Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
D ylan drank from his water bottle with his perfect lips.
What a heartstopper.
He arched an eyebrow.
Ah, yes. She was here for work. Was she supposed to interpret what the cameraman had said? “He said red wine is good.”
The cameraman snorted.
He must know English. Mallory chewed on her bottom lip. Her language skills were slightly less impressive to the fluent bilingual. Was she tanking her job? Would the director still consider her project if they tossed her off the bridge? Once baptized in the Seine, would she vow loyalty to all drinks of the Loire Valley and emerge newly French?
Dylan narrowed his eyes.
The older makeup artist, a brunette with flawless makeup, adjusted his rock-star eyeliner. She made a chirping, be-still protest.
The cameraman moved closer. He put down his camera so he could use animated gestures with both hands as he spoke. In heavily accented English, with enough intensity to convince Mallory, he said, “French reds are the best in the world. Just as France created the photograph. France is the mother of wine.”
“Ah.” Mallory winked at him.
The cameraman took her wink as a challenge, as if she’d argued. He set off with another spate of praise in the defense of the French wine industry.
Her heart danced at the roll of the fluid language and animated interaction. Paris was fun.
The makeup artist chirped at Dylan again. Then she turned to Mallory. “Tell Dylan to sit still. Tell him to stop tightening his jaw. Tell him to relax. Tell him…”
“Got it.” Poke your iris with a mascara wand while telling you in French to relax. That would work.
Mallory put her lips to Dylan’s ear and whispered, “One day, you’ll describe today for your grandkids. You’ll tell them how, on a perfect autumn afternoon, twenty people pampered you on the edge of the Seine. They cordoned off the oldest stone bridge on the river. Security barred the entrances. People lined the banks to gape in awe.”
Dylan chuckled.
Mallory’s heart gave a tug. What charisma—first, hot and intense, then flipping to young and adorable within a minute. What a charmer.
The makeup artist chirped again, but then, eyeing Dylan with appreciation, she cocked her head, showing off her own French appeal. She stepped back to get a full view of Dylan. “He is very beautiful . Too bad he is not French, eh?”
“Yes.” Mallory interpreted. “She says you’re handsome.”
Dylan nodded.
“Oh.” Mallory projected playful surprise in her voice. “You’ve heard that before?”
Dylan gave her a side-eye that made her smile and drop the teasing.
The makeup artist held up a mirror for Dylan to have a look, like the proverbial Greek god at the pond, but in France at the Seine. He assessed his image but didn’t linger over his reflection.
“Positions, everyone,” Director Benoit said in English. Director Benoit was about her height, with curly dark hair. He was handsome in an artistic, distracted way.
He’d agreed to shoot Dylan and Lorene together. That inspired pairing demonstrated the man’s brilliance. Would this genius really want a hand in her movie? The possibilities twinkled inside her, but Oliver had said to keep the idea under wraps. Interrupting the director to ask about his vision for her work was a definite no-go.
Mallory put the thought out of her mind, so none of her questions would accidentally fall from her lips.
“Positions, everyone,” Director Benoit repeated in French.
The staff quieted and jumped into position, the quickest she’d seen the French move.
“Dylan,” Director Benoit continued. “Saunter to the top of the bridge. When you reach Napoleon’s insignia, lower your body. Keep one knee bent, one leg straight. Drape one arm out by your side. Lay one arm across your bent knee. We’re going for a cool, sophisticated moment on a bridge. Ready. And…action.”
“Action,” Mallory repeated to Dylan with a thumbs-up. Though obviously, he’d understood the director’s accented English.
Dylan gave her a half smile and moved to the end of the bridge.
“Good, Dylan, keep that pace.” The director remained behind his monitor and waved his free arm. “Saunter. Saunter. Almost there.”
The director motioned for Lorene to start. “Go, Lorene. Dylan, when Lorene reaches you, she will kneel. Tip your face up toward her beauty. That is the money shot.”
