of daydreaming about making love to her. Or kissing her.
But if he ever got the chance, he would make sure it was a kiss that Carrie Smith never forgot. Since he hadn’t managed to further their acquaintance, though, the likelihood was slim to none that he’d ever get to play out his dreams in reality.
He had an idea that Carrie would like kissing him. Women usually did.
“I MUST BE AN IDIOT to let Hub do that tune-up for me this morning. I don’t belong here,” Carrie said as she and Dixie Lee waited with the rest of the crowd in the hot sun at the seed-company parking lot. A thickset man with an orange ponytail was striding purposefully here and there, conferring at times over his clipboard with a train of harried assistants.
“There’s Joyanne,” Dixie said suddenly. She jumped and waved. “Hey, Joyanne!”
Their friend shouldered her way through the crowd. “Isn’t this exciting?” she declared, bouncing with enthusiasm. She was a tall brunette with naturally curly hair, ridiculously high cheekbones and long, long legs. Carrie figured Joyanne Morrissey had the best chance of anyone of being chosen to work as an extra in a movie.
“I don’t know about exciting, but it’s certainly hot,” Carrie said, fanning herself with her hand for all the good it did, which wasn’t much.
“Hush, Carrie, we’re not letting you throw cold water on our parade, especially since it’s the only one in town,” Dixie said self-righteously.
“I hope all three of us get jobs. It’ll be fun being in a movie,” Joyanne said buoyantly.
“Luke Mason just stuck his head out of that trailer over there,” Dixie said, standing on tiptoe to crane her head above the crowd.
“Hot as it is today, he should have stayed inside so the sun wouldn’t cook his brain,” Carrie muttered.
“Carrie, I’m warning you. No more of that.” Dixie thumped her on the arm for emphasis.
The man with the orange ponytail jumped up on a loading platform. “All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s get started here.” He had to shout to make himself heard.
Everyone ceased talking except for Little Jessie Wanless, who was bouncing her baton off the ground and catching it while chattering a mile a minute to no one in particular. But her mother, Big Jessie, proprietor of the Wanless School of Dance and Baton, shushed her and confiscated the baton. Since she had nothing left to do with her hands, Little Jessie folded her arms over her flat chest and stuck out her chin—always a bad sign.
“I’m Whip Larson,” the man on the platform shouted. “I’m the producer of Dangerous.”
Because he was the person whose business card Luke Mason had handed her, Carrie studied Whip. He wore white pants that were decidedly California, loafers with no socks and a silk shirt printed with geometric designs. His tan must have been poured straight out of a bottle. In spite of the California sheen, he didn’t seem like such a bad person. Carrie pegged him as sincere, and that was saying something. So far, her impression of the movie people was that most of them were phonies.
Whip went on talking. “The casting director, Fleur Padgett, and her assistants will be moving through the crowd. We’ll call you aside if we’re interested in you.”
Three chic young women wearing all-black outfits distributed cards to various members of the waiting group. Dixie got a card, and so did Joyanne. Hoping to avoid the same fate, Carrie slipped behind a refreshment stand, where two guys in T-shirts displaying the production company’s logo were distributing cold bottles of water, presumably to ward off heatstroke. An awning projected a few feet beyond the stand, and Carrie intended to shelter in its shade for a few moments before continuing to her car. Unfortunately someone else had the same idea.
“Well, hello,” said the man. His velvet voice unexpectedly made her knees go weak, or maybe it was the heat that caused her to feel a bit faint at the moment.
“Luke Mason,” she breathed, taking a step backward. Today he sported a gray baseball cap and at least a two days’ beard stubble, which should have put her off but didn’t. “What are you doing here?”
“Scouting,” he said. “Trying to blend in with the locals so I can scope out how they walk, how they talk. Plus the disguise fools any stray paparazzi who might turn up to make my life miserable. How about you?” His eyes sparkled with mirth, presumably brought about by her discomfort at meeting up with him again.
Luke’s movies generally consisted of snappy dialogue, an attractive cast and a couple of improbable car chases. She’d never considered that preparing for such a role involved research. “I only came to keep my sister and our friend company,” she said.
“Admit it. You were curious.” His eyes held a devilish glint. He rested one booted foot on a handy tree stump and gazed at her. Her pulse sped up, and she told it to simmer down. Not that it paid any attention.
“I am not interested in anything about movies, least of all what goes on at a casting call,” she said indignantly.
“I’d pegged you for a woman who is never less than honest.”
That stopped her short. Honesty was a trait on which she prided herself.
“So,” he said, leaning over her. “Why are you here?” He was so close she could smell the faint soapy scent of his skin.
“All right, I’ll level. It’s curiosity, just as you said.” She swallowed past a throat that had suddenly gone dry.
“That’s better,” he said approvingly.
She forced herself to pick out all the things that struck her as peculiar about him, as not quite fitting in.
“Your hat’s not right,” she blurted.
“What’s wrong with it?” He sounded mystified.
She reached across the space between them and pulled it lower over his brow. “That’s better, except no one around here wears a Dodgers cap—it’d be the Atlanta Braves. But most of the local guys favor hats with tractor logos.”
“Oh. My mistake.”
“Someone said they saw your head poke out of that trailer over there. Beats me how they’d recognize you.” She slapped at a yellow jacket; it buzzed off.
“Wasn’t me coming out of the trailer. Could’ve been Rick Phillips, my body double. He isn’t growing a beard and he looks a lot like me. Especially in the nude.”
Carrie gawked at him. “You’re going to play nude scenes in this movie?”
“There’s one. It takes place on Yancey and Mary-Lutie’s wedding night.”
The intimacy of anybody’s wedding night was the last thing she wanted to discuss with Luke Mason. Anyway, who knew what really happened on their wedding night but the couple themselves? She frowned. “Don’t tell me any more. I don’t care to hear about it.”
“Thing is, the movie audience won’t know if it’s really me in the buff or Rick.” Luke laughed ruefully.
“I’ve got to go,”
