Some buzzing thing whines near my ear. One leg of my flimsy camping chair has sunk into the ground, leaving the chair off balance. The whine of a motorboat drifts over the water and the boat speeds into view for at least the tenth take of this scene over the last four hours. From this distance, I can just make out Bradley van Garten at the wheel and Sally close to the bow, her hair whipping in the wind. I sip black coffee from a paper cup as I shift my attention from the lake to a survey of the faces around me. Everyone but the director, who’s watching intently from the edge of his seat, looks solidly bored.

The boat skids to a halt on the sandy beach just as Sally apparently lands a punch to Bradley’s jaw, and then she takes her tenth leap off the boat into her tenth parkour-style shoulder roll. For the tenth time, she rises fluidly to run down the shore, and Bradley sprints after her for the tenth tackle, just shy of the rocks. My bones ache watching those tackles, even on the relatively soft sand.

Not once has Sally called for a break, though at least once a guy with a first aid kit has forced her to stop and let him mop up little scrapes. I keep waiting for her to slow down, maybe complain or ask for a double for the tackle at least, but she sprints through each take with the same energy. She wears the same determined look between takes that I saw yesterday. When the camera’s on, though, she’s someone else entirely. Someone who wears her sexuality on her sleeve, uses it to get what she wants. Someone deadly and mysterious. From here it looks like the studio is right to bank on her.

Off to my right, a slightly plump but well-proportioned woman in a tasteful black pantsuit picks her way toward us down the hill from the cast trailers. She approaches me, dabbing at her forehead with a tissue that she stows in her purse, and then extends an impeccably manicured hand.

“Quinn Buckley? Ronette Johnson, so nice to finally see you.” Her eyes sweep over me, and I smile and nod as she drops my hand. “I hope you got settled in okay and had a chance to take a look around yesterday. Sorry again about throwing you to the wolves, but couldn’t be helped. Listen, the studio is so glad you could be here on short notice. You came highly recommended. Sally wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Has she at least been civil to you?”

My eyes, which had drifted to Sally, climbing back into the boat, snap back when I realize she’s stopped for an answer.

“Yeah, she’s been fine. Everything’s fine. Sally had dinner in her room and went to bed early last night, and then shooting started early today. We haven’t talked much outside of the car ride here.”

“Did she tell you much about the harassment?”

“Nope. Why don’t you tell me how long it’s been going on?”

“Honestly, we can’t be sure. Sally’s been evasive about it, and we think she hid it for a while before the trailer incident.”

“Bitch spray-painted on the side of the trailer, but no one got inside, right? And that happened how long ago?”

Ronette nodded. “Last week. We added a couple more rent-a-cops and closed the set, but I don’t mind saying it spooked everyone a little. The studio’s pissed about spending the extra cash on security, but they’re banking on this film, and they want to be sure it’s done on time. We’re looking at a mid-summer release date, if everything goes right. And it’s been strongly suggested that we all make sure everything goes right.”

“Did the local police come and check it out?”

“Yeah, but with nothing else to go on, and Sally not being helpful, they wrote it off as kid stuff.”

I make a noncommittal noise. As Sally and Bradly speed off again, a couple crew members rush forward to smooth out the sand for the next take.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Ronette continues. “Sally’s a doll, really. We all adore her. But she’s not easy to get close to. She doesn’t gossip on set, she definitely doesn’t fool around romantically. A movie like this, and two unattached stars—the chances are easily fifty-fifty or more that the two leads hook up. It’s the nature of the work. And frankly, if she wants to stay uppity, that’s fine with me. I don’t need her to be popular, I need her to get the job done.”

The speedboat flies around the bend in the shore again, Sally and Bradly in identical positions. I meet Ronette’s eyes again, and she drops the chatty demeanor.

“Just to reiterate, the main thing here is keeping this film rolling. We need Sally not just safe, but focused. This film is important to the studio, and a lot of reputations are riding on it. Including yours.”

“There’s no need for threats, Ronette. I always do my job.”

“Who’s threatening anybody? I’m just making sure you’ve got the whole picture, honey.”

The director calls the scene, and Ronette’s face relaxes back to her friendly smile.

“I’ll have the head of security find you after dinner so you can make sure you’re on the same page.”

