set, under the hot lights and the watchful eyes of Hans Ostfield and the rest of the crew. The cameras were rolling and she was supposed to be acting a part. But she wasn't. Her hesitation and uncertainty had been real. And so had her artless surrender. She'd gotten adorably flustered and stumbled over her lines. And he'd gotten a hard-on that almost burst the buttons on his jeans. He'd pushed her away from him the second the scene was over and said something rude to cover his own confusion and embarrassment before stalking away from the set like James Dean on a tear.
After that, she'd become less of a challenge and more of a... cause. He hadn't wanted to storm the walls of her castle anymore, he'd wanted to coax her to come down on her own. He'd wanted to free her from her prison of stifling propriety. It was, after all, 1970, the era of women's liberation and free love, and she was still trapped back in the white-gloved fifties when good girls sat on the sidelines and waited patiently to be asked.
He was an observant young man and it hadn't taken him long to decide why Ariel was the way she was. He only had to look as far as her mother. And he didn't like what he saw.
Constance Cameron was a would-be actress with little talent of her own, who'd apparently discovered, early on, that her young fatherless daughter was talented enough for both of them. Constance had given up her own dreams of stardom and concentrated on her daughter's career. Ariel had been working steadily from the age of four, first in commercials and then in prime-time television. She'd never gone to a regular school with other children, but had been tutored by her mother between takes. Her mother was also her manager, her agent, her acting coach, wardrobe and script consultant, as well as constant companion, both on the set and off.
Until Wild Hearts.
For the first time in her career—and, perhaps, her life—Ariel was out from under her mother's watchful eye.
And smack-dab under the admiring gaze of an experienced hot-eyed young man.
And so, using all his considerable bad-boy charm and the expertise gained in twenty-two years of living, Zeke had begun a determined effort to lure the sheltered young actress into his arms—and into his bed—for real....
* * *
"It's all right, sweetheart. You can come in. None of the guys are here."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure," Zeke said, drawing Ariel into the apartment as he spoke. "They've all got day jobs now. Even Ethan," he added, knowing that Ariel didn't like him very much. "He got that part on As Time Goes By, the one he auditioned for a couple of weeks ago? He says it looks like it might develop into a regular gig."
"How wonderful for him," she said politely. "He must be pleased about it."
"Yeah, I guess..." He had no desire to talk about any of his roommates or their careers, not when he finally had Ariel alone in his apartment, away from the cast and crew on the set—and her interfering mother. "Here, why don't you take off your sunglasses and that silly scarf?" He reached out to remove the oversize sunglasses and untie the yellow-and-white print Pucci scarf from under her chin. "I don't think anybody's going to recognize you now."
"No, I guess not," Ariel agreed shyly, looking down as he removed the offending items.
"Much better," he said approvingly, and bent to press a quick kiss on her lips.
She looked up, startled, but he had already turned away to place the glasses and scarf on the coffee table.
"Let me put some music on and then I'll get us something to drink. You like Creedence Clearwater?" he asked as he thumbed through the albums stacked upright in the bookshelf. He glanced back over his shoulder when she didn't answer.
She was standing in the middle of the haphazardly decorated living room looking like a shy little daffodil in a sleeveless yellow Givenchy minidress. It had white piping on all the edges and big, oversize white buttons down the front. Her stockings were sheer
After that, she'd become less of a challenge and more of a... cause. He hadn't wanted to storm the walls of her castle anymore, he'd wanted to coax her to come down on her own. He'd wanted to free her from her prison of stifling propriety. It was, after all, 1970, the era of women's liberation and free love, and she was still trapped back in the white-gloved fifties when good girls sat on the sidelines and waited patiently to be asked.
He was an observant young man and it hadn't taken him long to decide why Ariel was the way she was. He only had to look as far as her mother. And he didn't like what he saw.
Constance Cameron was a would-be actress with little talent of her own, who'd apparently discovered, early on, that her young fatherless daughter was talented enough for both of them. Constance had given up her own dreams of stardom and concentrated on her daughter's career. Ariel had been working steadily from the age of four, first in commercials and then in prime-time television. She'd never gone to a regular school with other children, but had been tutored by her mother between takes. Her mother was also her manager, her agent, her acting coach, wardrobe and script consultant, as well as constant companion, both on the set and off.
Until Wild Hearts.
For the first time in her career—and, perhaps, her life—Ariel was out from under her mother's watchful eye.
And smack-dab under the admiring gaze of an experienced hot-eyed young man.
And so, using all his considerable bad-boy charm and the expertise gained in twenty-two years of living, Zeke had begun a determined effort to lure the sheltered young actress into his arms—and into his bed—for real....
* * *
"It's all right, sweetheart. You can come in. None of the guys are here."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure," Zeke said, drawing Ariel into the apartment as he spoke. "They've all got day jobs now. Even Ethan," he added, knowing that Ariel didn't like him very much. "He got that part on As Time Goes By, the one he auditioned for a couple of weeks ago? He says it looks like it might develop into a regular gig."
"How wonderful for him," she said politely. "He must be pleased about it."
"Yeah, I guess..." He had no desire to talk about any of his roommates or their careers, not when he finally had Ariel alone in his apartment, away from the cast and crew on the set—and her interfering mother. "Here, why don't you take off your sunglasses and that silly scarf?" He reached out to remove the oversize sunglasses and untie the yellow-and-white print Pucci scarf from under her chin. "I don't think anybody's going to recognize you now."
"No, I guess not," Ariel agreed shyly, looking down as he removed the offending items.
"Much better," he said approvingly, and bent to press a quick kiss on her lips.
She looked up, startled, but he had already turned away to place the glasses and scarf on the coffee table.
"Let me put some music on and then I'll get us something to drink. You like Creedence Clearwater?" he asked as he thumbed through the albums stacked upright in the bookshelf. He glanced back over his shoulder when she didn't answer.
She was standing in the middle of the haphazardly decorated living room looking like a shy little daffodil in a sleeveless yellow Givenchy minidress. It had white piping on all the edges and big, oversize white buttons down the front. Her stockings were sheer
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