The Thrill of Temptation (The Fontaines Book 4) Read online

  Suddenly the actors stop, and I stop, too, just short of running into Omar. No one seems to notice the near-collision, though.

  “Okay, let’s try that again from the top,” Orlando says. He’s frowning slightly, all serious intensity as he glances between the camera screen and the three of us in front of him. His honey-colored eyes are like lasers, hard and focused. “This time, Ford, put a little more emphasis on that line about Joan. And Omar, can we try your response with a little more anger? But be subtle with it—I want to see slow, seething fury.”

  The three of us walk back to our initial starting point and do the whole thing again.

  And so it goes for the next two hours—Omar and Mr. Grand talking, me looking busy behind them, redoing the same scene over and over again. Orlando directs us with an almost severe passion, continuing to tweak and reassess and nitpick like an artist trying to make a masterpiece. He is an artist—a master, even. That much is obvious, even after working with him for so little time. I’ve never seen any of Orlando’s movies—as far as I know, he’s only directed a handful of small, indie flicks so far—but it’s hard not to recognize genius when you see it.

  And I’m not going to lie, it’s sexy as hell.

  Yeah, all those rumors about him are starting to make sense. Someone this passionate, this focused, definitely needs an outlet.

  As the hours creep on, I begin to understand a little more about what’s happening in this scene. Omar is the CEO of some big company, and Mr. Grand appears to be his right-hand man. If I’m reading between the lines correctly, though, there are some conflicting loyalties between the pair of them. Sounds juicy. I wonder where the death and deadly night come in. This film’s title is odd, to say the least.

  Naturally, I find myself growing curiouser and curiouser about our director. And I’m finding it harder and harder not to watch him out of the corner of my eye, to study every twist of his lip or flick of those penetrating eyes.

  To distract myself, I begin doodling on the tablet in my hands. I do that a lot—doodle. On paper napkins at restaurants, or on the corners of junk mail or newspaper scraps. Last year, when I graduated with my master’s, my mom got me a beautiful journal with thick paper perfect for drawing. I started out keeping a diary of sorts, but when I fell into my single-and-unemployed slump it evolved into simply a sketchbook of doodles. Nothing pulls me out of a weird mood faster than doodling.

  As we go through the scene for the umpteenth time, I find myself doing rough sketches of the men in front of me. None of my drawings ever look particularly realistic—my doodles have more of a cartoony, comic book style—but I’m pretty proud of how they turn out. Once I’ve done Omar and Mr. Grand, I move on to the person I really want to doodle—Orlando.

  I don’t get him right the first time. Or the second. Or the third. At first I can’t seem to get his hair right, but by the end it’s his eyes that are giving me the most trouble. Nothing I draw can capture how startling and direct they are.

  Finally, frustrated, I turn his eyes into a pair of lasers. Then draw them shooting glowing beams of energy toward a giant, frumpy pair of panties. It’s ridiculous, yes, but it makes me smile—at least until I remember I’m in the middle of a serious scene.

  I quickly and subtly flick my gaze to Orlando, hoping he didn’t see me break character. No such luck. His eyes are glued on me, his mouth a straight line. He definitely saw.

  Shockingly, though, he doesn’t say anything. I lock my gaze onto the tablet again, but I still sense him watching me. It feels like someone is undressing me piece by piece, stripping me completely bare. Is that how all directors look at you? Like they’re peeling you apart and piecing you back together again? Like they’re measuring and weighing you and imagining things about you that you’ve never imagined of yourself?

  It’s hard having someone look at you like that. It’s harder still when the person in question is incredibly attractive, and when you’re hyperaware of the fact that you aren’t wearing any underwear. I’m not sure whether to be nervous or turned on.

  Perspiration begins to bead on my skin again, and I redouble my attention on my tablet.

  Eventually, after what feels like forever—in reality, I think it comes out to roughly thirty-seven takes—Orlando decides he’s happy with the scene. He relaxes back in his chair, and I swear, the entire crew seems to breathe a sigh of relief. He’s finally happy.