“Appreciated.”

Down the beach, Sally brushes off sand and steps stiffly over the line of rocks. I nod again to Ronette and start at an angle to intercept Sally on her way up the hill toward the cast trailers.

Despite her obvious pain, she’s walking faster than I expected and she gets ahead of me.

“Ms. Swanson.” Her stride doesn’t slow. “Sally!” I call louder.

She keeps marching up the hill like she doesn’t hear me. Or doesn’t want to. I’m not going to look like a fool yelling after her, so I follow at few yards behind. Her face showed nothing as she passed, but her body language is tense. The intense shoot, or the weight of secrets? She hasn’t been quiet about not wanting me here, but tough shit. I’m here and going to do my job so she can do hers. If she’s hiding something, she needs to tell me. I increase my pace, and my long legs close the gap between us.

I nearly bowl over the plump, blond-haired craft services guy that pops up in my path with a notepad.

“Uh, Quinn? Mr. Buckley?”

“Yeah?”

“Ms. Johnson sent me to ask you about dietary restrictions for dinner. Would you prefer gluten free, full paleo, or vegetarian meals?”

“Whichever one you’ve got. I’m not choosy.”

His pencil hovers over the pad, and his pale blue eyes widen with something like panic.

“But—don’t you have a preference? I just need to have a tally.”

“Guess most people around here have strong opinions about food, right?” He nods. “Fine, then. Paleo, I suppose.”

His face smooths with relief, and he notes something on the pad. Over his shoulder, Sally stomps up the steps to her trailer, yanks the door open, and slams it behind her.

I dodge around the food guy and cover the final yards to the trailer. I tap on the door, intent on wrestling complete answers. No answer. More annoyed than worried, I knock again. A heavy thump rattles the trailer.

“Fuck.” The handle turns under my hand, so I fling it open and lunge through the door.

Sally’s alone, one foot bare, wearing tight fitting jeans and a bra. She’s flat on her bum and pulling angrily on the last boot. The satiny bra reveals an achingly perfect set of smallish, round breasts, pushed together just enough to make a man want to—

“Ah, shit. Sorry to invade your privacy, Ms. Swanson.” I jerk my head aside and step toward the door.

“No big deal,” she says. “Sorry for the lack of decency in here. I fell over trying to get my right boot off. Come on in.” She tugs at the boot again, but it doesn’t budge. She drops her arms with a sigh and leans back on her hands.

“I can come back in a few minutes.” Jesus, Buckley. Sally’s lean thighs are encased in skintight denim, and her pose offers up an unimpeded view of those gorgeous tits. Fuck me, but I want my hands on them. My tongue.

“No need. I’m used to being on set in less than this. Acting doesn’t leave much room for modesty. Not for women, anyway.”

I shrug and force the heat out of my gaze. She stretches both legs out and pushes at the stubborn boot’s heel with the other toe.

“That scene was brutal. I’m in pretty good shape, but my muscles are jelly right now.” She lifts a booted foot. “I seriously can’t even get this boot off. Help me out?”

I glance around. “You don’t even have a PA on set, then?”

“Nope.” She wiggles her leg. “Come on, Mr. Bodyguard. Now’s your chance. Come to my rescue!”

How many ways can this job screw with me? I’ve lost count. I catch the heel of her boot in my palm and cup her calf with my left hand, ignoring the rush of heat touching her creates. Working the boot from side to side as I pull, I try not to think about her legs scissored open in front of me. The leather finally starts to slide, and her calf flexes under my palm as she points her toe so it can slip off.

“Ah, shit!” Sally convulses as her calf draws into a tight knot.

“I’ve got it,” I say. “Been on the receiving end of my fair share of cramping muscles.”

“You don’t mind?” She turns her smoky eyes upward.

My fingers dig into the knot as I hold her gaze. Then as I probe deeper, her head falls back and her eyes drift closed.

“Oh, god,” she moans through glossy, parted lips. “Right there.”

The muscle softens and relaxes, but she doesn’t move to stop me. Her sighs lift her pert breasts higher. Fuck me if I’m not getting hard just giving her a massage. I’m leaning over her calf, and without permission, my hands knead higher, up to the stiff muscles above her knee. She moans again, and my dick answers with a throb.

