She didn’t like her reaction to him. He made her self-conscious about being a woman. Yes, he was all hard-packed muscle and latent strength. Yes, he was undoubtedly in top physical shape with washboard abs. But he was arrogant and annoying and, like most men, not to be trusted.
She refused to be intimidated. It was laughable really—after all, her bank account must dwarf his.
“Okay?” Rick asked.
His voice was as deep and rich as the hot chocolate she wished she had right now—damn him. It was a surprisingly damp and cold early April day on Novatus Studio’s lot in Los Angeles. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Dozens of people milled around them on the movie set. “All in a day’s work, right?”
His jaw firmed. “This one is asking for more than usual.”
“Excuse me?”
He looked at her quizzically. “Have you spoken to your manager recently? Odele?”
“No, why?”
His gaze moved to her trailer. “You may want to give it a go.”
Uh-oh.
He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and showed her the screen.
It took a moment to focus on the newspaper website’s headline, but once she did, her eyes widened. Chiara Feran and Her Stuntman Get Cozy. Is It More Than High Altitudes That Have Their Hearts Racing?
Oh...crap. Another online tabloid had apparently picked up the original gossip site’s story, and worse, now Rick was aware of it, too. Heat rushed to her cheeks. He wasn’t her stuntman. He wasn’t her anything. Suddenly she wondered whether she should have sent that first story into internet oblivion when she’d had the chance by denying it. But she’d been too relieved they were focusing on a made-up relationship rather than the real pesky issue—her father.
At Rick’s amused look, she said abruptly, “I’ll talk to Odele.”
He lifted her chin and stroked her jaw with his thumb—as if he had all the right in the world. “If you want me, there’s no need for extreme measures like planting stories in the press. Why not try the direct approach?”
She swatted his hand away and held on to her temper. “I’m sure there’s been a mistake. Is that direct enough for you?”
He laughed at her with his eyes, and said with lazy self-assurance, “Get back to me.”
As if. In addition to her deadbeat father making news, she had to contend with burgeoning rumors of a relationship with the last stuntman on earth she’d ever walk the red carpet with.
She turned her back on Rick and marched off. The man sent a red mist into the edges of her vision, and it had nothing to do with lust. She clenched her hands, heart pounding. Her jeans and torn tee were skintight—requisite attire for an action movie damsel in distress—and she was aware she was giving Rick a good view as she stomped away.
At her trailer, she banged through the door. She immediately spotted Odele sitting at a small table. The older woman lifted her head and gave Chiara a mild look from behind red glasses, her gray bob catching the light. If Chiara had learned anything during her years with her manager, it was that Odele was unflappable.
Stopping, Chiara touched her forehead. “I took pain medication for my headache an hour ago, and he’s still here.”
“Man problems have defied pharmacology for decades, honey,” Odele replied in her throaty, raspy voice.
Chiara blurted out the gossip about her and Rick, and the stuntman’s reaction. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to actresses!”
“You need a boyfriend,” Odele responded cryptically.
For a moment, Chiara had trouble processing the words. Her mind, going sixty miles an hour, hit the brakes. “What?”
She was one of those actresses who got paid to be photographed sporting a certain brand of handbag or shoes. She glanced around her trailer at the gleaming wood and marble countertops. She had more than she could possibly want. She didn’t desire anything, especially a boyfriend.
True, she hadn’t had a date in a long time. It didn’t mean she couldn’t get one. She just didn’t want the hassle. Boyfriends were work...and men were trouble.
“We need to retain a boyfriend for you,” Odele rephrased.
Chiara gave a dismissive laugh. “I can think of many things I need, but a boyfriend isn’t one of them. I need a new stylist now that Emery has gone off to start her own accessories line. I need a new tube of toothpaste for my bathroom. And I really need a vacation once this film wraps.” She shook her head. “But a boyfriend? No.”
“You’re America’s sweetheart. Everyone wants to see you happy,” her manager pointed out.