Chapter 2
Brooke Barrons was a badass who was never frightened by anything, but Olivia Grayson was terrified.
Too bad I’m one messed-up person.
Brooke was her stage name, but it was more than that. It was a complete persona she took with her on the job, though it never extended beyond the surface into who she really was.
She fought to keep herself from biting her lip, not wanting to ruin her makeup and prolong the take. Already they’d been shooting for hours, only breaking for twenty minutes some three hours ago, and that had hardly been relaxing.
She could still see the note shaking in her hand, feel its scratchy paper. The angry slant of the writing was all too familiar, but this time the content was darker—more alarming—and she hadn’t known that was possible.
“Brooke, baby, you need to pay attention.”
She lifted her chin and focused on Evan Lockheed, the director. She’d admired him before she came here, his reputation and résumé preceding him like a long red carpet. But in person he was difficult to take, needing his hand up the backs of his actors like a puppeteer with a sock. “Sorry.”
He shook his head as if she were a naughty child disappointing him once again, his dark curls shining in the sun.
“I want to see the shock on your face when Marty opens fire and hits you in the belly. The fear when he shoots the man you love. I want to take one look at you and know you’ve just lost everything that matters in life. Got it?”
She nodded curtly. Lockheed’s micromanagement was weighing her down and she desperately wanted this film to be over.
Yes, that’s the reason I want to leave.
Not because a crazy person wants to kill me.
She needed to sit down in a quiet place and pull the drapes shut around her, not stand on the set in the bright sunshine and be stared at by a hundred people.
She knew the scene by heart, every word of every character, every bit of blocking, and hell yes, she knew she should look upset when her lover got shot.
Evan directed the others on equally obvious points and she let her mind wander again, but instead of thinking about the threats, she focused on the one thing that could stop a panic attack dead in its tracks.
Trevor.
Her breathing instantly deepened, the slightest sigh escaping as she exhaled.
She remembered his scent, the brawny maleness of his voice, and the richness of his laugh.
It had been too long since she’d seen him and she regretted taking this role that brought her so far away from the man she loved, even if it was good for her career.
The movie wasn’t even out of filming yet and already there was Oscar buzz.
Every actress her age in Hollywood had wanted the part, eagerly lining up for auditions like maidens trying on Cinderella’s slipper.
But Lockheed wanted her, had all but offered her the part before she even looked through the script.
And what a script it was.
The screenwriter had outdone herself, taking the best-selling novel of the year and turning it into something with the potential to be a visually commanding masterpiece. It was an honor to be here, speaking these words.
So why the hell do I just want to go home?
Her eyes skated around the periphery of the set, searching for her bodyguard. The man was nowhere to be found and her rib cage seemed to shrink with the realization. She was vulnerable, alone in a sea of people.
She wasn’t safe here, the studio failing to provide her with adequate security in the wake of the threatening letters she’d received.
She thought back to her most recent conversation with Trevor, desperately trying to keep from asking him to come to France.
He had his own responsibilities back in the States.
She couldn’t expect him to fly across an ocean on a moment’s notice, no matter how much she wanted him here.
The scene was one of the final ones in the movie, though they were shooting it out of order.
The 1859 street scene was accurate down to the smallest detail, a horse-drawn carriage making its way across the cobblestones as villagers bustled by.
Olivia played the Marquess de Sage, wife of Sebastian and lover of a poor portrait painter named Dante de Silva—whom her jealous husband was about to shoot, injuring his beloved wife in the process.
As an actress, she did her best to bring the characters to life, but the marquess had come alive in her mind the first time she’d read the script.
She was everything Olivia was not—independent, strong-willed, feisty—and the more she played the part, the more she longed to be more like her character.
She thought of Marco, her stomach shriveling like she’d been punched in the solar plexus.
Her engagement to him had done some damage to her self-image, the time that had passed between then and now only adding to the contrast. She’d been weak—she could see that now—choosing to marry a man simply because he took care of her.
But now I have Trevor.
And how is that different?
She felt the awkward tug of her heart being pulled in different directions.
It had been almost a year they’d been together, times that were easily the best she’d ever experienced.
But wasn’t she using Trevor exactly the same way she’d used Marco?
A man to hide behind, to latch on to, to lead her through life?
No.
This is different.
He was good. Her love for him was true. Nothing about that resembled her relationship with Marco at all.
Lockheed marched back to his seat, the stage crew in their places. “Action!” he yelled.
She picked through a vendor’s wares on the busy street, a camera lens just feet from her face, tracking her every move as she haggled with a vendor in French.
Anthony Weir, the actor who played her lover, Dante, came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist and kissing her neck.
She liked Anthony, who was recently voted one of the sexiest men alive.
He had a great sense of humor and was dedicated to his long-term partner.
The kiss would have been a scandalous move even for a married couple back then, and it was Trevor she imagined as her face and body responded to that kiss. She spun around, dropping what she’d been about to purchase in her haste to be in his arms.
They shared an intense look before he pulled her with him toward the hotel where they’d planned to meet. Her cheeks were hot with excitement, her lips parted in lust. In mere moments they’d be alone together and she’d finally be able to make love to him again after many months apart.
