Chapter 2

He’d wanted to play Captain Stephen Lanyon so badly he could taste it: honey over bare skin, a stolen interlude, a dried rose pressed into a love-letter that lay signed, Always yours, Will.

He wouldn’t even mind the scenes involving a plunge into deep water. He’d figure out that abyss when he came to it.

He’d been in Vancouver finishing up a reshoot on the latest big-budget thriller. He’d sent a video, filmed with the help of friends. A hotel suite standing in for a nineteenth-century library. A short monologue from the script pages he’d seen. A parting vow, a hand held too long, a promise of devotion.

He’d sent it shaking with desperation. Guns and battle he could do. Emotion, desire, longing—

He hoped. Oh God he hoped.

And he’d gotten a call. An in-person audition. And now, today, a screen test, along with three or four other actors, at least two of whom were far more famous than Jason had ever hoped to be.

He’d be on camera with Colby Kent, today. Looking for chemistry.

And Colby, who loved the novel that was the source material, was—as Jason’s brain helpfully pointed out yet again—a producer on this project.

A very active and interested one. Who had a say, obviously, alongside his director—Jillian Poe, another critically acclaimed name, and another reason to be nervous—about whoever’d be playing Stephen, to his Will.

Colby Kent had thesay, really. Money. Production. The role. The person he’d want to tumble naked into bed with.

Which therefore meant none of that apology to Jason, about everyday problems like running late and running out of coffee, had been real. Some sort of act. Or test of his patience. Or intimidation. Had to be. Right?

Susan said nothing, exquisitely loudly.

“You weren’t therefor his coffee,” Jason explained, and heard how ludicrous this sounded, and gave up. “If I can’t work with him…”

“Try,” Susan advised unhelpfully. “This is his pet project, and if you love the role as much as you say you do, you’ll get along with him.”

“But—”

“You told me you didn’t want another John Killsequel or another Saint Nick Steelproject. Serious, you said. Emotional, you said. Epic.”

Jason paced a few feet down the hallway, and complained, “We don’t talk about Saint Nick Steel.”

“It made you a lot of money.”

“I punched a lot of tactically ill-prepared kidnappers while wearing a hat that made me the reincarnated spirit of Christmas. I’ve spent yearspunching people on camera. Or shooting them. I’ve got range.”

“Which is why you asked me for something else, and I delivered. They liked your video audition enough to call you in, in person, and then again, and now you’re here. Doing a screen test for chemistry. With, let me remind you, Colby Kent.”

“Dammit.”

“Everyone likes Colby Kent, Jason. Do your job.”

“I am doing my job,” Jason grumbled, “I’m expressing professional concerns to my agent,” and wandered around the hallway some more. No motion from the closed doors yet.

Colby had waved the coffee at him with the insistence of someone who didn’t hear rejection much. He’d been taller than most media suggested, only an inch or two shorter than Jason’s own height, but slim and tidy as ever, in a cozy-looking royal blue sweater over casual grey slacks. That instantly recognizable voice held all those stories, the ones that were part of the public persona: thirty years old, the childhood in England, the American diplomat father and celebrated poet-laureate mother, the years they’d spent following his father’s postings to Germany and to France, and the years after his parents’ divorce, when he’d moved to Southern California with his mother and gone to a casting call as support for a friend, and everything had begun. Those poster-boy eyes had beamed Jason’s direction like the first-ever smile of summer oceans.

Jason had taken the coffee because it’d been practically shoved at him, and had tried not to glare. Of course Colby Kent could afford to beam affably at low-budget hopelessly hopeful action-hero stars. Of courseColby felt sorry for him. Offering kindness, offering pity.

He’d flung the cup into a trash bin once the door had closed.

He muttered into the phone, “I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can,” Susan said, “and you know it, so you’re whining at me.”

“I am not.”

“You are. This is a role you love, you’ve said so yourself, everything you wanted when you were looking at possibilities. And it’ll open up allthose possibilities. Film festivals. The awards circuit. Jillian Poe’s a big name, and Colby Kent’s—”

“Also a big name. I know.”

“A huge audience draw, I was going to say.”

“He annoys me.”

“You’ve barely met him.”

Jason scowled at a hapless nearby wall. The wall remained placidly beige and uninterested. “I told you. He gave me his coffee.”

“I’m not seeing the problem.”

“It was the way he did it! He looked at me like—and his hair is like—and he smiled and—” He flung arms around in exasperation. “Look, I don’t like him, okay? Nobody like him apologizes for keeping somebody like me waiting. Which means it’s fake. Which means he’s fake. And the stupid hair and the stupid smile are just parts of the act. And I have to go in there and pretend to want to flirt with him.”

“If you really don’t think you can do it,” Susan said, “then tell them now, and leave. And give up on this chance. Otherwise, get yourself together, get in there, and be a goddamn good actor. Because you are. You’re good enough for that. And Jason—”

Jason, defeated by praise and wanting this and cranky about it, swung around to face the door. And froze.