Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
D irector Benoit scowled briefly, then smoothed his expression to unperturbed. He signaled to Dylan’s stylist. “We actually have sufficient footage of Lorene. Let’s put Lorene’s hat on Mallory and put Mallory in the shot instead.”
The director continued, “Mallory has lovely hands, prettier than Lorene’s even.”
Ooh. Vindictive much ?
“Tone up her arms and hands. We’ll get the shot from the back. Frame from the brim of her hat, along her arm, and get a full shot of her hand,” the director concluded.
Ah. Mallory looked at her hands. Pretty hands? No one had ever complimented her hands before. Not merely pretty. Star quality.
The makeup artist came forward and rubbed a pearly pink, rose-scented cream onto her arms and hands, taking them up a dimension from pretty to glorious.
Oliver frowned. “The back? Mallory is lovely.”
Aww.
“The client is not paying for cute. The sponsor wants…” The director glanced at Lorene and let the unspoken words va va voom dangle heavy on the French breeze. Lorene was a silver screen goddess.
Mallory was cute.
Not taking insult, Mallory rose to her tiptoes and waved her hands in the air. “But look at these hands.”
Director Benoit motioned to the camera. “Let’s try the shot.”
Was it too late to work her lotion-covered hands into her headshot? A cocked head with a finger to her chin would be nice. A shot of her hands writing in a journal. A shot of her hands reaching for the Parisian sky, tracing an image into a cloud, then emerging from behind the cloud was a dragon. And the onlooker would realize that had never been a cloud at all, merely smoke from the dragon’s breath.
“Positions,” the director said.
Mallory knelt in front of Dylan and reached out a manicured finger toward his jaw. “Goddess hands, coming your way.”
“Less grin, Dylan. Good expression. Cut.” Director Benoit looked satisfied. “That’s it. Great work, everyone.”
One of the crew left Lorene’s side and came over to the director. “Lorene is ready now. I’m sure of it.”
Director Benoit shook his head. “We’re through here.”
Mallory believed him. If they hadn’t gotten the shot, between his vision and Dylan’s perfectionism, they’d be on this bridge all day filming under French moonlight. Then they’d have to give the cologne an evocative title. A rock star at the day’s end, under the moonlight, under the starlight?
Staff grabbed equipment and headed toward the white crew vans without looking back. The French weren’t about overtime. They knew a good exit opportunity when they saw one.
“Did you get my full schedule for the week, goddess?” Dylan asked.
“Yes,” Mallory said slowly. Though she loved the way he called her goddess, she wouldn’t fall for his handsome male persuasions. “Last night.”
She gave a yawn that she concealed with one divine hand. “Too many events for me. You weren’t kidding about their working you like a donkey every day. Let me know which event-spectacular you want me to go to. Name the one where you really need an interpreter. I will be there for you. For the mere cost of one bottle of cologne.” She was as gracious as her hands. She held up her index finger. “One event.”
Interviews made more sense than shoots like today. Although, today had worked in her favor. She’d gotten headshots, and the tips of her fingers would feature in an international spread for Dylan’s signature cologne. How cool was that?
Her dragon needed his own cologne. Would readers enjoy that? It’d be fun to find out. “What do you think a dragon’s cologne smells like?”
Dylan looked at her. “Straw?”
Mallory dropped her chin to her chest. Did he think dragons slept on hay or ate it? Straw? Combust much? She barely restrained her desire to make a French sneer. “I’m not writing the three little pigs.”
At her disdain, Dylan amended his answer. “Erm, fire, charcoal?”
Better. Mallory nodded; she could work with that. “Dragon flame. No. Molten rock. Hmm. I’ll work on it.”
Noise from the onlookers intensified. The crowd had started as paparazzi and had grown to include fans. They got louder now that Dylan, the object of their desire, was leaving.
Dylan gave them a wave, inciting a number of women to scream his name, Tempo Rain, bonjour, and pieces of the lyrics from his hits.
Security came to their side to escort Dylan out. The lead guard touched his earpiece. “Let’s move.”
Dylan turned to her. “Mallory…”
Mallory didn’t know what he would have said because Oliver cut him off. “Great job, Dylan.”
Oliver turned to Mallory. “Thanks for pitching in. Again. Francois has the European rights team waiting for you back at the office. We can get started on your delayed meeting.”
Dylan sank against the backseat of the limo. He reread the texts that had populated on his phone while he was shooting.
Bax: I’m hearing the problem is with the trainees. That’ll teach us to mentor.
Kane: I don’t want to know.
Rain: I’ll talk to them.
Tae: Send me the details.
Tae would take this all on his shoulders if they let him. They had to save Tae from himself and all pitch in.
They’d agreed to mentor the group. They’d honor that. People had helped them on the way up. Had they always been easy? No. Had it always been convenient for others? Couldn’t have been. Who was he to ignore a new group’s request for help after all he’d been given?
Dylan typed, Let’s do a group call when we can all get free. He’d create time in his schedule, no matter the hour. They’d sort out if there was really a problem or if this was merely PR drama.