Just like Trevor.
A shot rang out across the square, people scurrying and screaming. Dante looked back at her one last time and froze, his eyes widening with shock as he was hit. “Ma chérie,” he whispered.
“What was that?” she asked in French, panicking as he leaned heavily into her arms. “Dante?” she screamed, touching the fake blood that spilled from his wound, her hand shaking as it came away from his body, red and wet.
What is that smell?
Fake blood looked as good as the real thing, but the metallic scent that hung on the air had her mind locked in confusion. He was leaning on her too heavily, pulling her to the ground.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Brooke.”
Her eyes beseeched the crew off set to explain what was going on as another shot echoed through the street like a cannon. “What’s happening?” she called to Lockheed.
He got to his feet. “Cut!”
Anthony fell to the ground in front of her. A deep voice bellowed across the set. “Put down the gun, asshole!”
The cast and crew looked around. In her confused state, Olivia failed to connect the dots.
“I said put the gun down, motherfucker!”
This time, there was no mistaking that voice. “Trevor?” She moved forward, leaving Anthony behind as she searched for him. She found him high above the set, his weapon trained on the actor playing the Marquis de Sage, whose hands were now high above his head.
She ran toward them. What was he doing here, and why on earth was he holding a gun at that man?
He came for you, after you told him about the letter yesterday. He came for you and now he thinks he’s protecting you.
Oh, God.
She was going as fast as she could now, but not fast enough, as Trevor patted down the other man and put him in handcuffs. Other members of the cast and crew were running, too, all trying to reach the mystery man who had interrupted their scene and was throwing their antagonist down.
“Trevor!” She followed the director as he climbed the ladder to the top of the building and reached Trevor just as Lockheed picked the gun off the ground. “It’s just a prop, you idiot. He wasn’t really going to hurt anyone.”
Trevor narrowed his eyes at her and time seemed to stop, the shock of seeing him after so long like an unexpected kiss from the gods. But he looked away, opening the weapon and dumping the rounds into his hands. “This is live ammunition.”
“They’re blanks,” snapped Lockheed.
“No, they’re not.”
“Let me see those.” The man’s eyes went wide. “That’s not what should be in that gun.” He called down to the crew. “Get the prop master up here, pronto.”
Olivia’s heart stammered in her chest as understanding made its way through her bloodstream. “They’re real bullets?”
“Yes,” he said, standing and coming to her.
“Someone has to help Anthony! I thought he was pretending to be shot. He’s bleeding everywhere,” she said. This couldn’t be happening. “What if he dies? I just left him there—”
“You didn’t know,” said Trevor.
“The next shot was meant for me.” Her whole body was shaking, her arms, her shoulders. A roar rang in her ears like a loud wave, Lockheed’s voice barely audible as he yelled down to the crew to help Anthony.
“You’re safe,” Trevor said.
Her eyes fixated on his familiar features. His dark brows. His strong nose. His full lips. “By how much?”
“I’m here now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
His arms came around her, his warmth barely touching the frozen shock that surrounded her. She rested her chin on his shoulder. “I was next,” she whispered.
“You’re safe, Livy.”
She didn’t feel safe. She barely felt anything at all, and imagined this was what a hunter on safari suddenly cornered by a lion might feel.
Numb. Weightless. Half-gone.
Trevor squeezed her more tightly, his hand stroking her back. When had he gotten here? How had he known?
“Who are you?” demanded Lockheed.
Trevor leaned back but kept his arms around her. “Trevor Hawkins, Olivia’s—”
“He’s with me,” she interrupted.
Lockheed’s eyes went from him to her and back again. “It looks like we owe you a debt of gratitude. Lucky you happened to be here.”
“Lucky,” Hawk repeated.
Olivia twined her fingers in his, needing his strength. The reality of what she’d narrowly escaped was sinking in, how close she’d come to actually being injured—or worse. She squeezed her eyes shut and said a silent prayer for Anthony.
“Get the blanks,” said Lockheed to the prop master, who’d appeared on the roof moments before. “We’ve only got half an hour before we lose the light.”
He couldn’t be serious. “Evan, I don’t think I can do this anymore today,” she said.
“Just a couple of takes.”
She was seething, her natural inclination to go with the flow now percolating with heat. She had blood on her hands, on her dress, and this man was out of his goddamn mind. Who would play Dante now that Anthony had been shot? She shook her head frantically. “No.”
He turned back as if seeing her for the first time. “Excuse me?”
“Someone was trying to kill us. Do you not see that?”
“It was a prop mistake.”
“No. Someone put real bullets in the gun. That’s not a mistake. That’s attempted murder.” She gestured to the scene below with her chin. “Or worse if Anthony dies. You should be worried about him right now and finding out who did this, not focusing on the stupid scene.”
Lockheed was looking at her like he’d never met her before. She fought herself to keep from taking the words back, but she was wound so tightly from the threats she’d been receiving, she had to speak out. Trevor’s hands squeezed her hips.
“The person who did this was after you,” said Lockheed. “My movie is in danger because of you.”
“That’s not my fault.”
He stared at her for several beats before looking away. “We’ll stop for today. I want everyone back here tomorrow morning at seven thirty.”