Her Colton Lawman Page 24

  Get. Off. Me.

  She fought like a tiger, twisting and turning violently between his knees, wrenching an arm free. She threw a punch at his face and connected solidly with his jaw. He lurched back and she tore her other arm loose. She flailed at him like a wildcat, unreasoning rage joining her panic.

  He blocked her blows, which flew at him thick and fast, until he managed to catch her left wrist in his right hand. He yanked it over her head. She got in one last body blow with her right fist before he snagged that wrist, as well. He yanked it up, stretching her out flat beneath him. He sprawled on top of her, using his superior weight to physically subdue her.

  Not that she went down without a fight. She wriggled and writhed beneath him, seeking a weakness, desperate to throw him off.

  A chuckle vibrated in her ear. “Fiery little thing, aren’t you?”

  Startled, she froze beneath her attacker—no, wait. Beneath Jackson Prescott. Audition. Movie. Fake fight. Not trying to kill her.

  She went limp beneath him, and his big body pressed down on her, overwhelming in its hard planes and bulging muscles. One of his thighs pressed intimately between hers, and his chest crushed her breasts until she couldn’t draw a full breath. His face was about eight inches from hers. And the bastard was grinning down at her.

  If sparks could actually fly from a person’s eyes, then they were crackling forth from his, all gold and green and smoking hot, snapping back and forth between the two of them as she glared back at him. She registered disbelief as something deep and unwilling inside her responded instinctively and powerfully to the man’s raw sex appeal.

  “Thank you, Number 127,” the casting director called.

  With a quick flex of muscular arms, Jackson did a push-up over her and jumped to his feet. “Nice fight.”

  Vague shock at having survived the attack washed over her...no, not an attack. Just pretend. She sagged against the mat, emotionally exhausted. She’d made it. She was still alive. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott.”

  Memory of that horrible night retreated back into its dark little cave in her mind. The lime color of the green screen set replaced the impersonal blackness of a cold night sky.

  “Call me Jackson.” His gaze slid down her body as she lay between his feet, taking in every detail of her appearance with disconcerting thoroughness. He held a friendly hand down to her. Embarrassed, she skipped his hand and jumped to her feet, shooting him a patently fake, everything’s-peachy-keen grin.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he commented thoughtfully.

  “Um, neither are you. I thought I’d be fighting one of the stunt coordinators. I was hoping to pick up some stunt work.”

  “I think you may be destined for more than that,” Jackson replied, his voice a purring caress down her spine.

  Ho. Lee. Cow. Was he flirting with her? With a soundstage full of Playboy Bunny blondes to choose from?

  “I’ll put in a good word with the producers for you,” he remarked drolly as if it was some kind of inside joke.

  She frowned, not sure how to take that. Confused, she dusted off her rear end and headed offstage. The other stuntman returned from the restroom and took Jackson’s place on the mat as the other actresses closed in around Ana aggressively, demanding to know what it was like to roll around with Jackson Prescott.

  One especially gorgeous girl hissed, “You think you’re so special getting to audition with Jackson Prescott. This job’s mine and no one’s going to steal it from me.”

  Wow. Venom much? Ana sidled away from the nasty woman and slung her cheap nylon gym bag over her shoulder. She turned for the exit, but clipboard girl was right behind her. Ana drew up, startled.

  “Is the phone number on your head shot the one Mr. Prescott should use to call you?”

  Ana blinked, stunned. “Yes. That’s my cell phone.”

  “Keep it turned on,” the assistant murmured under the background noise of the last audition finishing and the mob of auditionees dissolving into chatter.

  She nodded at the assistant, uncomfortable. She had no desire to be the flavor du jour for a megastar who would use her and throw her away like a soiled tissue.

  “Oh, good. You’re still here.” She looked up to see a handsome man. 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 Pre
scott 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.

  Nothing crunched or wiggled under her fingertips. If his nose was broken and she’d pinched it like that, he’d have howled to the rafters, not just squeaked a little. Crud. She was going to get sued into the Stone Age if she’d just ruined the prettiest face in Hollywood.

  “It doesn’t feel broken,” she announced. “But you’ve got the mother of all nosebleeds.” She stuffed his nostrils with gauze and ordered, “Tilt your head back.” She called out to no one in particular, “Is there somewhere he can lie down?”

  “My office,” Adrian replied thickly. Guy must get queasy at the sight of blood.

  In stunt work, guys got banged up all the time. Cuts and scrapes were all part of a day’s work. She guided Jackson’s hand to her shoulder and followed Adrian’s assistant to the director’s office. His big palm gripped her bare skin lightly, and her bones felt oddly small and fragile under the heat of his hand. A shiver of something unidentifiable ran through her.