I’ve never once been guilty of fraternizing with a principal, though it happens all the time. The guys who do it always seem to take a dive afterwards and fall out of the higher paying circles. I’ve never thought it was worth it, but right now I can’t remember why not.

A hard rap on the door makes her eyes fly open, and I drop her leg. Someone yells “Dinner in five!” through the door, and I extend a hand to help Sally up. She pulls herself up with a little bounce that brings her inches from my chest, then turns toward the back of the trailer.

“See you at dinner,” she calls over her shoulder. “Thanks for the physical therapy!”

* * *

After a succulent tenderloin dinner, I talk to the head security guy for twenty minutes before joining a small crowd gathered among the leather couches and overstuffed chairs of the main parlor. The cast and crew sip drinks and murmur in friendly clusters. Sally surprised everyone by appearing at dinner and sticking around after. However, no one seemed surprised when she sank into a wingback close to the fire with a whiskey and a book from a nearby shelf.

After a glance around the room, I choose a carved wooden chair that faces both the door and Sally.

Jeff, the stunt coordinator, sits near me and strikes up a conversation on self-defense techniques. A few other people gather, including a couple stylists, a blonde with a minor role, and a gaffer.

“I’ve trained in a lot of styles, and Krav Maga is the best hand to hand option, in my opinion,” Jeff says. “What do you favor?”

“Whatever gets the job done.” A few people laugh, but Jeff’s mouth pulls down.

“Seriously, though. What’s your background?” He sits back in his chair, but I don’t miss the challenge in his voice. Pro fighters never can resist waving their dicks around. His kind are nothing new for guys like me, and refusing to compare notes is the best way of dealing with them.

“Nothing on your level, a little brawling in my younger days and time in the service.” By which I mean a martial arts training program for poor kids since I was five, a couple years dominating the UK amateur circuits, and my share of brutal Special Forces ops. “But I’ve enough experience to be confident I can take care of my clients.”

“Is it really that dangerous?” a crew member named Jada asks. “Or do you get a lot of paranoid people?” She flips her purple and blue streaked hair over her shoulder and leans forward.

Unlike the gritty, realistic makeup looks she creates on set, her personal style seems geared toward a nineteen eighties music video. I’m late to respond, distracted by the wall of glitter over her eyes.

“No wait—who’s the worst client you’ve had?” Nathan, a slim guy carefully managed curls, puts his hand on my bicep. “Feel free to be specific.”

“You know I can’t answer that.”

He shrugs one shoulder and winks. “Never hurts to ask.”

“Have you ever been shot?” Jada tries again.

“Yeah,” I admit, watching the faces around me for micro expressions that don’t belong. “I took a bullet for a client once. Fellow’s in jail now, though, so I got the last laugh.”

Jada, who was standing by my chair, sits on the arm and leans close. She’s got the hallmarks of someone turned on by violence. But even as Jada presses her breast against my shoulder, I’m thinking about Sally in ways I shouldn’t. Staring down at her book, her face golden in the reflected glow, she sips her whiskey and runs her tongue over her top lip. That’s where I’d start, and then I’d want to taste the rest of her.

Dammit. I don’t want to lose my professional reputation for this woman, but Sally has flipped the script since the first time I saw her on the track. I couldn’t care less about Jada’s thing for tough guys. I angle my shoulders away from the stylist’s obvious invitation, and she stands with a huff, announcing she’s going to bed. The others filter away, until I’m left with my beer, a few blossoming on-set couples, and my principal.

Sally finally stretches in the chair and wanders over to replace the book on the shelf. She glances around toward my chair, but I’m already standing a few feet behind her, assuming she’s heading upstairs.

“Hello there, shadow,” she says with a grin. “You are super sneaky.”

“Part of the job,” I reply.

She starts toward the stairs. “How did you know I was ready to go? I could have been getting another drink.”

“Nah, you had the look.”

“Of a woman ready for bed?”

“Of someone worn out by a hard day’s work,” I say gently.

She rests her hand on the stair rail and tips her chin up. I hold a breath and let it out slowly for control because she looks like she wants to be kissed, and I’m dying to help her out. She giggles and gives a little sigh. It’s not a sloppy drunk sound—more like tipsy. Just the right amount of tipsy to feel tingly and more in control than you are.

