High-Stakes Bachelor. Cindy Dees
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Early thirties if she had to guess. Shaved head. Nice physique under a tight T-shirt. Was he talking to her? “Hi, Miss...”
“Izzolo,” clipboard girl supplied.
“Miss Izzolo,” he said. Apparently, he was talking to her. “I’m Adrian Turnow. I’ll be directing the movie—”
The rest of what he said faded out as shock rendered her numb. Adrian Turnow in the flesh? He was one of the hottest directors in the business. Every film he worked on was movie gold. Dang. When Jackson Prescott said he would put in a good word for her, he wasn’t kidding!
“—time this afternoon for a test shot? We’d like to see you on camera.”
Her? They wanted a test shot with her? She was just looking for some stunt work. “Um, sure,” she mumbled.
Cameramen were moving around the set, shifting a boom camera out over the green mat and setting up two big cameras on rolling rails along two sides of it. The last of the blondes were filing out. Lighting guys were talking about technical stuff that might as well be Greek to her, and a half dozen people were running around with rolls of extension cord over their shoulders and tablet computers in hand. In short, it was chaos.
A tall, lean, African-American man stepped up to her. “Number 127?”
“That’s me. Although I usually go by Ana,” she replied, flummoxed.
“I’m Tyrone. Makeup. Let’s get you over to my chair and make you smashing for your screen test.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked in a small voice as he stared critically at her.
“Callback, sweetie. You blew Jackson’s socks off in your audition.”
“Callback? Me?” The notion refused to compute.
Tyrone smiled warmly as he dabbed her face with bronzing powder. “Great skin. Too pale for the camera, but we can fix that. You’re whiter than Wonder Bread, girlfriend. I bet you blush beet-red at the drop of a hat.”
“Sometimes I blotch, too,” she confessed.
He tsked and instructed her to look up and not blink as he deftly applied eyeliner and mascara. “Your bones and coloring could take a full glamor face and heavy color, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. Adrian and Jackson both go for the natural look. I’m going no makeup with your look.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled behind unmoving lips as he applied lip gloss. For doing a no-makeup look, he sure was putting a lot of makeup on her.
“Take a peek.”
She turned in the chair and looked at the lighted mirror behind her. Whoa. “Is that me?” she breathed. She looked fresh, young...and kind of beautiful.
“It’s not a trick mirror,” Tyrone retorted.
Her shoulder-length blond bob, which was not at all like the current fashion of long, flowing, wavy locks, swung around her face, the tips turning in a bit to frame her jaw. Her gray-blue eyes looked huge, and her lips were just pink enough not to get lost beneath her cheekbones.
“Camera’s gonna love you, baby,” Tyrone said encouragingly.
“Thanks. Let’s hope the director does, too.”
“Jackson’s coproducing this film. You gotta impress both him and Adrian to get this gig.”
Ahh. Hence Jackson’s earlier joke about putting in a good word with the producers. “Got it. Thanks, Tyrone.”
“Go get ’em, kid.”
She stepped out onto the bright green mat and looked around. The atmosphere was electric. She could get hooked on this. Choosing to reinvent her life in the film industry had been a great decision.
A cell phone rang, and she looked up in time to see Jackson Prescott scowling down at his caller ID. He rolled his eyes and moved away from the mat to take the call. She figured it must be a woman to have elicited that look of disgust. Last night’s lay, maybe?
Her stomach dropped in disappointment. It wasn’t like she was ever going to be in his league, though. And if she got a part in the movie, he’d also be her boss. This put him firmly off-limits. She couldn’t recall which actress the tabloids had him matched up with this week. But he went through women like chewing gum.
Clipboard lady from before came over to her. “Hi, I’m Sheila. Adrian’s assistant. The guys want to shoot a combat sequence with weapons. I see from your résumé that you’ve studied kendo, so I assume you’re okay with that.”
Ana had obsessively studied various martial arts ever since the attack two years ago. The fast-moving Japanese form with bamboo swords was, in fact, one of them.
On cue, a kid who must have been with the prop department trotted up to her and handed her a foam club. It looked like driftwood on steroids. She swung the craggy piece experimentally. It had about the same heft as a baseball bat. “It’s heavier than a kendo sword, but I can handle it.”
The brunette moved away, and a man approached her. “I’m Crash. Fight choreographer.”
“Not a reassuring name for a man with your job,” she responded drily.
He grinned. “I specialize in car stunts. But today, I’m gonna teach you a quick fight sequence with that toothpick.”
She paid close attention as he walked her through the choreography until she had the sequence memorized. Gradually, they sped it up to full-out. It was a dance between the two of them, really.
Adrian signaled that he was ready to shoot, and Jackson pocketed his phone. He joined her on the mat and someone passed him a king-size club, which he swung a few times, getting the feel of it. Apparently, he already knew the choreography.
“Places, everyone!” Adrian called. “Quiet on set, please.”
She stepped into the middle of the mat and took up a fighting stance, feet apart and knees bent. Jackson did the same, towering over her. Lord, just being close to him made her heart beat faster. The guy was like a high-powered electromagnet.
“Almost doesn’t seem fair to beat up a squirt like you,” he teased.
She snorted back, rising to the bait. “Big, clumsy lunk. You’re gonna have to catch me first.”
He grinned at her taunt and leaped at her. He was flipping fast for a guy his size. Step. Swing. Dodge, slide left. Spin. Jump. Swing. Swing. She chanted the choreography in her head by rote.
Ka-pow.
Her arm jarred from the impact of her club on Jackson’s face.
“Jackson!” she cried out as he doubled over, swearing. “You were supposed to spin right, not left!”
“Yeah, I got that memo just now,” he muttered in a voice muffled by his hands.
She spied blood dripping from between his fingers. “Medic!” she shouted. Adrian was backing away from Jackson, looking sick to his stomach. No one responded immediately to her shout, and Jackson was bleeding all over the place. A sports trainer in high school, she leaped into action. She whipped off her green camo T-shirt and wadded it up. “Here. Use this to catch blood while I find a first aid kit.”
Good thing she’d worn a camisole under her shirt today. She looked around frantically and spotted a big red cross on the far wall. She raced over to the first aid kit, yanked the briefcase-size metal box down and sprinted back to Jackson.
“What did I hit? How hard?” she asked urgently.
“Nose. Clocked me good.”
“Lemme see.” He was reluctant to take her shirt away from his face, and she had to physically peel his fingers loose. She reached up to gently squeeze the spot she’d hit.
“Youch!” he yelped.