  “Okay, Jackson. We’re at the couch.” She guided him down to a leather sofa. “On your back.”

  “Let me guess, you’ve been dying to get me flat on my back on a casting couch,” he joked.

  “Oh, baby, oh, baby, oh,” She intoned as she tucked a throw pillow under his head. Keep it light. Impersonal. He’s a freaking movie star.

  “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

  She took a closer look at his nose. It was swelling across the bridge and turning red. His left eye was puffing shut, too. “You’re lucky that club was covered in foam. Looks like you may still get a shiner, though.”

  “Great. A black eye from a girl. I’m never gonna hear the end of this.”

  “I’m so sorry—” she started.

  He cut her off immediately. “My fault. I wasn’t paying attention and zigged when I should have zagged. I was distracted.”

  “That phone call?” she asked sympathetically.

  He huffed in obvious exasperation at the memory of the offending phone call. She recognized that sound from countless times listening to guys grouse about their relationships. “Woman trouble?”

  He scowled. “You could say that.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?” She winced as soon as the words left her mouth. That was her. Ole shoulder-to-cry-on for every guy she knew. They all went to her for advice about chicks. Apparently, having the same reproductive apparatus as their girlfriends made her some kind of expert.

  Which was a load of crap, by the way. She didn’t know squat about women. Hell, she hardly knew how to be one, herself. And she had no idea how to do a relationship. It wasn’t like her own past had given her any sterling examples to go by. After the disaster—God, was it two full years ago now?—she’d pretty much sworn off men.

  Jackson rolled his eyes. “My grandmother is haranguing me to settle down, find a nice girl and get married. She’s just antsy to get a great-grandkid, and figures that, out of all my brothers and sisters, I’m her best prospect. She’s being a total pain in the ass.”

  Jackson Prescott was looking to get hitched? Wow. Talk about an eligible bachelor.

  “I don’t even have a girlfriend.” He added, scowling, “No matter what the damned tabloids say.”

  Really? Interesting. Oh, get over yourself. He’d never take a second look at you. Aloud, she commented, “You could have an actress friend fake an engagement with you to shut up your grandmother for a while. Or, you could just skip the wife and go straight to the baby. People don’t have to get married to make babies.”

  “So I should, what? Pick up some random chick in a bar and get her pregnant to shut up my grandmother?”

  She shrugged. This flavor of woman trouble went well beyond her ability to give advice on it.

  “I don’t even like going to bars,” he grumbled.

  Shut the front door. “Seriously?” she blurted.

  Someone barged in just then with the plastic bag of ice she’d asked for on the way in there. She stole a hand towel from the sink in Adrian’s bathroom, wrapped the ice in it and l
aid it gently on Jackson’s face. She felt for the guy; she would have no idea how to go about picking up a woman if she were a man.

  In an attempt to be helpful, though, she commented, “There are other places besides bars to meet women. I hear there are good pickings in the produce section of grocery stores. Apparently, if you act clueless when a hot girl comes along, she’ll stop and help you.”

  Jackson retorted, “I would have to actually be in the market for a girlfriend for that to work.”

  Oh. Something way down deep inside her deflated at the news that he wasn’t interested in dating. It was nothing personal, of course. She was just reacting on behalf of her entire half of the species. Jackson Prescott was a hell of a hunk that some woman ought to get to enjoy.

  She replied cautiously, “I have to say, I doubt you’d have all that much trouble finding a woman willing to have your baby.”

  Warmth uncurled inside her at the thought of holding his baby in her arms, shocking her into momentary silence. Where in the hell did that come from? Had her biological clock just started ticking? Heck, she wasn’t in the market to have a kid any more than he was.

  He lifted aside the ice pack to stare up at her. Was that a speculative gleam in his gorgeous eyes? Surely not.

  A little panicked at the direction her thoughts were taking, she pushed the big ice bag back down onto his nose, which also had the effect of covering his eyes and taking his distracting hazel gaze off her.

  Thoughtful silence was all that emerged from the towel for the next couple of minutes. Then, “What’s your name, 127?”

  “Ana. Anabelle Izzolo.”

  “You have zilch by way of acting credits, Anabelle Izzolo.”

  She didn’t need a box-office giant to point that out to her. She was well aware of her lack of credits. She’d been taking acting classes as part of her plan to become a stuntwoman, but it was hard to get work if you hadn’t already had some previously.

  “But the chemistry between you and me is exactly what we’re looking for.”