Triple Threat. Regina Kyle
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like to run Malcolm and Marisa’s scene one more time to fine-tune the blocking, then pick up from your entrance at the top of act two.”
“Sure thing.”
“I need a break,” Malcolm huffed. “I’m dying of thirst. It’s, like, a thousand degrees in here. What kind of low-rent production is this anyway? First the power goes out, then your caterer gives us food poisoning, now the air conditioning’s on the fritz.” He dropped onto a folding chair, took a sip from a bottle of water one of the production assistants handed him and grimaced. “And can I get some Evian, for Christ’s sake? This cheap stuff tastes like crap.”
“What about Thing One and Thing Two?” Nick asked, noticing for the first time that Malcolm’s ever-present personal assistants, two recent Columbia film school grads eager for whatever showbiz scraps he threw their way, were missing. “Isn’t that their job?”
“Sean’s getting my dry cleaning. And Seth’s waiting for the movers to deliver my big-screen TV.”
Poor guys. Nick had left his assistant back home, to watch his house in Malibu and handle his fan mail. He wasn’t such a diva that he couldn’t go it alone for two months.
Unlike some people, he thought as Malcolm continued to gripe under his breath about the water.
“Take ten, everyone.” Ethan pulled a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the production assistant. “Can you run down to the deli at the corner of Eighth and Thirty-seventh and get Mr. Justice his water?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, Wes.” Holly rewarded the PA with a dazzling smile, reminding Nick of yet another reason he was so drawn to her. She knew everyone’s name, even the interns. Refused to take the last bagel from the craft services table. Reacted to everything from a broken pipe to a dirty joke with a sense of humor and a quick laugh.
With a nod, Wes hurried out of the room, probably petrified “Mr. Justice,” as Malcolm insisted the crew call him, would chew his head off if he didn’t come back in under sixty seconds with a case of his precious Evian.
Self-centered, egotistical asshole.
But Nick didn’t have time to dwell on Malcolm Justice and his parade of character flaws. He had ten minutes—well, more like nine now—to get to Holly before she disappeared on him again. If he was lucky, maybe he could get her to bestow one of those dazzling smiles on him.
He stuck his pencil in his script and stashed it under his chair, ready to make his move, when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mr. Damone?” Marisa Rodriguez stood next to him, nervously biting her lip. With him and Malcolm on board, the producers had taken a chance on the young, relatively inexperienced actress for the pivotal role of the abused wife. From what he’d seen so far, their risk was going to pay off. She had a wonderful, natural quality that couldn’t be taught in any acting class. “Can I ask you something?”
Nick snuck a glance at Holly and frowned. Ethan, her self-appointed bodyguard, had once again glued himself to her side. They sat together, shoulders touching, heads bowed over a copy of the script.
Jesus. The guy was like her freaking shadow. Nick wouldn’t be surprised to find out they went to the damn bathroom together. At first he thought maybe they were a couple, with their constant chatter, light touches and little laughs. That illusion had been blessedly blown to bits when Ethan’s boyfriend had shown up to meet him after rehearsal.
Still, Ethan needed to get accidentally locked in the prop room for a good half a day.
Overnight would be even better.
Nick turned back to his impressionable costar and flashed her a grin that he hoped was reassuring. “Of course.” He patted the chair next to him, and Marisa sat down. “But I keep telling you, call me Nick. After all, we are married, in a manner of speaking.”
She blushed and ducked her head, her mane of long dark curls covering her face. “Okay, Mr.... I mean, Nick.”
“Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I do for you?”
“I’m just curious.” She peered at him through her bangs. “You’ve done stage productions before, right?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Not really,” he lied. “It’s like riding a bike. And nothing beats performing in front of a live audience. The instant response. The connection.” The chance that any minute you could forget your lines or your blocking. No one to bail you out by yelling, “Cut.”
“No, I mean because of the—” she stopped and looked around as if to make sure no one else was listening. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper “—curse.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “The what?”
“The crew says we’re cursed. Because of all the weird stuff going on. You know. The bomb threat. The food poisoning. The blackout.”
Nick nodded, finally understanding. Of course Marisa would be worried. It was her plane that had been grounded by a bomb threat in Toronto, where she’d been wrapping a film, making her miss the first read-through. Then half the crew had gotten food poisoning from some bad sushi. And yesterday the power had gone out at Pearl, costing them half a day’s practice.
But all shows hit rough waters, and Nick wasn’t about to let Marisa drown in them. These were hiccups, not the Titanic.
“Nah,” he assured her. “Theater people are suspicious by nature.”
“Really?”
“Sure. That’s why we say ‘break a leg’ instead of ‘good luck.’ And leave a ghost light on onstage. And, most importantly, never, ever say or quote from Macbeth in a theater.”
Marisa tilted her head, looking confused. “What do you call it, then?”
“You don’t.” Nick chuckled. “Or, if you must, it’s the Scottish play.”
“That’s silly.”
“Yep. Like believing we’re cursed is silly.”
“I guess so. Thanks, Mr.... Nick. Sorry.” She stood and stretched, showing a wide expanse of her flat stomach that, in another lifetime, one before Holly had reappeared, would have had him itching to see more. Now he wasn’t interested. He ran a hand across his face, trying to erase the unfamiliar feeling.
“I think I’ll get a Diet Coke from the vending machine in the hall.” Marisa flipped her thick, dark curls over her shoulder. “Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks.” He picked up a stainless-steel water bottle with the UCONN Huskies logo on it from the floor next to his chair. “Tap water’s good enough for me.”
“Score one for you,” she said, her eyes flicking to Malcolm before she bounded off.
Nick leaned back in his chair, a trace of an amused smile playing around his lips. Smart girl. Perceptive, too. She was going to do just fine in this business.
He took a long, cool drink from the Huskies bottle and checked his watch. Ethan’s ten minutes were almost up, and Wes and the Evian were still conspicuously absent. But instead of ranting and raving like the first-rate prima donna everyone knew he was, Malcolm was perched on the edge of the table next to Holly, with Ethan nowhere in sight.
Shit. The bastard had swooped in before Nick could react to the fact that she’d finally lost her guard dog. He’d been fawning all over her at every possible opportunity from the first day of rehearsal. Bringing her coffee in the morning. Complimenting her word choices in the script. Touching her whenever—wherever—he could.
Like now. Malcolm pulled a strand of her hair from his mouth and gave a low