … ” Molly grumbled and headed out to take the call. It could only mean trouble.

“H
ELLO,
M
R.
K
ETTERIDGE.

“How are things going?”

“Everything is fine. No problems so far.”

“And Mitch?”

“He's been a perfect angel.”

“Mitch has never been any kind of angel.”

Molly ran a hand through her curls and said in her sweetest voice, “You haven't seen him on the front pages of the
International Intruder,
have you?”

Ketteridge didn't answer, but asked instead about the locals the director had complained about hiring. “Why did you hire them?”

“No special reason, Mr. Ketteridge. I just thought it would be good public relations. If something did happen, it would help keep a lid on things to have the goodwill of the locals.”

“I hope you know what you're doing. You certainly don't know anything about picking mechanics.”

“I tried. I can't help it if you didn't like the mechanic I found for your temperamental sports car, Mr. Ketteridge. Molly sighed. All of the agency trainees performed personal errands for the owner.

“I could have put a kid through college with the money I've spent on maintaining that car … two kids.”

Molly rolled her eyes at Angie as she pulled up a director's chair alongside, and went on listening to Peter sputter away, holding the phone a foot from her ear. Putting it back to her ear, she tried calming him down. “Listen, why don't you call your mother? She always has advice for you. Maybe she knows the name of a good mechanic. One you'd like better than the one I found for you in the Yellow Pages.”

“I'm not calling my mother. She drives me nuts!”

“But she loves you. She's lonely since your father died. That's why she calls you all the time.”

“All she talks about is when am I going to get married and give her grandchildren.”

“Maybe you need to think of something to distract her.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know what.” She looked at Angie and shook her head, while Angie grinned her understanding; how helpless men could be sometimes! “Wait, I think I've got an idea,” Molly said into the phone. “Why don't you have your mother test all the recipes in that cookbook the rock singer's wife is writing?”

“Really, Ms. Hill. The publisher has a professional doing that.”

“But your mother doesn't know it. It will make her feel useful, and she'll adore the idea that she's helping out her only son.”

Molly held the phone away from her ear once again, while her boss ran through a litany of complaints about his mother's intrusion in his life. Returning the phone to her ear, she tried again to calm him down. “I know you don't want your mother running your life, but if she's busy cooking, then she can't very well be calling you every half hour and nagging you, right?”

“Okay, okay. I'll call my mother with
your suggestion. But you contact me the minute there's any problem with Mitch.”

“Promise.” Molly hung up.

“Is this guy a dweeb or what?” Angie asked when Molly feigned pulling out her red curls by the roots.

“No he's not a dweeb, just impossible.”

“Aren't all bosses?” Angie said, seeing hers approaching.

Molly chuckled, then winked. “Peter Ketteridge does have one asset to recommend him.”

“What's that?”

“He wears glasses ….”

T
HE HEADACHE
that had begun during Peter's phone call worsened.

The bursts of cheering and hooting from the crew members, urging Mitch on with his skateboarding acrobatics weren't helping matters any. Along with the pounding in her head, a sense of dread enveloped Molly. It was bad enough that Mitch insisted on skateboarding between takes, but what made things worse was the fact that Mitch seemed to possess the same daredevil streak his twin brother Matthew had had—a daredevil streak that had made Matthew Marlow the premier racer of his time, but that had also snuffed out his life.

As she watched, it didn't escape Molly's notice that each trick Mitch did had to be a little more daring than the one that preceded it. She had warned Mitch he could be hurt by his reckless antics, but he'd shrugged off her warning.

“Heck, Red,” he'd said, “I've been skateboarding since I was a kid, and I've gotten worse scratches from a woman.”

She hadn't responded to his baiting. Instead she fumed quietly while Peter's phone call niggled at the back of her mind.

There was no use in kidding herself. Mitch had no intention of keeping his promise to her to stay out of trouble for the rest of the shoot. He was highly intelligent and just as determined to have his way. More than pure luck had gotten him his standing in the film community. Though he had a certain, well-deserved reputation, he was respected. He'd chosen each of his roles very carefully, unlike many of his contemporaries, whose promising careers had fizzled early due to ego, greed and immaturity.

Mitch and his brother had grown up in a series of foster homes, she knew. Being the only constant in each other's lives, possessing the special bond that twins share, had made Matthew's death an almost mortal blow.

Now the only communicating Mitch did was through his acting. His most intimate contact was with the camera. She didn't want to think what would happen to him if he lost that, as well.

