Here’s an excerpt from my April 2013 e-book release from Entangled Publishing, available at Amazon, B&N, iBooks and other major e-retailing sites. Enjoy!
“OMG, who’s the man candy?” Olivia Harper blurted. The specimen of male perfection she’d spotted across the movie set oozed raw sex appeal from a hundred feet away.
Her make-up artist, Tyrone, answered appreciatively, “New military consultant for the film. Yummy, isn’t he?”
“What happened to the old one?” The way she’d heard it, an Army trainer had been running the movie’s star, Jeremy McDaniels, through a mini-boot camp to prepare him for his role as a commando.
“Jeremy got him canned. Said the guy was picking on him,” Tyrone added under his breath. “’Bout time someone picked on McDumbass–”
Olivia grinned, which made Tyrone squawk. He was in the middle of attaching a fake wound to her right cheek. She was scheduled to spend a good chunk of the big budget action-adventure movie in uncomfortable prosthetics of one kind or another. But being an up-and-comer in the movie industry meant taking the oddball roles whether she liked them or not. Especially if she wanted to be branded Hollywood’s newest badass chick: a female version of the man standing ramrod straight at the far edge of the sound stage looking impatient.
Her co-star, McDumbass, strolled over to her chair, breaking her train of thought. “You look like shit, Harper.”
“That would be the point,” she replied dryly. In today’s first scene, she was fighting a zombification infection while the hero raced to find a cure for it. She angled her chin up so the wound could be extended down onto her neck. She asked without moving her jaw, “Hey, McD. What’s the name of the new consultant?”
“Which one?” Jeremy cast his bored gaze across the set.
Jerk. She answered a little sharply, “The gorgeous one in the khaki slacks and navy polo shirt.”
“You mean the old guy?”
Olivia snorted. If that was old, sign her up for the geriatric ward. “Yeah. The hot grandpa.”
“Blake something. He’s military.”
“Which branch of service?” she asked with interest.
“How the hell should I know? The kind that shoots at stuff.”
“Wow, Jeremy. You really did your homework for your part. I’m so glad you embrace portraying a soldier with such dedication.”
“Fuck you, Harper.”
She stuck her tongue out at his retreating back, and Tyrone rolled his eyes in commiseration. Olivia sat back, glum. It was the first day of filming, and this was already turning into a long, miserable shoot. On the TV series she’d come from, the cast and crew had been one big happy family. She’d been hoping for something similar on this, her first real movie job.
Thankfully, Tyrone pronounced her fabulicious and let her out of his chair of torture. She stretched the kinks out of her shoulders and strolled in the general direction of Mr. Consultant. He got taller the closer she got to him. And hotter. Smoking hot.
He wasn’t pretty like Jeremy or the other leading men who prowled all over Hollywood. This guy’s face was rugged and tanned, his pale eyes hard. Like they’d seen plenty of life. And death. Her belly fluttered at the danger lurking in those baby blues. His shoulders were a mile wide, his waist narrow and trim.
It took no effort whatsoever to picture this man naked, and she abruptly caught herself breathing a little faster. It wasn’t that she ran around lusting after every guy she saw. Quite the opposite, in fact. But something about this one made her body tighten in eager anticipation.
He frowned fractionally as she put on her best sex kitten stroll for the last few steps to his side. “You look like you’re looking for someone,” she purred. “Can I help?”
“Could you point me at Adrian Turnow?”
The director, huh? “I haven’t seen him today.” She added helpfully, “But he’s probably on set with the lighting and camera guys coordinating the first shot of the day.”
“Where would that be, ma’am?”
She laughed gaily. “Don’t ma’am me. I’m Olivia Harper and definitely a civilian. Call me Olivia or Liv.” She held out her hand and gasped as his big, callused palm swallowed hers in a firm grip.
He tilted his head slightly to study her more closely. And, holy crap, continued to hold her hand. That…something…in her gut wound up even tighter and more excited. He reached out with his left hand and her breath caught in her throat. He touched her jaw just where the prosthetic wound turned downward from her face to her neck.
“There’s no bone,” he murmured.
No shit, Sherlock. Her entire skeleton had just melted into hot, liquid lust. She ventured a gaze up into his eyes and their molten depths about knocked her off her feet. Had he not been hanging on to her hand like that, she’d probably have collapsed into a puddle right then and there.
“I’m Blake Ramsey, by the way.”
“Hi, Blake Ramsey,” she breathed.