Speculation was worse than knowing the straight situation. Once they knew, they could deal with the issue. Until then, he could only imagine what the trainees were up to. This could be nothing. This could be career catastrophic.
Too bad he couldn’t have called his band earlier when the texts first came through. But that wouldn’t have been smart. Press utilized long-range cameras and lip readers. Who knew what would be exposed?
Their mentees were different than Tempo Rain. They were a group put together by Texk based on looks and talent, not a group of friends who’d formed naturally. That made a different dynamic.
At least he’d gotten through the shoot on time. That was a first for the week. Without Mallory, filming would have gone on much longer while Lorene pulled herself together. Lorene had her own pressures she was dealing with. He wasn’t blaming her, he just had no room for more negatives this week.
Mallory had made the day lighter.
He frowned out the window, searching the Paris avenue for his interpreter.
Mallory stood at the intersection with Oliver. No doubt getting a solid earful of schedule.
She crossed at the light and headed to a riverside boutique, with Oliver right behind her.
Were they shopping together? Dylan dropped his head against the leather seat, knowing he was brooding but unable to stop. He’d been with Mallory for hours at the shoot. She hadn’t suggested Dylan go with her. They could have shopped, grabbed a meal, or a quickie in the limo.
Was Mallory not into him?
Nah. When he touched her or let his gaze catch hers, her creamy skin flushed and her eyes took on a bedroom haze.
He could have her if he wanted the complication. What would a night with her be like? Her voice would flow over him in the dark. Him over her on French sheets. The image was made for music. A pretty melody followed by a pounding rhythm. The chords sparked, then retreated, instead of exploding in his mind.
Dylan swallowed. His body hardened. Her soft touches and her vanilla perfume had teased him on the bridge. He wanted her in his arms. Today had shown him how much. Keeping her to himself hadn’t been easy.
First that cameraman hit on her. Then Oliver, who was either tightening the company restraints by ensuring Dylan didn’t get a date, or Oliver wanted Mallory for himself. Neither was acceptable. Oliver had walked off with her, chatting away, even crossing over to the shop with her. Had Oliver already won?
Wait. Won ? Mallory was not a prize to win. He wasn’t competing with Oliver. Still, it pricked his nerves how easily the lawyer outmaneuvered him. Dylan made his fortune being irresistible. Was Paris crushing his edge?
Why hadn’t Mallory called or texted, telling him how well today had gone?
Impatience got the better of him. Dylan pulled out his phone and sent Mallory a text. No offer to show me the hot spots tonight?
I’m a writer. The only hot spots I know about are at fifty percent into a novel, or page sixty in a screenplay.
Clever woman. She’d hit it off well with their lyricist. Word lovers preferred moody, lyric-writing types like Kane. Dylan would make sure they never met.
He should have called her, not texted, lured her in with the sound of his voice. Then he’d get the pleasure of hearing her melodic cadence and amusing word choices. Her hint of home accent was a comfort, her teasing a turn-on.
When she relayed his words to others, but with more courtesy and enthusiasm than he could ever dream of mustering, she was freaking adorable, like a French cheerleader holding the leash of a dragon while chanting his words.
Mallory’s reply appeared on his screen. I can check with Ollie.
Ollie? There was a delay before her next text populated.
Ollie suggests dinner to celebrate the successful shoot. He recommends the Latin Quarter.
Ollie?
Ollie?
He’d worked with Oliver for over a decade. Oliver had never once suggested he be called Ollie. WTH? Dylan’s eyebrows rose, though there was no one to rush to his side to fix the problem.
Oliver as serious competition? To him ? Nah.
No limelight. Seven-figure income. Steady job. Some women liked that.
Nah.
He had this. He wouldn’t even feel bad about stealing Mallory from Oliver. He’d found her first. And he’d heard Oliver on the bridge, assuming Dylan was tanking the shoot instead of Lorene. He’d also heard Mallory speak up for him. Mallory was on his team.
Dylan resisted what he really wanted to type about Ollie . Mallory needed to remember who the victor was and who owed whom here. Need you. Remember the scissors?
Mallory replied with a rock emoji.
Cute. Dylan snickered. Too late. You’re mine for the week.
You’re giving a lot of weight to a margarita-fueled rock, paper, scissors game.
If by game you mean binding commitment, then yeah. Dylan shot off a quick text to Kane. His lead singer was a foodie. He’d know what fancy dinner could lure Mallory away from Oliver. Women liked roses in vases, linen tablecloths, and crystal.
Kane had the ability to ignore messages at will, but if the topic was food, he couldn’t resist. Kane replied, Boeuf Bourguignon.
Dylan forwarded Kane’s response into a new text for Mallory. Candlelight, music, and Boeuf Bourguignon? Nailed it. The pretty woman was his.
Raincheck? I got up at four to get to the stylist for the overhaul. It’s hitting me. I’m going to skip out on the Latin Quarter, grab a French roast coffee, and do my best to make it through my contracts meeting. Tonight, I’m thinking no makeup, nachos, and pajamas.
Yes to all of that. Dylan tapped out a beat on the chilled glass of the window. He was liking his fellow American more and more. Your balcony or mine?