Watching him, she saw what all women saw, and was just as susceptible to it. He was tough, emotionally wounded, gorgeous … and slouched and unshaven, in a pair of torn jeans. She wanted to comfort him, but he didn't want her comfort. He wanted her to leave him the hell alone. He'd told her so.

The press had labeled Mitch a control freak. Though he had a somewhat combative-compulsive personality with traits of perfectionism, workaholic tendencies, and an inability to trust others, Molly felt his wanting control wasn't just ego, as the press implied. He merely wanted to be the best. Just like Matthew.

He was terrified of being vulnerable, she surmised. But wasn't everyone? Everyone who wasn't perfect, for sure.

Was Mitch the type of man who wanted a woman like Madonna, or the character Linda Hamilton had played in
Terminator II?
she wondered. Sometimes she got the impression he preferred a woman with soft, comforting curves. Was it only wishful thinking on her part?

He had a perfect athlete's body, lithe and lean. Mitch did his own dangerous stunts in his films, despite the studio's jitters. He had even learned to ride a horse for
Jesse.

He was sexy because he had a great sense of who he was—at least he'd had it before Matthew died. Maybe he was going to snap out of it. Molly could be worrying needlessly about him. A few more weeks of filming, and she'd have the agent's job she craved, while Mitch would have a monster hit on his hands.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out all right.

No sooner had she allowed that soothing thought to surface than she heard Mitch swear. She looked up—to see him take a really nasty spill from the skateboard.

Bolting from her chair, she rushed to him, along with the other crew members. The director looked pale.

“Mitch! Are you all right?” she demanded, dropping to her knees beside him.

“Yeah, yeah, Red. It'd take more than a little tumble to …” He sat up, dusted himself off and started to rise. “ … put me out of commission. Ahh … ouch!” He sat down again and grimaced.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Molly asked, the dread she'd felt earlier returning with full force.

Tipping back his cowboy hat, which had stayed on despite his tumble, Mitch grinned at her sheepishly.

“Don't yell, but I think maybe I broke something, Red.”

That boyish grin. If she wasn't careful, Mitch Marlow was going to break more than his ankle—he was going to break her heart. If she didn't kill him first.

M
ITCH WAS AFRAID
Molly would read him the riot act on the long drive back from the hospital, and he was right. He let her angry words drift over him.

After he'd fallen off the skateboard, she had managed to convince the crew and a very nervous director that it would be better if she drove him to the hospital. Her reasoning had been sound. If he'd shown up with an entourage, it would have caused a stir. Sneaking him into the hospital had been easy enough.

However, once he'd registered, word had leaked out to the mostly female staff. Thereafter, everything had taken an extraordinary length of time, requiring just about everyone to stroll through the examining room.

Each time his charming facade slipped, Molly had been there to remind him that he was acting like a child, a poorly behaved one, at that. Several sets of X rays were taken, from different angles, X rays that would no doubt surface in some celebrity auction one day. Nothing to do with a public figure was sacred. A good thing he hadn't been in for a vasectomy, he thought ruefully.

As things turned out, fortune had been with him. He hadn't broken any bones. But he had torn some ligaments in his ankle and would have to stay off it for a day or two.

He shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of the rented car. He'd pushed the seat back as far as it would go and propped his bandaged foot on the dashboard. The doctor had told him to keep it elevated and to use ice to bring the swelling down.

Pretending to be listening contritely, he took a good look at Molly. She was furious, there could be no doubt about that. The pale skin beneath the freckles that were sprinkled across her nose was flushed. As she talked, her red curls bounced emphatically and her hands gripped the steering wheel as if she were choking him.

They passed a yellow sign indicating dangerous curves, and he thought that an apt description of Molly's sweet body. Her short, black skirt, though very fashionable, was just a bit tight. One or two tiny freckles accented the smoothly rounded shoulder that had escaped her gray knit top.

All he wanted to do at that moment was lay his head in her lap. Bad idea, Marlow, he reminded himself. If he did that, he'd be needing another ice pack … and not for his swollen ankle, either.

“What are you thinking?” Molly asked as she glanced at him.

“Huh? Ahh … ”

“You were smiling,” she said accusingly. “I don't appreciate your attitude, Mitch. This could be serious. The studio brass are not going to think favorably about this, and I don't have to tell you Peter is going to be livid when he hears.”

“So don't tell them. Look, Molly, I think you're overreacting. I hardly believe spraining my ankle is going to make the cover of the
International Intruder.”

“No, but it will shut down production of the film, and that will make the columns and be fodder for the bean counters at the studio.”