The crew got in front of, behind, and to the side, holding cameras focused on Dylan. A camera drone circled overhead. The sponsor knew Dylan didn’t have a bad angle.
After Dylan hit the halfway point, the director signaled for Lorene to increase her speed and for Dylan to walk slower.
The two stars, one in the lead, one trailing, continued up the Pont Neuf.
Dylan reached the top of the bridge and slid into position.
Lorene, lured by him, glided along the same path, swinging her arms out as if embracing what would come. The move was perfume-commercial cliché, but Lorene’s grace, and the light breeze floating the fabric of her dress, made the image work.
“Good, Lorene, do a full spin, then continue up to Dylan.”
Lorene spun with a ballerina’s arched back, took a step forward, paused, and stumbled to the railing. She retched and emptied her stomach over the side.
Oh.
“Cut,” the director yelled.
The French crew reacted with various expressions of disgust, from the universally understood wrinkled noses to talking with their hands, rife in this Gallic part of the world. Their words roughly translated to “Oh,” “My,” and “No.”
“Break here for a touch-up.” Director Benoit kept his composure and pointed at various crew to move in and renew order.
The crew split between attending to Lorene and Dylan. For Dylan, they brought him water and touched a powder puff to the bridge of his nose. Lorene took more care.
Mallory jogged up the bridge to Dylan. “You were great.”
Dylan gave her the side-eye as if she were being sarcastic.
“Really.” She meant it. “If a dragon lost his wings, he’d saunter like you.” Or he’d lumber from the weight of his body. No need to describe that for Dylan.
Dylan eyed Mallory from head to toe. “You look very pretty. All dressed up for me.” His tone was absolutely sure of his theory.
Cocky guy.
“When I pushed my meeting with Oliver and told him the reason, he gave me a reward for helping you.” Mallory quirked one side of her mouth. She pointed to her chest, then lowered her voice. “I may not have told him I lost a bet and owed you.” She tilted her head with a look of studied innocence. “I’m just an American, flying to the aid of my fellow countryman in his time of need.”
Dylan frowned. “Be wary of lawyers offering rewards with dotted lines. What kind of reward did Oliver promise you?”
Mallory grinned and shared the bit she could. “When you’re all done, Director Benoit…” She touched a finger to the air. “The world-famous Director Benoit and his award-winning photographer will shoot headshots for me.”
“Headshots?” Dylan looked her over. “You work for Texk. Are you an actress?” He scowled as if she’d hidden a secret desire to ride his coattails.
“I’m contracting some IP with Texk. I don’t actually work directly for them.” The intellectual property was her novels. This was as convenient a time as any to let him know what she did for a living. Then he’d understand she wasn’t really an interpreter or an unknown actress with ambitions for more. “The headshot is for promotional materials, for rights they’re acquiring.” Mallory made a scribbling motion. “I write. Fantasy romance novels.”
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “That explains the dragon references. I pegged you as a reader, like my sister.”
“I am a reader. As a reader and a writer, dragons fill my head.”
Dylan tilted toward her. “Sound fills mine. The current of the river, the traffic, the city noises.”
Fascinating. “A discordant melody for you to harness and spin into gold.”
He snapped his fingers. “I’m getting the writerly vibes now.”
Mallory giggled.
The director moved back behind his monitor. “Places, everyone.”
Mallory backed out of the frame and stood with the support crew.
Lorene floated up the bridge toward the half-reclining Dylan. The beauty kneeled at his side and extended her slim fingers toward his jaw. Lorene gave a loud belch. Her palms dropped flat against Dylan’s chest, her weight bowed over him as she released a dry heave.
Dylan popped up from underneath Lorene with the speed of a professional dancer. Lorene sprawled on the pavement, drawing deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. Dylan backed off.
“Cut,” the director said.
Lorene’s assistants rushed forward, tugging her up and over to the side of the bridge. One held a bag to her mouth. One patted her back. “Let it out.”
Mallory grimaced. Of the two stars, she was definitely interpreting for the winner. And that popup. Whew.
