Catherine took a closer look at his uniform. She had to admit that it fitted perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders but not exaggerating them, tapering in at his lean waist. She looked at his tunic. On his shoulders were the bars of a captain. Across his breast he had pinned on a splash of brightly colored ribbons.
"Are they impressive enough, Boss?" he asked.
"Who told you you were going to play a captain?"
He looked at her, seriously, "It was my idea. Don't you think I'd make a good captain?"
Catherine shook her head. "No. I don't."
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "First lieutenant?"
"No."
"How about second lieutenant?"
"I don't really feel you're officer material."
His dark eyes were regarding her quizzically. "Oh? Anything else wrong?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "The medals. You must be terribly brave."
He laughed. "I thought I'd give this damned film a little color."
"There's only one thing you forgot," Catherine said crisply. "We're not at war yet. You'd have had to win those at a carnival."
The man grinned at her. "You're right," he admitted sheepishly. "I didn't think of that. I'll take some of them off."
"Take them all off," Catherine said.
He gave her that slow, insolent grin again. "Right, Boss."
She almost snapped, "Stop calling me boss," but thought, the hell with him, and turned on her heel to talk to O'Brien.
Catherine sent eight of the men back to change their uniforms and spent the next hour discussing the scene with O'Brien. The little corporal had come back briefly and then had disappeared. It was just as well, Catheri
ne thought. All he did was complain and make everyone nervous. O'Brien finished shooting the first scene before lunch, and Catherine felt it had not gone too badly. Only one incident had marred her morning. Catherine had given the infuriating extra several lines to read in order to humiliate him. She had wanted to show him up on the set to pay him back for his impertinence. He had read his lines perfectly, carrying off the scene with aplomb. When he had finished, he had turned to her and said, "Was that all right, Boss?"
When the company broke for lunch, Catherine walked over to the enormous studio commissary and sat at a small table in the corner. At a large table next to her was a group of soldiers in uniform. Catherine was facing the door, when she saw the extra walk in, the three girls hanging on him, each one pushing to get closer to him. Catherine felt the blood rush to her face. She decided it was merely a chemical reaction. There were some people you hated on sight, just as there were others you liked on sight. Something about his overbearing arrogance rubbed her the wrong way. He would have made a perfect gigolo and that was probably exactly what he was.
He seated the girls at a table, looked up and saw Catherine, then leaned over and said something to the girls. They all looked at her and then there was a burst of laughter. Damn him! She watched as he moved toward her table. He stared down at her, that slow, knowing smile on his face. "Mind if I join you a moment?" he asked.
"I--" but he was already seated, studying her, his eyes probing and amused.
"What is it you want?" Catherine asked stiffly.
His grin widened. "Do you really want to know?"
Her lips tightened with anger. "Listen--"
"I wanted to ask you," he said quickly, "how I did this morning." He leaned forward earnestly. "Was I convincing?"
"You may be convincing to them," Catherine said, nodding toward the girls, "but if you want my opinion, I think you're a phony."
"Have I done something to offend you?"
"Everything you do offends me," she said evenly. "I don't happen to like your type."
"What is my type?"