Mitch decided to change the subject. He didn't want to argue with Molly. “Let's listen to some music.” Fiddling with the buttons, he tuned in Billy Ray Cyrus's monster crossover hit, “Achy Breaky Heart.”

The catchy song was followed by a report of a three-car pileup blocking Highway 44 and a thirty-second, local weather update.

“Did you hear that, Red?”

“You mean about the accident? What? Are we going to get caught in a traffic jam?”

“No, I think the accident is farther south. I was referring to the local weather forecast. Maybe if we're real lucky, the rain will turn into a monsoon and we'll be able to put the blame for the shutdown of production on the rain.”

“I couldn't be that lucky,” Molly grumbled.

“Well, maybe I could,” Mitch said. “Especially if I hedge my bet.” Reaching over, he tousled the soft cloud of red curls that framed her face. His hand lingered; he waited for her reaction.

As he suspected, it was prickly.

Molly tilted her head away. “What are you doing?”

“Surely you've heard it's supposed to be good luck to run your hands through red hair.”

“Not through mine, it ain't,” she warned, slapping his hand away.

Matthew would have liked her.
The thought came to Mitch unbidden. One of the unnerving things about life since his twin's death was reaching for the phone to call him, wanting to discuss something … someone with him. Someone like Molly. He was beginning to get over the numb feeling of shock. He'd stopped tearing up at the oddest moments. He could even bear the scent of flowers again. There'd been so many bouquets at the funeral, the sweet, sickly scent had stayed with him for days. He was even getting over the rage.

All that had been replaced by an ache deep inside.

He was ready to be comforted, and here he was, stuck with a woman who'd rather slap him up side the head than hold him in her arms and make him feel whole again, if that was even possible.

Yeah, Matthew would have liked her. Would have liked even more the trouble she was giving him. His twin had always said Mitch had a junk-food appetite for women, but that once he had a gourmet experience, he'd be a goner.

Trouble was, he didn't know if Molly Hill, with her soft curves and hard words, was a gourmet experience or a bad case of food poisoning.

“Know any more fairy tales about redheads?” Molly said, interrupting his thoughts.

“I think there's one about dreaming of a beautiful redhead bringing unexpected news, but most of what I know about redheaded women comes from the comics.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, I don't know …. Brenda Starr and Jessica Rabbit aren't too shabby. And seems I recall Charlie Brown had an ongoing thing for a little, redheaded girl.”

Fat droplets of rain began plopping onto the windshield. “Look, it's starting to rain. For once it looks like the weather forecasters were right. Maybe I should try running my hand through your hair again to encourage torrential downpours.”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” she countered. “Why don't you busy your hands with finding another radio station? That one is getting static and beginning to fade out.”

Mitch turned off the radio, then groaned as he adjusted the ice pack on his ankle.

“How's the swelling?”

“My foot looks like a football and it's throbbing.”

“I could say I told you so.”

“Don't.”

“Why'd you turn the radio off?”

“I want to try something out on you.”

“What?” she asked suspiciously, looking at his hands.

“I've been playing with some lyrics for the theme song for
Jesse.
Just listen and tell me what you think, okay?” He was uncertain about it because he knew everyone was expecting a love song.

His song was about brothers—Frank and Jesse James.

He tried to keep his voice steady as he sang. The lyrics meant a lot to him; they were about two brothers, one of whom is killed. Molly's reaction was really important; he knew instinctively that she would tell him the truth, not just what he wanted to hear.

When he finished singing, Molly remained quiet.

“You didn't like it,” he said, expelling the breath he'd been holding while he waited for her reaction.

He turned to look at her—and saw tears. “You're crying ….”

“The song is about you and Matthew, isn't it? How can you not cry, too?”

He turned away and stared out the window. The rain was coming down in sheets. “I just can't.”

T
HE RAIN CONTINUED
its steady onslaught the next day and was blamed for the production shutdown. Molly had caught the weather forecast with her morning Danish, and as rain was predicted for several days, she'd lied and told the director Mitch was ready to film immediately.

Finishing her coffee, she decided she should at least look in on her charge. True, he wasn't going anywhere, but having him immobile and at her mercy appealed to her. As a nurse, she'd be his worst nightmare.

She was just considering what to wear when she looked out the kitchen window and caught sight of Heather Simms entering Mitch's trailer. Heather, she noticed, hadn't had any trouble deciding what to wear—a crop top and second-skin leggings. She was the perfect picture of sexy, pink innocence. Innocence was something redheads could
never pull off. After all, they had a reputation for being spitfires.