“You’re not wrong there.” Her limbs seem heavy, probably the aftermath of today’s shoot. As she nears the last step, her foot slips on the edge. She grabs at the handrail, and I slip my arm around her waist. The way she settles into me almost makes me groan, she feels so good. Her shirt rides up, and my thumb grazes bare skin, just over her hip. I can’t resist a little swipe over her soft skin that she’ll never notice.

I reluctantly let my arm drop at her door.

“Mind if I use the bathroom first?” she asks.

“Take your time,” I say. “I’m a night owl anyway.”

When her door closes, I spin on my heel to retreat to my room. Out the window, a few crew members straggle back to the guest cottages, cell phones lighting the way. The shower turns on in the bathroom. I strip off my jacket and tie, hang them up, and stretch out on the bed with the small volume of Yeats. Reading something that reminds me of my mother seems like a good idea.

The shower turns off and I decide to wait a few extra minutes to avoid another accidental encounter.

“Quinn!” Two quick taps on the bathroom door accompany Sally’s low call.

I cover the distance in two strides and open the door. A curl of steam rolls out, carrying the scent of lavender. An only slightly apologetic looking Sally holds up an open jar of some kind of cream. She’s wearing a thin cotton tank held up by strings and a pair of cutoff sweatpants, and it might be the sexiest outfit I’ve ever seen.

“Would you mind putting this on my back? I’ve got some sore spots from the lake scene, and this stuff really helps.”

I take the short, squat jar from her, and she presents her back to me.

“I wouldn’t normally ask,” she says, her head half turned. “But I mean, you’re here, and this will give you something to do at least. I’m pretty boring, so you won’t get a lot of excitement on this job.”

If only she knew.

After considering the task, I set the jar on the vanity counter and sweep her wavy hair up off her neck with one hand. A few strands at the base of her neck cling to the damp skin. The tank top bares most of her upper back, and I lick my lips. My eyes cut to the mirror, where the fog has cleared in the middle. She’s looking down, waiting patiently.

I scoop a dollop of the herbal-smelling stuff and locate the faint purple of a bruise over her shoulder blade. She sucks in air when the cool cream touches her warm skin, but relaxes as I smooth my palm over her shoulder blade. My fingers slide under the strap and along the edge of her shirt, just inside the fabric. I dip into the jar again and trace the line of her shoulders before trailing into the shallow valley along her spine.

My balls tighten. Her breathing quickens almost imperceptibly. The herby salve mingles with a sweeter scent. Something earthier. More feminine. I’m fighting to keep my own breathing steady, but the slickness of the cream, the heat of her skin, and the curve of her neck threaten my control. And then she steps back until her tight runner’s ass brushes against the hard-on that’s getting really difficult to hide. Does she feel the erection swelling in my pants?

Does she want to?

Her hips begin to sway as she shifts her weight from side to side, almost dancing against me. Could be the alcohol. Might be something else. Only force of habit keeps me still. My thighs scream with the urge to swivel against her. To make sure she feels how hard I am.

I close my eyes as my palm rubs circles over the middle of her back. Then I reach for more cream and check the mirror again. Her eyes are open this time, watching me. Her reflection sports a long, thin smudge from her collarbone to the ridge of her shoulder. I start at her neck, the place where tendons flex just under the skin, and inch lower. My fingertips glide along her collarbone. Lower. Her lips part, so slightly you might miss it if you weren’t looking.

In the mirror, I watch her nipples harden under the clingy fabric. My dick swells and presses further against her ass. Her eyes hold mine. We both know I see her body’s reaction, and that she feels mine, but she doesn’t break contact with my gaze in the mirror. Aching desire builds in my balls and radiates outward.

It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to step back and look away. This woman’s going to be a star one day, and I don’t want to tank my career for something as fleeting as moonlight. Be a professional, man. Her hair fans over her back as I release the dark waves.

“I think I’ve covered them all.” I hand her the jar. “Good night, Sally. See you in the morning.”

Her eyes crease ever so slightly at the corners, but her face is a placid mask.

“Thanks, Quinn. Good night.”