Oliver reached her side, though she hadn’t realized he’d arrived. He eyed her appreciatively. “You look lovely.”
Mallory gave a slight nod of thanks. “All due to your stylist.”
Oliver eyed the covered area where the stylist was adjusting Dylan’s hair. “I see you’ve had a time of it.” He shook his head. “Dylan being Dylan. Impossible.”
Anyone would have jumped away from Lorene. Or rolled away or crawled, whatever was quickest. Mallory frowned. “Not at all. Dylan was very professional. Lorene is…ill.”
“Surprising. The company spends a fortune to set up these gigs and make the atmosphere perfect for our artists.” Oliver scrunched his lips. “You never know with Dylan.”
Really? Why?
“Lorene has successfully shot a number of films. She’s a dear, earns tons of attention for the company, and never shies away from social media or interviews.” Oliver arched his eyebrows. His expression and pause were pushing for her to agree that Lorene was full of shining qualities.
“She’s beautiful.” Mallory didn’t know if Oliver had Lorene in mind for a role in her book. She’d sound presumptuous if she asked him. She could, however, ask about the possibility he had mentioned. “Is Gabriel Benoit really an option for my movie adaptation?”
Oliver gave a secretive smile. “All I can say is his people are in talks with our people. We’ll handle this for you.”
Mallory gave a bounce. The production could tank at any turn—the casting, the cinematography, the script…but with Director Benoit at the helm, the chance of success would grow disproportionately larger.
An assistant came up to them. “We’re giving the leads a brief break. Ms. Park, we could knock out your headshots now, saving time at the end of the shoot, if you’re ready?” The question wasn’t really a question. She was up.
Mallory nodded without nerves. She had full confidence in Director Benoit’s skills. His photographer would snap an exceptional photograph.
She would get the best headshot ever. Other bestsellers would tear off their dustjackets in sorrow and phone their publicists, demanding artistic reshoots.
The assistant pointed to center bridge. Mallory hurried to the spot where Dylan had majestically sprawled for his millions. She faced the camera, put on a big grin, and did a thumbs-up with each hand. She pursed her lips and sucked in her cheeks.
“No,” Director Benoit called repeatedly, which rattled out like, “ Non, non, non. ”
“Oh.” Dylan was at her side in a flash. He shook his head at her. “Take it down a notch.”
Mallory nodded at him. She dropped one of her thumbs. Then held the other to the air and scrolled as if holding an imaginary pen.
“I’m going to help you,” Dylan said in a serious tone. He poked at her dimple, deflating her pursed lips.
“I will let you.”
Dylan chuckled, but he stayed intent. He lightly moved his thumb to the side of her jaw. “Turn down the wattage, pretty.”
Aww, that compliment made her want to smile more.
Dylan’s touch was warm, and tingles sparked under her skin. He was powerful. Could he tell how attractive she thought he was?
Ha. Millions of fans screamed his name until they got laryngitis. He knew. Still, he was hers for this brief moment on the bridge. Adjust me at will.
Over the next ten minutes, Dylan posed her, from tilting her head to moving the position of her arms and legs. Tingles grew with each touch, melting her limbs so that she was as malleable as hot lava, which he forged into position. If his producers could bottle his focus, he’d be even more adored. “What’s your cologne smell like? Perfectionism with bass notes?”
“Earnest heart and love of music. They’re giving me a few bottles tomorrow. I’ll make sure you get one.”
“Nice.” One male cousin’s souvenir down.
“Good. Good,” the photographer praised. “We’ve got it. Thanks, Mallory. Thanks, Dylan. Dylan, Lorene’s stylist says she’s ready. If you don’t mind, take your last position.”
Mallory said her own thanks and got out of the way. How long before she got the proofs? Would Oliver send them over? Or would they come from the director’s team?
Dylan slid into place, taking on the expression of a world-weary sophisticate on a bridge.
Director Benoit made a commanding motion. “Cue, Lorene.”
Lorene, leaning over the railing, straightened her elbows, paused, and leaned back over. She shook her head. “I need a minute.”