Now what was she going to do? Molly wondered. She certainly couldn't go barging in on the two of them like some jealous wife. It would look as if she was snooping. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of suggesting any such thing.

Maybe it was a perfectly innocent visit on Heather's part. She could be borrowing a cup of sugar or something neighborly like that. Or she could be bringing Mitch some chicken soup, canned, of course.

“Yeah, right. And I'm the Princess of Monaco,” Molly mumbled.

She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and looked into the mirror. “Admit it, girl, you're jealous. No matter what size two Heather does, it's going to make you feel insecure. It's not Heather, it's you. Get a life, girl.”

Taking her own good advice, she pulled on a cotton sweater and jeans, then headed out to entertain herself, in spite of the rain. Anything was better than sitting here, imagining what was going on in Mitch's trailer. Somehow she didn't think a bad ankle would put much of a crimp in his style. Wounded men brought out the nurturing side of women. Did Heather Simms have one? “My, don't we need a big saucer of milk,” she chastised herself. Heather Simms was married, but it didn't mean she couldn't talk to another man. Molly was being patently ridiculous.

It was noon and still raining cats and snails and puppy dog tails when Molly returned from touring both the Jesse James Wax Museum and the spectacular Meramec Caverns. They must have been the perfect hideout for the James Gang, affording shelter to both men and horses in the early 1870s.

The rare colors of the unique mineral formations in the caverns were breathtaking, but the most impressive sight had been the seventy-million-year-old Stage Curtain formation that stood seventy feet high and was sixty feet wide.

But Jesse James and the caverns weren't on her mind at this moment. Mitch and Heather were.

She'd stopped by Heather's trailer on the way back and knocked on her door. There had been no answer.

This was more than a friendly little visit. The crew was going to talk. That didn't bother her as much as
whom
they were going to talk to. All she needed was a scandal between Mitch and a married woman to hit the tabloids. Didn't he have a brain in his head? Probably not, when presented with such a tempting sight as Heather Simms.

Back in her trailer, she kicked off her white leather sneakers and attacked a leftover Danish. When she'd done enough damage to her hips, she regained control of her thoughts, banishing the image of Mitch and Heather, alone and very much together.

She knew that moving water produced an environment high in negative ions; that made heavy rain give people a sexual turn-on. But she was the one who was restless, she was the one with the problem, not Mitch or Heather.

The problem must be turning her green eyes even greener, Molly reflected. If she were honest, she'd admit she was smitten. Already half in love with him before she set foot in the Midwest, it would be too easy to fall completely in love with Mitch now.

But she couldn't change herself to fit the type of woman Mitch might go for. She would never be a size two and had promised herself she'd never change to please anyone but herself. She had to remain true to her vision of who she was and wanted to be.

It had been a very hard lesson to learn, but Molly knew she'd wasted too many years, trying to fit the role of perfect daughter for her parents. They had loved her almost to death, smothering her until she couldn't breathe.

She recalled being driven to school and picked up by her mother, not allowed to participate in any athletic activities because of the potential risk. She'd studied astronomy for her father's sake, because it made him feel as if Joey wasn't completely gone from their lives. They had fulfilled her every need, with the result that she'd had to learn to do even the simplest things, once she'd graduated and was on her own. Learning to drive a car had been a major triumph—at the advanced age of twenty.

In the end playing a role hadn't worked. It had made her parents happy, but she'd been miserable. She'd only become happy when she'd given up trying to be what her parents wanted and followed her own instincts.

If there was even the slightest chance Mitch might love her, he was going to have to love her for who she was—stubborn, mouthy and flawed. But why would he be interested in her, when he literally had his pick of all the beautiful women in the country? She had to get a grip on herself.

She wasn't thinking straight. She was smart enough to know that women were hard-pressed to have a family and a career. Having both with an actor was a rank impossibility. She would have to give up her hard-won independence. Something she'd never do.

Yes, but
… her little voice coaxed.
Some things are worth sacrifice.

Realizing she was letting her libido take control, Molly forced herself to abandon the path her destructive thoughts were taking.

She was eyeing the last Danish when a knock sounded on the door and someone called that she had a call from L. A. Slipping her sneakers back on, she went to take the call. Was this just Peter's paranoia checking up? Or had he somehow heard about Mitch's fall from the skateboard?”

“Hello, Mr. Ketteridge.

“Tell me filming is ahead of schedule,” he barked.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it's not.”

“How is filming going?” He didn't sound pleased.

“Well, if you must know, production is presently shut down.”

“What! What's going on? Why haven't you called me?”