  “Okay, people,” Karen projects. “That’s lunch.”

  Immediately, the set dissolves into activity—assistants and crew running around, packing up or breaking down equipment. A number of people head outside.

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do—Is that it? Are they finished with me?—but before I have to make any decisions, Omar and Mr. Grand turn around. Omar has already pulled out his cell phone, and his face is blank as he scrolls through the screen with his thumb. He doesn’t even seem to notice me, completely absorbed by his screen.

  Mr. Grand, on the other hand, seems to see me for the first time.

  “Hey,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve been officially introduced yet. I’m Ford.”

  For at least the third time today, I find myself looked up and down. Ford Grand isn’t nearly as striking as his co-star—and especially not his director—but he pulls off the “classically handsome” thing really well. He has chestnut brown hair and perfectly groomed stubble to match, plus a wide smile full of straight, white teeth. He’s the kind of guy who was born to wear a suit, and the one they have him in for this scene is perfectly fitted to his body. He’s attractive, sure, but he doesn’t come close to matching the magnetism of Orlando.

  He must think that perfect smile has an effect on people, though—or maybe he’s just used to extras being starstruck in the presence of famous actors—because he says, “Don’t worry. Neither Omar nor I bite.”

  Omar glances up at the sound of his name, looks toward me, gives a nod of acknowledgment, then drops his eyes back down to his phone. Ford, however, is still looking at me.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asks.

  “Maggie.” I offer my hand, and his smile widens as he gives it a shake.

  “You’re a lot prettier than the last assistant girl they had,” he tells me, still grinning. I’m waiting for his teeth to sparkle. “Isn’t she, Omar?”

  Omar hardly raises his eyes this time, but Ford doesn’t seem to care.

  “Do you want to be an actress?” he asks me.

  “Actually…they just found me in the bathroom this morning. Apparently the other girl didn’t show up.”

  “The bathroom?” He breaks into laughter. “Oh, that’s rich! So it was fate that brought you here.”

  “Apparently.” I return his smile. I’m still not entirely convinced I made the right decision, blowing off my job interview, but at least I’m going to get a good story out of this. After the year I’ve had, I’ve needed something like this.

  “Well, if you get a taste for acting, I’d be happy to give you a few pointers about the biz.” He adjusts his tie. “I enjoy helping young actors find their feet in this industry. It’s even more cutthroat than you think.”

  “I’m sure. I—”

  “Ford!” Orlando’s rich voice carries over the bustling of the crew. “A word.” When I turn my head he’s already there beside us, and my heart gives a little leap in my chest.

  Play it cool, Maggie, I tell myself.

  Even though he called Ford’s name, it’s me Orlando is looking at. Does he know how intimidating that gaze is?

  “Great job today, Maggie,” he tells me. “Are you available after lunch? I’d like you in our next scene, too.”

  “I’m available all day,” I tell him, trying not to melt under those eyes. Or to mentally replay the launching of my panties at that broad chest. I squeeze my thighs together, futilely attempting to convince myself that I’m totally excited to be going commando in front of the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. What must this guy think of me?r />
  “I never got the chance to apologize,” I blurt.

  His brow rises. “For what?”

  “For earlier,” I say. “For…you know…” I gesture toward his chest. “I don’t normally do that, you know.”

  “I would hope not,” he replies. That amused heat returns to his eyes. “I was hoping I was special.”

  Am I imagining it, or is there something flirtatious in his tone? And is he actually hinting that he liked getting hit by my panties? Maybe he didn’t get a good look at them in all their giant, dingy glory.

  “Did I miss something?” Ford cuts in. “What happened earlier?”

  My cheeks go hot. If Ford hasn’t heard yet, I’d rather not spread the story around.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly.

  Ford frowns. It looks odd on him. “Well, clearly something happened. I—”

  “I wanted to address something about your intonation, Ford,” Orlando interrupts. “Have you been working with that speech coach?”

