Wild Honey by Suzanne Forster Page B

Sasha moved to the fringes of the commotion. He hadn’t seen her yet, so she took the opportunity to check out his mood before she approached him.
    His voice was too low for her to catch the words, but she could read the single-mindedness in his expression, the take-charge intensity in his gestures. This was a man who ruled his turf. His turf, she thought uneasily, glancing around the low-lit set—and he probably issued orders with all the warmth and sensitivity of a feudal warlord.
    Ironically, by his clothes she might have taken him for one of the near-impoverished people in downtown L.A. The worn denims and baggy sweater spoke of his indifference to style, but they didn’t offset his innate aristocratic bearing or the classic bones of his profile. His high forehead and narrowly bridged nose had the dimensions of an ancient Greek statue.
    It was his wideset mouth that seemed to break the rules of noble birth. The shaded curve of his upper lip settled almost angrily on a full, sensual lower lip. Fascinated, she found herself wondering if his mouth expressed the two opposing sides of his nature.
    Her heart began to beat harder as she moved in closer then hesitated when the script supervisor glanced her way and whispered something to Marc.
    She’d been spotted, she realized, stiffening as Marc turned to look at her. She locked up when she was nervous, and worse, she became too assertive. “Good morning,” she managed softly, determined not to fall into a defensive mode with him.
    Marc considered her for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Finally he nodded an acknowledgment and went back to his conversation.
    Sasha teetered on the brink of disbelief. He wasn’t going to say a word, not one word? She’d had no idea how much his acceptance meant to her until that moment. The jolt of disappointment sharpened into hurt, anger, and the quick sting of wounded pride. Before she could get the chain reaction in hand, it had set off her damn nerves again! She walked to the portable coffee bar and mixed herself a cup of sugar-free cocoa. Well, what did she expect from a man who thought she was too tall and couldn’t take direction, she asked herself—the star treatment? Sipping the hot, tasteless brew, she ordered herself to concentrate on her lines—and on regaining her emotional equilibrium.
    What Sasha didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was the dramatic effect she’d had on Marc Renaud’s equilibrium. Signaling for one of his assistant directors to field the crews’ questions, Marc stepped back, away from the free-for-all for a moment, to quiet his ricocheting thoughts—and to get another look at her.
    In costume and makeup Sasha’s physical resemblance to Leslie was uncanny. It had caught him like an unexpected blow to the chest when he’d first seen her. Not that he could ever mistake her for Leslie. No, not by any stretch. Leslie’s appeal was her kittenish sensuality. Sasha’s was her fiery, hands-off sexuality. Beyond that, she had a strength and spirit about her that was almost tensile, a purity of purpose that could take a man’s breath away. They emanated from her, those qualities. They shone around her like a halo.
    The dress that hung on her revealed every graceful line of her tawny, long-limbed body, and it also revealed her state of tension. The muscles of her stomach were drawn tight as steel bands, and the nipples of her breasts were budded against the thin fabric. It wasn’t cold in the room, not under the lights, he remarked to himself with a mirthless smile. No, she was nervous, very nervous.
    That suited his purposes for the day’s scene. He needed her vulnerable, even frightened, if that could be arranged. Her character, Lisa, had to be on the ragged edges, riddled with fears and doubts, half crazy with pent-up love and passion. She couldn’t be played by a woman with a dead-bolt on her life and her destiny. He’d known all along the kinds of casting problems Sasha would present. He’d even