  Ford’s confidence visibly slips. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the windows. “I told you, I don’t need a speech coach—”

  “For this part, you do,” Orlando tells him. “It’s better than before, but I’m worried about the boardroom scene.”

  Anger flashes in Ford’s eyes, but it disappears again quickly. “I can handle it. You’ll see.”

  I’m beginning to feel awkward, listening to this. Slowly, I back away, but I only make it a couple of steps before both men turn their heads toward me.

  Ford begins to say something, but Orlando cuts him off.

  “I’ve got things to do,” he says. “I want word from Nathan that you’ve given him a call, Mr. Grand.” He starts to walk away, then pauses right in front of me. Before I even notice his hand moving, he snatches the tablet right out of my fingers.

  It takes me a moment to grasp why he might do such a thing. And when I do, I make a mad grab for the tablet, hoping to snatch it back before he gets a good look at my doodles. But it’s too late. He twists away from me, holding the screen easily out of my reach.

  I bite my lip, bracing myself for the worst. This might be even more embarrassing than the panty thing. Someone as intense and serious as Orlando probably doesn’t take well to people drawing caricatures of him on his own set. I’m probably about to get fired in front of the entire crew. Over stupid doodles!

  Instead, he tilts his head back and laughs.

  I glance toward Ford. He looks just as startled and confused as I feel.

  “You have some talent, Maggie,” Orlando says finally, still smiling. “You’re an artist, then?”

  “I…just doodle,” I tell him. “For fun. I know it’s inappropriate, but—”

  “Inappropriate? A few sketches?” His eyes gleam as he studies my work. “I’d have probably made Omar twice as tall, though. And Ford’s teeth twice as big.”

  Ford visibly bristles, but he says nothing.

  Orlando finally shifts his gaze away from the screen and back to me. “And is that really what you think of me?”

  Honestly, I’m not sure what part of the drawing he’s talking about. The hair? The laser eyes? God, please don’t let him be offended by the laser eyes…

  “I like it,” he says before I can settle on an appropriate response. “You have an interesting perspective, Maggie. You’re sure you’re not an artist?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  “What is it you do, when you’re not on one of my sets?”

  Recently? I binge-watch reality cooking competitions. Spend days on my couch in my yoga pants sending out resumes. Eat entire bags of potato chips in one sitting. You know, really exciting things.

  “I’m between jobs,” I tell him.

  “Do you mind if I take this?” he asks abruptly.

  Why? What’s he going to do?

  But it’s not like it’s my tablet.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll see you after lunch then.” He’s still smiling down at the screen as he walks away, leaving me wondering what the heck just happened. A few members of the crew close enough to have overheard some of our conversation look perplexed, too.

  “Well, that was odd,” Ford says after a moment.

  I jump. I’d forgotten he was there.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard him laugh before,” Ford goes on. “It’s weird.” He glances down at me, and an odd expression flashes across his face. “Be careful with him. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “What?” Am I that transparent? Can this entire set see that Orlando has my body doing all sorts of crazy things?

  “Orlando has a policy,” Ford says, his tone suggesting that this is common knowledge. “He follows a strict ‘no-sex’ rule when it comes to his films.”

  “Really? The tabloids say the opposite.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard those rumors, too,” he says. “I can’t speak to his personal life, but they say that’s why you’ll only ever see him with supermodels or heiresses. Never actresses. Never anyone who might work for him. Ask anyone around here. They’ll tell you the same.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that. And I don’t know why I feel so disappointed. It’s not like I ever thought I actually had a chance with him.

  “It’s a stupid policy, if you ask me,” Ford goes on. “Who knows where you’ll meet someone? Why impose arbitrary restrictions on yourself? In my opinion, he does it to make himself seem like some sort of eccentric genius. Because he’s convinced you can’t be a great filmmaker without some weird quirks.” He shrugs. “This industry is full of egos.”

  If Orlando is even half as good as he seems to be, maybe he’s earned himself the right to a little ego. But I’m not here to debate that with Ford.

  “How about some lunch?” he says. “Normally, as an extra, you’d be left to fend for yourself at the craft services table, but my assistant’s run out to get me something from a café just down the block. Why don’t I call her and have her double my order?”

  I’m not sure what the “craft services” table is, let alone why it might be so bad, but Ford knows more than I do.

  “Sure,” I say. Maybe he can tell me more about Orlando. “No-sex” policy or not, I’m still curious about the youngest Fontaine brother. “Would you mind if I ran out to my car for a minute? I have to make a call.”

  “Go ahead.” His white-toothed smile flashes.

  “Great.”

  I scurry past the still-hustling crew. There are more onlookers at the barrier than before—many of the people who work in the building must be on their lunch break—but once people see that there’s nothing being filmed at the moment, they don’t linger for long. I wonder briefly if the woman who was supposed to give me my interview this morning is among them. In all the hustle and bustle, I completely forgot to call her and tell her I wouldn’t be coming. Oops.

  I hurry out to the makeup tent to grab my purse, remembering too late how hot and muggy it is outside. The sudden shift from the chilly, air-conditioned lobby to wet-towel-around-the-face humidity is shocking, but I need a little shock right now. I feel like I’ve just floated out of a strange dream. And maybe, if I’m lucky, my sweat glands have worn themselves out for the day.

  I wait until I get back to my car to pull out my phone. I need to contact the interviewer, but first, I have another call to make.

  My mom picks up on the second ring. “How’d it go, sweetheart?”

  “I, uh, didn’t make it to the interview,” I tell her quickly. “But something even better happened, Mom. I’m going to be in a movie!”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “There’s a movie filming here—Orlando Fontaine’s new one. And they needed someone to fill in for one of their featured extras.” As I give my mom the full story, I hear her excitement grow on the other end of the line. By the time I’m done, she’s convinced I’m on my way to becoming a movie star.

  “I always thought you were pretty
enough to be famous,” she tells me.

  “You’re my mom. You’re required by law to think that.” I laugh.

  “Call me back when you’re done tonight and tell me everything,” she says. “Is Omar Walson as beautiful in person as he is on TV?”

  “Oh yes,” I assure her. I don’t tell her that he doesn’t hold a candle to Orlando. “And I promise I’ll call you later.” I only pause a moment before adding, “How’s Dad?”

  “Being extra stubborn today,” she says with a little too much lightness. My mom’s never been good at hiding her true feelings. “He’s got more energy than usual, but the doctor says this new treatment they’re trying might make him drowsy. We’ll see.”

  “Tell him hello for me,” I say softly. “And tell him I love him.”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” There’s even more emotion in her voice now. “Don’t forget to call me later!”

  “I won’t,” I promise her again. “Bye, Mom.”

  After we hang up, I lean against my car for a minute. The doctor’s optimistic about the new medication they’re giving my dad, but I’m trying not to get my hopes up. There’s only so much more my heart can take. Watching his health decline over the past few years has been devastating. My mom and dad are both strong people, and no one wants to watch their parents struggle, but it’s almost worse how hard they try to pretend that everything is going to be okay. For a long time, they refused to tell Justin and me how bad it was. And they still refuse to speak openly about the bills that must be piling up.

  And all this time, I’ve been helpless to do anything.

  For the first time since this morning, I feel a deep surge of guilt for skipping that interview. This was my chance to get a real job, a regular paycheck, and finally help out my parents. Instead, I threw that away because of a pair of deep, golden eyes and the chance to live out a fantasy for a day. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to that motivational speaker. Maybe I should have listened to my brain instead. How could I have been so selfish?

  I glance down at the time on my phone. It’s almost three hours after my interview was scheduled to take place. Maybe, if I play this right, I can still make it happen. I can call her and tell her I misread the date or the time. Or claim I’ve been stuck in some legendary Atlanta traffic for the last three hours. Or maybe I can just sound so desperate and pathetic that she’ll have no choice but to take pity on me. That could work, right?